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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.