Contagious Page 123

Perry shrugged. “I’m not great with distances, Dew.”

“Take a guess, college boy.”

“Maybe a mile? Maybe a bit less.”

Dew relayed the information, waited, then laughed. “You’ve got to be s.h.i.tting me, L.T.”

He listened, then nodded. Apparently Murray wasn’t s.h.i.tting him.

Dew tucked the satphone back in his flak jacket. “We’re going to put down and secure the LZ. Then Murray is going to fly in another Margo-Mobile set behind us. They’ve lost contact with Margaret and Otto, so he thinks their trailers were destroyed.”

“Is Margo dead?”

“I doubt it,” Dew said. “They had plenty of warning. Otto is a sharp guy, so let’s hope for the best.”

“Well, where are we landing, then?”

Dew smiled a s.h.i.t-eating grin. “Perry, my boy, you’re going to love this landing field. The irony is so thick you could spread it on toast.”

“What? Where are we landing?”

Dew kept smiling and shook his head. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

He thought this was funny. Funny. They were heading into a firefight, Detroit was burning, Margaret might be dead, and Dew was laughing.

“Just sit back and enjoy the ride,” Dew said. “This might be the last time you ever fly in one of these things.”

Perry sat back and hoped that was true. But he hoped it would be because they walked away and just never got on one again—not because they crashed and died.

12:42 P.M.: Ogden’s Plans

General Charlie Ogden made another mark on his paper map of Detroit. He’d lost contact with the men at the 94/75 intersection. They’d done their job, but the fact that he’d lost contact meant two more men gone. Fifty minutes into the attack and losses were higher than he’d expected.

Those low-flying A-10s were a real pain in the a.s.s. Small-arms fire just wouldn’t take them out. He’d had only ten Stingers to begin with—five for the various airports and five in the city. Three of the latter set had already fired—two misses and a hit, bringing down an Apache right on Woodward Avenue. He’d ordered the last two Stingers held in reserve. It was possible, however improbable, that Ogden had missed something. Giving up air superiority wasn’t an issue. What he couldn’t handle was troops on the ground. His men were too spread out, too dispersed to repel infantry.

Ogden could sense it now. He could sense how close they were. Thirty-two minutes, give or take, and the hatchlings would activate the gate.

The angels would descend upon Detroit.

He was in the Globe building with Corporal Kinney Johnson, a sorry excuse for a communications man. Just the two of them, the hatchlings busting a.s.s to finish the gate and Chelsea still sitting inside the Winnebago. Mr. Burkle continued to run in and out, finding whatever material he could for the hatchlings.

“Sir,” Johnson said, “we’re getting reports of ma.s.sive air traffic off Belle Isle, less than a mile up the river. A-10s, Apaches, even F-15s, flying low.”

“Flying low . . . are they attacking anything?”

“It looks like just targets of opportunity, sir,” Johnson said. “Some of our men tried volley fire with AT4s, even brought down an A-10, but as soon as our men fire, one of the gunships takes them out.”

He’s coming.

Chelsea’s voice, tinged with fear. That instantly made Ogden sweat, made his stomach churn—how could G.o.d be afraid?

The boogeyman, he’s coming. Stop him.

His men had failed to kill Perry and Dew. What if they had also failed to do enough damage to Whiskey Company?

“Johnson, call out to everyone who’s left. Look for Ospreys. Repeat, Ospreys.”

Johnson bent to the task, and Ogden waited. Perry and Dew were on the way. The only question was, who was coming with them?

“Sir, visual confirmation of three Ospreys—I repeat, three Ospreys—coming in fast from the north.”

“Concentrate all remaining Stinger fire on the Ospreys,” Ogden said. “Tell any unit that can see the Ospreys to move toward them, set up sniper positions. If any of the birds land, concentrate all fire on whatever comes out.”

12:44 P.M.: Incoming

Perry Dawsey wanted to puke.

Downtown Detroit spread out before them. Urban sprawl stretched out to the right, while Lake St. Claire filled the left-side view. Plumes of smoke rose from the city, some from skysc.r.a.pers, some from the ground, wind carrying the black smoke from left to right, due west across the heart of the city toward Ann Arbor. He wondered if the smoke would reach that far, spread soot on the University of Michigan Stadium where he’d once been a star. The three skysc.r.a.pers looked like smokestacks, as if the whole city of Detroit was a giant ship steaming eastward.

He was in the last of three Ospreys. Dew had told him why—any missile fire would probably hit the lead helicopter. That strategy, of course, was only as good as the guesswork of the guy firing the Stingers.

The closer Perry got to Detroit, the more he sensed the infected. This was so different from before. Mather had been one guy, really hard to locate. It had been easier to track down three hosts each for the South Bloomingville and Marinesco gates. The Detroit signal felt huge, undoubtedly more hosts there than he’d ever encountered.

It was also stronger for another reason.

Chelsea Jewell.

He could experience her, taste her blank soul. He would find her, he would help her, because she had tried to f.u.c.k with his head—and n.o.body f.u.c.ks with a Dawsey.

An alarm blared through the cabin.

“Incoming!” the pilot shouted. “Missiles inbound!”

Perry gripped hard on the bottom of the seat. The Osprey’s nose tipped down, allowing him a view of the ground far below and the other two Ospreys out in front. The smoke trail started low, from a house way off on the right. It curved, course-correcting to match the Osprey’s velocity.