The Gathering Dead (17 page)

“Roger that, Ritt. Negative on the demo... let’s keep that in our hip pocket in case we need it. Over.”

“Hooah on that, major. Over.”

“That’s all for now. Hang tight, you’ll be hearing from us soon. Terminator Six, out.” McDaniels ended the transmission.

“Is everything all right?” Regina asked. She stood just behind McDaniels. “Sounds like things are a little wobbly downstairs, maybe?”

“No such thing,” McDaniels told her. “Everyone’s still a hundred percent operational, Miss Safire. Updates do not necessarily mean a change in our circumstances, only additional intel that we have to take into account. Nothing more ominous than that.”

She remained unconvinced, and he saw it in her dark eyes. She evaluated him coolly for a long moment, then slowly nodded. Gartrell hovered over her right shoulder, automatically attaining an at rest stance.

“If you say so, major. But remember... you need my father alive, and if you hold back something that might interfere with that... well, I’m pretty sure your superiors won’t like that, will they?”

“If something happens to your father on my watch, I don’t give a damn what my commanding officers think,” McDaniels snapped. “Because we’ll all be dead. That’s what it’ll take for anything to happen to your father, Miss Safire. The rest of us will have to die first.” He stepped closer to her, all business now, no more Mr. Nice Guy. Her eyes widened a bit in surprise, and she took a half step back.

Good. She gets it,
McDaniels told himself.

“I understand, major. Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you. I know you’re doing the best job you can. It’s just that... well...” Words seemed to fail her, and at the end, all she could do was offer an apologetic shrug.

“No offense taken,” McDaniels told her, “but the constant needling from you and your father is pissing me off.”

She nodded stiffly, and looked away from him. “Yes. As I said, I’m sorry.”

“If the situation changes in any way, you’ll be notified.”

Regina nodded again, and smiled briefly when she looked back at him for an instant. “Thank you,” she said, then turned to leave. She drew short, apparently surprised to find Gartrell so near. He stepped aside quickly, and she moved past him. The two men watched her return to the booth she shared with her father. If Safire had heard any of the exchange, he hadn’t turned around to watch what was going on. That suited McDaniels fine. The less Wolf Safire said for the moment, the better off everyone would be.

Gartrell leaned toward him conspiratorially. “I don’t know if you remember your boom lessons, sir, but if Ritt and Leary are in the stairwell when the charges go off, it’ll ring their bells big time. They’ll have to retreat to at least the fifth floor and secure the fire door before they can blow the stairwell.”

“Are you recommending they pull back now?”

Gartrell shook his head. “No, sir
—
they need to stay where they are for now. But they are danger close, and some of those zeds can move pretty damned fast when they think they can get their snack on. I guess what I’m trying to say is, if they can’t get to five quick enough, they’ll have to blow the stairs, and probably go out doing it.”

McDaniels nodded soberly. “I get it, first sergeant. But if we send anyone else into the stairwell, they could get rendered INOP as well. Unless you have an alternative?”

“Yeah. Pray like hell that nothing breaks through those lobby windows until after we’re on that Osprey and bitching about the coffee service. Because if things go to shit, we’re gonna be in a world of hurt, stairway or no stairway.”

McDaniels nodded, but Finelly’s hurried approach stopped him from responding any further. Gartrell turned and followed his gaze.

“What is it, sergeant?” he said when Finelly trotted up to them.

“Thunder’s on the radio, first sergeant. They’ll be onstation in five minutes, and they’re requesting we deploy an IR strobe to help them navigate.”

Gartrell turned to McDaniels. “And the mighty, mighty jarheads hath arriveth.”

“You have them on your prick ninety, Finelly?” McDaniels asked.

“Yes, sir. Requested the strobe set up and number of souls to extract.”

“Tell them twelve, and advise we have wounded as well as minors. And get the strobe set up. Hell, use all of ‘em if you need to. Take Derwitz with you.”

“Roger that,” Finelly said, and he turned to go, his mind already on the job ahead. McDaniels grabbed his thick arm and jerked him to a halt.

“Stay in the game,” he said, staring into Finelly’s eyes. “Practice force protection, and keep your eyes open. We’re not out of here yet, and for all we know, there are a dozen stenches in this building who just might happen to find their way to the stairs while we’re busy waiting for our ride. It would be professionally embarrassing for all of us if someone get bit on the ass at this point in the game. Got it?”

