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.