Up From the Depths (19 page)

Chapter 42

Brooks Mountain Range, Alaska

“How many more you think there are?” Hannaberry asked dropping out the spent drum magazine on his MK48 and snapping another in place. Willis leaned out and fired a short burst around the corner before answering.

“Don’t know. Not as many as when you last asked,” he replied leaning back out and dropping two more targets.

“Billy!” Willis yelled to his team chief across the hall as he dropped out the empty magazine and reloaded his rifle.

“Yo!” Rogers answered back.

“How many you figure?” Willis called out. Rogers who was crouched in an open doorway across the hall quickly looked out then ducked back as incoming rounds chewed off a section of the doorframe and wall throwing splinters into the air.

“A few! These appear to be pissed off for some reason!” Rogers yelled back.

“Then this will really piss them off,” Smith stated as he tossed a duct taped bundle down the hall then ducked back.

A large explosion shook the hallway, blowing out the overhead fluorescent lights and knocking ceiling panels loose. Webb worked his jaw and rubbed one of his ears.

“What the
fuck
, Smitty?” Hannaberry asked as the ringing in his ears finally subsided.

Smith sat on the floor with a pleased grin on his face. He leaned out and looked around the corner; the far end of the hall was a mess. Ceiling panels had been blown out exposing the mass of pipes, conduits and electrical tracks. Entire light fixtures were hanging down from their brackets and wall sections were dented in or completely missing. Small patches of carpeting smoldered. The hostile force that had pinned them down had been shredded, their weapons bent and broken, lying among the wreckage.

Willis leaned out and looked at the carnage then looked over at his demolition man shaking his head. Through the smoke and dust, he could see an exit sign miraculously still lit.

“Let’s move,” he said standing up and moving forward, weapon ready. “Billy! We’re moving! Scratch our back!”

Elsewhere in the facility, O’Toole stepped into the hall hugging the far right wall and sweeping left to right, following a few steps behind was Gillette, then Gorman and finally Sands in the drag position ready to shut the door if someone slipped around behind him. O’Toole paused at an open doorway when he heard someone yelling inside.

“Don’t tell me you can’t do it, just get it done!” an angry voice said from in the room.

O’Toole leaned out and looked inside. There were several people with their backs to the door, all heavily armed while one man, maybe the officer in charge was being browbeaten by an obvious civilian. O’Toole leaned back and motioned to his men giving them a rough head count of who was inside. They all nodded then O’Toole started counting down from three. At one, they entered the room weapons firing, engaging Conley’s mercenaries. The room erupted in chaos as those inside tried to react to those that had just dynamically entered.

“Eat this!” Sands yelled out as he fired bursts into the enemy that were in his sector. O’Toole had broken left upon entering and ended up in a corner against a large bookcase by the time he had emptied his SCAR into everyone who wasn’t part of his team. Gillette had taken cover behind an upholstered chair that had received enough panic fire that it was missing half of its back and hemorrhaging its material innards. Sands had the 249 resting on the back of a couch, barrel smoking as he surveyed the room through the haze hanging in the air. Gorman was to his right sweeping the room for any hostile left alive. None of Conley’s men had had the time to do much beyond erratic spray and pray panic fire.

“Clear!” O’Toole yelled out as he dropped out the empty magazine and reached for a fresh mag, slapping it into place. He let the FN MK17 SCAR hang from its sling as he pulled the rifle case off his shoulder. Laying it on the floor, he unzipped it and removed the weapon that was inside it. He slung the bandolier of shotgun shells over one shoulder then fed shells into the SPAS-12 shotgun. The bandolier was a mixture of one ounce slugs, four ounce slugs, double ought buckshot and #2 steel shot, what was referred to as ‘jungle mix’.

Sands dropped out the partially spent box mag from his SAW and reached for another one when a single shot rang out and hit him in the chest knocking him back.

“Contact front!” Razor yelled as he returned fire, stitching the heavy wood of the desk with 9mm parabellums.

Gorman moved to Sands who was on his back wheezing and trying to breathe. The team medic checked for an injury but couldn’t find an entry wound. Rolling Sands onto his side he visually and physically checked for an exit wound. Sands convulsed then vomited. Gorman kept him on his side until he was finished.

