Free Zombie War: An account of the zombie apocalypse that swept across America by Nicholas Ryan Page B

BUFF’s have been the backbone of America’s strategic bombing capabilities. Hell, during Desert Storm a flight of B-52’s flew from here to Iraq, bombed targets, and then flew home again,” Pike said proudly. “We were in the air for thirty-five hours and flew fourteen thousand miles non-stop. Now, suddenly, we were flying short hop operations and hitting targets just over the horizon.”
    I began to understand the impact the bridge-bombing missions along the Mississippi had had on this man. For the first time, perhaps, warfare was incredibly personal.
    “You called the planes BUFF’s a moment ago. What does that mean?”
    “Big Ugly Fat Fucker,” Pike seemed to take some delight in sharing the term of affection. “Or if you prefer the sanitized version, Big Ugly Fat Fellow.” He smiled then, but I wasn’t sure if it was because he was pleased, or because the joke was on me.
    “Did it feel like other bombing missions at all?”
    “No,” Pike admitted. “Not to me, anyhow. It was devoid of every stimuli.”
    What the?
    I looked at the pilot, puzzled. “Um… what?” I tried to be delicate.
    “Flying those missions was almost like operating a simulator,” he explained. “There were no nerves, and there was no sense of flying into danger like every other combat mission. No one was firing at us. No one was trying to defend the bridge. No enemy fighters were hunting us. There was nothing. It was so antiseptic, and yet at the same time incredibly harrowing, because of the significance of what we were doing.”
    I had imagined high altitude bombing would create a sense of distance and remoteness for these pilots – something I thought I would be less likely to find in the soldiers who fought so close to the enemy. I was wrong. Distance did not diminish the wrench of a man’s patriotism, nor the anguish of the duty they were called on to perform.
    It was a somber, sobering moment for me.
    “Dropping bombs on a target from high altitude must be fraught with its own perils,” I said slowly. “Things like accuracy, for instance…”
    The Lieutenant Colonel shook his head. “It’s not like what you imagine,” he said. A little bit of color came back into his face, as though he had brought his emotions back under control. “In World War II, high altitude bombers were happy if they landed ordnance within three thousand feet of their target. Today, we’re accurate to forty feet because of the GPS power of the JDAM attachments.”
    I was impressed. He saw it on my face. But I was also a little confused.
    “Forgive my continuing ignorance,” I began, and Pike went out of his way to stifle a meaningful laugh, “but what exactly are these JDAM devices? You mentioned them earlier in the interview as well.”
    “JDAM stands for Joint Direct Attack Munition,” the Lieutenant Colonel said, then waited impatiently until I wrote everything down. “It’s a guidance kit that we use to convert ‘dumb’ bombs into all-weather ‘smart’ munitions. Once a bomb is equipped with a JDAM kit, it is guided to the target through a guidance system that works in conjunction with a GPS receiver.”
    “And that’s what makes it accurate?”
    “Yeah,” Pike said dryly. “What we aimed at, we hit. All the bridges tasked to us were destroyed.” Pike’s expression remained bleak, but despite the emotional strain of the bombing mission, a tiny trace of pride crept into his voice for a mission successfully accomplished.
    “I just hope I never have to fly another mission like it,” he said softly.
     
     
     
    NAVAL STATION NORFOLK:
    NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
     
    The Petty Officer shook my hand and smiled because he was supposed to, not because he was pleased to see me. “You’re John Culver?” He glanced down at the credentials clutched in my fist that I had carried through the security checks.
    “Yes,” I said.
    The man nodded. “I’m here to escort you to the Vice Admiral’s office. He’s been waiting for you.”
    I