Chapter One: Scorched Earth

This is not good…

Colonel Michael Ferrer struggled to maintain his non-descript expression in the face of news that worsened with every minute.

"Sir, we estimate that the National Guard units maintaining safe zones closest to the base remain at approximately fifty-percent, but we expect those numbers to drop over the next twelve hours." Standing behind the solitary podium before the gathered base leadership, Colonel Floyd Burson, the Chief of Combat Operations fought to retain the few remaining vestiges of composure. "We have received no updates from the company nearest the U of A nor any of its three subordinate platoons." He swallowed hard, choosing his words carefully as he continued, "We believe that the Los Angeles incident was the last straw."

Los Angeles. The last update of his prior day's shift had included the summary of entire units collapsing across southern California. Some had reportedly been overrun. Too many had abandoned their posts in the face of the incredibly devastating situation.

It's already begun here. How long can we hold out?

Michael Ferrer was the second-in-command of the largest combined civil-military installations in southern Arizona. The airfield at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson housed not only a parent command staff organization, but a Fighter Wing of three A-10 ground attack squadrons, plus the air arm of the U.S. Border Patrol, rescue helicopters, modified transport aircraft, and a detachment of F-16 interceptors that had previously sat on strip-alert against incursions of America's southern airspace. All of that combat power almost seemed useless against the growing anarchy just across the fence on the base's perimeter. In the past few weeks, as the uncertainty brewed into outright panic, the headquarters staff agencies had fled to their parent command in Colorado while local police, sheriff, and other first responders had consolidated behind the protective walls of the Air Force base. Like many large cities across the nation, and the world for that matter, safe zones of survivors deemed uninfected had been carved from the city layout in the attempt to quarantine the spread of the virus that somehow reanimated the bodies of the dead.

The reanimated bodies of the dead… Just a few weeks ago, such a thought would have been considered beyond ridiculous. The dead didn't rise to walk—there wasn't no coming back. At first, the sequence of events seemed to flow like every other flash-pandemic that ultimately sputtered out like a candle breathing its last gasps of air. The initial sensationalism of half-informed news reports… the sudden rise of countless experts seemingly devoid of practical experience but rich in academia… amateur videos spreading virally across the internet… half-baked schemes "guaranteed" to protect the masses from this yet-unidentified plague… The early news reports that no one could bring themselves to believe… "In the medical lab we had a cadaver… the limbs had all been removed—the corpse was long dead, but the eyes flew open and the torso began thrashing… there was no rational explanation…" Many of the videos defied common sense; persons stumbling—being shot multiple times but continuing to walk as though nothing had happened… "They're dead—they're pretty messed up…" The opinions of some commentators seemed to downplay the epidemic while the home-shot videos on social media enflamed a growing panic. Impossible images seemed to show bodies absorbing countless rounds of ammunition with seemingly no effect.

Impossible.

When the episode failed to fade back to normalcy like so many other disease outbreaks, the panic began to grow and spread. Quickly. Demonstrations became riots. Inside the panic, the dead rose quickly and their ranks swelled. The dead begot the dead, and panic became a tidal wave of irrational emotion that flooded communities with reckless abandon. Government services shut down and military units attempted to recall and consolidate all forces.

But even as the panic reached an initial fever pitch, saviors in the form of National Guardsmen augmented the ranks of local authorities, and for a moment, a calm generated by the apparent arrival of authorities almost settled into the horrified communities.

Almost.

Walls erected for protection quickly began to feel like enclosures. The once welcomed saviors morphed into wardens, and the vital supplies they provided failed to satisfy. An anger brewed in the absence of credible and readily-available information. Uncertainty brooded, and a populace barricaded behind protective wires simmered with rebellious undertones.

The images from the news broadcasts—before they were shut down—haunted his every thought. The faces staring at the cameras, almost pleading in dire uncertainty; he had seen them before—in Iraq. A population enclosed by fences and concrete barricades—behind wires and under the watchful eye of an army of occupation… the looks on their faces, both there and now here; fear, distrust, seething anger, exasperation, desperation…

Insurgency.

But the most recent images had not come from Iraq or Afghanistan, or from any refugee center in a war-torn corner of the planet. They were broadcast from Tucson—from the very community that he lived and worked amongst- in the heart of the United States. And, every time he saw those images flash across either the television screen or the mental replay in his mind, he couldn't help but feel the storm that brewed in plain sight. Just as it had felt in Iraq, he understood that the community outside the walls of his base was being swept by an invisible hand towards a fate that no one could neither control nor accurately foresee.