“Sands, Sands, where’re you hit at?” he asked after seeing the color of the bile. Sands nodded a few times then waved his hand to get Gorman to let go of him. The Special Forces sergeant rolled onto his knees, dry heaved twice, shook his head then looked up at Gorman with red rimmed, watery eyes.

“It hit my armor,” he gasped out.

“What the fuck?” Gorman asked indicating the puddle of vomit.

“I swallowed my chew,” Sands muttered hoarsely before picking up the 249, snapping the fresh box in place and yanking back the charging handle. He fired several bursts into the desk, shredding large portions and sending a shower of wooden shrapnel into the air. He stopped firing and nodded to O’Toole.

Gillette covered O’Toole as he moved forward. No more firing came from the large executive desk that Sands had put rounds into.

“You got no place to go! Drop your weapon and come out!” O’Toole yelled.

The person behind the desk peered around the corner then ducked back.

“Last chance, throw out your weapon and come out,” O’Toole commanded.

The man stuck his hand out and emptied his pistol. O’Toole dove to the floor, firing the shotgun at the desk until he had emptied the tube magazine. Large portions of the hand polished wood were blown off as the mix of ammunition tore into the desk. With the shotgun empty, he dropped it and drew his M9 and approached the desk. The man behind it had taken several ricochets from the pieces of wood blown off the side and top of the desk. These pieces had struck him in the face breaking his nose with one particular shard piercing both his cheeks and dislocating his jaw. There were embedded wood splinters along one of his arms. The man lay on the ground holding his face and moaning. A handgun with a stainless steel finish, slide locked back, lay a few feet from the injured man.

“Medic!” O’Toole called out stepping forward and sweeping the handgun aside with his boot while keeping his M9 trained on target. Gorman jogged up and bent to check the man.

“Clear!” Gillette yelled out letting the rest of his team know that there were no more hostiles alive in the room.

Sands coughed a little, took a sip from his camelback, sloshed it around in his mouth then spit it out before he changed position so he could cover the doorway and part of the hall. Gorman tended to Nathan Conley’s injuries not knowing that he was administering aid to the man who had planned to exterminate the human race.

Using his Leatherman, he slowly worked the wood shard out of the man’s cheek. He was about to administer a mild pain killer and suture the wound closed when O’Toole stopped him.

“Fuck him. He fired on us, let him feel the pain for a bit and think about his actions. Just stabilize him for now. We can drop him with the Rangers on the way out and they can deal with the mess,” O’Toole stated still covering the wounded man with his sidearm.

“Roger that,” Gorman replied as he moved to treat the wood splinters that were stuck in Conley’s arm like porcupine quills. When he was finished, he rolled Conley onto his stomach and zip tied his hands behind his back. Once that was done, O’Toole holstered his M9, retrieved the SPAS-12 and fed more shells into the tube magazine before slinging the semi-automatic combat shotgun over one shoulder. Gorman roughly pulled Conley to his feet then pushed him into a chair. Once the man was seated, Gorman began using butterfly closures as a quick fix to close the holes in Conley’s cheeks while Gillette placed the still warm end of the suppressor of his MP5SD3 against the back of Conley’s neck to keep him still. O’Toole pulled out an OD green drawstring bag and began opening the remaining drawers in the desk and stuffing whatever paperwork, files, and data disks he found into the bag.

Crouching down to look under the desk he saw a laptop that had fallen or been knocked off during the firefight, grabbing it, he placed it on the desk and touched a key. The logo for Conley’s corporation popped up. He moved his finger around the mouse pad and scrolled down until he saw Conley’s picture.

“Son of a bitch,” O’Toole muttered once he realized who the man was they had just captured.

“Hey, you guys know who this is?” he asked.

“This is Nathan fucking Conley, the guy who makes computers and software and shit. This dude is one of the richest men in the world,” he said pointing to the bound and silent man. The rest of the team looked over at the battered and bloodied man who was slumped in the chair. Conley returned their gaze but didn’t say anything.

“No shit?” Sands asked.

The rest of ODA-141 didn’t know how to respond. If this was the man who had started all this, then this just became a larger and more complicated operation. Conley and his numerous corporations had more financial resources than most nation states. Their aviation division alone was rated as the seventh largest air force in the world.

“Call it in,” O’Toole directed as he stuffed the laptop into the bag.

Gillette reached down to the AN/PRC-152 and switched channels to talk to Shark Platoon.

“Saber-6, Outlaw-4, how copy?” Gillette paused, waiting for a reply.

