She looked at him, her gun unconsciously drifting away from Master Sergeant Schardt. The look of confident arrogance was gone. Now, she looked worried and uncertain. Cobb thought it was his chance. “Put it down, Groves. Walk away. I’ll move you in with the civilians. You can even keep all the shit you stole. Nobody cares.”
“There’s eight of us,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. She looked back and forth, licking her lips. “We’re not going anywhere. We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I also didn’t miss the part where you said you shot your officer,” