Chapter 214
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 214
Chapter Title: The End of April (1)
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Even in a world ripening with plague, spring was unfailingly the season when flowers bloomed.
Winter raced across the fields at the tail end of April, behind the wheel of the Excel. A light rain had fallen at dawn, filling the humid breeze with the thick scent of grass and wildflowers. The pastures fading in his wake glowed pale green in the sunlight. Crimson goldenglow bloomed in clusters, adding splashes of red. Along the fences, iris variants burst their buds. Rosebay and Weigela florida mingled in their respective hues.
It was a more beautiful scene than the outside world in the same season. The springs from his days with a body had been drab gray no matter where he looked. Cities in the virtual reality era hadn’t cared about aesthetics. That was why the audience focused on moments like this. In sensory terms, even a world approaching the apocalypse felt better than the one beyond the columbarium. It was a present that sought personality, nature, and all beauty in the past.
The boy born on a snowy December day felt a touch of warmth. A hint of fatigue came with it. If only this moment could last a little longer.
But for a star in the darkness nursing regrets, it was a luxurious sentiment.
The mobile unit riding alongside him pulled the flagpoles from their saddle mounts. The Stars and Stripes, hung upside down, fluttered in the headwind. It was a symbol favored by anti-government protesters in front of the White House, but originally a distress signal in disasters. There was a separate international standard SOS flag (Cal-June Flag), but it wasn’t something ordinary homes could obtain.
Winter unfurled his flag too. It was something he’d found at the elementary school in Point Reyes Station. An iron bar he’d used as a weapon now served as the pole. The flag rippled, adding wind resistance to his grip.
Wedge-shaped cavalry spotted from the sky. It was a lightly armed light aircraft (Cessna 182), but in this moment, a symbol of hope. As the silver fuselage, glinting in the morning sun, banked toward them, Private First Class Alejandro couldn’t hold back a cheer. Sergeant Morales immediately scolded him, though his own face beamed with joy.
‘If it weren’t for the radio jamming, we could’ve made contact days ago.’
The radio tuned to commercial channel 9 still hissed with familiar, ominous static. Presumably a Trickster hunting stragglers from the liberation op. Communication wasn’t impossible, but they didn’t want to reveal their position by transmitting.
Days had passed since first spotting civilian aircraft. The flight trails in the eastern sky grew daily. Occasionally a jet engine roar from a fighter-bomber split the heavens, but most were prop-driven light planes. Baker Company’s officers guessed the DoD had enlisted civilian pilots for survivor searches. Otherwise, there’d be no reason for civilian craft in air defense zones.
Their flight paths backed the theory. They didn’t cross imaginary lines, as if following guidelines, and sometimes dropped to dangerously low altitudes. Dangerous meaning within the Trickster’s EMP pulse range. Even EMP-hardened, a momentary engine stall would be fatal.
The approaching plane circled above the mobile unit. They slowed. They halted on a low hill. No variants in sight within at least a kilometer, so Winter reduced radio power and tried hailing. His "Combat Sense" and "Personal Firearms Proficiency" let him visually gauge the distance precisely.
“Cessna pilot overhead, can you hear me? I’m Lieutenant Han Gyeowol, attached to the 79th Regiment Combat Team at Fort Roberts from Blockade Command. We’ve confirmed no threats nearby. Please respond.”
Though pulled for a CIA op, Orca Black was unofficial, so his affiliation remained the same.
[Huh? Lieutenant Han Gyeowol? You mean the one I know? The youngest Medal of Honor recipient?]
Their power was down too; reception was poor but audible. The gravelly voice carried years of wear.
“That’s me.”
Winter’s mobile unit snickered softly. Private First Class Wesley’s hands shook. They were all intensely excited. This might finally get them ammo.
[Well! What a joyous day! Lieutenant, you know you were listed as missing in action (MIA) from your op?]
“First I’ve heard, but I figured.”
[Hahaha! Can’t believe it! God bless America!]
The pilot barked a raspy laugh for a good while. The plane kept circling.
“What’s your name?”
[Me? Luke Merrill! Call me Luke.]
“Got it, Luke. We assumed you were deployed for survivor rescues on Blockade Command orders. Right?”
[Spot on.]
“Then, do you have any ammo on board by chance?”
Luke laughed heartily again at the question.
[Amazing! No begging to be saved first—impressive! Heartbreaking hearing cries from impossible landing spots! Hahaha! Love it! Got three crates of 5.56mm and one of 7.62mm in the cargo hold. Shall I drop ’em?]
“Thank you. We were just about out.”
The mobile unit erupted in silent glee. Eyes reddened regardless of rank. A standard barbed-wire ammo box held two M2A1 magazines. That meant roughly 5,000 rounds of standard rifle ammo (5.56mm) and at least 400 of designated marksman rounds (7.62mm) in the Cessna’s hold. A bit more than Baker Company had when escaping Fort Baker.
Now down to under a thousand rounds.
‘Not enough considering headcount... but it’ll be fine. We’ve made contact; resupply’s possible anytime.’
Baker Company was still holed up at the temporary base in Olema, a small town. The trek to Yuba City kept getting delayed. With new rescues’ health in mind, they couldn’t just charge out without abandoning or losing people en route.
Rescues kept surging even there. Just the day before yesterday, a full platoon joined, maintaining their table of organization. With a million troops scattered across California’s Central Valley, it wasn’t odd.
Baker Company now had 170 combat troops. Hardly a company anymore. Without Winter, food would’ve been the worry again. Even with over 5,000 rounds today, it’d barely fill one mag per person. One fierce fight and they’d be in crisis.
[Hey, Lieutenant! Can you pick a spot nearby with good ground? Or clear a road. Soft earth or thick grass makes landing tough. Oh, and regs say no woods nearby! I could ignore it, but I wanna live long for my grandkids!]
Thick green could hide variants. Regular ones chased noise with starved lunges, but a ghoul mixed in changed everything.
“Understood. Mind waiting a bit?”
[Don’t rush and get hurt! Fuel’s still good.]
Luke’s Cessna 182 was classified a bush plane, capable of rough-field landings. It leveraged that for remote transport and rescues. Nothing a standard military craft could do—unless a transport helo.
Bomb-cratered roads weren’t suitable runways. Morales spotted a firm, gently sloped rise and waved. Winter checked the ground himself. Hoofbeats while riding sufficed, but cautiously, they inspected 500 meters on foot with the team. One jutting rock could spell disaster.
Winter keyed the mic.
“Cornelius, come on out.”
It wasn’t just the mobile unit out today. On hopeful intel they’d score ammo, Captain Langford had added a pickup truck and a five-man rifle team.
The truck emerged from cover and sped over. They’d hidden in a small copse in the field’s midst.
The mobile unit spaced out in a straight line, flags raised. The light plane glided as slowly as the ground truck. Near stall speed. But the flight was rock-steady. The plane touched down below the slope.
Thud—the gear hit softens the sound under engine noise, since no tarmac. The prop noise faded with speed.
Even slight slope helped shorten rollout. The ad-hoc platoon, mobile unit included, ringed the stopped plane with a perimeter. No variant herds in visual range, but a flying plane was too visible. The roar too. Prep for monster swarms noticing the landing.
“Oh! Glad to meet ya, Lieutenant! How to express this joy! Hahaha!”
Luke emerged from the cockpit door, far older than expected. He snapped a salute at Winter on sight. Winter returned it. The old man wore a Vietnam Service Medal and Air Force Cross. Second only to the Medal of Honor.
“A veteran.”
“Pararescueman back in the day. Flew helos in active duty.”
The old soldier, armed with a shotgun, puffed his chest proudly. “Jolly Green” on his cap was his unit’s nickname. Vietnam was America’s most dishonorable war, but paras could feel unblemished pride.
Two waiting soldiers swiftly hauled out ammo crates. Still glancing over curiously. Too many burning questions. Their eager eyes also betrayed fragility, a wish to escape—cargo hold or not—to safety.
“Luke. Short on time, but I’ve got questions.”
“Me too! Hang on. Let’s film. They won’t believe from up top! Rumors flying about you alive or dead.”
Whether from meeting Winter or his nature, the old soldier stayed cheerful.
Filming gear was a helmet cam, naturally. Mounting full recon suites on civilian planes was overkill, and no spare capacity. Winter managed an awkward smile.
“Cavalry, huh? Stirs nostalgia! But what’s with the unfamiliar combat gear?”
“Uh... circumstances. Classified for now, sorry.”
“Classified! Classified’s important!”
The old man agreed in his reedy voice.
Unloading finished in a flash. Beyond ammo crates, three of combat rations, three of medical supplies—but that was it. The pickup bed still looked empty loaded up.
“If I’d known we’d have this great meet, I’d have crammed more ammo! Regret! The young bucks don’t trust civilian pilots! Worry we’ll siphon ammo? Next time—me or whoever—I’ll bring a sat phone too!”
The old soldier’s words rang true. Supplying ten million troops must’ve caused civilian ammo shortages. In an already uneasy populace world.
Sat comms, pricey gear, withheld for the same reason. Hide ammo or terminals, claim delivery to ground forces—Blockade Command, already control-strapped, couldn’t verify.
‘Mess everywhere.’
Yet Winter judged the DoD had made the best call.
============================ Author's Note ============================
One more chapter coming up.