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.”