Finest Hour (22 page)

Bowie shifted closer to Mason and strained to look out the window.

“They’ll do all right,” he said, scrubbing the dog’s neck. “I’m more worried about those three.” He glanced back at the cadets. Rodriguez and Cobb sat on one side of the truck bed, and Bell sat on the other. All three looked down at their feet, perhaps feeling like soldiers being asked to rush across the blood-soaked beaches of Normandy.

Determined to do what he could to keep those in his charge alive, Mason dropped the transmission into first and started across the bridge. The concrete was patched together in twelve-foot slabs, and every couple of seconds the truck’s tires bumped over the uneven joints. He kept their pace slow and steady, watching the other side of the bridge for any sign of the enemy.

Everything remained quiet and calm, and they arrived on the far side after having seen nothing more exciting than a flock of glossy ibises patrolling the riverbank in search of frogs. As they exited the bridge, the road forked to the left. Mason glanced down at the map, confirming what he already knew. Their path lay directly ahead.

He pressed on, eventually coming to a long rectangular parking lot, empty except for a collection of shipping containers painted the same dull white color as the buildings. On the opposite side of the lot sat the first igloo into which Commandant Franks had purportedly taken his team.

The building was all but hidden behind a ten-foot-high blast wall constructed from reinforced concrete. Smokestacks poked up from behind the wall, and an archway at one end opened up to a loading dock. Mason steered around a small roundabout before stopping with the truck facing away from the building. A deuce-and-a-half was about as maneuverable as a dinosaur, and as such, it was always best to keep it pointed in the direction it might need to run.

Rodriguez, Cobb, and Bell hopped down from the bed of the truck, rifles in hand. Mason grabbed his M4 and flashlight off the seat and climbed down from the cab to meet them. Bowie was quick to follow, his tail wagging with excitement. He had been on enough adventures to know that things were about to get interesting.

As soon as Mason was clear of the truck, he turned in a slow circle, taking in the entire scene. There was an unnatural stillness to everything, disturbed only by one of the shipping container doors that swayed and moaned with every strong gust of wind.

Cobb and Bell gathered up, but Rodriguez began to wander toward the blast wall.

“Wait,” said Mason. “First we clear the containers behind us.”

“Nobody’s gonna live in a shipping container,” argued Rodriguez. “It’s too damn hot.”

“Probably not. But since you’re so confident, you get to be the one to open the doors.”

“What? That’s bullsh—” At the look in Mason’s eyes, he cut himself short. “Whatever.” He turned around and headed toward the first of the containers. With every step he took, however, Rodriguez seemed less and less certain about his earlier assessment.

“We’ll clear the containers one at a time,” explained Mason. “Each one just like the one before it. No shortcuts. No sloppiness.” He steered them to the container at the far right end. Pointing to Cobb, he said, “When Rodriguez pulls the door open, you fill the void.”

Cobb gripped his rifle a little tighter and nodded.

“What should I do?” asked Lieutenant Bell.

“You watch our six.”

“Yes, sir.” She turned and began sweeping her rifle from the building to the road and then back again.

“And what exactly are you
going to be doing?” asked Rodriguez, making no attempt to hide his contempt.

“My job is one of overwatch. If something eats you, I’m going to make sure that it doesn’t get Cobb too.”

Rodriguez rolled his eyes. “And your dog? What’s his job?" he said, looking down at Bowie.

Mason reached down and patted the wolfhound.

“If things get really ugly, Bowie’s going to save us all.” He nodded to the first container. “Now let’s move, soldier.”

Rodriguez reluctantly stepped forward and studied the shipping container handles. There were four in total, two facing right and two facing left.

He looked back at Mason.

“Any idea how to open it?”

“Pull both handles on the right door at the same time, and then swing it open as fast as you can.”

Rodriguez turned around and tugged on the two right handles, freeing their locking mechanisms with a loud
clank
. When they were both clear, he grabbed the heavy door and backpedaled to swing it open. Cobb immediately rushed forward, rifle glued to his shoulder.

The container was empty except for a small pile of packing blankets.

Cobb let out a nervous laugh, and the group shifted to the next container.

They repeated the process four more times, and each time, the results were the same. When they came to the sixth container, they discovered that it was secured with a heavy padlock.

Cobb raised his rifle. “Should I shoot it off?”

Mason shook his head. Not only would the bullet likely be ineffective against the lock, there was a good chance that it might ricochet and kill someone. Rather than chastise Cobb, he decided to use it as a teaching moment for all the cadets.

“Cobb, what are the rules of gun safety?”

“Marshal?”

“Recite them for me.”

He looked up for a moment, thinking.

“Assume that every gun is loaded.”

“What else?”

“Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire, and don’t point the muzzle at anything you don’t want to shoot.”

Mason waited for him to continue.

Cobb shrugged. “I think that’s it.”

“You’re forgetting the fourth rule. Know your target and what’s behind it.”

“Okay, so?”

“So, do you know what’s inside that container?”

“Of course not. How could I know that?”

“You couldn’t, and that’s why you don’t know that it’s safe to put a bullet through the door. Think about where we’re at, son.”

Cobb looked around at the ammunition bunkers, and his eyes grew wide.

“Right,” he said, grimacing. “Sorry.”

Rodriguez smacked him lightly on the back of the head.

“Fool, you’re trying to blow us to hell and gone.”

They continued their search. The adjacent container was empty, as was the one after it. When they came to the next one, they heard a loud bumping coming from inside.

Cobb looked back at Mason and raised his hands as if to ask, “Now what?”

Mason brought his rifle up and motioned for both Cobb and Rodriguez to get into position. Once they were ready, he nodded, and Rodriguez jerked the door open.

