Craig DiLouie - Pandemic

“Bring us alongside Rebel Two, Mike.”

Mike glared at his side view mirror. “Problem!”

Lee stood and leaned out of the vehicle. The wind howled past. He saw muzzle flashes burst in the dark. Rebel Two was demolishing a souped-up Trans Am at point blank range. On its other side, a tractor trailer roared on eighteen wheels. The truck was black. A woman had been chained to the grille like a freshly killed deer. The trailer’s flank showed a smiling family eating hot dogs.

“Fire your fifty!” Lee ordered, but Foster was already on it, sending hot metal downrange into the grille, which began to blow steam. His next rounds smashed the windshield.

The laughing driver wrenched the wheel. The giant rig swerved into Rebel Two.

“No!” Foster screamed.

The truck struck the Humvee with a metallic clap and enveloped it, jackknifing before the trailer rolled, flaring sparks and shards of metal. Rebel Two disappeared.

Murphy brought the Humvee to a stop. He was drenched in sweat.

Lee keyed his radio. “Rebel Two, this is Rebel Six. What’s your status, over?”

Nothing.

“All Rebel units, this is Rebel Six, how copy? Over.”

Dead air.

Murphy turned in his seat. “What now, Captain?”

Lee reloaded his rifle and chambered a round. His hands were shaking.

“What now?” the sergeant repeated, shouting.

Lee took a deep breath. His body was shaking from excess adrenaline. He was exhausted; he’d never been so tired. He wanted to lie down on the road and take a long, long sleep. “Now,” he said, “we go back and look for survivors.”

Rebel One approached Hanscom at a crawl.

“Nice and slow, Mike,” said Lee.

“Roger that,” Murphy said, eyeing the Mark19 tracking them from one of the guard towers.

“Foster, let go of the fifty and grab a seat. We didn’t come all this way to get killed by our own guys. They’ve got some itchy fingers over there.”

Foster dropped out of the gun turret and sat next to Philips, the only survivor they’d found among the wreckage of the escort vehicles. Philips hugged his broken ribs and moaned.

Soldiers crouched behind sandbags between the Hescos. They glared at Lee over the barrels of their rifles. Scared kids. Lee counted three M240 machine guns. Bodies littered the ground around the perimeter, drawing flies in the heat. The air smelled like death. Death and defeat.

One of the soldiers stood, rifle at his shoulder and aimed. “That’s far enough! Exit the vehicle slowly!”

Murphy parked the Humvee and cut the engine. Lee stepped out of the vehicle with his hands in the air.

“Captain Lee?”

“I’m glad you’re still here, Sergeant Diaz. We couldn’t get through on the radio.”

“We’ve had a situation here.”

“Then give me a sitrep, Sergeant.”

Diaz approached, but he didn’t lower his weapon.

Lee frowned. “Would you mind pointing that somewhere else?”

The sergeant lowered his gun as he stepped in front of Lee. “Sorry, sir, but we’re going to have to check you and your men for infection.”

“And how—” Lee started.

Diaz punched him in the stomach and retreated, rifle raised again. Lee stepped back with a gasp. Murphy and Foster stiffened but wisely didn’t move.

After several moments, the sergeant lowered his gun. “You’re clear.”

If Lee had laughed at the pain, he’d be dead. He nodded as he caught his breath. “Good to know.”

Diaz shook his hand. “Ouch. Forgot about the body armor.”

After the others were cleared, the soldiers at the checkpoint visibly relaxed.

“So what’s the situation?” Lee asked.

“The base is in lockdown. The Colonel’s dead.”

The news struck Lee like a second punch. “How?”

“Not sure, Captain. The command post is sealed up tight. The scuttlebutt is he shot himself. What the hell happened to you?”

“Concord Turnpike has been turned into an Indy 500 for homicidal maniacs. I lost good men out there.” He ground his teeth in a sudden fit of rage. His boys had survived crossing half the Afghan bush only to die on an American road. “Report to Major Walker that I’m here and need to see him ASAP. Then get my men a hot and cot. One of them needs medical attention. See to it.”

“Wilco, Captain. And by the way, uh, sorry about sucker punching you.”

“Let’s say I owe you one, Diaz.”

The sergeant saluted and grinned. “Glad you’re back safe, Captain.”

Within minutes, the Humvee rolled into the base. Soldiers milled about without orders. They passed one sitting on the ground and crying into his hands. Lee spotted two men climbing over one of the Hescos and disappearing. The Humvee parked near the command post.

“Major Walker in command,” Lee said. “Christ, this couldn’t get any worse.”

Walker was a politician. He was a fantastic administrator but a terrible soldier, and about as inspiring as white paint on a white wall.

Murphy nodded. “Embrace the Suck, Captain.”

The Suck. The Army version of SNAFU. They were pioneering new territory in Suck right now. Lee wanted to say more, but he’d already said too much. A good officer didn’t bitch down the chain of command. He bitched up . He needed to find Walker and do some bitching.

Leaving his men at the Humvee, he entered the trailer that served as the battalion command post. The place stank of fear and flop sweat. He saw the same haggard faces at their workstations, but the usual frantic pace had slowed to a crawl. The men were going through the motions. They grimaced at the sound of the door opening but otherwise ignored him.

Walker stood with his back to him, studying the big board. Lee glanced at it and noticed the tactical situation had changed. All units had left the Greater Boston core and were converging on Hanscom. All were listed as in contact with the enemy. First Battalion appeared to be in retreat. Lee had missed a hell of a lot while he was out in the field.

“Captain Lee, reporting to the commanding officer as requested, sir.”

The major turned and greeted him with an enigmatic smile. “Ah, Captain. It’s good to have you back. You’re exactly the man I wanted to see.”

Lee smelled a rat but knew better than to show it. “That’s a mutual sentiment, sir.”

Walker led him into the Colonel’s office. Though the body had been removed, the room smelled of ammonia and the tang of a recent gunshot. The major sat at Prince’s desk and motioned for Lee to grab a chair opposite. Lee noticed a large pink circle on the wall behind Walker’s head, obviously from where Prince’s blood and brains had been hastily scrubbed.

“Where’s the body?” Lee asked.

“We’ll take care of him. There will be a service at twelve-hundred.” The major opened a drawer and produced a bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses. He poured two fingers into each.

Lee was about to say it was a little early for a drink but decided, what the hell. He was still wondering what Walker’s game was. “To the Colonel,” Lee said, raising his glass. “He was a good man.” He tossed back his drink while Walker sipped at his.

“He was a good man,” Walker said. “He just couldn’t…”

“Couldn’t what?”

“He just couldn’t handle it. All of it.”

“Did you report it up the chain of command?”

Walker lit a cigarette. “Little problem with that. The chain of command is broken. Big Brother is dead. Infected and killed by an airstrike. Fort Drum has gone dark.”

Lee stiffened. “Drum’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“But we send our wounded there. We’ve been doing it from the start.”

“The incubation takes longer than we were told in some cases?”