Whiskey Delta – Chapter 20

“We’re paratroopers. We’re supposed to be surrounded.”

-101st Airborne

They found the Stryker sitting at the top of the dirt road, inside the quarry where the vehicle had landed. It’s chutes lay in piles all around it, tethered to the drop pods on all sides.

From their landing zone, it was a full-hour hike to find the thing. Scarcely anyone wasn’t complaining by the time they arrived. The air conditioned suits, as advanced as they were, were not amenable to double-timing it. Clearly, the USMC hadn’t adapted powered limbs to the suits yet. That would have made things so much easier.

But grunts never got points for doing what came naturally.

Braun keyed his com. “Alright squad. Get here cleaned off and then load up. Wheels up in two mikes, pending full systems check.”

The chutes were cleared quickly and disposed of in nearby ditch. Whitman was the first to get inside, heading for the top hatch and dropping in to the driver’s seat. The rest waited at the rear for him to drop the rear door. Braun was right behind them as they moved in and began staking out their spots inside. Saunders was sure to find the vehicles main power hook up and plugged the laptop in.

Dezba reached the front a second later and sat down next to Whitman, who was currently running through every panel at the driver’s station. With his helmet raised, Braun could see the face of a kid who had just found his way to the coolest section in the toy store. Hitting the ignition key, he grabbed a hold of the steering column and hollered triumphantly.

“Holy shit, I feel like I just came!”

Dezba didn’t react. He was busy manning the nav terminal. Even Whitman was surprised.

“Put it in drive, Private. We got a lot of ground to cover.”

He gave the accelerator a little press. The engine revved, bit they did not move. He looked at Dezba again, expectantly. Braun looked over at him too, noticing the long look he was giving the nav terminal. Eventually, he wrapped his shoulder.

“Sergeant. You wanna give us some coordinates?”

Dezba looked back at them and snapped to. “Right! Bring us about to heading two-one-seven and keep er on the road.”

Whitman looked at Braun. The concern in his eyes was obvious, but Braun just nodded to him. Whitman took hold of the controls and brought them into a nice, slow turn. Everyone in the back held tight while the vehicle lurched slightly. As soon as they were facing South-West, Whitman hit the accelerator and they began to move.

“Whoa! She’s got some kick to ‘er.”

Braun laughed and slapped his shoulder. “Don’t ride her too hard. She’s our only means of conveyance.”

They took off down the dirt road, heading downward towards the bottom of the hill. Braun looked to Dezba again, who still appeared dangerously distant. There was no hiding it now. He had seen it enough times on the men and women who had been in the field too long, or those who had been on hand when the First Wave struck. The glassy, distant look in his eyes, the thousand yard stare. He was close to snapping. The only question was, how close…

“Private, bring us to a stop. I want to check the weapons.”

Whitman brought the vehicle to a complete stop. Braun didn’t wait for Dezba to clue in and tapped his shoulder.

“Ready for a weapons, check, Sarge?” he said. Dezba obliged and punched up the controls for the M151. Braun looked to his rear and saw the mount turning, its motors humming gently. He looked abck to the display mounted above Dezba’s nav terminal, watching the grainy IR display and the target reticule. He nodded.

“Drop the back door, Private. I’m gonna laze a target.”

“Right on!”

Braun ran to the back as the door began to descend. It was easy enough to spot something worth shooting. Activating his weapon’s designator, he crouched low and aimed his sights at a tree, roughly one-hundred meters away. Behind him, the turret swiveled into place and began popping off rounds. The top of the tree disintegrated immediately thereafter. He spotted a standing stone a few meters to the left and spotted that next. The turret adjusted and fired on that. The surface of the rock flaked and flew in all directions, sparks going up where the bullets impacted as well. It was a good thing they were far enough away. Ricochet was a killer…

“Good shooting, Sarge. Coming back in.”

No response. He made his way to the ramp and ducked inside.

They were on the move a few seconds later, clearing the quarry and on their way into the heart of LA.

*                    *                    *

“Ho-ly shit! Will you look at that…” said Whitman.

He brought their Stryker into a diagonal stop on along the highway. One by one, every member of the crew grabbed a porthole and stared out at the skyline in the distance.

“Private, why have we stopped?”

“I…” he couldn’t find the words, or take his eyes away from his own porthole. Braun knew though. Even he was not immune to stopping and staring.

