Stephen Knight - Slaughterhouse

“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.”

“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.