Slaughterhouse

SIX.

The road movement was, for the most part, going according to plan.

Lieutenant Colonel Harry Lee kept tabs on the column’s progress as it moved along the turnpike. The next blocking force had already set up, and the scouts had handed off their mission to some of the Apache gunships so the smaller aircraft could head off and refuel.

Lee was a little worried about the scout element. They had a long way to go, and the Kiowa Warriors had short legs, only a little over an hour of station time—less if they had to continually fly and fight as they had been. The Apaches weren’t much better. They could perhaps eke out three hours of flying time, but the aircraft had been running nonstop for well over a week. They would need maintenance, which meant they would have to be pulled off the line, housed somewhere secure, and defended from the Klowns or whatever else God decided to throw their way.

Lee was a lightfighter just like the rest of his men, but he knew the value in having an armed attack battalion on-station to provide close air support when they needed it. He had no idea how many Infected were in Boston, but it had to be well into the hundreds of thousands if not millions. Only a fraction of those were interested in taking out the battalion’s convoy, which was a blessing, though it was equal parts curse. Those that weren’t attacking the battalion were out infecting others, and that was clearly worse for the nation.

And of course, Lee had no idea what lay between his unit and Fort Drum. Their route would take them past several well-populated establishments, but by sticking to the smaller roads, they could avoid the larger cities: Framingham, Worcester, and Springfield, all in Massachusetts. Then on into New York. There, they would bypass Albany, Schenectady, and Utica before rolling upstate toward Watertown, and, just beyond, Fort Drum. Home of the 10^th Mountain Division and several other tenant units. All of whom had apparently gone dark.

Lee didn’t know what to make of that. It had been days since he’d heard anything from the Brigade Combat Team’s tactical operations center, and even longer since a divisional command had been in touch. While the battalion had been working out of Boston, the rest of the brigade and the majority of Drum’s infantry and aviation assets had gone farther south to assist in stabilizing New York. If the Big Apple had undergone the same transformation as Boston, then Lee doubted he would hear anything from higher field commands anytime soon.

As in, ever.

He kept track of the column’s progress using both GPS and a handheld map and marking off their phase lines with a grease pencil. The survivors of the Bushmaster element had been recovered, but there were precious few of them. The element had taken ninety percent losses, including Bravo Company’s commander, Captain Marsh. Losing Marsh stung, not because he was a close friend of Lee’s, but because he was a seasoned company grade commander who had led his men in combat in Afghanistan and, briefly, in Iraq. A good deal of tactical capability and knowledge had died with him, and that was what Lee would miss the most. Added to the casualty list were experienced noncommissioned officers and other skilled soldiers, as well as the loss of at least two tactical vehicles. All of that weakened the battalion, making it less capable at dictating the tempo of operations—in other words, its ability to efficiently kill Klowns.

For the twentieth time, Lee reconsidered their route. Taking the Mass Turnpike and then westward seemed to be the most expedient path—better roadways, more lanes, flatter terrain, less opportunity for attack as they moved away from Boston—but they had no real idea of what lay just beyond their previous area of operations. Their unmanned aerial reconnaissance systems were of the battlefield variety, and they had an operational radius of around six miles. The controllers would also have to stop, launch the small airplane-like devices by hand, then monitor their progress. Flying along at around fifty miles per hour and up to an altitude of fifteen thousand feet, the small drones could do much to increase Lee’s local situational awareness, but that would mean having to bring the column of Humvees, trucks, support vehicles, and civilian cars and trucks to a halt. And stopping invited an attack. Since they were deep inside Indian Country, the last thing Lee wanted to do was call the column to a halt just so they could launch some toy airplanes and take a look at what lay a few miles down the road. They had helicopters at their disposal, which could fly higher, move faster, observe with superior optics, and if the need arose, cause more than a little bit of damage to any enemy formations in their path.

As they rolled on, Lee looked out the windows of the Humvee. Apaches orbited overhead. The remainder of Bravo Company had deployed and assumed their blocking positions, and there was no sign of enemy activity—other than the fires, of course. To the column’s right, an office building or a depot of some kind was still smoldering, with only skeletal remains of the structures left. The overpass was pockmarked, and bloated, disfigured corpses hung from the light stanchions. When Lee saw that a couple of them were children, he shuddered slightly. He had seen similar things in Afghanistan, but that had been the mujis committing atrocities against their own people in a bid to win their fear and respect and turn them against the Americans. Lee still had a hard time believing that Americans, infected or not, were capable of such barbarity.

