Slaughterhouse

NINETEEN.

“Six, Nomad One. First Huey is down! Rest of the formation is breaking up. Over!”

“Roger that, One. Keep up the fires. All units are clear to maneuver as needed. Over.” As he spoke, Dekker ran across the pavement, heading toward the Air Force machinegun emplacement closest to him.

He heard the pounding of Hueys drawing closer, their thick blades slapping through the hot summer air. One of the tadpole-shaped aircraft thundered right over the terminal building, so low that its skids ripped an antenna off the roof and sent the metal pole tumbling to the jet way. Dekker was caught out in the open. He raised his M4 and ripped off a burst on full automatic, discharging the weapon right into the Huey’s belly just before it began to descend for a landing. Dekker slowed and turned with the aircraft, hosing it with burst after burst, none of which seemed to make any difference to the helicopter or its pilots.

Then, a stream of fifty caliber fire ripped through the aircraft, and the helicopter canted to the left, still descending. It recovered before the rotors struck the ground, but the machinegun fire from the MRAPs was relentless as two of them consolidated their fires. The helicopter began a drunken spin while moving farther out across the airfield, bits and pieces of it being blasted off as it bobbed beneath the fury of the attack.

Dekker saw uniformed men in the back of the struggling chopper, attempting to get their weapons oriented on the threat but failing as the fifties chewed them up along with the helicopter. As the Huey drifted toward the taxiway, it finally keeled over and slammed to the deck with a clattering roar. The main body spun around in a circle as its main rotors flailed at the concrete, destroying themselves. The tail boom separated, and the vertical stabilizer sheared off, becoming momentarily airborne. The remains of the tail rotor tried for one last chance at flight before it too returned to earth, bouncing and flipping across the taxiway and into the grass median, a victim of its remaining torque.

The helicopter’s body came to a halt on its left side, mangled landing skids pointing toward Dekker. He opened up once again, emptying his rifle’s magazine into the helicopter’s bullet-torn belly. More rotor beats came from ahead and behind. Dekker heard the MRAPs shifting their fires away from the first Huey to deal with other threats. He continued his run toward the Air Force position, ejecting the empty magazine from his rifle and letting it clatter to the pavement. He pulled a fresh mag from his tactical vest and slammed it into his rifle’s magazine well. With a tap of the bolt release lever, he was back in business.

A second Huey appeared directly ahead as it cleared the terminal building and hovered on the other side of the parked Airbus jet. The door gunner there opened up on the Air Force emplacement as the zoomies did the same with their SAW. The Huey had the advantage of elevation, and it hammered the Air Force position with slanting fire that tore into the sandbags surrounding the two airmen, forcing them to duck and cover.

Once again, Dekker was caught out in the open, and he wondered if that was going to be a persistent hallmark of the current engagement. While running, he fired at the Huey, hoping to hit the door gunner, but happy just to hit the aircraft itself. He was delighted when the Huey descended and settled down behind the Airbus. Dekker redoubled his attempts to get to the sandbagged emplacement. He finally dove into it, scaring the shit out of the two airmen there who were just getting back on their SAW.

“You guys all right?” Dekker asked.

“Peachy, Lieutenant.” The older NCO’s face was haggard, and the beginnings of gray razor stubble stood out on his cheeks. He pulled the bipod-mounted M249’s stock against his shoulder.

The loader lay next to the gunner, another box of two hundred rounds of 5.56-millimeter at the ready. “They’re dismounting!”

Dekker looked over the top of the sandbag wall and saw at least ten figures moving toward the Airbus jet, crouched low, weapons at ready. They all wore Army Combat Uniforms—National Guardsmen, in full gear. Things were about to get interesting.

Then the Huey reappeared, rising just above the Airbus. The door gunner in the right hell hole opened up again, raking the emplacement with 7.62-millimeter gunfire. Dekker flinched as a round tore into the sandbag he was leaning against, but he still sighted on the hovering Huey. Through his scope, he could see the gunner leaning into the M240, shouting with glee as he blazed away at the emplacement. The Air Force gunner returned fire, but he only succeeded in stitching a line across the top of the Airbus.

Dekker shouted into his headset microphone. “Nomad One, come forward and hit this Huey! We have dismounts under the Airbus. We need you with us!”

Ignoring the inbound fire as much as possible, Dekker squeezed off three rounds. He was rewarded by the sight of the gunner sagging in the hell hole, his hands falling off the M240’s grips as his helmeted head lolled forward. The pilots in the Huey appeared not to notice. They held the hovering helicopter in place, giggling behind their controls.

Dekker heard the rumble of a diesel engine above the rotor beats, then a fifty caliber barked. The cockpit area of the UH-1 was besieged by a hail of heavy machinegun fire, and the aircraft rolled to the left and crashed to the tarmac on the other side of the passenger jet. Debris whirled through the air as the helicopter tore itself to pieces, sending chunks of shrapnel rocketing through several of the terminal’s big windows. Heavy shards of plate glass rained down on the jet way and sprinkled across the concrete like oversized diamonds that gleamed in the sunlight.

“Light up those troops!” Dekker ordered.

Following his own command, Dekker exposed more of his body and fired three shots in rapid succession at the chuckling Klowns who emerged from beneath the moribund passenger jet. One Infected took one round to the leg and went down. Several bullets pelted the emplacement, making tapping sounds as they pierced the sandbags.

The SAW gunner opened up, and another two Klowns went down, writhing on the tarmac as they laughed and screamed. Then Nomad One rolled up, the fifty in the open-air cupola chattering as the gunner walked the rounds through the crowd.

The Klowns didn’t care. They reoriented on the MRAP as it came to a halt and charged it, firing as they went. At first, the attack was ineffective. The MRAP was designed to withstand and survive improvised explosive devices, like those used with great effectiveness in Iraq. Bullets ricocheted off the slab-sided vehicle without leaving much visible damage. Then, the gunner grabbed his neck, and a fan of bright arterial blood spurted out from between his fingers.

At the same time, the last Huey thundered overhead. Dekker shouted a warning to Nomad One, telling him that the gunner was down in the cupola, but he could barely hear his own voice over the burst of rotor wash that pounded the emplacement. Dekker raised his rifle and fired at the Huey that lumbered across the area at an altitude of less than thirty feet. As the helicopter flew past, several objects fell from it.

“Incoming!” Dekker shouted, and he leaped to the far side of the emplacement.

The loader looked up while the gunner remained fixed on cutting down the Klown Guardsmen.

Water balloons cascaded across their position.

Dekker threw an arm across his face, shielding his eyes and mouth, as the rubber missiles exploded, spreading a foul-smelling liquid—most likely a mix of urine and feces—all over the two airmen. He shoved his back against the sandbags behind him, his heart hammering as he instinctively sought to get as far away from the liquid as possible. He knew that the Bug was incredibly infectious and that the disease manifested itself almost immediately.

Outside their ring, the firing reached a crescendo, punctuated by shouts of glee. Something exploded nearby, and the SAW had fallen silent. Interspersed with the din was an almost urgent rustling noise, like hand-to-hand combat. Despite that, Dekker could think of only one thing:

Am I infected?

After a few moments, he lowered his arm. He was elated to discover that not a single drop of infected piss had landed on him. He was completely dry, and nothing immediately humorous came to mind. Laughing was not on his current agenda.

However, the machinegun loader was giggling like a school girl. His face was flecked with blood, and his right hand was soaked in it. Sunlight gleamed off the crimson-streaked blade he held as he jammed it into the throat of the gunner, again and again, each strike resulting in a fine spray of droplets that splattered uniform and tactical vest. The gunner gurgled, drowning in his own blood, his lips coated in a pink-tinged froth. His eyes met Dekker’s, and the cavalry lieutenant could see the NCO was already visiting a happier place.

The loader looked up from his work and grinned madly. “A little blue on blue action, El-Tee. Whaddya think of that?”

Dekker grabbed his rifle. The loader lunged at him, lashing out with his knife. The blade hit the M4’s upper receiver and skidded upward, gouging a chunk out of the side of the targeting scope mounted to the weapon’s upper rail before traveling on past Dekker’s shoulder. The blade plunged into one of the sandbags at his back, and Dekker twisted around beneath the airman, struggling to free his rifle. The weapon was firmly wedged between them. The airman laughed, then inhaled and coughed up a load of phlegm, obviously preparing to spit in Dekker’s face.

Dekker pulled his M9 pistol from its holster and pressed the muzzle against the man’s body, right where his chest protector had ridden up, exposing his belly. He pulled the trigger three times. The airman’s eyes went wide as the nine-millimeter bullets tore through his intestines and diaphragm. Dekker snapped his head forward and slammed his Kevlar helmet into the airman’s face before shoving the man off him. The airman coughed as he rolled away, chortling despite the fact he had just been gut-shot. Dekker fired twice more, and both rounds slammed through the underside of the airman’s chin, up into his skull. The airman released a gurgling sigh as he died.

Dekker holstered his pistol and picked up his rifle. Avoiding as much of the piss and blood as he could, he took a quick inventory of the area. The SAW lay on its side, covered in piss and blood. He was unmotivated to touch it, especially since he had left his MOPP gear in the MRAP designated as Nomad One. He stuck his head above the sandbags. Nomad One was trundling away, trailing smoke from its recently emptied cupola. Klown Guardsman swarmed all over it, and one of the maniacal bastards hurled something through the open cupola.

“Fire in the asshole!” the Klown shouted as he stepped back.

There was a muted explosion from inside the MRAP, and a geyser of debris erupted from the vehicle—tattered paper, insulation, plastic, metal, and body parts. The rig hitched twice then coasted to a halt, its windows turned milky white. A thick column of black smoke rose into the air from the vehicle’s burning interior.

The Klowns all laughed, and those on top of the vehicle quickly dismounted as it began to burn. Fifty caliber rounds cooked off with sporadic bangs.

More gunfire sounded, and bullets crashed through the terminal windows closest to Dekker’s position. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, it appeared another avenue of attack was about to open up.

“Catfish, this is Nomad. Over.”

“Nomad, this is Catfish. We were getting worried about you. Over.”

