V Plague (Book 11): Merciless Page 20

  “How many?” I asked, gesturing at the elevator.

  “Fifteen,” Johnson said.

  That made a total of sixteen Russians accounted for, including the one we’d found dead when we entered the armory. A Hind can carry eight troops, in addition to the flight crew, and there were five of the damn things sitting on the tarmac. If they’d all been fully loaded, that meant there were still 24 Spetsnaz running around somewhere. Unless the infected got them, but I wasn’t going to count on that.

  “Need to check them,” I said.

  The two Rangers looked at me for a moment, then sighed and stepped into the car. They began dragging bodies out, tossing them to the side after checking pockets and packs. Soon they were both bloody to the knees and elbows, but they kept at their grizzly task.

  Quickly, the pile of items they were removing began to grow. Easing myself to the floor, I sat down to look through them. Soon, Rachel joined me.

  Cheap wallets with photos of families. More than a few of girlfriends or wives in a risqué pose, reminding them of what was waiting at home. Lots of packs of American cigarettes. I paused when I picked up a brass zippo lighter and saw the crest attached to its face. USMC. If I’d had any guilt over ambushing them, which I didn’t, that find would have erased it. I slipped the lighter into a pocket and kept looking.

  Pocket knives. Occasional key chains. The hood ornament from a Mercedes Benz. Really? A few pencils and lots of folded papers. The first several I spread out were in Cyrillic and looked like military orders or possibly even pay stubs. I couldn’t tell and would have Long look at them when he was finished moving bodies.

  Then a file was tossed on the pile. It had a ragged hole all the way through from a fragment of one of the grenades and the edges of the paper were stained red with blood.

  The cover was stiff, bright red cardboard. A thick sheaf of three-hole punched papers were clipped inside. Diagonally across the front, in large letters, a warning: TOP SECRET – SCI.

  SCI stands for Sensitive Compartmented Information and means it is only authorized for individuals who have been specifically cleared. A heavy, elastic band held it closed. Across a small tab that stuck up from the edge was a small label. Project Athena.

  “What the hell’s that?” Rachel asked.

  “Something pretty damn sensitive,” I said, staring at the folder.

  I wasn’t worried about opening it. Didn’t give a crap if I violated national security laws and read the information it contained. It was time to get our asses in gear and get out of there. I’d peruse the documents once we were safely back on the plane and cruising at a nice, sedate 40,000 feet.

  “Anything else?” I called to Long and Johnson as they shoved the last two bodies aside.

  They hadn’t bothered to move all of them, just cleared enough space to search and for the four of us to step aboard.

  “That’s it,” Johnson said, slinging blood off his hands. “Unless you want a copy of Hustler.”

  He held the magazine up, more blood dripping off the glossy cover. Grinning, he tossed it onto the pile of bodies still in the elevator. I scooped up all the papers and shoved them into one of the dead Russian’s packs.

  Rachel and I moved inside the car with them. Looking around, I was surprised to see that the control panel hadn’t been destroyed. All I could imagine was that one of the hapless Russians had been standing directly in front, shielding it from the devastation with his body.

  Long reached out and pushed the button marked as Surface. A few seconds later, the doors slid shut, squishing thick blood out of their track as they moved. The smell in the car was horrible, and when I looked at Rachel she had pulled the front of her shirt up over her nose and mouth. From the look in her eyes, I didn’t think it was helping.

  The ride up didn’t take long. A moment before the car came to a stop, I heard the ding announcing its arrival. It was that instant that I realized the mistake I’d made. We had no idea what was waiting for us at ground level. This thought went through my pounding head and I reached for my rifle as the doors began to slide open.

  A female screamed and I fired at the leaping body. My shot killed her, but she was so close the corpse slammed into me. I was knocked back onto the pile of dead Russians, instantly getting soaked in their blood, and worse. Johnson and Long stepped close together, shielding Rachel and me.

  Both fired several shots as more screams erupted. I was surprised when their rifles went silent. Neither had fired more than half a dozen rounds.

  “Clear,” Long said a few seconds later, stepping forward out of the car with Johnson at his side.

  I gratefully extricated myself from the pile of bodies, wincing at the wetness I could feel soaking the back of my pants and shirt. Following the two Rangers, Rachel and I exited the elevator and looked around at the remains of a battle.

  We were in a large room with a massive security station that protected access to the elevators. Floor to ceiling windows looked out onto a broad parking lot, three of the huge panes of glass broken out. What had to be several hundred infected lay dead, scattered across the floor. Many had been shot as they entered, piling up in the empty window frames. Many more had managed to surge in and reach the Russian soldiers that tried to hold them back.

  The Spetsnaz had racked up an impressive body count, but had succumbed to the unstoppable tsunami of the infected. Their bodies were shredded, many of them having been fed on.

  “Get a count,” I ordered after a pause to take in the destruction.

  Long and Johnson began moving around, checking bodies. Several times they had to shove the corpses of multiple infected aside to positively identify the Russian that was at the bottom of a pile.

  “Eighteen,” Long reported a few minutes later after they compared notes. “And all were out of ammo. There’s a lot of infected with knife wounds. Looks like that’s how they made their final stand.”

  Both Rangers looked spooked. I didn’t blame them. It doesn’t matter if it’s enemy soldiers. When you come across elite troops that were overrun and killed, it’s sobering. Easy to put yourself in their shoes.

  “OK,” I said. “At most, there’s six more Russians. That’s if every helicopter was full. Unless…”

  “What?” Long asked.

  “Either of you know the normal size of a Spetsnaz platoon?”

  “Nineteen, if I remember right,” Johnson answered immediately. “At least that’s what it was a few years ago.”

  “Two platoons, then?” I mused. “Thirty-eight? And we’ve got thirty-four bodies. Take attrition into account and all that may be left are the pilots.”

  “That’s a big, fucking maybe. Sir,” Long said.

  “Maybe’s about all I got at the moment,” I said.

  Long and Johnson both nodded in understanding.

  “What are you thinking?” Rachel asked, recognizing the look on my face.

  “I’d really like to take those helos and pilots out before we leave,” I said.

  “We’ve got nothing that will damage those Hinds,” Long said. “Didn’t see anything in the armory other than light weapons, either.”

  I nodded, having already forgotten how badly that movement made my head pound.

  33

  We moved out of the security building where the Russians had been slaughtered. Night had fallen while we were underground. It was cold, but nothing like what I’d endured on Ellesmere Island.

  My head was still pounding and I could feel that I wasn’t as steady on my feet as normal. Definitely concussion symptoms from being too close to the blast of two grenades. But there wasn’t anything I could do about it other than tough it out. And make the concession of having Long take point as we headed across a large, open parking area.

  We were headed for the flight line to see if the Russian helicopters were still on the ground. Maybe they’d left. I was sure the Spetsnaz at ground level had reported over a radio that they were under attack by infected. When the pilots lost comms with them, t
hey would assume the worst.

  That left the men underground, but they would have been out of contact. The low powered, tactical radios the Russian operators would have been using weren’t capable of reaching out from beneath the surface. Between the concrete structure of the facility and the millions of tons of earth it was buried beneath, they would have dropped off the net as soon as they began descending.

  So the question was, how long would the pilots wait? There had almost certainly been a time specified. That’s just how things are done, whether you’re Russian or American. Valuable pilots and expensive aircraft aren’t left sitting in a hostile environment indefinitely, especially when there’s a loss of communication with the men on the ground.

  Part of me hoped that time had already arrived and the Hinds were gone. Not that I wasn’t interested in further bloodying the Russian’s nose by destroying five of their front line helicopters, but I wasn’t sure how we were going to pull that off. Not without finding an armory that held heavier weapons than what we had.

  The Air Force would have one. After all, they have to defend airfields that are set up in war zones. The problem was, I had no idea where to start looking, and Offutt was a damn big base.

  I nearly ran into Long’s back when I didn’t realize he’d called a halt. Pissed at myself for not paying attention, I looked around when someone gripped my upper arm. It was Rachel, steadying me. With her hand holding on, I realized I was swaying. She gestured at Long and I looked at him, then turned to see what he was pointing at.

  In the distance, moonlight glinted off a chain link fence. Beyond was row upon row of Humvees silhouetted in the dark. At the moment, I didn’t see how they helped us. Looking at Long, I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Look at the second row from the front,” he mumbled close to my ear. “About a third of the way down. See the outline?”

  I looked where he indicated, trying to get my eyes to focus. After a moment, they did and I saw what caught his interest. The vehicles were armed, the shape of heavy machine guns clear to see. Smiling, I motioned towards the vehicle park and he lead the way.

  We didn’t encounter any infected as we moved, which was a good thing. With only one suppressed rifle, we’d have been forced to make a lot of noise if attacked by even a small group. Our luck held and we reached the fence without incident. I was feeling better, the cold air seeming to clear my head.

  The fence was double reinforced chain link. Twelve feet tall, but no coils of razor wire on top. Long moved close to me so he could speak in a low voice that wouldn’t carry more than a few feet.

  “Can you climb?”

  “I’m good to go,” I answered, hoping I really was. “But before we get too excited, you really think there’s going to be ammo in any of those vehicles? You know as well as I do the Army would never let that happen. No reason to think the Air Force is going to allow a fully armed vehicle to sit in storage.”

  “We can always hope for lazy, sir,” he grinned, then turned serious. “I had the same thought. Johnson’s going to take a look. No reason for all of us to go until we verify they’re ready to rumble.”

  I nodded, glad when the top of my head didn’t try to blow off from the movement. I really was feeling better.

  As Johnson scampered up the fence, Rachel and I turned to keep watch on the open ground behind us. Long would keep eyes on Johnson to provide an early warning if he saw a threat the other man didn’t.

  “We should cut our losses, find a fuel truck and go,” Rachel said a few moments later. “What do we gain by blowing up a few helicopters and killing a handful of pilots?”

  I can’t say I didn’t agree with her, at least partially. But, as usual for me, when I decide on a course of action it takes a lot to change my mind. Mostly, this has served me well. I call it determination. Katie calls it stick up my ass, bull-headed stubbornness. We’re probably both right.

  “Don’t see a way to do that,” I said after a moment’s thought. “Any fuel truck we find is going to be too close to where those Hinds are sitting. No way we can start one up and drive off without one of the pilots spotting us. And they aren’t going to just sit there and watch our tail lights disappear over the horizon.”

  Rachel was quiet for a moment before nodding her head.

  “Vehicles are empty. No ammo.”

  Long reported after Johnson signaled to him.

  “OK, pull him back,” I said. “We’ll have to hunker down until the Russians leave.”

  “He’s already heading deeper, sir. Don’t know what he saw, but he’s checking something out.”

  “You still have a visual?” I asked, without taking attention off my area of responsibility.

  “Negative. And comms are out. Haven’t had a chance to change batteries in a while.”

  That comment reminded me that I also had a radio Sergeant McCrary had given me. I reached to the side of my head, but the earpiece wasn’t there. Feeling around, I found the thin wire that led from the body of the unit, but the small bud was missing from the end. Opening a pouch on my vest, I pulled the radio out and handed it to Long.

  “Try mine,” I said.

  He fumbled with it for a moment, changing ear pieces, then I could hear him mumbling. Silence for a few seconds, then he spoke again.

  “No go, sir. Yours has juice, but Johnson’s must be dead, too.”

  “OK. We’re secure for the moment. Maybe he’ll find some goodies.”

  We went quiet after that, waiting for Johnson. It had occurred to me that we might be wasting time. The Russians could have already departed, and we had a clear shot at finding a truck and getting the hell out of there. Then a bad thought hit me.

