Transmission: Voodoo Plague Book 5 by Dirk Patton

but he ignored it and stayed
perfectly still.  His cheek was resting against the stock of his M40A5 sniper
rifle, right eye peering through the high power scope.  He was dressed in a
ghillie suit with multiple branches of sagebrush stuck through the weave to
further break up the outline of his body.  All but invisible, he lay on a sandy
ridgeline half a mile away from Kirtland Air Force Base in New Mexico.
    Tate had been in position for close to 24 hours, taking the
occasional catnap, but had been awake far more than he’d slept.  Next to him,
equally well concealed, was Sergeant Michael Blaine.  Michael T was white and
Michael B was black, but they had become as inseparable as twin brothers the
day they met at the Marine’s Scout Sniper Basic Course in Camp Pendleton,
California.
    Michael T had impressed the instructors from day one, many
of them privately commenting that he would be the next Carlos Hathcock,
arguably the best and most well known American sniper in history.  Certainly a
legend within the Corps, and any comparison to him was high praise.  So when
Michael T had spoken up after Michael B washed out of the shooting part of
training, he was given what he asked for.  Michael B became his spotter, joined
to his hip for as long as the two were in the Corps.
    The pair had been at Marine Corps Air Station Yuma, on the
Arizona/California border when the attacks occurred.  They had stayed there for
the past month, helping defend against the infected that started stumbling out
of Southern California.  Until the Russians invaded.
    Admiral Packard had been a busy man the past couple of days.
 There were still several intact military bases within the continental United States,
and many more special operations units still able to fight.  As soon as it was
known which American bases the Russians chose to occupy, he had ordered Marine
Scout Sniper teams into each area.  Not to start picking off Russian officers,
but to observe and report on what the invaders were doing.
    Hedging his bet, he had also ordered a small team of Force
Recon Marines into each location.  These teams were equipped with a specialized
Humvee, called an Avenger that had pods of SAMs –Surface to Air Missiles – mounted
on the back.  The teams were under orders to ignore any Russian helicopter or
attack aircraft, but to engage any transport aircraft that was believed to be taking
American technology to Russia.
    Michael T had been watching the previous night as an
American MRAP had pulled up to the same hangar.  What looked like a civilian
female, two Russian Spetsnaz, a female US Air Force officer and a big guy that
had to be SF had climbed out.  They’d wheeled a Sci-Fi looking helicopter out
of the hangar, and while the Air Force officer had fueled it, three packages, a
full body bag and an injured man had been loaded into the aircraft. 
    When they were ready to go, the civilian woman had kissed
the SF guy on each cheek, and then he and the Air Force officer had climbed
aboard.  Moments later the helo had flown directly over his head at no more
than 50 feet, and he’d been amazed at how quiet it was.  That was when he
realized it was a Stealth Hawk.
    “Badger 25, how copy?”  Michael T mumbled into his radio.
    “Copy 5 by 5.”  The reply was almost instant.  Badger 25 was
the small Force Recon team set up in a valley a few miles north and east of
Michael T’s location.  In line with the main runway at Kirtland.
    “Red force guppy in 5.  Be advised, he will have twelve, one
– two, guard dogs.”  A large Russian cargo plane would be taking off in five
minutes, and there would be 12 fighter escorts.
    “Copy.  Guppy in 5.  One – two dogs.  Badger 25 ready.”
    Michael T had watched as crate after crate had been loaded
on a giant Antonov AN-124 cargo plane, followed by another of the Sci-Fi
looking helicopters he now was sure were Stealth Hawks.  He had also kept an
eye on the attractive blonde woman, barefoot