An enormous shape bolted from the container, its heavy feet clunking against the metal flooring. The door smashed all the way open, knocking Rodriguez to the ground. Cobb managed to jump out of the way, instinctively firing his rifle as he stumbled back. The 30-06 round punched a hole in the back of the container but missed the creature charging past him.

The animal was an eighteen-hundred-pound Simmental bull, covered with rusty brown and white fur and curly tufts of hair topping the crown of its head. Bowie gave chase, barking and otherwise adding to the excitement. When the bull got to the end of the row of shipping containers, it stopped and looked down at the dog, daring it to come closer. Bowie wisely backed off and returned to the group.

Rodriguez got to his feet as everyone moved closer to inspect the container. The inside of the metal car looked as if a small herd of cows had grazed on dynamite. Bones, guts, fur, and chunks of bloody meat were scattered across the walls and floor. The only things alive were the thousands of blowflies buzzing about the carnage.

Cobb gagged from the stench and took a few steps back, covering his nose and mouth. Rodriguez laughed, but stopped when the stink reached his nostrils.

“Jesus, that’s ripe!”

Bell glanced over her shoulder at the bloody container but managed to stay upwind as she continued to watch the area.

Holding his breath, Mason stepped closer and studied the scene. The bloodbath was definitely the result of cows being slaughtered, and in a most brutal way. Several sets of human footprints were imprinted in the blood and guts, as if the occupants had enjoyed squishing rotting carnage between their toes.

He stepped back and swung the door shut.

“What the hell, Marshal?” Cobb said in a nasally voice as he pinched his nose.

Mason shrugged. “Even the infected have to eat. They must have herded a few animals into the container for slaughter.”

Cobb looked back at the bull as it slowly wandered off toward a grassy patch between the buildings.

“Do you think they could really kill something that big with their bare hands?”

“Hell no,” declared Rodriguez. “They used a blade to chop them up the way they do at a meat market.”

Given what he knew of the infected, Mason wasn’t so sure. What the virus had taken from their intellect, it had generously given back in strength and brutality.

He motioned for them to move on.

“Let’s get this done.”

They continued the process of checking the remaining few containers and were relieved to discover that the rest were empty except for a little garbage. Confident now that nothing was going to sneak up behind them, the group turned its attention to the reinforced building.

“From here on out, Bowie and I will take point,” said Mason. “We’ll move single file until we enter the building. Once we get inside, Rodriguez, you go right, and Cobb, you go left. Bell, you continue to watch the rear. Clear?”

Everyone nodded.

Mason started toward the opening in the blast wall, and one by one, the cadets fell in line.

To minimize explosive pressures, the rebar-infused concrete wall had been built very close to the building, leaving a gap of only a few feet all the way around. The only break in the wall was an arch that opened up to a loading ramp. At the top of the ramp were a high-bay sliding door and a service entrance. The sliding door was constructed from steel slats that were so heavy they could only be lifted using an electric motor. The service door opened outward, and it too looked to be clad with heavy-gauge steel.

Bending slightly at the waist, Mason shuffled up the ramp and positioned himself to the left of the service door. Bowie stayed close by his side. The knob had been broken off, and the only thing keeping the door shut was a little grit in the hinges.

Bowie leaned forward and stuck his nose into the hole, hoping to get a whiff of what was inside. Not liking what he found, the dog pulled back and sneezed.

Mason gently pushed him aside and peeked in through the small hole. The inside of the building was dark, but there were no obvious signs of movement. He motioned for Rodriguez to move to the other side. Once the cadet was in position, Mason nodded for him to pull the door exactly as he had done with the shipping containers.

As soon as the door swung open, Mason shuffled in, immediately sliding along the back wall. Bowie was less careful, charging in and quickly disappearing into the darkness. A swath of sunlight spilled in from the open door, outlining heavy wooden carts positioned along the right side of the room. Each cart was about the size of a bathtub and featured a single large caster centered along the bottom of each of its four sides. The other half of the room lay cloaked in thick shadows, but Mason discerned the outline of several tall shelves.

He took a quick whiff of the air. It was cool and smelled of gunpowder and machine oil. The only sound was that of Bowie’s nails clicking on the concrete floor as he wandered around the room. The fact that Bowie hadn’t yet encountered anything worth sounding off about was a good sign that the building was empty.

Mason moved away from the wall, sliding forward a few steps to take cover behind one of the carts. Seconds later, Rodriguez and Cobb shuffled into the room, taking up positions to his left and right. Lieutenant Bell also entered the room, stopping a few feet inside the doorway to watch the gap in the blast wall behind them.

Holding his flashlight against the handguard of the M4, Mason clicked it on and quickly swept the area. The single-room building was rectangular, measuring perhaps sixty feet on one side and forty on the other. Eight inspection stations were spaced around the room, each designed around a large semi-circular stand-up desk. Next to every station were various colored barrels and an exhaust vent that fed up through the ceiling.

The shine of brass reflected from the contents of the closest wooden cart, and Mason lifted out a 25 mm high-explosive round. At roughly twice the diameter of a .50 caliber round, the ammunition was best suited for use in a C-130 gunship, M2 Bradley, or ship-based autocannon.

He gently placed the cartridge back into the bin and began to work his way through the maze of carts. Each contained loose ammunition, ranging in size from 5.56 mm all the way up to 30 mm. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a single .50 BMG cartridge, and even if there had been, it would have been of little use without the appropriate linking to feed it into the Browning.

As Mason finished inspecting the carts, Bowie ambled over.

“You didn’t find anything either, huh?”