“Saber-6 we are green,” Gillette reported then held his headset away from his ear. The rest of the team could hear heavy weapons fire coming from the ear piece.

“Outlaw-, …Ber-6,...” a burst of firing blocked out the conversation. “..heavy resistance..engaging…meet you…extraction…ETA…five mikes”

“Sounds like the squids have their hands full,” O’Toole commented. The entire complex shook, lights flickered and items on the book shelves tumbled over.

“Not too sure about that, Cap’n,” Sands stated warily looking up at the ceiling. “I’d say those hostiles got a lot of trouble on their hands with those froggies.”

“Police up anything that looks important. Bag and tag that asshole,” O’Toole ordered, pointing at Conley. “We’re moving in five.”

The Special Forces soldiers checked all the bodies in the room, removing weapons and tossing them aside. Then they opened doors, closets, inspected the bookcases and books, grabbing whatever looked related to the operation.

“Time,” O’Toole called. “Sands, you have point, Razor drag,” he directed. “We’ll head down to the Rangers then see if the squids need any help mopping up.”

***

Chapter 43

New York City

Warrant Officer Doyle paused and looked back when she heard weapons fire echo among the buildings.

“We got to keep moving,” Sergeant Winchester said. He had been moving up and down the line of civilians to make sure they kept moving. DeMillio’s Marines augmented by the recon unit had kept everyone headed in the right direction and now they could see the docks.

“Ma’am, we’re almost there,” Winchester said, watching Doyle. He knew that she had history with the senior NCO of Sierra-3 and it had to be difficult to leave someone you were close to behind. Hell, they had all left someone they were close to behind when this outbreak started. Doyle took one last look back in the direction they had come, nodded, and continued. Up ahead, she could see helicopters in the sky and several vessels close to shore. The ferry docks were surrounded by Marines and vehicles from the carrier fleet. She frowned a little at that puzzled that there would be vehicles unloaded. The Marines at the docks began organizing the civilians into groups with some being loaded into helicopters and others onto large hovercraft that she recognized as LCACs.

The thunder of helicopters landing and taking off and the high pitched whine of turbines as the LCAC’s spooled up drowned out the sounds of the battle that was taking place just a few short blocks away. Doyle found the officer in charge easily by the forest of antennas as he was surrounded by RTOs.

“Captain?” she said, recognizing his rank. The man turned to look at her, held up a finger in a wait a minute gesture.

“Yes sir, we’re loading them as fast as we can. We’ll be out of here in twenty. Copy that.” He held one hand over the handset and nodded to Doyle. “What can I do for you?”

“I have men in contact just a couple of blocks from here. Who can you spare?” Doyle asked. The Marine captain frowned then looked around the seemingly chaotic operation.

“See that LAV over there?” he asked, pointing in that direction. “Go see Gunny Frazier. He might be able to help,” he said dismissively as he went back to his orchestration of the evacuation. Doyle looked at where he pointed, there were a few Marines standing around a vehicle that she recognized as having the same chassis as what the Army now called the Stryker. Sergeant Winchester, who had watched the conversation between Doyle and the Marine officer, followed her over to the LAV.

“Which one of you is Gunny Frazier?” Doyle asked. Several of the Marines looked up at the question before one of them hooked a thumb to the interior of the light armored vehicle. Doyle stepped up on the ramp and looked inside. An older man, in his t-shirt, was working on the feed mechanism for the 25mm overhead cannon.

“Gunny?” she asked. The man stopped what he was doing and looked up.

“Help you?” he asked.

“The captain said you might be able to.”

“He did, did he?” Gunnery Sergeant Thomas Frazier tightened down the last bolt then put the wrench in the open toolbox on the deck of the LAV. He picked up a rag and wiped his hands all the while studying Doyle. He indicated that they should step outside.

“What kind of help do you need? We’re already involved in evacuating the civilians,” Frazier said.

“I have a unit in contact with the Zulus,” Doyle said. “They’re only a few blocks away.”

“Well shit,” Frazier said tossing the rag into the interior of the vehicle and reaching over for his uniform blouse. Doyle watched Frazier button his uniform then throw on his tactical vest.

“Profile! AWOL! Load up! We’re moving out!” Frazier yelled as he checked his rifle. “Gilligan! Crank her up!” he said as he walked up the ramp. He stopped at the top and looked back.

