Overrun: Project Hideaway (17 page)

"Sirs, I think I got
it."

Tuttle and Samuel both stood
from where they rummaged through the remainder of the food supply packs.

"Can they hear us or just
see us?" Tuttle asked while he and Samuel walked to where the
communications officer had set up the holovid gear.

"I think both, sir,"
the young Vulture soldier said handing Samuel the holovid.

As he said this, a
youthful-looking face appeared on the holovid’s small blue screen.

"This is Vulture
Command."

"Vulture Command, this is
General Maxwell A. Tuttle," Tuttle said taking the holovid from Samuel's
hands. "Vulture Quadrant Commander in charge of the West Coast
sector."

"General?" the soldier
on the other end of the transmission said looking surprised. “We've been
waiting for you to report, sir. Your safety and location has been of great
concern."

"Patch me into..."
Tuttle began but was then surprised to be interrupted by the lower-ranking
officer.

"Forgive me, sir. We've
been ordered to connect you directly to the Administrative Dome once you
reestablished contact. Please hold your transmission."

And with that the young soldier
disappeared.

Tuttle didn’t move. He squinted
his eyes at the tiny screen and waited for another image to appear. Over his
shoulder, Samuel looked on behind him.

The image of a man sitting
behind a large mahogany desk soon appeared.

He sat in a large mostly white
room. Numerous empty shelves lined the walls behind him. Except for the man
behind the desk at its center, the room was mostly empty.

Not yet aware the transmission
had been linked, the man’s back was to the holovid.

It wasn’t until Tuttle spoke
that he finally turned around.

And when he did, the mission was
launched.

General Tuttle crouched in the
blowing sand near Vulture Squad Captain Michael J. Samuel. Both squinted and held
their hands over their eyes to shield against the flying stinging dirt thrown
by the churning helicopter blades.

It had been two hours since they
had made contact with the Administration Dome.

Other than the heavy rush of air
from the helicopter blades, the two command attack choppers hovered above them
without a sound.

Tuttle’s gut twisted at the
thought of leaving Kirken’s son behind.

The helicopters hovered just
above the ground about one hundred feet from the camp. Tuttle, Samuel and most
of the other surviving Vulture troops ran for the short lengths of zip lines
that hung from both aircraft.

Hauling themselves up the zip
lines was the only way to board the attack crafts. There was nowhere solid or
flat enough in the miles of terrain around to safely set them down.

"Are you ready?"
Samuel yelled over the burning wind ripping at his nose and mouth.

He thumped Tuttle hard on the
back between his shoulders and ran for the closest chopper. About ten others
from his ground unit followed. Some ran entirely beneath the first and hauled
themselves aboard the second attack chopper.

Tuttle covered his eyes and
patted the gear that jutted uncomfortably into his injured body. He was about
to follow when a hand pulled at him from behind and held him gently back.

Tuttle turned around to face
Medical Captain Cornellius Cranden. When he did, he felt his heart and spirit
sink.

Cranden’s jaw was set in a thin
apologetic line, and he clutched at packed gear slung over his shoulder.

Despite the wind from the
waiting helicopters that forced him to hold his hands up to protect his face,
Tuttle could still see the look in Cranden’s eyes.

Samuel dropped the line he was
about to climb and ran back towards where Tuttle and Cranden stood in the dark.
The last men of the two mission teams ran past them to board the aircraft.

"What are you doing
medic?" Tuttle began knowing in his battered heart that his words were a
waste of breath.

"It’s over, General,"
the heavy moving air yanked at Cranden’s shoulder pack. He reached back his arm
to keep it from tearing loose. “Requesting permission to join your team.”

By this time, Samuel had made it
back to them and stood behind Tuttle. He bent forward to hear what Cranden was
trying to say over the rushing air.

"You didn't bring him to me
in too good of shape, General. There wasn't much I could really do."

Tuttle looked at him. The wind
pulled at the growing tears in his eyes. His uniform felt stiff and cold. He
sensed death amongst the living and felt cold hands working to tear his heart
apart.

"What about the rest?"
Samuel asked stepping up next to Tuttle.

"We left them a good amount
of gear and supplies,” Cranden answered. “They're far enough from the main
road. They'll be alright for now. They have coordinates from other survivors on
where to go from here.

“General,” Cranden said trying
to look into Tuttle’s sickened face. “They're going to bury him at first
light.”

Tuttle nodded and looked away
into the darkness.

"Let's go," Samuel
grabbed at Tuttle’s shoulder and pulled him towards the cables hanging from the
choppers.