“Catfish, this is Nomad. Can you guys swing around to the front of the airport and tell me what’s going on? There’s weapon fire inside the terminal building. I just need a recon. No need for you guys to get too close. Over.”

“Roger that, Nomad. We’re on it. Ah, a couple of things. We see some activity from that first Huey you guys splashed. Second aircraft is a write-off, but there’s still someone alive in the first. The attack battalion is sending four units your way. Two arrive in three minutes but are low on fuel. Two more will be on station in ten minutes, with full tanks. Also, looks like one of your units is on fire. Over.”

“Roger that, Catfish. If you can, reach out and touch those bastards who fried our MRAP. Break. Nomad units, this is Nomad Six. Consolidate fires on that last Huey. Bring it down as soon as you can, then service any ground combatants you come across. Over.”

All units responded affirmatively. On the other side of the airfield, the Black Hawks split up into two elements. One pair raced around the perimeter, heading toward the terminal building. The second flew across the airfield and turned to parallel the smoking MRAP. Standing off at around five hundred feet from the destroyed vehicle, their gunners opened up on the Klowns, chopping away at them as the Infected crawled off the MRAP. The Klowns that tried to stand and fight were taken down by 7.62-millimeter projectiles. Some Infected sought to use the MRAP as cover, despite the fact that it was on fire.

Dekker once again considered the bloody SAW lying beside him but decided the risk of infection was too great. He rose over the sandbags and started firing at the Klowns with his rifle, hitting them from behind as they tried to hide from the Black Hawks. Two went down before they figured out the sandbag emplacement hadn’t been wiped out.

The remaining Klowns surged toward Dekker, hooting and howling, apparently forgetting the UH-60s that prowled along over the center of the airfield. Dekker continued firing from his fixed position, even while the Infected opened up on the emplacement. But they were shooting on the move, laughing uproariously the whole time, and their accuracy was down to nothing.

One of the Black Hawks suddenly reversed, flying backward to bring its gunner into a better firing position. The soldier rained lethal slanting fire onto the Klowns, cutting them down as soon as they were clear of the smoking MRAP.

“Nomad, this is Catfish. Over.”

“Go ahead, Catfish.”

“Nomad, that first Huey managed to land in the parking lot across from the terminal. You’ve got several infected infantry moving through the building. We presume they’re engaging the civilians inside. Expect an attack from that direction any second now. We can’t tell who’s who, but if we can catch one in uniform, we’re going to take him out. Over.”

Dekker looked up at the terminal building worriedly. This wasn’t where he wanted to be. He regarded the SAW a third time. Even though he didn’t want to touch it, he couldn’t leave it behind for hostiles to recover, and the zoomies in the emplacement still had lots of ammo. He quickly ransacked the bodies, avoiding body fluids as much as possible. He boosted their magazines and one M4—the weapon was pretty much pristine, compared to his battle-tested campaigner—and grabbed their tags, as well. They were somebody’s kids, after all.

Next, he opened the SAW’s loading tray and pulled out the buffer spring. Since the weapon was still cocked and locked, the spring was under tension. As soon as he tugged on it, the spring uncoiled and flew out of the emplacement. He hopped out after it, hunkered down for a moment to ensure no one was going to guns on him, then scooped up the buffer spring and stuffed it in one of his pockets.

“Nomad, this is Six, I’m coming in. We’ve lost Nomad One and the first SAW emplacement. Alpha Two and Three, prep for ground attacks. If it’s coming your way, light it up. Break. Catfish, this is Nomad. Can you give me an ETA on close air? Over.” Dekker managed all of that while running across the tarmac toward the water-filled barriers that denoted the refuel area. The cover wasn’t much, but most of his troops were there, and he had a better chance living through the coming fight with them at his side.

“Nomad, this is Catfish. Tomcats Four and Five are less than one minute out. I’m in contact with them, and I gave them this freq. Over.”

“Roger, Catfish.”

“Nomad, Catfish. Sorry to brighten your day, but the locals have heard the fuss, and we have a strong element headed toward the airport. Looks like our days of keeping our heads down are over. Estimate OPFOR to be approximately three- to five-hundred strong and equipped with ground vehicles. Unable to get a visual on armaments, but expect whatever they’re bringing to hurt. Over.”

Fantastic. “Catfish, Nomad. Time to contact? Over.”

“Nomad, this is Catfish. Expect them to arrive on station in about five minutes. Over.”

“Nomad, this is Tomcat Four. Over.”

The new voice on the radio net sounded almost bored.

As he threw himself over the first line of barriers—no easy feat, given the weight of his gear—Dekker wondered how an attack pilot running on fumes could sound so blasé about what was occurring. Dekker landed on the other side of the plastic barriers with a thump.

“Uh, Tomcat, this is Nomad. Go ahead. Over.”

“Nomad, Tomcat. We can hose these guys for you if you want and hold up their advance. They’re about a mile south of the airport. We don’t have a lot of fuel left, so we can make a couple of passes with rockets, and then we’re done. We’ll need to recover at your location to take on some fuel. Over.”

“Roger all, Tomcat. It’s your call. We’ve got goblins on the ground here, so either way, it’s going to be a party. If you can bottle that remote element up for a bit, we can try to keep the refuel point secure, but no promises. You guys might get caught on the deck with the rest of us. Over.” After struggling with the weight of his rucksack, Dekker managed to rise to his knees. His kneepads scraped across the cement as he looked up over the bright jersey barriers, his rifle held at low ready.

“Nomad, this is Tomcat Four. Rog, we’ll treat this inbound column to some close-in gunnery and see how they like it. We’ll save some for the airfield. I’ll fire you a SITREP in a minute or so. Over.”

“Sounds good, Tomcat. Thanks. Over.”

To the left, two of his soldiers were heading toward him, crouching low. A staccato barrage of pops sounded as fifty caliber rounds cooked off in the flame that enveloped Nomad One’s dead MRAP. Behind him, the other MRAPs, their diesel engines idling, added to the cacophony with their M2s barking out an occasional burst.

“Lieutenant!” one of the cavalrymen shouted.

“Go ahead!”

“We’ve got dismounted infantry to our north!” the soldier reported. “Looks like that last Huey dropped ’em off just outside the fence! Hilbarger and Kent are trying to keep ’em pinned, but it’s not really working out too good!”

Dekker turned and looked to the north, past the refueling area the cavalry troops had secured. Two large hangers obscured most of his view, but another Air Force emplacement had been set up near the fence. If the Klowns came that way, they’d face another SAW, as well as an MRAP backing it up less than a hundred meters away. He could hear the pop-pop-pop of assault rifles chattering back and forth as his two soldiers shot it out with the Klowns.

“Nomad Three, you have Hilbarger and Kent in sight? Over!” Nomad Three was run by the platoon sergeant, an experienced sergeant first class named Heller.

“Six, this is Three. We have intermittent contact with them from this position. Over.”

“Three, this is Six. If you have the opportunity, roll over and give them some suppressing fire. We’ll have close air in just a few minutes, but they’ll need to refuel after a couple of passes. Over.”

“Roger, on that. Over.”

More gunfire sounded from the terminal building. Dekker saw figures moving around in the control tower, which sat just south of the terminal. He couldn’t tell who they were, but he saw rifles. Not a good sign. He shouted a warning to the two soldiers beside him, and as they looked up, the glass surrounding the control tower exploded outward. It wasn’t from hostile fire—but from one of the Black Hawks that orbited on the far side of the airport. The gunner had been sharp enough to take out the Klowns hoping to get the drop on the cavalrymen and airmen below.

“Catfish, thanks for the cover,” Dekker transmitted.

“Nomad, thank us later. There’s some bad juju going on in the terminal building. Some more good news, we’re seeing small groups heading toward the airfield. Don’t seem to be really synchronized, but we see weapons, from firearms to baseball bats. Given the body decorations, they’re not our kind of people. Over.”

“Catfish, give me some numbers. Over.”

“Nomad, call it fifty to sixty so far. Over.”

God damn. “Roger that, Catfish. How—”

Another burst of gunfire tore through the terminal’s few remaining windows. He looked at one of the soldiers crouching down behind the barriers with him and spotted a grenade launcher under the barrel of the guy’s M4.

“Hey, Ramirez. When they start massing to attack, hit them with some grenades.”

“Roger that, El-Tee,” the soldier responded.

The firing stopped. Silence reigned for a few seconds, broken only by intermittent gunfire and the constant throbbing of helicopters in flight. Dekker realized he didn’t hear the pounding of the remaining Huey, which he presumed meant it had either been downed or had retreated from the engagement area.

“Fitzpatrick, you have an M203?” he shouted to the soldier on the other side of Ramirez.

“Negative on that, El-Tee,” the man responded.

“Awesome,” Dekker murmured. They could have used another grenade launcher.

“Hey, you hear that, El-Tee?” Ramirez asked almost conversationally.

“Hear what?” Dekker asked.

Ramirez nodded toward the terminal building. “Laughing.”

Dekker lifted the ear cup off his left ear. Sure enough, he heard laughter, and the voices were getting louder.

“Get ready for it,” Dekker said, letting his ear cup fall back in place. “Nomad Two, you’re clear to engage at your discretion. Bravo Team, you’re cleared to engage as well. Keep eyes out. We’ve got goblins all around the perimeter now. Over.” Dekker glanced at the dun-colored MRAP that sat at the far end of the barrier line. In addition to its gunner, it was flanked by two cav troopers carrying M4s.

Both units rogered their responses.

Two minutes later, the first of the Klowns—civilians who had been infected, judging by their attire—started boiling out of the terminal building with hoots and hollers. Men, women, children, all giggling and tittering, cast their mad gazes across the airfield. Carrying anything from knives to chair legs to broken bottles, they surged toward the long line of orange barriers, feet slapping the tarmac as they ran.

Nomad Two’s M2 chattered immediately, cutting through the advancing crazies like a scythe through wheat, blasting body parts across the concrete. The Air Force emplacement opened up as well, pelting the exits with less impressive but still lethal 5.56-millimeter rounds. Dekker saw people falling to the ground just outside the exit, and those Klowns behind the first tripped and stumbled as they tried to pick their way across the corpses. The fifty roared again, kicking up explosions of dust as the rounds slashed their way across the asphalt, digging divots and ripping limbs off torsos. Dekker and the other troops hadn’t even started firing yet.

