Stephen Knight - Slaughterhouse

“Catfish, this is Nomad. Over.”

“Nomad, this is Catfish. We were getting worried about you. Over.”

“Catfish, this is Nomad. Can you guys swing around to the front of the airport and tell me what’s going on? There’s weapon fire inside the terminal building. I just need a recon. No need for you guys to get too close. Over.”

“Roger that, Nomad. We’re on it. Ah, a couple of things. We see some activity from that first Huey you guys splashed. Second aircraft is a write-off, but there’s still someone alive in the first. The attack battalion is sending four units your way. Two arrive in three minutes but are low on fuel. Two more will be on station in ten minutes, with full tanks. Also, looks like one of your units is on fire. Over.”

“Roger that, Catfish. If you can, reach out and touch those bastards who fried our MRAP. Break. Nomad units, this is Nomad Six. Consolidate fires on that last Huey. Bring it down as soon as you can, then service any ground combatants you come across. Over.”

All units responded affirmatively. On the other side of the airfield, the Black Hawks split up into two elements. One pair raced around the perimeter, heading toward the terminal building. The second flew across the airfield and turned to parallel the smoking MRAP. Standing off at around five hundred feet from the destroyed vehicle, their gunners opened up on the Klowns, chopping away at them as the Infected crawled off the MRAP. The Klowns that tried to stand and fight were taken down by 7.62-millimeter projectiles. Some Infected sought to use the MRAP as cover, despite the fact that it was on fire.

Dekker once again considered the bloody SAW lying beside him but decided the risk of infection was too great. He rose over the sandbags and started firing at the Klowns with his rifle, hitting them from behind as they tried to hide from the Black Hawks. Two went down before they figured out the sandbag emplacement hadn’t been wiped out.

The remaining Klowns surged toward Dekker, hooting and howling, apparently forgetting the UH-60s that prowled along over the center of the airfield. Dekker continued firing from his fixed position, even while the Infected opened up on the emplacement. But they were shooting on the move, laughing uproariously the whole time, and their accuracy was down to nothing.

One of the Black Hawks suddenly reversed, flying backward to bring its gunner into a better firing position. The soldier rained lethal slanting fire onto the Klowns, cutting them down as soon as they were clear of the smoking MRAP.

“Nomad, this is Catfish. Over.”

“Go ahead, Catfish.”

“Nomad, that first Huey managed to land in the parking lot across from the terminal. You’ve got several infected infantry moving through the building. We presume they’re engaging the civilians inside. Expect an attack from that direction any second now. We can’t tell who’s who, but if we can catch one in uniform, we’re going to take him out. Over.”

Dekker looked up at the terminal building worriedly. This wasn’t where he wanted to be. He regarded the SAW a third time. Even though he didn’t want to touch it, he couldn’t leave it behind for hostiles to recover, and the zoomies in the emplacement still had lots of ammo. He quickly ransacked the bodies, avoiding body fluids as much as possible. He boosted their magazines and one M4—the weapon was pretty much pristine, compared to his battle-tested campaigner—and grabbed their tags, as well. They were somebody’s kids, after all.

Next, he opened the SAW’s loading tray and pulled out the buffer spring. Since the weapon was still cocked and locked, the spring was under tension. As soon as he tugged on it, the spring uncoiled and flew out of the emplacement. He hopped out after it, hunkered down for a moment to ensure no one was going to guns on him, then scooped up the buffer spring and stuffed it in one of his pockets.

“Nomad, this is Six, I’m coming in. We’ve lost Nomad One and the first SAW emplacement. Alpha Two and Three, prep for ground attacks. If it’s coming your way, light it up. Break. Catfish, this is Nomad. Can you give me an ETA on close air? Over.” Dekker managed all of that while running across the tarmac toward the water-filled barriers that denoted the refuel area. The cover wasn’t much, but most of his troops were there, and he had a better chance living through the coming fight with them at his side.

“Nomad, this is Catfish. Tomcats Four and Five are less than one minute out. I’m in contact with them, and I gave them this freq. Over.”

“Roger, Catfish.”

“Nomad, Catfish. Sorry to brighten your day, but the locals have heard the fuss, and we have a strong element headed toward the airport. Looks like our days of keeping our heads down are over. Estimate OPFOR to be approximately three- to five-hundred strong and equipped with ground vehicles. Unable to get a visual on armaments, but expect whatever they’re bringing to hurt. Over.”

Fantastic. “Catfish, Nomad. Time to contact? Over.”

“Nomad, this is Catfish. Expect them to arrive on station in about five minutes. Over.”

“Nomad, this is Tomcat Four. Over.”

The new voice on the radio net sounded almost bored.

As he threw himself over the first line of barriers—no easy feat, given the weight of his gear—Dekker wondered how an attack pilot running on fumes could sound so blasé about what was occurring. Dekker landed on the other side of the plastic barriers with a thump.

“Uh, Tomcat, this is Nomad. Go ahead. Over.”

“Nomad, Tomcat. We can hose these guys for you if you want and hold up their advance. They’re about a mile south of the airport. We don’t have a lot of fuel left, so we can make a couple of passes with rockets, and then we’re done. We’ll need to recover at your location to take on some fuel. Over.”

“Roger all, Tomcat. It’s your call. We’ve got goblins on the ground here, so either way, it’s going to be a party. If you can bottle that remote element up for a bit, we can try to keep the refuel point secure, but no promises. You guys might get caught on the deck with the rest of us. Over.” After struggling with the weight of his rucksack, Dekker managed to rise to his knees. His kneepads scraped across the cement as he looked up over the bright jersey barriers, his rifle held at low ready.

“Nomad, this is Tomcat Four. Rog, we’ll treat this inbound column to some close-in gunnery and see how they like it. We’ll save some for the airfield. I’ll fire you a SITREP in a minute or so. Over.”

“Sounds good, Tomcat. Thanks. Over.”

To the left, two of his soldiers were heading toward him, crouching low. A staccato barrage of pops sounded as fifty caliber rounds cooked off in the flame that enveloped Nomad One’s dead MRAP. Behind him, the other MRAPs, their diesel engines idling, added to the cacophony with their M2s barking out an occasional burst.

“Lieutenant!” one of the cavalrymen shouted.

“Go ahead!”

“We’ve got dismounted infantry to our north!” the soldier reported. “Looks like that last Huey dropped ’em off just outside the fence! Hilbarger and Kent are trying to keep ’em pinned, but it’s not really working out too good!”

Dekker turned and looked to the north, past the refueling area the cavalry troops had secured. Two large hangers obscured most of his view, but another Air Force emplacement had been set up near the fence. If the Klowns came that way, they’d face another SAW, as well as an MRAP backing it up less than a hundred meters away. He could hear the pop-pop-pop of assault rifles chattering back and forth as his two soldiers shot it out with the Klowns.

“Nomad Three, you have Hilbarger and Kent in sight? Over!” Nomad Three was run by the platoon sergeant, an experienced sergeant first class named Heller.