Cranden stepped ahead and broke
into a jog toward their transport. Samuel and Tuttle trotted behind.

Before they reached the hanging
zip lines, the helicopters began to move away and rise into the air. The cables
dragged across the ground as if beckoning Tuttle back towards Beuford away from
the safety of the camp.

When the three attached
themselves to the zip lines of the first helicopter, both aircraft lifted further
up into the sky and rotated around towards the burning city. Tuttle, Samuel and
Cranden ran briefly across the ground after them until the lines pulled tight
and their feet rose up into the air. They quickly clambered up the lines and
hauled themselves aboard the silent attack craft.

With the help of the men that
had already made their way up, Tuttle swung his body onto the helicopter
platform. One of the men next to him slammed the chopper’s side door shut
against the wind-whipped heat of the outside air.

Tuttle strapped on a headset one
of the helicopter crew handed him once the door had been sealed. Further down
the aircraft bay, Samuel, Cranden and the others from the original Vulture team
were shedding their shredded clothing and loading up with fresh fatigues and
gear.

Even with the headset blocking
out some of the noise, Tuttle was surprised at how loud it was inside the
helicopter. He adjusted the headset’s transmitter across his face and walked
towards the rear of the ship.

"You with us, General?"
the pilot called from the cockpit.

"Roger that," Tuttle
said moving toward Cranden and Samuel. Neither of them had headsets nor had
stopped moving since they came aboard the attack ship.

"Grab what you need,"
the pilot's voice sounded in his ear. "There's fresh bandages, survival
gear, explosives and hand artillery. Take as much as you can carry. You can
always dump what you don't need on the ground. No one’s going to be able to
tell in this mess.”

The choppers rose further from
the sandy outside terrain and made their way towards the ruined town of
Beuford. The flames grew in the distance the further they approached.

“And make sure each of you has a
tracer vest on so that we can come and pick you up."

The pilot didn’t need to say why
they all needed the vests. Everyone in the helicopter silently knew there was a
good chance they weren’t going to make it back.

Tuttle glanced up at Samuel and
Cranden pulling their gear on in front of him. Their torsos stripped down to
bloodied and bruised skin, they pulled on the thin metallic tracer vests and
hooked them across their chests. A single thin light at the base of each glowed
green.

Tuttle reached into the crates
of Vulture gear and did the same.

"You’re other landing crew
is ready to go in the next bird," the pilot relayed.

Tuttle looked out the front of
the cockpit window to see the ground glowing below. The city of Beuford was
utterly gone. All that remained was a raging inferno broken up by small patches
of dried earth. Orange and red flames tore brilliantly into the night sky.

The choppers bucked through the
turbulence of the scorched air.

"There is going to be no
easy way to do this, General," the pilot spoke again. The chopper lurched
violently to the left throwing everyone in the bay area violently against the
wall. “The J.G.U. are attacking SD15 from every direction. They're even coming
in through Beuford, and that land is still red hot. The only thing we can do is
ride the deck and drop you in."

"Just get us close,"
Tuttle said grimly while strapping on more gear.

He looked out the cabin door
window at his side. Periodically through the thick black smoke and flaming
debris, he could see tanks and jeeps moving below. Some still moved in
organized formations while others circled and stopped about the exploded
vehicle wreckage.

And then the burning dome came
into view. Its beaten structure reached out into the sky. Twisted metal and
flames encompassed most of the facility. Vehicles sped into a gaping hole near
its center, and explosions still rocked its base.

The two attack military
helicopters sped further in.

Flames from the detonated Death
Wall still obscured most of the troop and other ground activity occurring in
front of the dome. Rockets from distant transports still streaked toward the
structure and ripped fresh jagged holes into its side. The dome was like a
dying beast waiting for its end to finally come.

"We don’t have much more
than this in terms of visibility," the pilot’s voice spoke again into
Tuttle's ear. "Once we dip down into the safe zone we're going to have to
let you go. Staying on the deck too long we risk slamming right into one of its
walls. It’ll be almost impossible to locate by sight or sensors once we’re in
the thick of the flames.”

"I understand," the
general said back into his transmitter.

“When you get out,” the pilot
continued. “Make sure to activate your chest tracers. We’ll make the extraction
beyond the battle perimeter.”

The pilot had no sooner finished
his instructions when a bright red fire trail ripped just past the cockpit
window slicing between the two attack copters. It disappeared quickly behind
them into the fire-ravaged sky.

