Arisen, Book Nine - Cataclysm (26 page)

“Received, out,” Handon said. He looked at Henno. “You want to come help me try to shake the truth out of that son of a bitch Zorn?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

The two jogged heavily back toward the rear – making for that southwest guard tower, and both with murder in their eyes.

Lie to Me Again

Camp Lemonnier - Southwest Guard Tower

“CSM Handon!” Noise said cheerily. “Staff Sergeant Henno! How go the zombie wars?” But the volume of his voice dropped off to nothing by the last word, as he saw Handon and Henno charge past him and seize Zorn. Handon picked him up and shoved him against the back wall of the tower. Zorn, a powerful man in his own right, bounced off the wall – and then stiff-armed Handon right back. It looked like a stand-off for a second—

Until Henno walloped him on the side of his jaw with a vicious right hook that caught him blind. Zorn went down – and when he looked up, Henno had his SIG P220 Combat stuck right in his face.

“Talk,” he said.

Zorn ignored the pistol, picked himself up, and wiped the blood from the corner of his lip. “Go fuck yourself, Tommy Trooper. I don’t know what your knickers are in a twist about.”

Handon squared up to him again. “About the former garrison of this base. You said they just wandered off. But our guys just found all of their unit patches, rank insignia, and ribbons. Did they happen to pull those off for you before they left?”

Zorn wiped his face again, and sat down on the bench seat on the inside of the tower railing. “Oh. You found those.”

“Yeah. We found those. Now you want to stop fucking with me? Because I don’t have the time, and I can’t accept the risk.”

“Okay.” Zorn nodded. “Yeah. I lied.”

“What happened to the base garrison, Zorn?”

The man looked up sullenly. “I killed them – all right? I destroyed them.”

Handon pulled up. “What, all of them?”

“Yeah. All of them. One or two at a time.”

“And what the hell did you do with the bodies?”

“They’re buried. Mass grave, out back.”

“Can you be a little more specific?”

“In a field on the grounds of the airport.”

Henno got sick of pointing his gun at the man’s head and put it away. He looked at Handon.
Now what?

Handon acknowledged his look, but then turned back to Zorn. “Why?”

Zorn shrugged. “They were my soldiers. Every one of ’em. They deserved a decent burial. Not to mention a real death.”

Handon exhaled. He couldn’t argue with that. “Why’d you lie about it?”

“It’s not a very nice thing to have to do. Is it?”

Handon looked back to Henno. He could see the Brit still didn’t trust Zorn. He had never trusted him in the first place. And Handon was coming around to his way of thinking. But, then again, his people were already committed – out there in the overrun section of the base, clearing it, and already more than half done. Still, he thought about pulling them out.

Zorn read the look on his face. “A deal’s still a deal. You pull out now, you say goodbye to transport, and you say goodbye to me helping you.”

Handon stepped up and got in his face. “Lie to me again and I’ll kill you.” He turned to Noise. “Do not take your eye off this man.”

“Wilco,” Noise said, looking sobered.

Not looking at Zorn again, Handon turned and headed out, Henno following him down.

* * *

By the time they got back to the front, which had continued pushing out in their absence, the second of the three fenced-off sections had been cleared, and it was time to push out into the third. All five two-man teams spontaneously met up at the chain-link gate that led to the last area.

Handon touched his radio. “Noise, Handon.”

“Go ahead.”

“Have Zorn open the barrier to the last section.”

“Wilco.”

With only a second’s delay, the little motor near the ground spun to life, and wound up the chain that pulled the section of fence back. All ten operators moved through the gap. Handon didn’t bother telling Noise to close it. He knew they were visible from the tower, he’d see them move inside, and he’d take care of it. The teams automatically fanned out to their five sectors.

And the last section of camp to clear.

* * *

Homer had received Ali’s message with zero distortion.

So as soon as they were out of sight of the others, he peeled off to go entertain himself. He figured he could do worse than push out to the outer wire. He could be a long-range recon element for the ground the others had to cover – and he’d get an advance look at what was waiting for them outside.