  If the Russian pilots headed north when they took off, they’d pass right over the airport where the big Navy plane was sitting. They couldn’t miss it. Nor could they fail to see the Rangers and Canadians on perimeter security. One missile and our ride out of here was toast, as well as a lot of people would die. We needed to take out the enemy aircraft.

  “He’s coming back, sir,” Long reported, relief clear in his voice.

  Several long minutes later, Johnson’s voice sounded from the far side of the fence. The area I was covering was large, and still clear, so I turned to face him to hear his report.

  “Got a Hummer with a Mark 19,” Johnson smiled. “Far side of the lot is an armory. I opened the door and there’s plenty of ammo!”

  I smiled back. A Mark 19 is a 40mm machine gun grenade launcher. Yes, it’s exactly what it sounds like. A machine gun that fires grenades instead of bullets. The grenades will penetrate about two inches of military grade armor, and the weapon can fire roughly forty rounds a minute. It was more than capable of making Swiss cheese out of the Hinds.

  “Sir?” Long looked at me.

  “Hell, yes,” I said.

  We scaled the fence easily. Once inside, Johnson lead the way down a long row of parked Hummers. Most were up-armored and sported some sort of heavy machine gun. All showed signs of heavy use. The kind of use that only comes from service in a combat zone. But they all appeared functional.

  Johnson gently tapped the hood of one as we passed, and I glanced up to see the Mark 19’s covered muzzle. The cover was a simple sleeve of weatherized canvas to protect the weapon from rain and dirt while it was in storage. It would take about ten seconds to remove it.

  Another couple of hundred yards and we came to a squat, concrete building. A large, steel door stood open. Even though he’d just been inside, Johnson carefully approached and cleared the building before waving us in.

  To the left of the door were two pallets, loaded with cases of ammo belts for the Mark 19. Each can weighs close to fifty pounds, and Long, Johnson and I grabbed two, one in each hand. Rachel tried to copy us, but had to settle for only carrying one at a time. Moving as fast as we could, we loaded the first seven into the Humvee, then made a second trip.

  Fourteen cases loaded, Johnson ran across the large lot to open the gate. While he was do
ing this, I climbed aboard the Hummer and into the gunner’s position. Removing the weather cover, I hoisted one of the ammo boxes into the bracket mounted on the side of the weapon. Opening it, I grabbed the end of the linked ammo belt and loaded the first round.

  While I did this, Long and Rachel moved the vehicles that were blocking us in. By the time Johnson returned, they had a narrow path open and I had the weapon charged and ready to go. Rachel climbed in back as the two Rangers got in front, Long behind the wheel. A moment later the engine rattled to life and we started rolling.

  Long kept our speed down as we drove across the lot. With no lights showing, I was feeling good about our chances of moving into a location where I could engage the Hinds, unseen. The trick here was going to be getting all of them while they were still on the ground.

  The Mark 19 is a devastating weapon, firing a 40mm, high explosive round. But it is absolutely worthless against an aircraft in flight. If one of the Russians got in the air, we would be toast.

  “How close you want, sir?” Long shouted to be heard from within the Hummer’s cab.

  “Close as you can,” I yelled back.

  The grenades can easily reach 2,000 yards, but to hit anything at that distance with this weapon would be more luck than skill. And I needed accuracy if I hoped to take out all five helos before one of the pilots could react and get in the air.

  As we moved through the gate, Long turned left and accelerated. I flexed my knees to absorb the motion as he didn’t bother to slow for a series of speed bumps. Driving through another gate, he entered the flight line and idled to a stop in the shelter of a large hangar.

  Johnson hopped out and ran to the corner, peering around in the direction where the Russian helicopters were sitting. He stayed in place for most of a minute, then ran back and hopped up on the outside of the Hummer to talk to me without having to raise his voice.

  “They’re still here,” he said. “As we come around the corner, the first two are about 600 yards, then another hundred to the next pair. The final one is beyond that.”