And he was afraid.

Some think that warriors do not feel fear—that they have some instinctive or trained ability to bypass the most primal emotional inclinations; nothing could be further from the truth. Without fear, without anxiety and the mortal understanding of impending or possible death, there could be no courage. Warriors just understood the manner with which to control that fear. Their training taught them to recognize it, to suppress it, and to overcome it. What will it be like… the first time? The question, common to every untested warrior before he or she could set foot upon an actual battlefield, too was familiar, and he recognized the anxiety in the eyes of even his most battle-hardened veterans in this new arena. Colonel Ferrer himself had known this emotion all too often in his many forays into combat across his many years of dedicated service. As unwelcomed as it remained, and with as much experience as he had in controlling it, it never ceased to surprise him when he felt the familiar iciness tugging at the corners of his gut in just such situations as he found himself tonight.

What do you do when the fear comes for you? he had asked as a young warrior on the eve of Operation Desert Storm. He answered himself just as his patient flight lead had done so under the cover of the dark Arabian night so many years ago…

Just keep moving towards the sound of the battle. Let your training take over from there and do the rest.

As his combat operations chief continued his briefing, Colonel Ferrer allowed his face to sink to his hands and squeezed the bridge of his nose in an attempt to redirect the throbbing hammer that pounded his eyes. He wondered for perhaps the hundredth time in the last hour where his boss, the damned Wing Commander, could have possibly disappeared to. Colonel Lawrence Hahnfeld had a poor habit of deferring important decisions to his deputy, and the increasing severity of their situation became just another in a long series of expected letdowns from an ineffective officer.

Now that the world has truly gone to hell in a handbasket, it makes sense that he'd be AWOL…

Lost in his own thoughts, he nearly missed the fact that Colonel Burson had handed over the briefing podium to the intelligence squadron commander. Major Malachi Hartnett was a promising young officer—the type that the Air Force branded as an "HPO," or high potential officer. Some in the ranks called these types "fast-burners" or strivers; others called them "yes-men" and "ass-kissers." Hartnett was renowned f or his extremely professional and polished demeanor before senior leaders. Even here, weeks into the largest crisis anyone in the room could even fathom, his uniform was immaculate and his words flowed effortlessly. Colonel Hahnfeld had personally elevated the young field grade officer to the position of squadron commander, but in the absence of the Wing Commander, some in the room found the maneuver room to finally challenge what they knew to be a weak leader propped up by over-inflated performance appraisals and over-estimated perceptions. Colonel Ferrer much preferred the morning evening shift intelligence briefing, led by the second-in-command of the intelligence squadron. That briefer, Captain Kara Burns, while also polished and professional, had the enviable quality of speaking directly to the point regardless of any superficial biases or desires—she cut straight to the chase and wasn't afraid to loose the occasional f-bomb. Now, in the morning briefing staffed by the day shift leadership, Mike Ferrer had to endure Malachi Hartnett's inexplicably upbeat assessment of a world that appeared to be pulling itself apart at the seams.

"Sir, last night was relatively quiet in the local area. We only had a handful of reports of looting or civil unrest. Previously briefed indications of increased agitation amongst quarantined civilians appeared to be premature—rumors only." Out of the corner of his eye, Colonel Ferrer caught Kara allowing her head to drop in a sign of obvious disagreement. Previous reports of gang-initiated crime also dropped off significantly overnight—Tucson Police reported no arrests over the last twelve hours."

As the words bounced carelessly from the walls, the acting base commander hazarded a glance towards the Tucson Police representative in the room. Dark bags beneath utterly exhausted eyes that clearly not been acquainted with sleep in the recent past told him a different story. When it's my turn to brief, I hope you're not shocked by what I have to say… There's a reason we're not making arrests, and it's not because crime has dropped. The multiple rows of Tucson Police and Pima County Sheriff vehicles that had begun filling the parking lots around the security forces building, coupled with a request to arrange billeting for nearly fifty law enforcement individuals told a different story—everyone who could had begun consolidating their forces within the perimeter of the massive Air Force base.

"Sir, I've also personally taken the time to do a thorough review of the situation outside the gates and have an assessment of the base's current vulnerability," he proudly proclaimed. At such a statement, many of the assembled officers and representatives sat up slightly or leaned into the briefing, their attention suddenly piqued. "First, the activity noted yesterday by Captain Burns at the Alvernon overpass on the west side, and the supposed reconnoitering along the embankment north of Golf Links appears to be random and insignificant." Kara Burns' jaw fell to her chest and her cheeks flushed a sudden crimson. Before she could protest, Malachi continued. "I reviewed photographs of individuals at both of these locations—they appear to be juvenile individuals who took advantage of breaches in the quarantine zones and who are simply expressing youthful curiosity in the direction of the base."

"BULLSHIT!" Lieutenant Toby Roberson of the base Security Forces Squadron sprang to his feet and hurled his vehement disagreement. Before his could continue, Major Hartnett curtly cut him off.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant," he dragged the man's lower rank out slowly, with an apparent condescension that took the interrupting officer by surprise, "but I don't consider the actions of children to be a direct threat to this installation." His voice rose, and he raised a photograph above his head. "THIS is the evidence. THIS is what I reviewed. NOTICE! A child on a bicycle." He narrowed his eyes and focused squarely on the standing Lieutenant with a sneer. "Hardly what I'd assess as a viable threat to the largest military organization in the state." Lieutenant Roberson turned directly to the acting commander and attempted to plead his case.

"Sir, with all due respect, my troops and I," he emphasized the personal connection to his contention, "have seen this situation first-hand. Those may be juveniles—I believe them to be thirteen or fourteen years old—but they are exhibiting the EXACT reconnaissance patterns we saw employed by insurgent groups both in Iraq and Afghanistan."

Toby Roberson may have worn a relatively low rank amongst the officer corps, but his experience far surpassed the silver bar on his collar. He was a prior-enlisted officer; a man who had served for more than five years as a security forces defender from within the enlisted ranks. His combat experience in both theaters of the Global War on Terror had earned him numerous medals for valor in battle, and his qualities as a leader endured him to his subordinates, sometimes to the chagrin of his own superiors. He was known to possess a "low tolerance for bullshit", as he himself put it, and the current briefing had clearly pushed him past his personal red line.

"Lieutenant, this isn't Afghanistan," Malachi snorted with thinly veiled disdain. "We don't have insurgent groups threatening the viability of the United States in Tucson Ariz—"

"Thirteen is fighting age across the globe. There's no reason to doubt that the local gangs aren't concealing their activity through the use of underage recruits—last night's briefing pointed us towards the fact that several groups have their eyes on what we've got on this side of the fence—"

"Lieutenant, you are WAY OUT OF LINE!" Major Hartnett burst, suddenly losing all vestiges of composure. Colonel Ferrer threw up his arm and silenced the room.

"That's ENOUGH!" he boomed. The two verbal pugilists refused to drop their glowering stares at one another, even as the commander ordered them to cease their quarreling. "Thank you Malachi—I have a copy of the latest assessment and I'll get up with you if I have further questions." He'd had enough of the rosy picture that the intelligence chief continuously tried to paint. He wondered if he should have relieved Major Hartnett of his duties earlier but quickly abandoned the thought—there simply wan't time for second-guessing right now. Act—decide—react, but don't look back. He made up his mind then and there—this was the last briefing he'd take from the Major; he just didn't have time for an agenda-driven assessment. Kara Burns' eyes flashed a moment's excitement at the commanders' words; she produced the assessment, not her boss. And, to his own dismay, Malachi Hartnett had brushed aside the written assessment earlier, preferring to focus on the spoken briefing and allowing his subordinate to "waste her time typing up and repeating the thoughts of others." An obvious wounding to his pride surfaced in his silence, and he quickly took his seat. "Lieutenant Roberson—get with our local police and sheriff representatives after this meeting and provide me with a worst-case course of action by the next update briefing."

Hours earlier, under the cover of darkness, Master Sergeant Jeffrey Ingram sat in a blacked out observation bunker on the northwest side of the base. He sucked the last drops of bitter black coffee from a worn and flimsy foam cup as he rubbed his eyes and tried to focus beyond the base perimeter. With their forces dwindling and stretched too thin, he had volunteered to man the shift by himself in order to fill the gap between the main observation towers and prevent an overlap in surveillance. He checked his watch for the twentieth time in the last five minutes and felt a sudden relief at the sight of headlights approaching along the perimeter road. A set of siren lights capped the top of this particular Humvee, marking the shift supervisor's personal vehicle. Jeff felt a second wave of relief as he recognized the tall, thin build of Lieutenant Roberson sliding from the rugged vehicle. He bent back into the cramped interior and emerged with a massive steaming foam cup in each hand. Ever the tactician, he killed all lights before advancing to Jeff's covert position.