“Hey, maybe we’ll be able to save some grenades,” Ramirez shouted.

From the terminal building, something exploded with enough force to rattle the bits of glass remaining in the panes. A brief flash followed, and Dekker had an impression of something was speeding across the airfield, trailing a ribbon of fire behind it. Before he could move, Nomad Two exploded.

The force of the detonation ripped the M2 right off its mount, and the gunner flopped about in the open air cupola like a rag doll before slumping forward, his helmeted head bouncing off the rig’s thick armor. The two dismounted soldiers went down, screaming, as shrapnel tore across them, ripping open legs and arms and faces, anywhere that wasn’t armored.

“AT4s!” Dekker shouted. “They have AT4s! Hit the terminal building!” He raked a burst of full auto fire across the terminal building.

Too late. There was another booming explosion, and another fiery projectile ripped across the airfield and slammed into the Air Force emplacement, sending sandbags and airmen flying through the air. In less than two seconds, the firepower at the refueling area’s southern flank had been reduced to almost nothing. Another explosion, and a third AT4 rocket hurtled away from the terminal. It slammed into Nomad Two once again, a follow-on attack to ensure the big MRAP was out of the fight. The vehicle lurched to the side as the front left wheel was shorn off, and its diesel engine clattered and stalled, emitting dark smoke.

The Klowns emerged from the terminal building once more, a gigantic wave of at least fifty people. They carried anything that could be used as a weapon, and in their mix were soldiers. The infected Guardsmen shot on the run, and Dekker heard bullets slam into the water-filled jersey barriers near his position.

“Contact at the barriers!” Dekker called over the radio. “Ramirez, if you don’t fucking mind—”

“Out!” Ramirez shouted.

The M203 cracked as it spat out a forty-millimeter high-explosive round. The grenade grounded right in front of one of the terminal doors leading to the airfield and exploded, killing at least five or six Klowns immediately and gruesomely injuring a dozen more as they stampeded into the open. But more were behind them, and some stopped just long enough to pick up fallen rifles or other weapons.

Ramirez reloaded the M203 as the soldier beside him opened up with an M4, peppering the advancing Klowns with suppressive fire. Dekker fired a burst into the approaching Infected as well, and he was rewarded with the sight of two Klowns dropping to the concrete. He returned his attention to the terminal building. His biggest fear was of another rocket, or perhaps a machinegun attack. The Klowns in the helicopters had come ready to party, and that was really putting a hurting on Nomad.

Looking through the sight of his rifle, he saw movement inside the building. People in ACUs were walking around but not hurriedly. They carried weapons, including something tubular, probably another AT4. He fired on the figures, but he was at an extreme angle. He hit one, and the others shrank back, using an internal wall as cover. His rifle rounds weren’t likely to penetrate the barrier, but Dekker kept it up, hoping to fix them in place.

“Six, this is Three. Huey is returning, heading in from the east! I say again, red air inbound! Over!” Sergeant Heller’s voice was pitched unusually high, as he had to shout to be heard over the chattering fifty caliber weapon his rig was currently employing.

Dekker dropped his sights and fired on the Klowns closing on the barricades, trying to drive them back. His magazine went dry just as another forty-millimeter round exploded, sending human garbage flying in every direction. Ramirez had saved the day.

“Good shooting, Ramirez!” Dekker yelled as he swapped out magazines.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Ramirez sag against the barrier then fall over onto his back. The soldier’s legs twitched as he pissed himself, and Dekker realized Ramirez had been shot in the face.

Gunfire rained down on Dekker’s position. The Huey thundered past with the door gunner leaning out, his machinegun depressed as far as it would go. The gunner stitched a line of fire right in front of Dekker. The heavy rounds blew open one of the barriers, and a torrent of warm water gushed onto the concrete.

The gunner kept firing, slashing rounds through the line of barriers and ripping them open. He continued to the smoking hulk of Nomad Two, and Dekker caught a glimpse of the two wounded soldiers there being savaged by the gunner’s last salvo before the helicopter broke off, banking to the left.

The Huey exploded as a Hellfire missile slammed into it. The flaming wreckage tumbled end over end as it fell to earth, where it crashed into an intersection of taxiways, not far from where Nomad One continued to smolder.

Downrange, two objects raced toward the airport, rotors flashing in the sunlight—two AH-64D Longbow Apaches. Dekker had always thought the attack helicopters were one of man’s ugliest creations, but right then, they were lovelier than an image of Scarlett Johansson waiting for him in bed wearing nothing more than an inviting smile.

He straightened and fired at the approaching Klowns, who were ignoring all the activity. Only a few were left, so he and the other soldier managed to contain them, their M4s barking as they fired into them, dropping them where they stood.

“Tomcat, this is Nomad! Over!”

“Nomad, this is Tomcat. We’re on station, where do you need us? Over.”

“Tomcat, Nomad. If you can put a couple of Hellfires into the terminal building to our south, that would help a lot. Be advised, the Klowns have AT4s. Over!”

