“Three, stand by. Break. Any Tomcat, this is Nomad. When’s the next pair of Apaches going to show up? Over.”
A static-tinged response came back a moment later. “Nomad, this is Tomcat Eight. We are four minutes out. Over.”
“Roger, Tomcat Eight. At this time, be advised that we are danger close. Recommend you make your approach from the south-southeast and service ground combatants that are rolling up on us. They’re using the runways, so they should be easy targets for you. Over.”
“Nomad, Tomcat Eight, roger all.”
“Nomad Three, this is Six. Over.”
“Nomad Three.”
“Three, you’re good to go on the recovery mission. Fall back to the northern choke point and deploy your dismounts there. Break. Nomad Four, this is Six. Over.”
“Nomad Four!” The soldier in charge of the MRAP had to shout over the constant bark of the fifty caliber machinegun in the cupola above him.
“Four, hold your pos until Nomad Three completes his recovery, then head back to the eastern choke point. Over.”
“Rog—”
A deafening explosion made Dekker jump, and he turned around to see another column of smoke rising on the other side of the hangar at the far end of the refueling area. A second explosion ripped through the area, then another, and another. The aviators refueling their Apaches looked around nervously.
Fitzpatrick yelled down the three man line, “Hey, El-Tee! Do those Guard guys have mortars?”
Dekker keyed his microphone. “Nomad Four, give me a SITREP—”
One of the Apaches exploded into a ball of flaming fuel as something slammed into it and detonated with enough force to tear right through the ballistic fuel cells. Jet fuel burned bright and hot as the aircraft’s rotors collapsed, the torque tearing the advanced attack helicopter to pieces. Debris flew through the air and struck the second Apache, which was parked seventy feet behind the first. Several loud cracks echoed around the airfield as the remaining Apache’s spinning rotors struck the foreign objects, sending them flying through the air at fantastic velocities. Something began whistling, loudly and shrilly.
Dekker turned to the refueling area while yelling for Edwards and Fitzpatrick to stay on the line. He saw the aviator he had spoken to gesturing madly at the Apache’s pilot. The aircraft’s engines slowly powered down, winding from a high-pitched scream to a rumbling growl. One of the aircraft’s carbon-fiber rotors flapped around madly like a broken board, rising and falling as it flailed at the air. The copilot dropped to his belly as the rotor finally folded up and slammed against the mast-mounted radome, slashing at its exterior shell. The rotors came to a sudden halt, and the pilot in the back seat frantically shoved open his canopy door.
In the distance, above the gunfire and crackle of roaring flames, Dekker heard several faint reports.
Fuck, they do have mortars!
The second Apache exploded as a mortar shell slammed into its cockpit, tearing the pilot into bloody ribbons. The copilot rolled around on the ground, screaming something that was barely audible over the din of combat. He was yelling for a medic. Dekker turned to Edwards, who looked back at the conflagration behind him.
“Oh, fuck!” he cried and started to get to his feet.
“Stay where you are!” Dekker shouted. He keyed his radio button. “Catfish, this is Nomad! Over!”
“Nomad, this is Catfish. Over.”
“Catfish, we’re being hit with mortar fire! Both Apaches are destroyed. Can you find the enemy emplacement and hose it for us? Over!”
“Ah, Nomad, roger that. I’m already looking for them. Listen, you have Klowns all over the place now. It looks like you’ve lost another MRAP. We can see it burning to your north. It must’ve been hit by a couple of mortar rounds. I see one crew member on the ground, still fighting with an M4, but he’s about thirty seconds from being overrun by at least twelve enemy. Over.”
“Catfish, do what you can, but we need those mortars taken out! Break. Tomcat, uh, Tomcat Eight, this is Nomad. Over.”
“Tomcat Eight. Nomad, we’re sixty seconds out. We’re getting some tracks on the outbound mortar rounds, you have incoming—”
Three more explosions tore through the remaining Apache, ripping it to pieces and obliterating all signs of the injured pilot who had still been writhing on the concrete. A fourth explosion ripped through one of the M500 fuel blivets, atomizing the fuel there. An instant later, the entire cloud of fuel ignited, and the ensuing shock wave lifted Dekker and threw him over the line of jersey barriers.
He rolled across the pavement. It’s so fucking hot. Behind him, Edwards and Fitzpatrick were screaming. Dekker turned onto his side and saw that the entire refueling area was ablaze. Dekker released a strangled cry. So were his men. They thrashed about inside a sea of flame, rolling, trying to put out the fires… but they were lying in puddles of fuel.
His left boot was on fire. He slapped at it frantically, hitting it with his gloved hands again and again. Overhead, one of the Black Hawks roared past, the gunner leaning out of his seat and blazing away with his M240. Rounds pounded into the concrete next to Dekker, and he flinched as he continued trying to put out the flames on his foot. Something thudded to the ground behind him. He heard a wheezing, gurgling laugh that was filled with blood and mucus. The Klowns were right on top of him, and there he was, trying to put out one of his fucking boots. He gave that up and reached for his rifle, turning to engage the enemy.
Someone kicked him in the face, and his first shots went wild. Then hands seized him, slapping him across the face as they stretched him out on the tarmac. The bright sunlight dimmed, and Dekker looked up as a completely naked, overweight woman straddled him. She stared down at him between her ponderous breasts and smiled. Nails protruded from her lower lip like bloodied fangs.
“Check out my cunt, baby,” she said, chuckling as she thrust her fleshy hips forward, exposing perhaps the hairiest crotch Dekker had ever seen.
He thrashed as hard as he could, but several giggling men and women held him in place as the woman began to urinate all over his face. Dekker coughed and retched.
No no no no
Then he laughed.
TWENTY.
He had to admit, it was a beautiful day for a war.
Harry Lee took a few steps away from the parked Humvee, his M4 in his hands. The field he stood in faced a collection of slab-sided concrete structures almost a half mile away. According to the maps, the place was called the Souza-Baranowski Correctional Facility, a maximum security prison that housed Massachusetts’s most violent offenders. While the parking lot was mostly empty, the prison buildings appeared to be secure. Lee had no idea how many criminals were housed there, but for the moment, they did not appear to be a threat.
Lee adjusted his heavy body armor and wiped at the band of sweat beneath the rim of his helmet. The day was hot, sticky, and humid, but he was still alive. He’d take hot and sweaty over cold and dead, any day.
Though being dead was perhaps preferable to becoming a giggling, murderous maniac.
Overhead, helicopters orbited. Behind him, the convoy continued rolling down Route 2, which the road signs called the George W. Stanton Highway. Lee had no idea who Stanton was, but the man probably wouldn’t have been thrilled to know the avenue named in his honor had a great view of a maximum security penitentiary.
Beside him, Staff Sergeant Mike Murphy emerged from the Humvee, accompanied by a pimple-faced soldier named Twohy, their Radio Telephone Operator, or RTO. Both men carried their weapons, and they surveyed the field with cautious eyes.