"Thought you could use some joe," the Lieutenant began as he proffered the large cup.

"Always appreciated boss," Jeff replied as he quickly raised the disposable mug to his lips. Goddamn, he thought, el-tee even knows how to make a damned good cup of coffee! At the taste of the dark elixir, he involuntarily closed his eyes and dropped his head back, allowing the seat back to take the weight of the Kevlar helmet from his temples momentarily.

"I wish I could take credit for that," the Lieutenant offered, "but it's the wives who managed to make a good batch. " He laughed, "and I knew you'd kick my ass at changeover if you found out I had kept it for myself!"

"Naww, that'd be a Watkins thing," Jeff whispered before he could stop himself. Major Courtney Watkins, their squadron commander, rarely earned complimentary remarks from his troops.

Toby stopped him immediately. "Not going there Jeff. Shut up and enjoy your coffee." Both men smiled to themselves. After a few minutes of contented silence, the officer stood and lifted a set of night vision goggles to his eyes, peering through the perimeter. "Any action tonight?"

"That kid on the bike was back a few hours ago. He had a flashlight this time—if I didn't know better, I'd swear that little shit was takin' notes." As his whispers floated across the darkness, the Lieutenant dropped his night vision devices and drew closer to the older troop.

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

"That damned flashlight would come on every time we emitted a light on this side. Open the door, light comes on in the hummer, there's the flashlight. Turn on a light to make a note or find something in the passenger seat and bam—flashlight over there." Jeff's words hesitated slightly with an anxiousness that Toby recognized as a combat twitch; when the troops knowingly mentioned something that put them on the path towards conflict, their body emitted their own personal combat biases. Some exerted excitement, others apprehension. But the "combat twitch," as he called it, came out every time a direct correlation pointed towards impending battle. Something had clearly triggered Jeff's battle instinct.

"Do you think it's the same kid from this afternoon?" the officer queried.

"If it ain't, he's acting in the exact same manner," Jeff opined softly. "That might just be a coincidence, but I don't think we base our plans on coincidences. I certainly don't plan to."

"I'll bring it up at the update brief in a couple of hours," Toby whispered. "Let me see if intel can collaborate anything." He drew close enough in the darkness to look directly into the sergeant's eyes. "How long have you been awake, Jeff?"

The non-commissioned officer shrugged sheepishly. "Shit, I dunno sir. Thirty hours maybe." He quickly added, "I'm good to finish this shift."

"Bullshit. You're done," the Lieutenant interrupted. "Take my Humvee in. I'll finish your shift."

"No fuckin' way," Jeff blurted before regaining his professional composure. "Sir—I mean, no fuckin' way, sir," he stammered. The officer laughed.

"It's already done—get outta here. By the way, it was your wife who made the coffee. She figured it might get you home for an hour or so tonight—remind you of home instead of that nasty shit we pour in the ops shack!"

"You sure sir?" Jeff delayed.

"If I wasn't, I wouldn't have offered. Get your ass out of here before I decide I'm too tired!" Toby joked. "And get yourself some sleep for God's sake—you're worthless to me if you're walking around like one of those 'things' out there."

Jeff clasped a massive hand on the officer's shoulder. "Thanks sir, I'll see you after the morning update."

"Or tomorrow afternoon—I don't care-just get some rest," the Lieutenant ordered. As the burly vehicle roared to life and clanked off down the uneven dirt road, Toby raised his NVGs again to his face as he swirled a fresh sip of coffee across his tongue. He rolled the hot liquid around his mouth and tried to draw the aroma from his taste buds to his nose. Just like downrange, he thought. Coffee makes everything tolerable. He laughed to himself silently, thinking if we lose the coffee, we lose the war. An almost imperceptible reflection from just over the razor wire-topped wall across from the base caught his attention. Was that someone looking at him with NVGs? A handheld telescope? His heart suddenly racing, he blinked and sat forward, staring through the green-tinted image projected inside of the two tubes he held before his eyes. As quickly as the vision had caught his attention, it vanished, and he found himself looking at what he could only believe was starlight reflecting on a large blade of the concertina wire in front of a hedge that capped the wall. Damn it, I need to find time to get myself some sleep too, he thought as he pulled the remains of the mug in one large gulp. Stay awake, he pleaded with himself.