“Nomad, thanks for the heads-up. Roger that. Party in ten. Over.”

The Apaches slowed their approach and drifted to the right, keeping the building’s roof between them and any potential attackers. In less than ten seconds, one helicopter loosed a Hellfire. The missile climbed sharply upward then nosed down as it accelerated toward the terminal with a hissing roar.

The missile slammed through the roof, and a gigantic thunderclap ripped through the structure. A second Hellfire found its way to the target, and another explosion almost eviscerated the structure. One end of it collapsed into smoking ruin.

“Nomad, this is Tomcat. What’s the BDA from your side? Over,” the Apache pilot asked. BDA was Army shorthand for battle damage assessment. In short, the pilot was asking Dekker to declare the attack a success.

“Tomcat, slap another into the northern side of the building, just to be sure. Over,” Dekker replied. He looked to his left and saw the other soldier was tending to Ramirez. The fallen cavalry trooper was still moving, so that was a good sign.

“Another ten seconds on that, Nomad. You guys might want to keep your heads down, you’re going to get some blowback. Over.”

“Roger that, Tomcat.” Dekker got to his feet and sprinted over to the two soldiers. “Fitzpatrick, we need to get Ramirez out of here!”

Together, they grabbed Ramirez’s harness straps and hauled him away, keeping to a low crouch as they moved. An M4 barked, and Dekker saw another soldier from his unit had climbed into the bed of one of the snowplows and was giving them covering fire. Another explosion ripped through the terminal building, sending a shockwave of debris rocketing across the airfield. Something inside the ravaged building started to burn, and thick, acrid smoke rose into the air.

“Nomad Three, SITREP!” Dekker shouted into the radio.

“Nomad Three, we’re holding up over here. Charlie Emplacement is still secure. These fuckers aren’t showing any fear. They’re running right up to the fence where we can shoot ’em. Over.”

“Roger that, Three. Maintain your scans. Don’t let them flank you. Break. Nomad Four, SITREP. Over.”

“Six, this is Nomad Four. We’re engaged at this time with intermittent contacts. Looks like they’re trying a flanking move. Over.”

“Four, any chance you can break off? Ramirez is down. I want to put him in your vehicle. Over.”

“Ah, tall order, Six. Your call. Over.”

Dekker thought about that. He was down to around nine troops now including himself, which meant holding the refueling site was more than just a dicey proposition. As he and the other soldier dragged Ramirez into the area, another soldier ran toward them—Sergeant Edwards, the platoon medic. He was a skinny, narrow-featured black kid from South Carolina.

Dekker spoke into his radio. “Four, hold your pos. Will get back to you. Over.”

“Roger, Six.”

“How bad’s he hit?” Edwards asked.

“Took a round to the face,” the other soldier said.

“Get him out of the open, guys,” Edwards said, pointing toward the lee of a nearby building.

Dekker and the other soldier dragged Ramirez to the shade of the building. When Edwards crouched over Ramirez, Dekker turned to look at Nomad Two. The MRAP was canted to one side, still smoking. It wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

“We’ve got two more down by Nomad Two,” he said. “You guys stay here.” He keyed the radio. “Tomcats, this is Nomad. You guys have enough juice left to give me some top cover? Over.”

“Nomad, Tomcat Four. Roger, make it quick. We’ll need to set down in a couple of minutes. Over.”

“Tomcat Four, Nomad. Roger that. I’m headed out on foot to the MRAP closest to our position. Over.” Dekker sprinted back the way he had come, his M4 in both hands.

He kept low, his big rucksack bobbing slightly on his back, making his gait a little clumsy. Water sloshed around inside his CamelBak. The Apaches moved out over the airfield, the chain guns mounted in their bellies chattering as they fired on additional targets. One was aiming at the remains of the terminal building, while another targeted something in the opposite direction. That surprised him, and he looked across the airfield to see what the second Apache was shooting.

A pickup truck had crashed through the fence on the far side of the airfield and was speeding across the field toward them. Thirty-millimeter cannon fire ate into its body, and in less than two seconds, the carcass was spread across the grass. The Klowns in the back got the same treatment as the withering fire walked through them, rending flesh from bone.

Fuckers are all over the place, Dekker thought as he ran to the shot-up line of barriers. He realized then that the cavalry platoon and its attached Air Force security team and Black Hawk unit had been surrounded the entire time. The Klowns just hadn’t moved on them until they started making noise.

He climbed over the barrier and ran to Nomad Two. The vehicle’s rear door had been blown open, and inside, black smoke seethed as something smoldered. Dekker knelt beside the two soldiers who had been providing ground security for the vehicle. Both were dead, killed either by grievous shrapnel wounds or machinegun fire from the Huey. He contemplated the dark interior of the MRAP, then decided there was nothing he could do for the driver and gunner. They were gone. Dekker’s heart ached. He’d been with the cav unit for two years, and he knew all of the fallen personally. He glanced toward the Air Force emplacement farther out, but it had been essentially deleted by the AT4 attack. He saw a decapitated head lying in the grass, eyes blown out, mouth open.

We’re getting wiped out.

“Nomad, if you’re done, we really need to set down,” Tomcat Four said over the radio. “Over.”

