Free Contagious by Scott Sigler Page A

get wheels up, ninety minutes to fly and jump, fifteen minutes for them to gather and move in. Either way we’re looking at two and a half hours best case, three hours more likely. You got pictures of this thing?”

“We’re bringing satellites online now,” Dew said. “We should have something any moment. I told the squints to send you pictures as soon as we get them.”

“Understood. Listen, I think South Bloomingville was a feint. Designed to draw our attention while they set up at Marinesco.”

“What are you saying, Charlie?” Dew asked. “These little bastards are using high-level tactics?”

“They didn’t defend themselves. When we closed in, they destroyed the construct, killing themselves in the process. And I think it was a prop.”

“A prop ?”

“Yeah, like fake planes on a fake airstrip designed to fool satellite intel. It heated up like the other gates, but it was thinner. Just enough material to have the right shape and the right behaviors, not enough to be functional.”

Dew felt a helpless feeling spreading through his guts. “So if this Marinesco gate is already hot,” Dew said, “if you can’t get there in time, then what?”

Ogden’s voice dropped a little as he spoke to someone near him. “Cope, order the FAC to this location.”

Dew heard a distant “Yes sir.”

“Charlie,” Dew said, “what the fuck are you doing?”

“I just deployed the FAC, the forward air controller. It’s an F-22 Raptor fighter, fast as hell. It will acquire the target and transmit coordinates to the Strike Eagle squadron.”

“The F-15s? You’re dropping fucking two-thousand-pound bombs on it? It’s Michigan, not fucking Fallujah, Charlie. Why can’t we use the Apaches like we did in Wahjamega and Mather?”

“Depends on if we can get them there in time,” Ogden said. “If I send the Apaches now, it’s a two-hour straight flight. The Eagles do Mach 2.5—they’ll be there in twenty-five minutes.”

Dew’s cell phone buzzed—he checked it to find a text message that was nothing but a sixteen-character code.

“I’ve got sat pictures, Charlie.”

“We just got them, too. Cope, up on the screen.”

Dew shoved the map aside and carefully typed in the code. A series of thumbnail images appeared, some in color, some in black and white. Dew clicked on the first black-and-white image, blowing it up to fill the screen. Most of the picture showed the black, irregular patterns of dense trees. The center of the image, however, showed a fuzzy white symbol that had come to represent the unknown terror of the infection.

White meant that the gate was already hot.

“I’m ordering a full strike,” Ogden said. “Taking that damn thing out of the game.”

“Hold on, Charlie,” Dew said. “The area looks pretty unpopulated, but we don’t have any intel on the residents. Can we get some planes to make a pass? See if any people are around?”

“Phillips, I don’t give a fuck if the gate is built right on top of a compound full of orphans and nuns. I’m taking it out.”

“Charlie, come on. You’re talking about two-thousand-pound bombs on U. S. soil. We have to get approval from Murray on this.”

“No we don’t,” Ogden said. “I have authority from the president to make any necessary battlefield decisions up to Option Number Four. That one has to come from the big man himself. Other than that, it’s my call.”

“But that order was from President Hutchins. Gutierrez probably doesn’t even know about it.”

“I have my orders,” Ogden said. “We have to strike immediately, and with force. Nice work uncovering this location, Dew. All I can say is thank God we’ve got Dawsey. He’s the only thing keeping us in this game. Ogden out.”

Charlie broke the connection.

Dew put the handset back in its cradle.

Thank God we’ve got Dawsey . Imagine that. The kid was twelve doughnuts shy of a baker’s dozen, and he was their ace in the hole. What would ol’ Charlie have thought if he knew that Dew had almost shot Dawsey in the mouth with the .45? Sorry,