Colonel Ferrer looked up from his notes and considered the precipitous nature of the situation. Almost forty percent of the base forces had already deserted—he'd accepted this as a natural degradation under the circumstances; that number would have been much higher had he not opened the installation to all families a week earlier. The deserters have more outside the walls than inside, he pondered. Considering the unparalleled panic that had swept the population, he considered himself fortunate to have lost less than half of the uniformed members under his command. He silently pondered the situation at hand. Though he stared unwaveringly at the notes on the projection screen, his mind was clearly elsewhere, deep in thought and mentally reviewing command courses of action.

The absence of words from their commander in the face of seemingly devastating updates failed to trigger any semblance of panic or doubt in the gathered battle-staff. Ferrer was well-known for collecting as much information as possible before rendering decisions, though he had also proven himself to be capable of lightning-fast direction in combat. After so many years of continuous warfare, too many senior leaders somehow managed to avoid combat deployments and lacked the critical experience wrought with a baptism by fire. Many considered the absent commander, Colonel Hahnfeld, just such a paper-tiger—a hollow shell of a uniform worn by an officer driven more by political ambition than military competence.

"Ferret" Ferrer was of cut from a different cloth. One of the few officers with experience in both major combat operations as well as the continued asymmetric counter-insurgency campaigns, his subordinates respected his cool, quiet demeanor buttressed by an impressive combat record. After a deep, contemplative breath with his eyes turned toward the ceiling, he forcefully exhaled, as if just such an action might sweep away the bleakness surrounding them. He motioned for the next slide, and the civil engineering squadron commander began rattling off current stockpiles of food, ammunition, water, and fuel.

"Sir, our current stockpiles are still in the green—showing just under eighty-five percent total; we've got approximately five percent of supplies forward to their distribution points on base, and we haven't had any issues with the base population in terms of disturbances. Twenty-five percent of food and water remains in the secondary distribution warehouses and can be on-hand within an hour. Fifty percent is in storage, and twenty percent in reserve."

In reserve. Lieutenant Colonel Alvarado had chosen his words carefully. A week earlier, one of the A-10 squadron commanders had floated the idea at the wing update briefing of establishing fallback contingency positions. That had been one of the last update briefing that their now-missing Wing Commander had attended. Colonel Ferrer couldn't help but recall the nature of the conversation and planning that had occurred in that moment.

"Absolutely not," Colonel Hahnfeld had sputtered. "That's a waste of manpower and resources. I want our food and water easily accessible to the base population."

"With all due respect sir, the situation is not getting better, and I strongly recommend we work contingency options—" the younger commander was brusquely cut off again as the senior officer leapt to his feet and pointed a thin finger in his direction.

"My decision is final! Keep the supplies as they are, where they are!" Colonel Hahnfeld never reacted well to any subordinate challenging his decisions, and even discussions that others felt highlighted options or alternative concerns were perceived by their commander as attacks on his authority.

He's got his fucking head in the sand, thought Lieutenant Colonel Keith Laubacher as he wondered how he might convince his boss on what a large group of other officers had realized needed to take place. He refuses to acknowledge what's actually going on.

"I don't want to hear about this again," Hahnfeld spat as he sank back into his chair. "Next slide!" he ordered as he turned his gaze back to the large screen at the front of the room.

As the meeting concluded, Keith quickly moved towards the exit, desiring to return as quickly as possible to the comfortable surroundings within the reserve squadron he commanded. Before he could get more than a few steps through the horde trying to similarly escape, a rough voice whispered in his ear, "Downstairs, in the old finance office, ten minutes." He turned to identify the speaker, but only saw the backs of several officers moving quickly away. As much as he wanted to depart the madness of the headquarters building, the sudden offer ensnared his complete curiosity, and he turned instead to burn time in the restroom while the combat staff cleared out. He splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror. What the hell is going on here, he wondered for what seemed like the millionth time. What's more insane? The madness outside the gates or what's brewing in here? Holding his own gaze, he worked up the courage to investigate the offer.