“Roger that, Tomcats. You’re good to go. Break. Nomads, tighten up a bit if you can. Provide security for the Apaches. Over.”

“Nomad Three, roger that.”

“Nomad Four to Nomad Six. Will roll back as soon as we can disengage. Over.”

Dekker pulled the tags off the two soldiers lying in the field and helped himself to their ammunition and weapons. He ran back to Edwards and the other soldier who’d helped with Ramirez.

“He’s dead, Lieutenant,” Edwards said as Dekker approached. “Sorry, there’s nothing we could’ve done.” He looked toward Nomad Two. “What about Xiao and Shabelman?”

“Same,” Dekker said. “They’re gone. So are Consuelo and Cromartie and the Air Force guys.”

“Man,” Edwards said, visibly shaken. “Are you sure?”

“Completely,” Dekker said. “Listen, the Apaches need to land. Let’s stay eyes out.”

The Apaches came in, landing one at a time, their noses pointed north. The copilots climbed out of their armored seats in the front of the tandem cockpits and emerged from the aircraft. Apaches were flown by the pilot in the rearmost seat, and those individuals remained with the running aircraft. The copilots took care of the refueling process, dragging hoses from the fuel tankers positioned nearby. Overhead, two Black Hawks orbited in a racetrack formation at three hundred feet, keeping eyes on the area. Dekker didn’t know where the other two utility helicopters were.

He approached one of the aviators as he wrestled with the fuel hose, hooking it over his shoulder and running toward his idling Apache.

Dekker shouted over the noise. “Hey guy, can you hear me?”

“What is it, sir?” the warrant officer yelled back as he fussed with the Apache’s refueling point.

“You need us to help you?” Dekker asked. “We don’t know shit about fueling helicopters, but if there’s other stuff you need us to do, tell me.”

“Just keep the Klowns off us long enough for us to tank up and get in the air,” the pilot said.

“How many are inbound?”

The warrant officer plugged the fast transfer fuel nozzle into the Apache and pulled the trigger. The hose stiffened as Jet A fuel surged through it. “A lot,” he said.

“Can you guys hold back ‘a lot’?” Dekker asked.

“Sir, you guys might want to touch base with Wizard, and find out how long you’re supposed to hold this place.”

That wasn’t an answer, but Dekker read between the lines. The airfield was severe danger of being overrun.

He left the pilot to his duties and went to make sure the remainder of his unit was still in their fighting positions. He took Ramirez’s rifle and grenade rounds, stuffing the latter into his vest.

He then got on the radio.

“Catfish, this is Nomad. Over.”

“This is Catfish. Go ahead, Nomad. Over.”

“Catfish, Nomad. Can you give a pulse to Wizard and advise we are under direct attack. I’m down to maybe a squad in ground strength, and I need to know how long we’re supposed to stay here and act as ballistics magnets. Over.”

“Nomad, this is Catfish. Roger, we’ll check. It’ll be a bit. It has to be relayed through the attack battalion commander. Over.”

“Roger that, Catfish.”

“Lieutenant!”

Dekker turned. Edwards and Fitzpatrick were kneeling behind the plastic barriers, rifles oriented outward. Across the airfield, several people loped across the flat terrain, making a beeline straight for them. The Klowns surged past the smoking pickup truck without slowing. Behind them, more came, emerging from the trees that surrounded the airfield. Dekker had studied the maps intently and had even gone for a quick recon hop in one of the UH-60s right as they set up shop. The airport clearing was large, but one finger of trees blocked at least half of Runway 11 from direct visual observation. Dekker hadn’t posted any troops out that way as he had been interested in securing the refueling area and protecting the Black Hawks. But apparently the Klowns had penetrated the fence on that side.

Dekker lifted his field glasses to his eyes and started counting.

He stopped at two hundred.

On the other side of the airport, gunfire intensified as the MRAPs and Air Force machinegun emplacements went into overtime. At the same time, the pair of UH-60s orbiting the airfield opened up on the line of Klowns streaming in from the southeast, hosing them with machineguns from a thousand feet downrange. Dekker saw several of the infected stumble and fall, but more simply took their places. The Black Hawks didn’t hold in position. They kept racing along, firing as they went. Dekker understood why. If the helicopters slowed or transitioned to a hover to draw out the engagement, they’d become targets themselves.

“Six, this is Nomad Three. Over.”

“Three, go for Six. Over.”

“Six, the Klowns are really pouring it on now. We’re taking consistent fire from three directions. Air Force guys are pinned down. We’d like to advance and recover them, then fall back to one of the choke points. Over.”

“Three, stand by. Break. Any Tomcat, this is Nomad. When’s the next pair of Apaches going to show up? Over.”

A static-tinged response came back a moment later. “Nomad, this is Tomcat Eight. We are four minutes out. Over.”

“Roger, Tomcat Eight. At this time, be advised that we are danger close. Recommend you make your approach from the south-southeast and service ground combatants that are rolling up on us. They’re using the runways, so they should be easy targets for you. Over.”

“Nomad, Tomcat Eight, roger all.”

“Nomad Three, this is Six. Over.”