And, as usual, he didn’t mind being alone.

He paused at the corner of a building to tune into the environment – and also to get into the shade and wipe the sweat from his brow. They day was already getting seriously warm, but that was equatorial Africa for you. Even with a few weeks to go until the start of summer in the southern hemisphere, the temperature might hit 90. And with all of the team’s gear and combat load – and depending on how much humping, patrolling, and fighting they had to do – that could mean heat casualties.

This was one reason no one went into combat without checking the forecast.

For his part, Homer liked the heat. It took him back to Coronado, near San Diego, with its brilliant sunshine baking him into a leathery but surprisingly comfortable lizard basking on the rocks.

But he worried about the others, including their fitness levels. Being able to run on the flight deck on the carrier helped – though, generally, on a carrier with an active air wing, running on the flight deck was a no-go most of the time. Then again, they’d had their own causes to be kept off it: mutiny, outbreak, running aground, exploding Russian anti-ship missiles…

Even before the period on the
Kennedy
, the operators hadn’t gotten as much gym time or road work as they would have liked. Once again, with the world dying around them, it was rational to discount the future. They had to perform
now
– not three months from now, when it all might be over.

But there was no point in lamenting that now.

Homer reminded himself:
Three-foot world
. It was a notion he’d picked up very early in his SEAL career – just out of BUDS, still in SQT (SEAL Qualification Training), and still very much an FNG. He’d been lead-climbing on a mountain-warfare training exercise, gotten in trouble, and started freaking out. The instructor, seeing perfectly well that Homer’s mind was in all the wrong places, free-climbed up to him like Spider-Man without the suit, and told him to get the hell back in his three-foot world. Only by engaging with the rock in front of his face was he going to get out of the jam he’d gotten into.

It was a lesson with surprisingly wide applicability.

Now, if Homer stayed in his three-foot world, maybe he could try to tip the scales in the team’s favor.

He moved out, ranging ahead.

* * *

Reyes and Brady moved in a line of two, both with bayonets mounted.

Reyes was in front, due to the gimpy leg, so he could set the pace, but smoothly panning his big tan SOF Combat Assault Rifle. Brady was in back, struggling to keep his newly acquired M4 to his shoulder, due to the ache in his right upper arm from that bullet wound. With every minute he held the rifle the pain increased, until it felt like he was being impaled with something.

Finally he mentally said
Fuck it
, and signaled Reyes to hold up. The M4 didn’t have a suppressor anyway, so he wasn’t anxious to use the thing. He detached the bayonet, then reconfigured the sling so the rifle would ride on his back. Then the pair moved out again, Brady wielding his knife once more.

These two hadn’t encountered a single Zulu in their sweeps of the first two enclosures.
Luck of the draw
, Brady figured. Maybe they’d be the ones to find an American Zulu – one in uniform, and who would actually progress their mission. That would be nice. And with the pain in his arm finally subsiding, he was able to focus and stay frosty.

Also due to the luck of the draw, the two of them were now approaching Thunderdome, the flaring white pavilion – which they could now see was bricked up on all sides with HESCO barriers. Everything was still and quiet as the grave.

As they came into its shadow, Brady halted and eyed up the structure – by far the biggest on base, with the possible exception of one or two of the aircraft hangars. He traded a look with Reyes, then moved his hand toward his mic key. But the radio spoke before he could get to it. And it was the very man he had been about to call.

“Brady, from Handon.”

“This is Brady, send it.”

“Yeah, can you join me on the spare channel?”

“Switching to Spare One now… Go ahead.”

“Yeah – remember how I told you not to go into Thunderdome because Zorn said it was empty?”

“Affirmative.”

“Yeah, well, go take a look inside Thunderdome for me. I want to know what the hell’s in there. Priority execute.”

“Yeah, no worries, Sarge, we’re there now. Stand by.”

The two Marines started circling Thunderdome, looking for a way in.