Finding the hallways empty, he silently carried himself away from the wing conference room and down the narrow staircase. Instead of pushing through the glass doors towards the parking lot, he apprehensively pushed on the handle of the shuttered door on the ground level and was shocked to find it unlocked. Before he could push the door more than a couple of inches, a hushed voice commanded, "Get your ass in here before someone sees you, jackass." He practically fell into the room, and someone slammed the door shut behind him.

He struggled to focus his eyes in the dim light, but quickly recognized the figure who had pulled him into the room. Lieutenant Colonel Jim "Jimbo" Evens commanded one of the two active duty fighter squadrons and had known Keith for nearly a decade when the two had flown together as young captains in Korea. He smiled in recognition of his friend, who returned the gesture as he packed a healthy wad of Copenhagen into his lower lip. A quiet but sturdy voice from behind them cracked the atmosphere again. "Oh hell no, you little shit—you better have a pinch for me if you're gonna feed your own goddamned mouth!" Without turning, Keith now realized that the original command, and these following exclamation, belonged to Colonel Ferrer, and he was only mildly surprised to see that it was him who had arranged this off-the-books meeting. He slammed an oversized bunch of chew into his own mouth and tossed the can back to Jimbo with a wink. "Take care of your elders first next time!" he joked.

Keith slid deeper into the room. As his eyes adjusted further to the darkness, he noticed a collection of other individuals slinking silently in the shadows. Colonel Ferrer spit into a plastic bottle before announcing, "Alright gentlemen, and I use the term loosely, looks like we're all here." His words hung heavy in the room. "This meeting never happened, understand?" Even in the dim light, no one missed the collective nodding of every head present. "Good. Now, Chalice, what you brought up in there is worth discussing," he began, referring to Keith by the tactical nickname preferred amongst the gathered fighter pilots. "I agree that we need contingencies, and all of you in this room have expressed similar ideas offline. Everyone on board with that idea?" Again, collective nodding. He turned towards Ruben Alvarado. "Can you move enough supplies in reserve to a secure location?"

Ruben nodded. "Absolutely sir. But to where? The flightline is secure, but not a great fallback location. And every other open bay on base that's not taken up by cots is already in use."

"What about the Boneyard?" Keith offered. He immediately sensed an initial disagreement and continued with the idea that had brewed in his own mind for a few days. The Boneyard was the nickname given to the massive aircraft storage facility that encompassed nearly three thousand acres housing over four thousand aircraft in the Arizona desert ringing more than half of the massive airbase. "Before we disregard that, think about it. If we're falling back, for whatever reason, why would anyone, or anything, search the Boneyard? There's nothing there of value. We could position the reserves in the C-5s, which would also give us a place to stay in their upstairs compartments while we waited it out." The massive C-5 transport plane was the largest cargo aircraft in the Air Force inventory, and one of the largest aircraft in the world. In addition to an enormous belly capable of transporting multiple main battle tanks or even other airplanes, the plane had a split interior with a troop-transport room in the aircraft's top section.

Colonel Ferrer nodded slowly. "Great idea. But how are we going to get the jets opened up? There's no power available to make the cargo doors operational in those retired airframes," he mused.

"My guys can take care of that, sir," offered a voice from the back of the room. Major Henry Lee, the director of operations for the detachment of smaller cargo aircraft that operated from the base, stepped forward. "So long as you don't ask how they do it, our load-masters and maintainers can get those doors operational for what we need without power." He turned his eyes up towards the vice commander as he continued, "They won't work correctly afterwards, but we can make it happen. So long as no one asks too many questions."

Colonel Ferrer laughed to himself and scratched his stubbly chin in consideration. "Buddy, I don't think anyone is going to come looking for those planes ever again. You have my authority to make it happen—listen carefully—whatever it takes! How long are we talking here?"

After a hushed round of audible calculations amongst the assembled officers, Ruben stood and reported that they would everything complete and in-place within five days.

"Make it happen," Colonel Ferrer commanded. "I'll come up with a way for you to brief me personally on the status. Until then, we tell Hahnfeld what he wants to hear. I'll take care of the rest. You all report to me, and me alone on this issue."