Murphy leaned forward, looking at the swinging corpses. “Just hangin’ around, waiting for something to happen.” If the scene affected him at all, his voice didn’t reveal it.

Lee had no comment and merely returned to his maps and GPS display.

“Pull out of formation on the other side of the bridge.”

“Sir?”

“I want to have a quick huddle with Bravo’s commanding officer,” Lee explained.

“Uh, sure thing,” Murphy said, though he didn’t seem to like the idea much. Lee didn’t care. He reached for the radio handset.

“Wizard Five, this is Six. Over.”

“Six, this is Five. Go ahead. Over,” Major Walker responded. He was several vehicles behind Lee, ensconced in another uparmored Humvee.

Lee informed him that he would be falling out of the formation for a few minutes.

“Uh… Six, why’s that? Over.”

“Just having a quick heart-to-heart with Bravo Company. Over,” Lee said as Murphy pulled the Humvee out of the column.

They rolled to a halt behind the M925A1 truck. The soldiers manned up in MOPP gear looked at the new arrival from behind the lenses of their masks.

“Six, are we halting the column? Over.”

“Negative, Five. Keep moving. We’ll get back in the slot. Over.”

“Roger, Six,” Walker said, but he didn’t sound very happy about it.

Lee didn’t blame him. He wanted to get the hell out of there too, but first things first.

“Hey, what’s up?” Foster asked from the cupola.

“Never mind. Just stay sharp up there.” Lee turned to Murphy. “I’ll be right back.”

“Sienkiewicz, go with him,” Murphy said. Lee was impressed. Most of the troops couldn’t pronounce Sienkiewicz’s name—“Sen-kev-itch,” the tall, skinny corporal had constantly corrected—so they just called him “Witch.”

“Not necessary,” Lee said. He yanked on the Humvee’s door release.

“Absolutely necessary, sir,” Murphy said. “Sienkiewicz, get on it.”

“Hooah,” Sienkiewicz said. He pulled on his MOPP top garment, slipped on his mask, and grabbed his rifle.

Lee didn’t bother with the MOPP gear. He just stepped out and slammed the uparmored door shut behind him. The troops manning the security position stood straighter when they realized the Old Man—who wasn’t so old—was paying them a visit.

“Sir, hold up!” Sienkiewicz yelled.

Lee waved at him over his shoulder and continued walking, his M4 slung across his chest and his right hand on its pistol grip. He looked around, mindful of the civilian traffic in the far lanes and the Army convoy in the closest one. The column zipped by at an even fifty miles per hour. Overhead, Apaches orbited in the sky, never staying in one place, always moving in a pattern that kept them from becoming easy targets while allowing their weapons systems as much coverage as possible. On the horizon, smoke rose into the air as downtown Boston continued to burn.

“Where’s your commanding officer?” Lee shouted at the soldiers surrounding the Big Foot truck.

One of them pointed downrange, and Lee took off at a brisk walk, trying not to look too put out at being exposed, though it made his bowels feel as if they might turn into water any second. He puckered up. Now was not the time to explode into Hershey squirts, especially in front of the men.

“Sir, you have to wait for me,” Sienkiewicz said, pulling abreast of Lee. He carried his assault rifle in both hands, the butt of its stock pressed into his right armpit.

“Move faster next time,” Lee said.

“I will, but you should go MOPP too, sir,” Sienkiewicz said. “I mean, you’re the one who ordered all exposed troops to suit up, right?”

“Command prerogative,” Lee said. “Watch the traffic, Corporal.”

“On it, sir.”

They found Bravo Company’s new commanding officer standing next to his Humvee with what Lee presumed to be the company first sergeant. First Lieutenant (Promotable) Cassidy had his back to Lee and didn’t notice his approach. The NCO beside him looked up, and Lee could have sworn he saw the man grimace behind his facemask. Cassidy saw the look, then turned. When he saw Lee, he straightened and saluted. Lee groaned inwardly. Cassidy had just made him a target.

“Sorry to break it to you, Lieutenant Cassidy, but you’re the new commanding officer of what’s left of Bravo Company. I know you’re in the zone for promotion, so you should be ready for it. Understood?”