Time To Go

Kent - Three Miles South of the ZPW

Colonel Briars, officer commanding of Second Battalion, the Parachute Regiment (2 Para) watched over the rapid breakdown and pack-up of another field command post. He wasn’t sure why they bothered – and he didn’t imagine they’d even be able to pretend much longer. This had stopped being a measured withdrawal.

It was turning into a rout.

They were abandoning another set of positions, and they were doing it fast. The urgent question now was where exactly they would go from here, and how the hell they were expected to get there. Which was why Briars was standing with a radio headset to his ear, while the soldiers of his Battalion Headquarters (BHQ) section packed up everything except the radio connected to their commander’s head.

He had been on hold long enough with CentCom HQ that there could be little question he’d been forgotten about entirely. And, despite the approaching sounds of battle – firing, grenades, and the ever-present moaning (and occasional shrieking) of the dead – he couldn’t bring himself to give up.

At last contact, he’d been told that the air transport he’d been promised, a flight of Chinooks to airlift his battle-weary troopers out of there, simply wasn’t coming. He’d also been told to retreat to the nearest gate of the ZPW and get back behind it, which was just fine by him. It contradicted earlier orders, but that was par for the course even in the absence of all the madness going on now.

The trouble was, he’d also received a FRAGO (fragmentary order) that there was an artillery barrage inbound – both to help his unit break contact, and to reduce the front ranks of the dead by turning them to meat pudding. And he was supposed to stand by for confirmation of final details. But there hadn’t been any. Now they were about to continue their decreasingly measured retreat – but while also waiting for the sky to open above them with high-explosive hail.

Artillery barrages were great. But the thing about them was that everyone had to be on the same page. The FRAGO had indicated the grid squares for the bombardment, starting with the one they were currently in – and then, after destroying a shedload of the enemy, it would walk to the west to draw the surviving dead off, while the Paras went east. If that was all still true, fine and good. But they hadn’t gotten final confirmation, and now Briars couldn’t get through at all.

And they were out of time.

By his watch, the barrage would start in twelve minutes. He didn’t even know for sure that it was still happening at this point. But he damn well had to assume it was. And the great mass of advancing dead were on them again anyway.

They had no choice – it was time to go.

* * *

Staff Sergeant Bhardwaj, Private Elliott Walker’s new platoon sergeant, stood up and went to the very front of the line – moving to the point of maximum danger. “Concentrate fire!” he shouted, leaning into his weapon and triggering off. “On me!”

Elliott could hear firing behind him as well, over his head, as the section that was in reserve also laid into the volley, while swinging around the flank to support. They were all shooting like mad, but in a very coordinated way, at a pack of six runners racing at their line at an angle – and also moving in a fashion that just looked way too coordinated.

Elliott had never seen them move together like that.

And the sight of it caused something deep down in him to go cold, and become even more afraid than he’d been. If the dead were organizing against them, what chance did they have now?

But in only a few seconds every runner in the pack had been cut down, collapsing or sliding into the grass, the last of them actually tumbling into the frontmost trench on the line, two squaddies scrambling to either side to get out of the way.

Before Elliott could catch his breath, Sergeant Bhardwaj was kneeling beside him with a hand on his shoulder. “All right, Walker?”

Once again, Elliott could only nod. He was hyperventilating. Finally, he managed, “Is that normal? Them attacking all together like that?”

“Yeah, it’s what we’ve been seeing. There’s the great mass of stumblers coming behind, moving forward slow but non-stop. And then there are packs of runners roaming the front, making hit-and-run raids, bashing through sometimes, usually getting cut down. As long as we see them coming we’re okay – and as long as we stay together. That’s the main thing.”

Elliott nodded his understanding. And he liked the sound of that.

“You need anything, Private?”

There
was
something. Elliott racked his brain. “Radio batteries?”

“Here you go, mate, no worries,” and the sergeant pulled a pair from a pouch on his vest and slapped them in Elliott’s hand. Finally, Bhardwaj clapped him on the shoulder and stood to leave – as he was already answering a hail on his radio, on some net Elliott couldn’t hear: “BHQ, this is Charlie-Two, go ahead…”