A quick succession of two distinct raps at the conference room door silenced the room and snapped Colonel Ferrer from his recollections. The battle staff received two critical updates per twelve-hour shift, and interruptions outside of life-and-death situations were strictly forbidden. Everyone present in the room knew what importance the information on the other side of the door represented, and they involuntarily found themselves holding their breath. The Wing Command Chief, a stocky, bald non-commissioned officer whose career had been chiseled into the deep lines of his face, a para-rescueman by trade, took the commander's acknowledgement, and unlocked the massive steel door. A haggard, panting Lieutenant Colonel burst into the room, clearly losing in the attempt to regain his breath after sprinting from the command post two-blocks away. He thrust a stack of papers shrouded beneath a red cardstock cover emblazoned with the TOP SECRET stamp towards the commander. Colonel Ferrer reached for the documents while his eyes locked with the messenger in the attempt to discern any hint as to the message's contents.

"From NORAD directly, sir," the officer stammered. The command post entrusted younger officers or senior NCOs to deliver routine messages to their leadership; the fact that the command post chief himself had sprinted to convey this particular dispatch bore an ominous overtone. NORAD stood for North American Aerospace Defense Command, or the higher headquarters that oversaw all operations in the American hemisphere, commanding the Northern Command and Twelfth Air Forces, the successive parent organizations above the 355th Fighter Wing in Tucson. Colonel Ferrer cast the cover sheet aside, hoping against hope for a positive message outlining the endgame of their current dilemma. The words across the top of the first page shattered those hopes.

OPERATION SCORCHED EARTH.

Few of the officers and staff gathered in that conference room had witnessed their leader under combat conditions. His reputation for decisive action was crafted of legends and third-person war stories. Only a couple of pilots had been in Kuwait with him during the second Iraq war that could bear witness to the incredible speed and precision with which he seemed to be able to accurately analyze and predict through the unimaginable fog and friction of an incredibly dynamic campaign. Many of the younger airmen only knew the soft-spoken officer more disposed to careful contemplation and the advice that decisions in peacetime could be slept-upon and digested over twelve hours. They knew the officer who always had an anecdote or comparison for many of the situations they found themselves in, and most of them struggled to transpose the gray-haired, bespectacled man with the abject warrior that others described. Beneath the deafening silence that had exploded in the room, none would struggle to reconcile those images as Michael Ferrer cleared his throat, and whispered, "All non-combat organizations are dismissed. All units will immediately assume force protection condition delta."

Force protection condition delta: an attack is taking place, or has already occurred in the immediate area.

The departure of non-combatant agencies afforded Colonel Ferrer the time to purposefully digest the message in his hands. The addressee list at the top of the page informed him that every operational commander across the country held the same set of instructions. His heart began racing as each succeeding paragraph fell before his rapidly scanning eyes. He hoped that, somehow, the message would conclude with the phrase "exercise exercise exercise" and he could refocus solely on the needs within the base perimeter. The presence of an authentication statement, already validated by the battle staff, shattered that aspiration. Michael Ferrer looked around the room slowly, holding the gaze of each remaining commander for a moment before speaking in a voice that he hoped maintained a semblance of composure.

"Team, we have been given an order that I'm sure none of us is prepared to receive." Silence enveloped the room as every man held his breath against the coming command. He stood and read directly from the paper, "NORAD, on orders from the Pentagon, directs the massive aerial bombardment of affected or overrun urban areas to eradicate this unknown virus that has caused the apparent reanimation of the recently deceased." The gasp by every officer in the room spread rapidly and morphed immediately into barely muffled conversations and exclamations. Colonel Ferrer held up his right hand to interrupt the reaction as he continued reading directly from the order. "As the source and susceptibility of this condition remains unknown, the only acceptable course of action to ensure the continued viability of the nation lies with the obliteration of the infected subjects by way of direct incineration…" his voice trailed involuntarily as a vision of a city-scape engulfed in flames crossed before his eyes. The room exploded in a cacophony of voices suddenly attempting to understand what had just been ordered. Individual shouts punctuated the air, growing louder as each voice struggled to be heard above the erupting din. Colonel Ferrer rose from his seat and silenced the room. "ENOUGH!" The startled officers looked at him with wide eyes and expectant gazes. He clasped his arms across his chest and lowered his chin in deep contemplation. "Just a goddamned minute, now." He stepped off slowly and began walking the length of the long conference table.

"Firebomb the city?" blurted Keith Laubacher, unable to restrain himself any longer. His hands had involuntarily balled into fists squeezed so tightly that the knuckles had already gone white. "They tried that in New York and it didn't work! There are still civilians out there!" His face began to redden with a sudden and inconsolable rage against the idea. Beside him, Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Treve remained seated, his hands calmly folded in his lap.

