“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.”