“You coming?” he said to Doyle and Winchester. Doyle quickly entered the LAV followed by Winchester as Frazier worked the controls to close the rear ramp. He moved to a seat next to the gunner’s position as the vehicle rumbled to life and put on the Combat Vehicle Crewman helmet that hung by its chin strap from the overhead.

“Blazer, Blazer, Butcher-7. We’re moving to recover personnel,” Frazier said into the radio. Doyle couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation as the vehicle lurched forward and picked up speed.

“Copy that. Don’t wait for us. Butcher-7, out.” Frazier stood up on the seat and opened the hatch above his head. Doyle grabbed one of the overhead straps and hung on as the LAV sped up and went through a series of turns.

****

Ski dropped out the empty magazine and reloaded.

“Pull back!” he yelled as he grabbed his pack, slung it over one shoulder and started walking backwards, firing into the infected as he did. He saw Pruitt out of the corner of his eye stand, fire into the crowd, then turn and jog back towards Arkady who was methodically laying down suppressive fire with the HK21. A roar pierced the morning haze as several aircraft streaked overhead towards downtown.

Shit!
Shit!
Ski thought.
They’re early.

To support that thought, a series of booms rattled the still intact windows of the buildings around him. A heavy throbbing in the air made him look up to see a C-130 cargo plane fly overhead, its rear ramp partially down.

“Move! Move! Move!” he yelled as he turned and started running towards the rendezvous. He passed Arkady who fired one long burst and then grabbed the machine gun and joined him. DeMillio was shouting orders when there was a blinding flash followed by an ear shattering roar. The first wave of GBU-43/B Massive Ordnance Air Blast fuel-air explosives dropped. The shockwave was channeled through the narrow streets and struck the group with enough force to blow the running military and civilian personnel down and roll them along the pavement like leaves caught in the wind.

***

Doyle heard the boom inside the LAV and then felt the heavy vehicle shudder. The driver stopped and Frazier dropped down inside followed by an immense cloud of dust. It was so thick that it coated every single surface.

“Hit the blowers!” Frazier called out as one of the Marines slapped the controls for the ventilation system. Within seconds the dust was sucked outside.

“MOAB,” Frazier said, pulling the lower part of the balaclava he wore under his CVC down and answering the question before anyone could ask. He then readjusted the balaclava and stood back up in the hatch as the vehicle started moving again.

***

Luzetski picked himself up and looked around. The abandoned cars that had been on the street were now tossed haphazardly like a child’s playthings. A massive mushroom cloud hung over the central part of Manhattan Island. He knew that enough high explosives could create such a plume. The nukes would come later. He glanced over to where Pruitt had been but couldn’t see him. Struggling to his feet, he grabbed a Marine and helped him to his feet as well. Looking around, he saw wounded laying on the street or sprawled over the top of the debris, all coated with a fine layer of whitish-gray dust. Jiminez staggered over and grabbed Ski.

“You see that shit?” the Puerto Rican corporal asked before he staggered off into the dust cloud. Ski watched him go, numb from the shockwave and ringing in his ears. He started to follow Sierra-3’s commo man when he tripped over something and fell to his knees. Looking down, he saw Pruitt leaning against an overturned car, holding onto a spear of metal that protruded from his stomach.

“Hey, Ski,” Pruitt said calmly. “Can you believe this shit?”

“What the fuck?” Ski said. “Man down! Medic!”

“Don’t worry about me, it’s just a scratch,” Pruitt said as he tried to stand before collapsing back against the car.

“Medic!” Ski shouted again as he pulled out his IFAK, grabbed the 4" Israeli bandage and QuickClot gauze. Pruitt’s head sagged to his chest as he lost consciousness.

“You stay with me you hear?” Ski said as he struggled to stem the flow of blood from the wound.

Sierra-3’s marksman held onto the large piece of metal even while unconscious. Luzetski himself had felt the sting as a small piece of shrapnel had burrowed into the back of his right hand. He wasn’t aware that he had pulled it out sometime in the last few minutes. It left a bloody gash but he was still able to make a fist and use his weapon. Around him, he heard DeMillio’s Marines call out for a corpsman.

“You’re going home. Stay with me,” Ski said as he applied another wrap over the wound. Blood was already seeping into Pruitt’s pants and pooling on the asphalt beneath him, stark red against the white layer of dust and ash that coated everything.

