“Sheriff, Sheriff, this is Lost Boys, Over.”
“Lost Boys, this is Sheriff, what’s up, Nick?”
High over the Hudson Valley, running a racetrack pattern, an Air Force EC-130H “Compass Call” aircraft was providing radio retrans and coverage for the Upper Hudson Valley and the forces operating in a 150 mile radius from Albany. Their call sign was “Sherriff”, and ANY unit in trouble could reach them, 24 hours a day.
“Kevin, I have unknown forces attacking my position” and I quickly told him the grid to the island, which I had memorized long ago. “Do you have anything on call?”
“Roger, Nick, I have a AC-130 gunship returning from Z suppression in NYC, ETA Albany in 5 mikes. I can divert, but only for a few passes, he is almost bingo ammo.”
“That will be fine, tell them to run on any hot spots east of my grid. One or two passes will suffice.”
“Roger that, our TAC has handed them off and they will reach you in about eight, I say again zero eight minutes. Can you hold till then?”
“Check. Thanks, Kevin, I owe you one.”
“You owe me three, now, Nick, but I’m not counting, over.”
“Come by the farm someday. Lost Boys Out.”
I love it when a backup plan comes together.
I ran upstairs, passing Brit along the way as she and Joe carried a bloody Ahmed down the hallway. “How is he?” Brit shook her head, not taking her hand off the wound in his shoulder area. Damn.
As I reached the roof, I heard several grenades detonate, their flat CRACK muted by going off in the water. A red glow started behind the trees that shielded the house from the river. Something hot had set off one of the gas tanks in the Zodiac. Nothing to worry about from that end.
Almost at the same instant, a long stream of tracers suddenly ripped across the south field. I hurriedly put on the NVG’s that Joe had left on the roof, just in time to see another short, 3 second burst dance its way through the figure that were struggling out of parachute harnesses. One started to fire back, then crumpled to the ground as rifle fire joined in. Two of them ran south for the river, away from the gunfire. I guess that mercenary paycheck just wasn’t enough.
Two sides secure. I looked North, but I could see nothing on the road, so I turned East. Overhead, I could hear the drone of the AC-130 approaching from downriver. A few more minutes and the zombies and mercs prowling the woods and fields out there would be smears on the dirt, fertilizer for next year’s corn crop. What I wanted had to be somewhere past them.
I took off the NVG’s and lifted Ahmed’s scoped rifle to my eye. He used an Infrared scope, rather than an ambient, low light one. I scanned the far fields until my eye caught two figures, far behind the attacking force. One was bulky, wearing combat armor and a helmet. The other was smaller, not even carrying a weapon.
I could settle it right here, right now. I’m not the greatest shot in the world, and it was well over 700 meters away, but I thought I could make it. I laid the cross hairs right on the smaller figure’s center torso, let my breath out, and slowly squeezed the trigger.
Chapter 29
Eight hundred meters is a long way for anyone to shoot, and I missed. Well, I sort of missed. The larger figure, which I took to be one of her ex-Delta Force goons turned bodyguard, partially hid Morano’s body as I fired, and I forgot to take into account for windage. A strong south wind, unusual for this time of year, caught the round and moved it about eight inches to the left. Enough that, instead of seeing Morano’s slight form crumple to the ground, the big, beefy soldier folded in the middle, probably gut shot. I had been aiming lower because of her shorter stature. When I had settled the scope again from the recoil, both had disappeared into a fold in the ground.
“Dammit!” OK, well, that’s the way shit happens sometimes. I scanned the field for the vehicles that must have brought them there, and in the far distance I saw two 5 ton trucks. I may not be a great shot when it comes to people, but I can hit a truck. I emptied the magazine into the engine compartment of one, then the other. Hot radiator fluid spilled out onto the ground, making a bright white splash in the infrared spectrum. I wished for a tracer round to set them on fire after I had punctured the gas tanks, but they were probably diesel anyway. Bullets never set gasoline on fire, unless you got lucky and a steel jacketed slug struck sparks off some metal. Even then, no huge explosions, just a hot fire. Another Hollywood myth. Either way, Morano might still be alive, but she wasn’t going anywhere.
I turned the scope southward, to the field where the mercenary team had tried to parachute in. I could see a single figure walking toward the remains of the paratroopers, followed by the short / tall team of Red and Hart, pulling security. As I watched, the lone figure, must have been Ziv, fired a short burst into each of the bodies on the ground. Cold bastard, he was, but he was right. We had other things to worry about than someone faking death and sneaking up on us behind.
Lifting the scope higher, I searched for the two that had run away. I saw one floating in the river, unmoving. His heat signature was fading as I watched. This time of the year, the Hudson was still very cold, and he probably had been wounded anyway. The other one was trying to hide behind a tree. I shot him. Such were the wages of being a mercenary, and I had no sympathy for the ones that hired themselves to someone like the Doctor.
As I made to head back down the stairs, the ground to the east rocked with a rhythmic pounding as the 40mm cannon on the Spectre gunship walked its way across the fields, followed at intervals by the big BOOM of the 105mm howitzer. I ran down the stairs, passed Doc and Brit frantically doing CPR on Ahmed, and flipped the radio to the TACAIR frequency.
“Spectre, Spectre, this is Lost Boys, over.”
The copilot of the gunship immediately came back over the radio. I could hear the rumbling of the engines and the hammering of the guns over his headset. “Go ahead, Lost Boys.”
“Spectre, what’s the situation, over?”
“Lost Boys, we are engaging approximately two — four, I say again, two — four undead and receiving small arms fire from a group located about 100 meters from the undead, break”
After a second he came back on “be advised, small arms fire no longer a problem. Will continue to engage target area until heat signatures are gone, over.”
“Roger, Spectre, much appreciate the support. Be advised there may be heat signatures eight hundred meters east of my position. DO NOT, I say again, DO NOT engage. High Value Target. Will attempt capture.”
“Roger, will not engage.”
“Also if there are any heat signatures on the west bank, consider hostile, over.”
“Roger that, Lost boys. We will be on station for approximately ten more mikes. Spectre out.”
I dropped the hand mike and raced upstairs. Brit sat crying in the hallway with Ahmed’s head cradled in her lap, covered in blood, his eyes closed. Doc was stripping off his gloves. He also had blood up his arms, and it was pooled on the floor.
“He’s gone, Nick. The round hit him in the shoulder, penetrated his chest cavity, down to his heart, I suspect. There was nothing I could do. He was dead before we brought him down here.”
I sat down next to Brit and put my arm around her. She was sobbing hysterically.
“Brit.” I squeezed her shoulder. “Brit.” She shook her head. I grabbed her jaw in my hand and turned her face towards me. “Brit, he’s gone. We have work to do. Let’s go.”