“Understood, sir. How many are left?”

“Unknown at the moment, but I heard Marsh’s element took ninety percent casualties. As to how many were KIA, I don’t know, yet. Listen, I’m sorry about this. I know you probably had a lot of friends back there, and I need you to come to grips with the fact that you won’t be seeing some of them again.” As he spoke, Lee noticed the company first shirt glaring at him from behind his mask. Lee locked eyes with him.

“Problem, First Sergeant?”

“Well, no, Colonel, I just noticed that you weren’t wearing your MOPP gear. Would be a shame if you became a Klown, sir.” The way the man over-enunciated the rank made Lee think it had been an intentional verbal pinprick, something to get a rise out of him. All things considered, it was probably a pretty gentle slap, but it was still needless confrontation.

“First Sergeant, what’s your mission here?” Lee asked.

“I see to the men of Bravo Company, sir.” The older soldier kept his eyes locked with Lee’s. “I remember what my pay grade is, and I remember what the billet responsibilities are. No delusion of grandeur here, Colonel.”

“Whoa, hey, First Sergeant Urena. Let’s dial that back a bit,” Sienkiewicz said, which Lee thought was unusually ballsy, given that a corporal was to a first sergeant what a ditch digger was to a billionaire.

Urena flicked his gaze over to Sienkiewicz. “Corporal, I know you ain’t talking to me.” The facemask did nothing to diminish the growl in his voice.

“Urena, square your shit away,” Lee said forcefully. “You don’t like it, turn in your weapons and file your papers. I’ll make sure someone at DA signs whatever forms they need to sign, and your merry ass is out of the Army. Those are your choices. Questions?”

Urena glared at Lee, then snorted. “You think you have time to do all that paperwork, Colonel? I mean, you’re the guy who’s going up on charges. Uniform Code of Military Justice mean anything to you? Maybe a little dose of Article One Thirty-Four would do the Colonel good—”

“Are you out of your fucking mind, Urena?” Cassidy spun toward the shorter, older man like a mongoose whirling on a cobra. “All the shit that’s going down, this is what you’re going to play with? Pull your head out of your ass, First Sergeant. Most of our company has just been taken down! Let’s concentrate on our mission, and forget all this other shit. All right?”

Urena seemed about ready to take another swing at the topic, but he just nodded after a moment and went back to studying the map spread across the Humvee’s hood. The soldier manning the .50 cal in the cupola looked down on them, his face unreadable behind his facemask.

“Roger that, sir,” Urena said finally.

Cassidy turned back to Lee. “Sorry about that, sir.”

“It doesn’t matter, Lieutenant. Listen, it’s a shit sandwich, and we’ve all got to take a bite. Urena’s right. This is a cluster, but we’ve got to make the best out of it. Now, you have a severely understrength company to take care of. I just wanted to make sure you knew it was coming, so you can get ready for the transition. You have some qualified people to back you up? First Sergeant, you listening to this?”

“Yes, sir,” Urena said. “We have qualified personnel to sustain the company, sir.”

Cassidy nodded. “He’s right, we’re good to go. We’ve got some good people, and the Bushmasters has the best FSO in the Division, sir.” FSO was the military acronym for fire support officer, an officer whose mission was to coordinate the company’s firepower in support of the commanding officer’s plan of attack.

Lee searched his memory, but he could not recall who might be Bravo Company’s FSO.

“All right, just so long as you’re up to speed on what you need to do. I just wanted to make you familiar with what’s been going on, since they’re your men.”

“I appreciate you stopping for the face-to-face, sir. I’ll make sure everything’s handled, and we’ll be available to take our next assigned phase line,” Cassidy said. The guy was all business, even though he’d just been handed a fifty-pound bag of dicks. Several dozen guys he knew, including his commanding officer, had been zeroed, and he had to pick up the pieces. There was nothing to do but embrace the suck.

“Let me know if you need any help,” Lee said.

“Will do. You should probably get back in the column, sir. We won’t be holding this position for more than fifteen minutes.”

“Roger that. Good luck,” Lee said, directing the wish at Urena as much as Cassidy.

“Thank you, sir,” Cassidy said. “From both of us,” he added, to which Urena nodded without looking up from the map.

Lee headed back to his waiting Humvee, shadowed by the anxious Corporal Sienkiewicz.

It was going to be one hell of a road trip.