Finelly nodded slowly. “Got it, sir.”

McDaniels let him go. “Get on with it, then. Gartrell and I will get Jimenez ready and bring him and the Safires up to the roof once Thunder’s on station. You send Derwitz down to us when they’re ready for us. Good copy?”

“Good copy, major. You got it, sir.”

“Move out.”

Finelly turned and sprinted toward the corridor exit, beckoning Derwitz to follow him. McDaniels checked his watch. If all went well, they’d be uploaded and out of the hell hole New York City had become in fifteen minutes.

“Let’s get Jimenez squared away,” he told Gartrell.

The MV-22 bounced all over the place as it flew up the East River, its big rotors churning as they propelled the ungainly-looking aircraft through the wet night air. From his seat on the left side of the cockpit, the AC had a good view of the city. Parts of it were still lit up like normal, but vast swaths of lower Manhattan had fallen into darkness. Other isolated patches of darkness could be seen throughout the midtown section, as if a malignant cancer had begun to metastasize throughout the city. The lights of the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges were dark, save for the strobing beacons atop NYPD vehicles and city fire trucks as they maintained cordons to protect the boroughs from the dead. To the right, the boroughs of Brooklyn and Queens were still alight, though for how long, the AC had no idea. Ahead loomed the Williamsburg Bridge, bright and shiny in the rainy night.

“Three klicks to target,” the pilot said from the right seat.

“Roger.” The AC kept his hands on the cyclic and collective pitch sticks, guiding the MV-22 up the river. Despite the rain and the mounting wind, some fires still burned in the city, and the sky was momentarily set alight by an explosion so brilliant that it overwhelmed the Osprey’s forward-looking infrared scanner and the night vision goggles the two pilots wore. The AC swore as he flipped his goggles up on their swing away mount and looked through the MV-22’s windscreen with nothing more sophisticated than the Mark I eyeball.

“What the hell was that?” the pilot asked.

“Gas station I think. Or maybe a tanker truck. Not really sure.” Below, blue strobe lights flashed. The AC looked down as the aircraft thundered on, and saw the lights belonged to an NYPD launch. At least someone was still alive down there.

“NVGs are back,” the pilot announced as he dropped his back over his eyes. The gallium-arsenide arrays had cleared themselves of the momentary whiteout caused by the explosion. He grabbed the FLIR’s control yoke and panned the unit from side to side, ensuring its super-cooled optical planar array had not suffered any damage. The AC dropped his NVGs over his own eyes, and in the distance, he saw a metronomic flash.

“I have an IR beacon ahead and about ten degrees off the left nose,” he reported. “Raise the Terminator team, tell them we’ll be overhead in about thirty seconds. Aircrew, LZ is in sight
—
prepare the aircraft to transition to a hover!”

“On it,” the pilot said, and he made the call.

“Checklist underway,” said the senior crew chief from the back. As he and the other crew chief began to prepare the MV-22 for arrival, he turned to the Navy medic sitting on one of the long bench seats.

“We’re almost there, so you’ll have a patient soon,” he said over the intercom.

The medic rolled his eyes. “How awesome.”

###

Jimenez groaned when Gartrell and McDaniels helped him get into a sitting position. McDaniels could tell the aviation soldier hated himself for expressing his pain, but no one was superman. McDaniels squeezed his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, son. I know it hurts like a bitch, but the Osprey’s coming in.” As he spoke, McDaniels heard a rhythmic thumping that steadily grew louder. Right on cue, the MV-22 closed on the building.

“It’s no problem, sir,” Jimenez said. His voice almost bordered on a scream. McDaniels squeezed his shoulder again sympathetically and knelt beside him.

“You listen to me, soldier. You’ve been a total stud muffin this entire time. If you have to scream your head off while we carry you up those stairs, then you do it. No one’s ever going to be able to convince
me
you’re a girlie-man. Got that?”

Jimenez nodded slightly, and even that seemed to hurt him. “Yessir,” he said.

“Major McDaniels is something of an expert when it comes to identifying girlie-men,” Gartrell said as he knelt to the carpet on the other side of Jimenez. “Comes from a lifetime of actually being one.” McDaniels met the first sergeant’s gaze and shook his head. Now that transportation had arrived, people were starting to loosen up. Even Jimenez snorted a brief laugh.

