Soon they will enter Morgantown nice and quiet, the way they did in Afghanistan during their nighttime patrols. His team will wait for their guy, grab him, and bug out.
He blinks in the heat and the gloom of the Stryker and regards his team. The vehicle holds a squad of nine, but today they are carrying the scientist and the spook and reserving an empty seat for Typhoid Jody. He brought Fireteam B and loaded them up with heavy weaponry and ammunition: Sosa with a flamethrower, Arnold with a machine gun, Tanner with a rifle, and Lynch with a SAW. He also brought Davis with a rifle and field radio. Between the Stryker’s machine gun and the squad, they have enough firepower to make short work of anything in their way.
The young faces look back at him expectantly, but he just nods, and they return the gesture with some relief. No news is good news. Sosa gives him a cocky grin that looks like lipstick on a pig. Rod’s shooters have faith in him, but they think the mission is screwed up. The scientist is dripping with sweat that smells like fear. Next to him, Fielding sits looking sour, probably resenting being taken out of the safest place on the continent and thrown into the shit.
Major Duncan and Captain Rhodes made a big deal out of the mission. They made it sound like the squad was being sent to save the world. It’s a chance, yes, but a long shot to be sure. Saving the world apparently is not even important enough for the Army to give him some air support and keep eyes on the package. Someone
The Stryker gunner swears loudly.
The nauseating smell has already seeped into the rig, making the boys wince. They know it well from DC. The sweet, beefy, putrid stench of dead bodies left rotting in the sun. They will never get used to it. It’s just a hint now, but getting stronger by the second.
Lynch produces a bottle of menthol vapor rub from one of his front cargo pockets and wipes some under his nose with a cotton swab, sniffing. He passes it on.
“Two minutes,” the commander announces.
Rod opens the hatch as the Stryker rolls into the outskirts of Morgantown on its eight wheels. Behind him, the commander sweeps the fifty across the length of an old red brick apartment building, its windows filled with cheap air conditioners.
Past that, a shopping center, and beyond, main street.
The Stryker passes five bloated, grinning corpses hanging from a traffic light, three by their necks with their hands tied behind their backs, two by their ankles. The calling card of the militia groups. Signs on their chests bear the inscription: INFECTED.
The militia, it seems, are every bit as ruthless as he heard through the grapevine. Some of them wear necklaces made from monster teeth. Others cut off the Jodies’ heads and mount them on spikes to mark human territory. Rod has seen what men can do in war and believes these people are insane. He’s just glad they’re on his side.
A seething carpet of crows bursts shrieking into the air at the Stryker’s approach, revealing piles of blackened, half-eaten bodies covering the street. As the birds take to the air and settle in the hundreds on the rooftops, thick clouds of flies materialize over the dead.
Armageddon visited this place. The storefronts lining the town’s main drag are shattered and burned out, the walls peppered with bullet holes, the sidewalks glittering with broken glass and empty shell casings. The asphalt is coated with a paste of hardening blood. Rod covers his mouth and waves away the hungry flies buzzing around his face. The stench is incredible and he resists the urge to vomit, reminding himself that decorated combat infantrymen do not hurl on over three million dollars’ worth of taxpayer-funded military equipment. He thinks about Gabriela’s letters, about baby Victor squeezing his fist, signing for milk, and smiles a little.
The commercial district turns into a residential area, its homes waiting patiently for their owners to return and take care of them. Thankfully, the flies disappear and the stench of death loses its bite the further they get from downtown. Beyond, they drive through another commercial district made of up a car dealership, strip mall, small office building and Walmart store.
Rod slaps his gloved hand against the metal skin of the Stryker. The driver rolls the rig to a stop in the Walmart parking lot about halfway between the junction of the nearby east-west roads and the big box store’s front doors. He closes the hatch and tells the squad to dismount.
“It’s time to earn our money,
¦
Morgantown dominates the entrance to a long, lush, green valley flanked by tall, thickly treed hills. From the west, two roads lead into town from the valley. On the other side, three offer multiple routes to Washington. If Typhoid Jody is in a vehicle and heading to Washington from Camp Defiance, Rod is fairly certain he will come through this town. If the man is on foot, it is at least probable he will come through the area rather than hoof it over the hills, with their steep approaches that would challenge even the physically fit.
All assuming, of course, the man is going to Washington at all. The last information they received indicated Typhoid Jody was on the move and heading east, based on the assumption that the large crowd of Jodies is following him. They have nothing else to go on. They do not know whether the man is leading his little army on foot, or whether he’s gotten a ride.
They are not completely without sight, however. Higher Command gave them two James Bond-grade systems normally issued to recon units. The first is a tripod-mounted surveillance sensor offering radar capability. The second is a package consisting of a long-range TV camera, laser range-finder and thermal imager. Using the first sensor, they can detect any moving object within twenty kilometers. Using the second, they can see what’s coming, learn how far away it is, and identify thermal signature—that is, see if what is coming at them is human or not.
The boys fan out around the Stryker, establishing security. Deciding there are no threats in the area, Rod whistles, calling them together.
“Aieeyah,” he says.
“Aieeyah, Sergeant,” they grin.
Rod eyes them with pride, noting their high morale. “Everyone clear on what they’re supposed to do?”
The soldiers nod.
“Then get to it,
Sosa and Lynch help each other unload motorcycles tied to the sides of the rig, and perform a last-minute spot inspection. Satisfied, they throw satchels over their necks, kick start the bikes, and roar out of the parking lot, leaving behind the acrid smell of exhaust.
Their job is simple: drive five miles down the road and spray paint messages on billboards, the sides of buildings and on the road itself along their return telling Typhoid Jody that they are waiting for him in Morgantown.
Rod does not want a panicked civilian trying to evade his people. He does not have the resources for an extended car chase. Typhoid Jody is going to have to want to come to them. Rod believes he will, as long as they do not make him feel threatened.
Arnold and Tanner, meanwhile, have unloaded the tripods and are jogging with them toward the Walmart. Their job is also simple. They will scale the wall, deploy the gear on the roof facing west, and return, running the fiber-optic cable back to the Stryker. Arnold will stay on the roof to operate the sensors and provide overwatch with his machine gun.
His shooters know where to go and what to do. Now they wait. Rod pats the bulge in one of his front cargo pockets, where he keeps Gabriela’s letters. He has read all of them except the last one, and they have gotten darker over time. His wife is depressed, and there is nothing he can do about it except do his duty and win so that maybe he can get a little R&R with them at Fort Hood.
