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Combat Jump Part 2
Title: Combat Jump
Author: Slash Maraud
Rating: 18+
Disclaimer: None.
Summary: A short story that is within the Up From the Depths Universe. It takes place during the first week of the Zombie Infection. To get a chronological timeline to the Up From the Depths story, this event would have happened during the Claggett’s test of new deployment methods for SOF units. It does not contain any of the characters from UPFTD. There is some violence and language as expected in these circumstances.
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Doris almost enjoyed watching the mounted police officers beating the daylights out of the “mean people” that had suddenly seemed to appear from all over. However, the close-in action invariably brought too much reality to her senses. The helicopters flying about were a nice distraction, even Samuel would try to watch them some.
Doris had wandered back toward the kitchen after putting Sam down. But she felt drawn to the balcony. The helicopters had become particularly interesting in the last half-hour. They were broadcasting messages over their loudspeakers and the idea that someone, anyone, was really trying to talk to her was appealing in a strange way. She had turned the TV and radio off long ago. She didn’t need someone to tell her bad news; she could see all she wanted. But Doris’ senses were simply too crippled. The fog would not lift. An NYPD chopper even slowed down and hovered upon spotting Doris serenely observing them from her perch.
Their warning could not penetrate her self-induced haze. All Doris knew was they were talking to her. That brought the first smile to her face in quite a few hours. She cheerfully waved at the officers. They were such nice men to pick her out to say hi to. A dismissive gesture was taken as a good-bye wave. She squealed as they roared off to the west. Doris wished Sam had been with her.
Her eyes scanned the sky for more friendly people. Since the afternoon sun was behind her, she quickly made out many planes droning in the distance. They were big ones, a long ways off. In a couple of minutes, she could see one of the many coming closer. The rest seemed to stay the same distance away, not getting closer or farther. They must not be nice.
The approaching plane must be friendly, Doris told herself. She blinked hard to focus her eyes better. This plane had propellers, four of them. A detached part of her mind found that particularly interesting for some reason.
The MC-130 Combat Talon increased speed, causing the techs in the cargo bay to glance at each other. A loud mechanical whine sounded throughout the craft as the rear ramp opened, the clam doors spreading wide.
A voice came over their headsets, the pilot’s. “Okay men, no abort this time. Drop the big boy and let’s get the hell outta here. Do it ….now!”
The two-striper looked again at the master sergeant. The older man shrugged and made a motion to carry out the task. A noticeable lift of the plane’s nose could be felt. Clamps were released and shoulders were unnecessarily put into the large object. Gravity did the work. The BLU-82 rolled into the air over Central Park.
Commonly called “Daisy Cutter”, the BLU-82 was developed to clear landing zones in the jungles of Southeast Asia. It was a 15,000 lb bomb, which would explode 3 ft above ground level and leave no crater, thus creating the perfect LZ for helicopters. It also caused a shockwave with a lethal one thousand-foot radius.
A short distance behind the first plane, a second MC-130 disgorged another Daisy Cutter. The twin hammers dropped in a parachute-controlled fall.
They detonated within seconds of each other. Visible waves of compressed air flattened everything in their path. Trees, structures, vehicles, and all flesh, living and undead, were pulverized within the blast zones.
Doris didn’t have time to recognize the threat before she was permanently removed from her misery. The blast waves shattered windows for blocks. It was as if the Voice of God shouted into Manhattan.
But it was not God. Before the echoes of the blast died away, a dozen Black Hawk helicopters swung from protected positions behind office buildings and dropped onto the smoking landscape. Heavily armed men swarmed from the craft, taking up positions in a roughly circular shape.
The 82nd Airborne had arrived.
The mass of planes that Doris had seen, were now veering toward Manhattan. The sky would soon be filled with their parachutes. The Battle for New York was about to be joined by the finest warriors in the US Army.
Sergeant Steve Sikorski listened as his team debated the proper label to attach to the undead army filling the streets beneath them. Zombies, Zulus, Zips, Ghouls it didn’t matter to him. Whatever they were called, Sikorski wished there weren’t so many of them. He was glad his men were making their comments in very soft voices, as they had been instructed.
His five-man team was stationed on an office building in Harlem overlooking Harlem River Drive. A Black Hawk had deposited them nearly an hour ago and now they were following typical Army duty. Hurry up and wait.
Sikorski suppressed a sigh when his radioman relayed yet another delay for their mission. Profanities hissed from the other men. They wanted to get the job done and get picked up. Lower Manhattan was a paradise compared to being around the Harlem legions of whatever these things were called.
“Adams, stay ready. When the blue boys finally get around to it, don’t give them a reason to blame the Army.”
“Got it, Sarge. Ready whenever. I’ll paint it the second you say so.”
Sikorski lowered his binoculars and winked at Adams. The other soldier was adjusting the laser-targeting device yet again. He looked back to the bridge.
Crap, there sure are lots of them. Hope this whatever it is isn’t in North Dakota. Zips.
“Guys, we’ll call ‘em “zips”. Easier to say than zombie, and Fort Bragg said not to use “Zulu”.
Bones looked up from his sniper rifle. “Leave it to Uncle Sam to stay politically correct when the whole world is going down the toilet. Brooks, Zulu doesn’t bother you, right?”
Brooks was the only African-American member of the targeting team. He slipped an earpiece off and grinned slyly.
“Nope. Course, I ain’t from the Zulu tribe either. I’m an elder statesman of the Poontang Brotherhood. Just don’t call ‘em poontangs and I’ll be mighty pleased.”
Bones suddenly quickened as he looked through his scope.
“Now there’s a twin to Halle Berry if I ever saw one. That is, if she was dead and used blood as a fashion statement. Still quite a looker.”
“Yeah, Ronnie,” Adams chuckled, “You’re so fine with the women, why don’t you go put the moves on Halle down there? Bet she’d eat it right up!”
Better to have them smarting off than being so quiet like Kemp over there. He’s the only one of us that’s married…and Andrea’s off in Atlanta at a wedding somewhere, Sikorski pondered.
Kemp was nervously fingering his SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon) and staring off into the sky. Not good.
“Nope. She don’t look too healthy.” Brooks was peering over the side. “You go first. Then…” His eyes fixed as he held a hand up. The bantering stopped.
“Comin’ in Sarge.”
“Give it to me. Eagle One this is Tango Three.” Sikorski nodded at Adams.
“You copy our target? Roger. Get down, men!”
The F-16 came roaring in from the south. A smart bomb released and was guided perfectly to the span of their particular bridge. The boom was always louder than expected.
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Mar/24/2007, 5:58 am
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