“Nomad Three.”

“Three, you’re good to go on the recovery mission. Fall back to the northern choke point and deploy your dismounts there. Break. Nomad Four, this is Six. Over.”

“Nomad Four!” The soldier in charge of the MRAP had to shout over the constant bark of the fifty caliber machinegun in the cupola above him.

“Four, hold your pos until Nomad Three completes his recovery, then head back to the eastern choke point. Over.”

“Rog—”

A deafening explosion made Dekker jump, and he turned around to see another column of smoke rising on the other side of the hangar at the far end of the refueling area. A second explosion ripped through the area, then another, and another. The aviators refueling their Apaches looked around nervously.

Fitzpatrick yelled down the three man line, “Hey, El-Tee! Do those Guard guys have mortars?”

Dekker keyed his microphone. “Nomad Four, give me a SITREP—”

One of the Apaches exploded into a ball of flaming fuel as something slammed into it and detonated with enough force to tear right through the ballistic fuel cells. Jet fuel burned bright and hot as the aircraft’s rotors collapsed, the torque tearing the advanced attack helicopter to pieces. Debris flew through the air and struck the second Apache, which was parked seventy feet behind the first. Several loud cracks echoed around the airfield as the remaining Apache’s spinning rotors struck the foreign objects, sending them flying through the air at fantastic velocities. Something began whistling, loudly and shrilly.

Dekker turned to the refueling area while yelling for Edwards and Fitzpatrick to stay on the line. He saw the aviator he had spoken to gesturing madly at the Apache’s pilot. The aircraft’s engines slowly powered down, winding from a high-pitched scream to a rumbling growl. One of the aircraft’s carbon-fiber rotors flapped around madly like a broken board, rising and falling as it flailed at the air. The copilot dropped to his belly as the rotor finally folded up and slammed against the mast-mounted radome, slashing at its exterior shell. The rotors came to a sudden halt, and the pilot in the back seat frantically shoved open his canopy door.

In the distance, above the gunfire and crackle of roaring flames, Dekker heard several faint reports.

Fuck, they do have mortars!

The second Apache exploded as a mortar shell slammed into its cockpit, tearing the pilot into bloody ribbons. The copilot rolled around on the ground, screaming something that was barely audible over the din of combat. He was yelling for a medic. Dekker turned to Edwards, who looked back at the conflagration behind him.

“Oh, fuck!” he cried and started to get to his feet.

“Stay where you are!” Dekker shouted. He keyed his radio button. “Catfish, this is Nomad! Over!”

“Nomad, this is Catfish. Over.”

“Catfish, we’re being hit with mortar fire! Both Apaches are destroyed. Can you find the enemy emplacement and hose it for us? Over!”

“Ah, Nomad, roger that. I’m already looking for them. Listen, you have Klowns all over the place now. It looks like you’ve lost another MRAP. We can see it burning to your north. It must’ve been hit by a couple of mortar rounds. I see one crew member on the ground, still fighting with an M4, but he’s about thirty seconds from being overrun by at least twelve enemy. Over.”

“Catfish, do what you can, but we need those mortars taken out! Break. Tomcat, uh, Tomcat Eight, this is Nomad. Over.”

“Tomcat Eight. Nomad, we’re sixty seconds out. We’re getting some tracks on the outbound mortar rounds, you have incoming—”

Three more explosions tore through the remaining Apache, ripping it to pieces and obliterating all signs of the injured pilot who had still been writhing on the concrete. A fourth explosion ripped through one of the M500 fuel blivets, atomizing the fuel there. An instant later, the entire cloud of fuel ignited, and the ensuing shock wave lifted Dekker and threw him over the line of jersey barriers.

He rolled across the pavement. It’s so fucking hot. Behind him, Edwards and Fitzpatrick were screaming. Dekker turned onto his side and saw that the entire refueling area was ablaze. Dekker released a strangled cry. So were his men. They thrashed about inside a sea of flame, rolling, trying to put out the fires… but they were lying in puddles of fuel.

His left boot was on fire. He slapped at it frantically, hitting it with his gloved hands again and again. Overhead, one of the Black Hawks roared past, the gunner leaning out of his seat and blazing away with his M240. Rounds pounded into the concrete next to Dekker, and he flinched as he continued trying to put out the flames on his foot. Something thudded to the ground behind him. He heard a wheezing, gurgling laugh that was filled with blood and mucus. The Klowns were right on top of him, and there he was, trying to put out one of his fucking boots. He gave that up and reached for his rifle, turning to engage the enemy.

Someone kicked him in the face, and his first shots went wild. Then hands seized him, slapping him across the face as they stretched him out on the tarmac. The bright sunlight dimmed, and Dekker looked up as a completely naked, overweight woman straddled him. She stared down at him between her ponderous breasts and smiled. Nails protruded from her lower lip like bloodied fangs.

“Check out my cunt, baby,” she said, chuckling as she thrust her fleshy hips forward, exposing perhaps the hairiest crotch Dekker had ever seen.

He thrashed as hard as he could, but several giggling men and women held him in place as the woman began to urinate all over his face. Dekker coughed and retched.

No no no no

Then he laughed.