Overhead, the sound of turbine-powered whirling rotors deepened, more felt than heard. McDaniels guessed the MV-22 had transitioned to a hover over the building. He looked out the windows for some sign of where the aircraft was, but there were no indicators, not even the reflection of flashing anti-collision beacons.

“Let’s go NVGs for the transfer,” he said to Gartrell, and both men reached for the PVS-7 night vision goggles in hard packs they wore on their belts. They clipped the devices to the mounts on their helmets and powered them up, testing them in the still-too-bright tepid lights of the cafeteria. Both units were fully functional.

McDaniels rose to his feet and beckoned to the Safires and the Browns. “Folks, we’ll be leaving shortly
—
you can hear the transport, I’m sure. What’s going to happen is that Sergeant Derwitz will come down to let us know when everything is stable upstairs, and he’ll lead us to the roof. There will be lots of wind, both from the aircraft and from the storm itself, and rain. You’ll want to keep your heads down. Sergeant Jimenez will be uploaded first via a rescue hoist, due to his injuries. After that, it will be the Safires, then you and your kids, Earl. The rest of us will come up after the Marines have you aboard. Derwitz and Finelly will lead you to the extraction point and fit the hoist harness around you. You will not move toward the hoist position until one of them physically takes you by the hand and leads you in. This is for your safety, so please, wait for them to do what they need to do.

“Questions?”

Zoe raised her hand immediately, and with such exuberance that it brought a smile to McDaniels’ lips. “Yes, Miss Brown?”

“Can I sit up front?” she asked.

“Zoe!” Earl said, his tone one of scolding.

McDaniels and Gartrell laughed, as did Regina and Kenisha. Zoe looked around, confused by the laughter and the contrasting rebuke issued by her father. Safire, of course, merely sniffed.

“That’s up to the Marines,” McDaniels said. “And that’s something else
—
once we’re aboard the aircraft, they are in command. Follow their instructions to the letter. It’ll be very loud inside the aircraft, but they’ll give you headsets as soon as they can. In the meantime, once you’re seated and strapped in, cover your ears with your hands and open your mouths, like this.” He demonstrated the position. “This will help reduce the noise level and save your hearing. Anything else?”

“Where are we going?” Safire said. It hardly sounded like a question.

“We’ll be flown out of the city and back to the USS
Wasp
, which is the Marine assault carrier in the Atlantic. After that, I don’t know. But we can assume the
Wasp
will be the safest place for us to be for the moment.”

Before anyone else could say anything, the door leading to the corridor opened. Gartrell and McDaniels turned toward it with weapons raised. Derwitz stood in the doorway, one hand on the door handle, the other on the grip of the MP5K strapped to his thigh. He was soaking wet, and his night vision goggles were flipped up on their mounts. McDaniels saw the green-white glow from their eye pieces as Derwitz faced him.

“We’re ready, major,” he said. “It’s a bitch of a night out, so get ready for it.” He released the door handle and darted forward, reaching for Jimenez. “Ready to go, Taco?” he asked.

“Oh yeah,” Jimenez said. He gritted his teeth and winced as Derwitz and Gartrell hauled him to his feet. Derwitz went to gather him into a fireman’s carry, but Gartrell stopped him with one hand.

“Let me take this, Night Stalker. You get everyone else ready for transport.”

Derwitz hesitated for a moment, clearly not comfortable with allowing someone else to handle one of his own, but Jimenez pushed Derwitz away weakly.

“Help the major with the civilians, Maxi. The first sergeant can help me out of here.”

Derwitz turned and pointed toward the door. “Everyone, out into the stairwell. The stairs going up will be to your right and straight ahead. You’ll see some blood and stuff, but it’s nothing to worry about.” He turned back to McDaniels. “Finelly and I dragged the body down a couple of flights so they won’t have to see it,” he said, his voice pitched low.

“Good job,” McDaniels replied in kind. Then louder, to the others: “All right, let’s move out. Derwitz, you have the lead.” He turned and spotted Gartrell as he folded Jimenez over his shoulder as gently as he could, then hoisted up Gartrell’s pack. Holding his M4 in one hand by its pistol grip and Gartrell’s pack in the other, he followed Gartrell as he carried Jimenez out of the cafeteria.