When the first of the small OH-58D Kiowa Warrior helicopters buzzed in, Dekker and the rest of the cavalry platoon straightened up and stood overwatch. The Black Hawk crew chiefs handled the refueling operation, apparently not a duty they had practiced to perfection as it took almost twenty minutes to get the two armed scout helicopters topped off. This gave the Kiowa Warrior crews time to hit the latrine in a nearby hangar and conduct their own defueling missions Since they could only go one at a time—the Kiowa Warriors were left running as part of the “hot refuel” plan, so one pilot had to stay with the aircraft while the other took a piss—the refueling delay was a boon for them. By the time the Kiowa Warrior pilots had finished their breaks, the aircraft were ready to go. Exchanging salutes with the ground crew, the aircrews pulled pitch, broke deck, and headed out.
Dekker looked through the windows of the passenger terminal. The people inside watched the helicopters come and go with an expression of relief. Obviously, they thought the appearance of the small gunships meant that the Army was coming—and in force.
Dekker considered telling them they had it wrong, that the Army—or what passed for it, anyway—was actually bugging out, and if they were smart, they would do the same. He passed on that, of course. He didn’t want any of his command coming into contact with the civilians. He didn’t know if any of them were infected, and even though the Klowns were crazy, they were crafty.
“Hey Nomad, this is Catfish. Over.”
Catfish was the captain in charge of the Black Hawk element.
Dekker adjusted the boom microphone on his radio headset, even though it was already perfectly positioned.
“Catfish, this is Nomad. Go ahead. Over.”
“Nomad, Catfish. Just got a pulse from the battalion. We have red air inbound. Flight of four Guard UH-1 Iroquois helicopters. Over.”
Dekker felt a little queasy. The designation “red air” meant hostile aircraft, and hostile aircraft were a ground pounder’s worst nightmare. “Uh, roger that, Catfish. If they’re Guard, maybe they have the same idea as we do. Drop in and fill up. Over.”
“Negative, Nomad. Another Huey element attacked the column. This is the real deal. Over.”
Oh, fuck. “Roger that, Catfish. Stand by. Break. Sniper, this is Nomad. Over.”
“Go for Sniper. Over,” the senior Air Force ISRT NCO said. Dekker could see the man in his machinegun position a hundred plus meters away. The weapon was oriented on the closest exit from the passenger terminal but could be rotated to cover half the airfield, if required.
“Sniper, Nomad. We’ve got red air inbound. Prepare for contact. Over.”
“Roger that, Nomad. What’s the drill? Over.”
“Stand by, Sniper. Break. Catfish, this is Nomad. Over.”
“Nomad, go for Catfish. Over.”
“Catfish, Nomad. Any orders from battalion? Over.”
“Nomad, we’ve asked. It’ll take a bit for Wizard’s direction to be relayed to us. Our guys are kind of busy right now. Uh…hold one.” The radio went silent.
There was gunfire in the distance, and a roaring motor that drew near, then faded away. Dekker examined the perimeter fence and saw nothing—no movement, no figures trying to climb over, not even a dog taking a piss.
“Nomad, this is Catfish. Report from the scout element that just refueled. Red air is a flight of four UH-1 Victor Hueys loaded with troops and weapons on hard points. Five miles and closing from the east, radial zero-eight-zero, moving at about a hundred knots. Contact in about two minutes. Still no report from Wizard or Tomcat. We have another flight of two scouts inbound, six minutes out. Two Apaches inbound as well, seven minutes out. Over.”
“Ah, roger all, Catfish. Your birds are ready to go? Over.” Dekker knew that the four UH-60s had already been preflighted then left in isolation, so no one but aircrew could board them. This way, the Black Hawks were as ready as they could be to take off on short notice. Dekker figured two minutes was probably too short, but what the hell, there was nothing anyone could do about it.
“Roger, Nomad, aircraft are ready to go. Over.”
“Catfish, get your troops out of here. We need to make sure your aircraft are safe, so get out of here. Over.”
“Nomad, this is Catfish. We haven’t received orders from Wizard yet. Over.”
“Understood, Catfish. This is my call. Save your birds. Over.”
No sooner had he given the order than he heard a turbine engine start spooling up. The captain in charge of the aviation element wasn’t going to try and dicker. The site commander had given him an order, and he was going to obey it.
“Nomad, this is Catfish. We’ll do our best. We’ll stay local. We might be able to provide some supporting fires. Listen, once the fur ball starts, you can expect every Klown in the area to want to get in on the action. Over.”
Another turbine wailed into life. Dekker looked over at the helicopter assembly area. The main rotors on two Black Hawks were already starting to turn.
“Roger that, Catfish. Feel free to skip your hover checks. We won’t tell anyone. Over.”
“You the man, Nomad.”
Another Black Hawk started cranking up. Dekker glanced back at the passenger terminal. Several people stood behind the pane glass that overlooked the jet-way apron—scruffy, unshaven men in cargo shorts and T-shirts, women in rumpled sundresses holding tote bags and dog-eared paperback books, kids with toys or comic books. The kids looked out at the helicopters and the soldiers with excitement lighting up their faces. For them, the whole thing was fun. The adults looked a little less enthused.
They saw the Army was bugging out.
Dekker wanted to help them, but there was nothing he could do. He had less than twenty-five men available since the aviation crews were pulling pitch. He didn’t know exactly how many troops a Huey could carry, but he presumed as many as a Black Hawk, which meant his elements would soon be in contact with airmobile Klowns who had numerical superiority.
His platoon had its orders. They were to secure the airport and safeguard the aviation fuel pond, and until Wizard passed on a new fragmentary order, that was what they would do. Dekker was only a first lieutenant, but the tall young officer from Denton, Texas wasn’t dumb. He wouldn’t try to maintain control over a lost objective, but he would maneuver his fires and kill as many Klowns as possible before he broke position and rolled out.
And he might be able to give the civilians watching him a bit more time.
FIFTEEN.
Throttle wide open. Engine torque and temperature gauges stuck in the red. Rotor bearings screaming from the load. Helicopter has only a few minutes of life left before the engine shuts down. So much laughter, it’s tough to keep the Huey booming along in a straight line, so that’s why they flew in a trail formation. No chance of an accident.
Flying through clouds of smoke. Below, downtown Worcester burns, its streets filled with beautifully gutted bodies, rivers of shattered glass, destroyed vehicles, mountains of debris. The city’s office buildings look like deboned monsters, reduced to nothing more than charred corpses. Clearing the smoke, the airport can be seen, its VOR still active, leading the flight of four Hueys to it like bloodhounds chasing down a strong spoor. The airport looks pristine. Untouched.
That would change.
Another aircraft appears, rising from behind the airport terminal building—a Black Hawk. It hovers for a moment, then noses over and flies away. Two more rise, hover for a moment, then turn away from the incoming helicopters.
Everyone laughs.