“Medic!” Ski called out again.

Graham appeared, jogging out of the dissipating cloud and sliding to a stop like a baseball player stealing home. He shrugged off his pack as he began visually assessing the injury.

“How’s it look?” Pruitt asked weakly as he regained consciousness. One hand was patting the ground around him. “Where’s my rifle?” he asked. Ski looked around and spotted Pruitt’s weapon laying a few meters away.

“Easy man. It’s ok. Ski’s got your weapon,” Graham said as he pulled on his last pair of surgical gloves and tore open the Mylar pouch that contained a HemCon ChitoFlex stuffable wound dressing.

“Where’s my rifle?” Pruitt asked more forcibly then he looked down at his injury.

“Oh fuck," he gasped out. "Doc, will I dance again?” he asked, trying to inject a little humor. Graham noted the change in Pruitt's speech patterns and the way he was gasping out words. Those symptoms meant that there was also a diaphragmatic rupture.

“I won’t be playing the piano anymore,” Pruitt muttered before his head sagged to his chest. Graham used the back of his hand and wiped the dust mixed with sweat from his face as he worked on the wound. The wound was ragged and he could see that the shard had penetrated through the muscle layers of the lower abdomen and quite probably into a few of the internal organs. He wasn’t sure what was damaged because of all the blood.

“Ski! I need another set of hands here,” Graham called out. Ski moved closer to where the team medic worked.

“I need you to grab that large package in my med bag. It says abdominal on it," Graham said. "You see it?"

"I got it," Ski said.

"OK. Put it beside my leg and then come over here and support him while I roll him over to get a look at the exit wound."

Ski nodded, tossed the package next to Graham's leg then crouched down and steadied Pruitt as Graham slowly rolled him over. Pruitt, though semi conscious, screamed as the waves of pain hit him.

"Oh God!" Pruitt gasped. "Make it stop!" Tears flowed from the marksman's eyes.

The blood that had pooled under him made a wet sucking sound as it released its grip on Pruitt’s pants. The shard exited just above Pruitt’s left buttock.

"Hold him," Graham said as he began packing the HemCon into the wound. When he was finished, he tore open the package that contained the Israeli abdominal emergency bandage and began wrapping Pruitt. He leaned Pruitt towards him as he worked; listening to the injured man's labored breathing. He had just leaned Pruitt back against the car and secured the ends of the bandage when a Navy corpsman in Marine MARPAT jogged over and dropped his pack.

“I’m a corpsman. Where do you need me?” he asked as he pulled a pair of blue nitrile surgical gloves from a pocket on his vest and donned them.

Graham looked up and nodded at the new arrival.

“I need you to start an IV.”

“On it.”

Luzetski watched the two medics work then brought his rifle up to scan the area.

Graham looked over at the corpsman as the other medic prepared to do an intraosseous infusion, or IO. The corpsman cut Pruitt's pants at the knee exposing the leg then readied the NIO, or New Intra Osseous device.

"Pruitt, look at me," Graham said. "You're going to feel a little pinch. That's the start of an IV." He watched Pruitt's eyes focus on him and his head nod. Graham looked back at the corpsman and nodded. Pruitt moaned as the device punctured his leg and went into the bone. The corpsman adjusted the IV flow and then looked at Graham. Both of them shared a knowing look. Without an immediate medical evacuation to a trauma center, the outcome was not positive.

Sporadic small arms firing kicked in as some of the Marines began to engage the infected that had somehow made it through the MOAB detonation.

The rumble of a vehicle could be heard over the firing but was blotted out as the thundering of a large caliber weapon fired. Ski looked back and saw what he first thought was a Stryker until the small turret became visible through the smoke and flying dust. The 25mm cannon mounted in that turret spit fire as it slowly tracked back and forth. A Marine, standing in the commander’s hatch, fired the M240 in an arc of destruction, dropping infected. The Zulu’s who had advanced closer than Ski was comfortable with, were chopped up in a hail of deadly fire from the two weapons.
At least the Marines had the right idea
, Ski thought.
They put a big ass heavy weapon in a turret on top of their LAV instead of a remotely operated Ma Deuce like the Army Stryker.

The rear ramp dropped open and spilled out Doyle, Winchester and two Marines who added their rifle fire to the vehicle’s, pushing the infected back.