The pilot was leaning toward him, yelling to be heard over the interior noise of the Kiowa’s cockpit.
“We’ve got a Chinook down, Colonel, about three miles from here! We’re closest to the crash site!”
Garrett didn’t have a helmet, so he wasn’t able to hear the pilot’s radio traffic. “Okay, Captain!” he yelled back. “What are you waiting for! Let’s move!”
The pilot banked the chopper hard, lining up their course with the last known position of the CH-47. The Kiowa Warrior’s mast-mounted sight — looking like a large basketball with glass eyes suspended above the main rotor — could see through the darkness with a low-light television and thermal imaging system. This chopper was designed to scout and search for the enemy, using the mounted sight to peek over hills and trees without exposing the entire aircraft to enemy fire. It would find the enemy, and the Apaches — the gunship choppers — would attack and kill.
The pilot skimmed the trees, using his night vision equipment to navigate obstacles and his global positioning system (GPS) readout to find the exact coordinates. The mounted sight swiveled left and right, searching for a heat signature — a fire — from the downed Chinook. To the south, the thermal imaging system picked up thousands of small heat signatures, moving fast to the north. The things, on the move. They were only a few miles from their position.
“Sir! If we’re going to find them, we have to do it fast! The things are moving this way, about three miles from our position to the south!” The pilot pointed toward where the wave of things was approaching.
Garrett squinted through the darkness, trying to pick out their glowing eyes in the blackness below. At the speed they’d moved from the city to the airport, he knew they could cover three miles in just a few minutes.
“Got it, sir!” the pilot yelled as the thermal imaging site picked up the crash site. “About five degrees left, two hundred yards!” There was no fire, but the heat from the Chinook’s two engines still glowed bright green on the screen. If there was no fire, the possibility of survivors was much higher, Garrett knew. If there were any survivors. He couldn’t discern any movement on the screen.
“Take us in closer!” Garrett yelled. “Try to find a place to put us down!”
“Yes, sir! Looks like they went down in the middle of some trees! We may have to put down right here!”
“Do it!”
The Kiowa settled to the ground, its rotor wash kicking up grass and dust from the plowed field at the edge of the tree line. “Sir, you’re going to have to hurry—”
“I know! If I’m not back by the time the things get here, you get your ass out of here! That’s an order!”
“Yes, sir!”
Garrett jumped from the Kiowa and sprinted toward the tree line. As he ran, he looked to his left, trying to spot yellow eyes in the darkness. He couldn’t see them.
Yet.
CHAPTER 20
The president wearily looked up from a blurry sheet of paper as the secretary of Homeland Security entered the situation room.
“Mr. President, it’s happening in Topeka.”
Andrew could hear the utter helplessness in Hugo’s voice and see the matching desperation in the man’s eyes. Topeka. It’s happening again, and there’s not a goddamned thing we can do about it. Go ahead and say it, Hugo.
“We started the evacuations about forty-five minutes before the things entered the city,” Hugo said and then paused, the weight of the world brutally pressing down on his shoulders. “It wasn’t enough time, Mr. President. We’re going to lose Topeka.”
The president glanced down to the statistics in front of him, squinting to read the numbers through tired eyes.
Kansas City, a city of over four hundred thousand people. Dead.
Lawrence. Nearly eighty thousand people. Dead.
Topeka. Over one hundred twenty thousand. Getting torn apart at that very moment. Dying.
Andrew knew there were five other major cities in the process of being evacuated: Omaha, Nebraska, 390,000 people; Des Moines, Iowa, nearly 200,000; St. Louis, Missouri, 350,000; Springfield, Missouri, over 150,000; Wichita, Kansas, 344,000. Combined with the surrounding towns and small communities dotting the map in the path of the things, the numbers were staggering. Well over a million of his fellow citizens, people he was sworn to protect, were in harm’s way. Over half a million might’ve died already, in the short span of less than twenty-four hours.
Andrew looked past Hugo at the SECDEF and read the same desperation in his eyes. “Tank, what’s the situation on the ground?”
“We’re placing as many troops as we can around the five major cities under threat, Mr. President, regular army and National Guard. Right now, we’re relying almost entirely on the local units for the deployments. They’re not all combat units, but they all know how to fire a rifle.” A fleeting old soldier’s smile. “We’ll be airlifting other units into the region by morning. Until then, sir, we’ll have to stop their advance by air. Air Combat Command is moving as many strike aircraft into the region as possible.” He stole a quick glance at his watch. “The first B-52 strike out of Barksdale should occur in about thirty minutes, directed against the wave heading toward Omaha. Similar strikes are planned against the five additional waves. Tactical aircraft are hitting them as we speak.”
“Impact?” Tell me something good, Tank.
“Negligible, Mr. President. Hardly any impact at all.” The SECDEF lowered his eyes, too full of the bitterness of failure to hold the gaze of his commander in chief.
“How can that be?”
Tank looked up again. “Sir, you saw our reports from Kansas City International. They blew right through the troops we had on the ground, and the air attacks had almost no effect. Until we bring more firepower to bear…”
“Okay, Tank. You’re doing all you can. I understand that.” The president looked up at the digital clock on the wall of the situation room. It was half past two in the morning. “I want details after the BUFF strikes.” The B-52 was officially named the Stratofortress, but was more commonly known as the BUFF, which stood for Big Ugly Fat Fellow. Or Fucker, depending on who was asking. “I need to know if we’re going to be able to stop them with conventionals.”
“Understood, sir.” Tank knew what the next step could be if conventional weapons failed, a scenario he wouldn’t allow himself to ponder. Not yet.
“How long until they enter Omaha?”
“We estimate less than three hours, sir,” Tank said. “Unless we can stop them, that is.”
Less than three hours, the president thought. Right before sunrise. “Hugo, keep me updated on the evacuations. Keep pressing.”
“Will do, sir.”
Andrew leaned back in his chair, looking at the myriad of charts and displays arrayed in front of him. No president before him had ever watched the nation dying right before his eyes.
For the first time, Andrew began to wonder if this nightmare might require a nightmare solution.
CHAPTER 21
The heavy, choking stench of aviation fuel was nearly overpowering.
Garrett knew the fact that the chopper hadn’t exploded on impact was a miracle. The tink tink of hot metal, though, meant there could still be an explosion at any moment. He’d have to move fast.
The wrecked Chinook was resting on its side, the rotor blades completely shredded and lying in pieces around the crash site. As Garrett moved toward the rear of the chopper, stepping over shards of carbon fiber rotor sticking out of the ground like husks from a blackened crop, he heard no moaning, no cries for help. Just the tinking sound of hot metal cooling in the evening air.