Heading toward hope.
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
MOBILE COMMAND POST
FAYETTE COUNTY
Major General Zetter and his top aides met in the mobile command post parked three miles from the blast zone. The big vehicle rocked as winds buffeted it. Electronic workstations provided real-time intel from satellites and field observation posts, and one wall of the MCP was covered in a high-res satellite map of Stebbins and Fayette counties.
“Sir,” said one of his captains, “we’re clocking sustained winds of forty miles per hour with gusts
up to seventy. Western Fayette has winds above fifty. We can’t keep the birds in the air.”
This had been a problem since the start of this campaign. Helicopters do not like high winds, and with storm gusts, high-tension wires, unlighted structures such as grain silos, cellular towers, and trees swaying in the wind, the helos had had a difficult night. Five were down with damage. Two were wrecked, with the loss of one complete crew and two other Guardsmen in the hospital.
Zetter coughed and fished in his pocket for a handkerchief, found one and covered his mouth as the coughs continued. It was the ash from the firebombs. He needed some clean air and maybe a gallon of mouthwash.
“Sir,” his aide prompted gently. “Should I recall the birds?”
On the big satellite map there were hundreds of small red dots. People fleeing from the attack on Route 653 and the resulting bombs.
“Keep them flying,” he said. Another fit of coughing wracked him, shorter but intense.
“Sir, did you say—”
“I said keep them flying,” snapped Zetter, his face bright red from coughing.
The aide nodded and turned away to relay the order.
As Zetter dabbed at his mouth, aware of the eyes that were on him, listening to a couple of other officers coughing. They’d all been out there with him.
It made him remember the respiratory problems from people who’d inhaled the smoke after the collapse of the Towers. Some of those people got sick from what they’d sucked into their lungs. Some died. He fished for the condition caused by breathing in particulate matter. Pneumonitis? He thought that was it.
Zetter wondered if he was going to get sick from the smoke. He already had some mild emphysema from all those years he smoked. He didn’t smoke anymore, but it was damage done. No cancer, though, so he’d been lucky there, but his wind was for shit. A long flight of stairs could put him on his ass for ten minutes.
Now this.
The dust.
The stress.
The fear.
Another aide, who was hunched over a small desk speaking into a phone, raised his head and pointed to the western edge of the map. On it several larger dots were moving in opposition to the outer wave of fleeing people.
“General, the additional units have reached the Outbreak Zone. I have their commanding officer on the line.”
Zetter hauled himself out of the chair and lumbered over to the desk, snatched the phone and identified himself. “With whom am I speaking?”
“Sir,” said a woman’s voice, “this is Colonel Ruiz.”
“Give me a sit-rep, Colonel.”
“We are tracking a large number of individuals heading west through farmlands. Estimate four hundred plus. They appear to be civilians.”
“Colonel, have you been briefed on Lucifer?”
“I have, sir.”