"The city was cleared days ago, Keith," Anthony coldly commented…

"We don't know that it was done to one-hundred percent!"

"The order was given. Everyone had a chance to move to the safe zones."

"And if they didn't? They get firebombed?!" Keith spat.

"They had the opportunity," Anthony retorted.

An uncomfortable air fell across the assembled officers, many of whom hung their heads in a quiet desperation tinged with a palpable shame. How had it come to this so quickly? When the silence persisted, Laubacher continued, almost exasperatedly, "Sir! We're not honestly considering this, are we?"

"We've been given an order," Treve offered cooly, drawing a fire-laden glare from his fellow commander. Treve kept his eyes squarely on the Vice Wing Commander seated at the head of the table and deliberately ignored the seething stare beside him. "I don't know if I speak for myself or anyone else in the room sir, but we're not talking about a conventional situation anymore. This is survival. Not survival of certain groups, but the nation. Maybe the species. If fire is the only way to kill it and ensure the race goes on, then fire it is."

"Survival? Whose survival? You ever killed civilians in battle? Let me tell you something-"

"ENOUGH I SAID!" boomed Colonel Ferrer as he slammed his fists into the conference table hard enough to throw every cup on top of it inches into the air. "Goddamn it, you're all officers—act like it!" Keith's eyes widened in near horror but he kept his mouth shut. His fists clenched tighter and he felt his entire body trembling. Colonel Ferrer walked slowly back to the head of the room. When he turned to face his officers, an incredible strain pulled at his eyes, and an unmistakeable sadness permeated every expression. His voice cracked as he spoke, suddenly softly. "I understand what I'm about to order you to do may go against everything you know as an American warrior. And as a human being. I don't know what this thing is that we're up against, but I know that humanity has never faced anything of this nature, and to this extent, in the history of the world. Keith, I know where you're coming from, brother. But we have been given an order. Under normal circumstances, we could debate the lawfulness of this directive. I'm not sure that we have that luxury anymore." He paused and took the time to look each officer in eyes.

"Make no mistake, men. History will judge each of us on what we do next." Unable to hide his emotions, a single tear fell from his eye. "I will not hold it against any officer who refuses this order. There will be no retribution. Commanders, get back to your units and identify your flight leads for this mission. Report back here in one hour with your primary flyers; we'll go over the mission assignments and then break up for individual flight briefings, at which time you can brief your units and add flyers as you're able. I don't expect that you'll have the one-hundred percent solution right now, but what are your gut feelings on who your pilots will be?" Brutus?" he asked, looking at the operational squadron commander.

Lieutenant Colonel Treve stammered, "I, uh, I'm not sure sir. I need to, um, get back to the squadron and see who's on shift." Colonel Ferrer nodded slowly and turned to look at Keith Laubacher, who returned his steely gaze with a sudden resolve.

"I'll be leading our first four-ship, sir—assuming we can put that many up. I can't guarantee what I can give you, but I'll be out front," he stated, happily sounding far more confident than he felt inside. Ferret nodded again before shifting his gaze. Jimbo Evens, taking the immediate cue from his friend, stood and resolutely affirmed that he, too, would lead the first formation from his unit. Breathing an inaudible sigh of relief from hearing his friend's support, Keith looked over to see if Treve would also step forward to lead, but the short, beady-eyed man only feigned interest in his notes as he strained to ignore the stares assaulting from three directions. Typical, Keith thought disgustedly.

Colonel Ferrer stood before them, his arms again folded before him, and his chin digging into his chest. Satisfied with his own contemplations, he looked up and nodded at his squadron commanders again. "Alright then. Chalice, you'll be the second formation out the door, Jimbo you're third and Brutus, your pilots will pull up the last group." Keith looked at him cockeyed, not quite sure he had heard the commander correctly.

"Sir, you said I was second—who's first out the 'chute?"

"I am," he replied tersely. "You got a problem with that shit-bird?"

"No sir."

"Good, goddamn it. Now get back to your units and find me at least one wingman who's worth their shit and report back here with your pilots in an hour. " Before anyone could place a breath into a single word, the Colonel was gone. Keith Laubacher clutched the handrests of his chair in a death grip.

He wondered if his shaking legs would support him long enough to make the trek back to his squadron building.