had already been a sucky night and none of them needed to get heat from higher.
None of the M1s were in anything like useable condition. Everything rubber had succumbed to the heat, humidity and just sitting. Even Decker was scratching his head at getting the fuel system on their chosen tank working again. He was an experienced tanker which meant he knew more than just “Level One” repairs. But this was something he’d normally be talking to a master gunner tank vehicle repair specialist about. It didn’t help that they were trying to do it all using hand lights and one generator. But they were, by God, going to get the lieutenant a tank. Might be a bit late for her birthday. This was a fucking depot level job.
Januscheitis got up from where he had been replacing another of the sixteen million fucking seals on the bitch and walked over to the hatch.
“Who’s there?”
“Somebody who can knock politely, talk and who would like to get out of the zombie fucking haunted dark!” a voice said. “Open the fuck up!”
Januscheitis cracked the hatch and was surprised to see at least a dozen Navy pukes standing there clutching M4s, shotguns and tool bags.
“What?” he asked.
“Get out of the way, Jarhead,” the short, burly machinist mate first class said, pushing past him. “No way four of you were going to get an M1 this worn-out up and going in four days. Faith was the only entertainment we had for months so now you have some real mechanics. Where’s the manuals . . . ?”
CHAPTER 6
“Survivors, one-thirty, half a mile maybe,” Olga said. “Livey. Up on the roof of a house. Clear to starboard.”
“Roger,” Sophia said, banking off of the search pattern.
They’d been crisscrossing East Arlington for an hour. Greater Arlington “town,” more of a small city, was not so much a suburb as an extension of Jacksonville, which was across the river.
As with London, it had burned extensively. Whole neighborhoods were gone. But the road network tended to act as a fire-break and while one neighborhood would be nothing but ashes and debris with the occasional infected wandering through it, the next would be relatively untouched. They all were damaged, though. Overgrown, unkempt, yards and gardens run wild. In fact, one way to spot survivors was the occasional carefully tended backyard gardens, always with a fence. They probably snuck out during the day, quietly, to plant, weed and harvest. It was a living.
The other way to spot them was the roofs. There were survivors who had found some stash of food in an industrial building of one sort of another. Some were in grocery stores, others in warehouses. But some had survived in their homes or apartment buildings. In most cases, at some point they had climbed up or chopped through to the roof and painted a distress sign. H-E-L-P and S-O-S being the most common.
Spotting those signs, with a single helicopter, was tough. Not only the satellite people in the Hole but sub crews and pretty much anyone with free time was combing the satellite overheads for them. But they were spotting quite a few that were missed from the chopper.
And, unfortunately, some of those locations were now deserted. They never were sure why and wouldn’t be until someone checked them out on the ground. If that ever happened.
“Force Ops, Dragon, over,” Wilkes said.
“Force Ops.”
“Request permission to discontinue sweep and start doing active rescue, over.”
“Stand by.”
“Roger,” Wilkes said as they passed over the house. There was a woman on the roof waving a sheet. “Mark this.”
“Aye, aye,” Sophia said, hitting the waypoint marker on the GPS.
“Dragon, Force Ops. Permission granted.”
“Roger Force Ops. Dragon, out.” He switched to intercom. “Crew. Get the hoist ready. We’ve got clearance to start rescue ops. We’ll start with this one, then go back towards Mayport and work out from there.”
“Roger,” Olga replied. “’Bout time.”
* *
None of the M1s were in anything like useable condition. Everything rubber had succumbed to the heat, humidity and just sitting. Even Decker was scratching his head at getting the fuel system on their chosen tank working again. He was an experienced tanker which meant he knew more than just “Level One” repairs. But this was something he’d normally be talking to a master gunner tank vehicle repair specialist about. It didn’t help that they were trying to do it all using hand lights and one generator. But they were, by God, going to get the lieutenant a tank. Might be a bit late for her birthday. This was a fucking depot level job.
Januscheitis got up from where he had been replacing another of the sixteen million fucking seals on the bitch and walked over to the hatch.
“Who’s there?”
“Somebody who can knock politely, talk and who would like to get out of the zombie fucking haunted dark!” a voice said. “Open the fuck up!”
Januscheitis cracked the hatch and was surprised to see at least a dozen Navy pukes standing there clutching M4s, shotguns and tool bags.
“What?” he asked.
“Get out of the way, Jarhead,” the short, burly machinist mate first class said, pushing past him. “No way four of you were going to get an M1 this worn-out up and going in four days. Faith was the only entertainment we had for months so now you have some real mechanics. Where’s the manuals . . . ?”
CHAPTER 6
“Survivors, one-thirty, half a mile maybe,” Olga said. “Livey. Up on the roof of a house. Clear to starboard.”
“Roger,” Sophia said, banking off of the search pattern.
They’d been crisscrossing East Arlington for an hour. Greater Arlington “town,” more of a small city, was not so much a suburb as an extension of Jacksonville, which was across the river.
As with London, it had burned extensively. Whole neighborhoods were gone. But the road network tended to act as a fire-break and while one neighborhood would be nothing but ashes and debris with the occasional infected wandering through it, the next would be relatively untouched. They all were damaged, though. Overgrown, unkempt, yards and gardens run wild. In fact, one way to spot survivors was the occasional carefully tended backyard gardens, always with a fence. They probably snuck out during the day, quietly, to plant, weed and harvest. It was a living.
The other way to spot them was the roofs. There were survivors who had found some stash of food in an industrial building of one sort of another. Some were in grocery stores, others in warehouses. But some had survived in their homes or apartment buildings. In most cases, at some point they had climbed up or chopped through to the roof and painted a distress sign. H-E-L-P and S-O-S being the most common.
Spotting those signs, with a single helicopter, was tough. Not only the satellite people in the Hole but sub crews and pretty much anyone with free time was combing the satellite overheads for them. But they were spotting quite a few that were missed from the chopper.
And, unfortunately, some of those locations were now deserted. They never were sure why and wouldn’t be until someone checked them out on the ground. If that ever happened.
“Force Ops, Dragon, over,” Wilkes said.
“Force Ops.”
“Request permission to discontinue sweep and start doing active rescue, over.”
“Stand by.”
“Roger,” Wilkes said as they passed over the house. There was a woman on the roof waving a sheet. “Mark this.”
“Aye, aye,” Sophia said, hitting the waypoint marker on the GPS.
“Dragon, Force Ops. Permission granted.”
“Roger Force Ops. Dragon, out.” He switched to intercom. “Crew. Get the hoist ready. We’ve got clearance to start rescue ops. We’ll start with this one, then go back towards Mayport and work out from there.”
“Roger,” Olga replied. “’Bout time.”
* *
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