Short of some cheesy old disaster movies, Braun had never seen devastation like this before. Knowing it was real only made it that much harder to accept. An entire city’s worth of glass, cement, and steel. The life’s work of entire generations. And all of it was reduced to rubble in the space of a few days. The result of the First Wave and all that was done to try and stem it.

But there simply wasn’t time to reflect on all that. It wasn’t doing much for morale either.

“Put your ass to your seats, grunts! Nothing we didn’t know about already.” He slapped Whitman in the shoulder too and pointed ahead. “Get us moving, Private. People don’t need a reminder of what was.”

Whitman nodded and straightened them out. Their eight wheels began to roll again, taking them past an endless line of cars as they proceeded down the highway. For a moment, Braun neglected his own advice and peaked out the side portholes to see if there were any bodies left in them. Here and there, a few rotted remains were sprawled out on the hoods or lay beside the train, but for the most part, they were all abandoned.

They hit a bump and the cabin lurched. Whitman hit the gas, but the bump seemed to be following them. Shaking his head, he slammedon d on the brake and pulled them to a horizontal stop again.

“What the hell was that?” yelled Saunders, from the rear.

“Private!” yelled Braun. Whitman was quick to defend himself this time.

“I think we picked something up out there, sir. We better go check. Don’t want to ruin our wheels before we even get into the city.

Braun sighed and nodded. When the Private was right, he was right. Slinging his SCAR, he proceeded to the rear of the cabin.

“We run over someone, sir?” asked Mill.

“Not sure. Check your holes, people. Any sign of Whiskeys?”

One by one, they looked out the side and rear ports and reported seeing nothing. Braun looked himself and saw nothing but an endless stretch of dead highway and city and all sides.

“Anything, sir?” asked Whitman.

“Nothing yet,” he said back. “Drop the ramp, I’m gonna check the wheel. Sergeant, you’re with me.”

Dezba looked at him with a mild look of surprise. He grabbed his own SCAR and followed, checking the grenade launcher and holographics to make sure they were in working order. Once the ramp dropped, they were out onto the asphalt, surveying in every direction.

“Oh…” he said, suddenly regretting not lowing his helmet. The stench was slight, but still very noticeable. He got instant flashbacks to Santa Fe, the wind blowing the same combination of rot and sun bleached decay in their faces. He spotted the line of vehicles again, and noted that some of the bodies lay close to their passage.

He also noticed the small patch of gore lay just a few feet from their position. He followed the path of it as it led back to their wheel wells, sighed as he realized what they’d hit.

“Hang on crew,” he yelled into the cabin. “We picked up some road kill.”

He looked to Dezba, who didn’t appear too distant anymore. His eyes traced the gorey black trail and his bodies soon followed. Braun ran to keep up with him. Somehow, he didn’t think the sight of what they’d picked up would agree with him.

“Sarge, I can do that. Why don’t you go back inside?”

Dezba didn’t stop. Making his way to the front right side, he spotted the obstruction they held in their wheels. Braun recoiled at the sight of the mangled torso. Aside from a protruding arm and the bulbous node that was its head, the mess was unrecognizable. Dezba didn’t appear too concerned about it, and grabbed hold of the arm. He gave it a strong tug, and the thing snapped off just above the shoulder.

Braun pulled back, just far enough to avoid the arm as Dezba tossed it aside. It landed near his feet, where he saw the plaid pattern on the shredded sleeve. His stomach began to turn.

“Sergeant! Stand down!”

“We can’t move until this is clear, sir.” He reached in again and retrieved what looked like a collar bone. Another yank removed the rest of the carcass. Everything but legs came free, the remainder falling to the ground beneath their tires. Mercifully, he tossed this mass in another direction. He turned finally and looked Braun in the eye.

For a moment, they just stood there. Braun said nothing. There was nothing to say at the moment. It was worse than he thought. The man wasn’t near to snapping. He had already crossed that line and was looking back at him. A man like that feared nothing, but inspired a hell of a lot of it in those around him.

Dezba keyed his comm. “Private. Wheels are clear. We’re Oscar Mike.”

Whitman replied, sounding quite hesitant. “Uh, roger that, Sarge. Lieutenant? We all good?”

Braun slowly reached for his comm. “Roger that, Private. Wheels up as soon as we’re inside.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dezba turned and walked back to the rear of the cabin. Stiffly, Braun followed him in.

What the hell happened to him? he wondered. Something must have happened during those three days between training and deployment. He only wished he knew what it could have been. Otherwise, there was a good chance the Sergeant wouldn’t be making it home this trip. He only hoped Dezba didn’t bring the rest of them with him…