Both helicopters veered away
from each other, banking ninety degrees on their sides, to evade the missile
impact. Tuttle and the Vulture troops within the cabin careened head-over-heels
into each other and sprawled across the chopper deck. Samuel's body slid all
the way to the rear of the bay and slammed hard into the back wall.

"What the hell was
that?!" the voice of the second helicopter pilot yelled through the
receiver in Tuttle's ear.

"Hold your position and
hold your fire, Attack Craft Two,” Tuttle’s helicopter captain quickly answered
back. “Again, hold your position and fire. Stray rocket fire from the surface.
We have not been spotted. Repeat. We have not been spotted."

Tuttle looked out the side
window to see the second helicopter level itself out next to them. Even through
the thick glass of its cockpit and the visor of the pilot's helmet, Tuttle
thought he could see the fear in his eyes. And the panic they all felt.

"We're going over the
wall," the second pilot said evenly.

The searing heat from the
ignited Death Wall pounded at the two helicopters. Superheated air from the
roaring flames slapped them mercilessly about the sky. Everyone in the cabin
braced themselves against the cabin floor and walls trying to keep from being
tossed about the interior of the bucking command chopper.

Solid ground became briefly
visible through the roaring flames below as both helicopters crossed the
ignited fuel still spewing forth from the lit Death Wall. J.G.U. terrain
vehicles jammed most of the area not on fire.

This lasted for only a few
seconds. The view of the land became quickly choked up again by thick black
smoke.

"The structure is straight
ahead,” the pilot said. "We have to drop you now."

"Copy that," Tuttle
answered into his headset.

Like the other men in the
helicopter bay, he attached his zip line to a leather harness and slipped it
around his waist. He pulled at it twice to double check its strength and
returned a “thumbs up” sign to Cranden and Samuel who prepared their gear next
to him.

Flinging his headset to the
cabin floor, Tuttle took a deep breath and opened the bay door. A fierce
rushing heat blasted him immediately in the face nearly knocking him to the
ground. He fell back into the outstretched arms of the soldiers behind him.
They patted him on his back and helped him balance again firmly on his feet.

Not quite yet releasing his grip
from the men behind him, Tuttle sat down on the floor of the cabin and lowered
his legs over the ledge of the deck letting them dangle briefly into the fiery
air. With a quick push and a prayer, he allowed his body to drop over the
helicopter’s side.

Controlling his descent down the
line with the grip located waist-level of his gear, Tuttle dropped through the
smoke and flames towards the ground. Through the corner of his eye and amidst
the chaos surrounding them, he saw Cranden’s and Samuel’s lines fall through
the air next to him. Their dark swaying figures dropped down the lines quickly
after.

Descending through the thick
burning air, Tuttle fought to control the terror hammering the muscles of his
heart. Also struggling to make his lungs work through the choking haze, he
prayed that he wouldn't die right there from the intensity of his fright.

Looking up through the black
smoke from the fires below, it was impossible to see the attack choppers they
hung beneath.

Releasing more tension on his
gear, Tuttle dropped more quickly down the line towards the ground’s fiery
surface. Next to him, Parker and Cranden did the same.

The further he slid down the
cable, the more his body thrashed through the tumultuous air on its slack.
Tuttle clutched his fingers tightly across his line and gear and struggled to
hang on.

And then the smoke around them
suddenly cleared. The second chopper next to them came into view with its own
team of soldiers dangling from zip lines beneath.

In another split instant, the
fiery terrain seemed to leap at their feet. Pounded by the rage of heated air,
both attack choppers lurched dangerously close down to the ground nearly
slamming and dragging both teams of soldiers along the scorched earth.

Tuttle punched the release at
his waist to free himself from his zip line. His body dropped violently to the
ground and tumbled through the throngs of licking flames. Rocks, dirt and fire
from the war-ruined land ripped harshly at the uncovered parts of his skin.
With his every forced hurried breath, thick smoke drove into his lungs. For a
second, he thought he heard himself scream.

With raging fear propelling his
body, he wasn’t on the ground for long.

Digging his feet into the dirt,
Tuttle stood quickly back up and pumped his arms madly at his sides. He
sprinted forward through the blinding smoke and heat hoping he was heading in
the direction of Science Dome 15.

The mammoth roar of the
advancing J.G.U. war vehicles surrounded him. Their engine noise seemed to
taunt and ridicule his fear.

A body dropped from the air in
front of him, and a pair of legs and boots flew up into his face. Without
breaking stride, Tuttle bent down and scooped Cranden’s tumbling body in his
arms and hauled him to his feet.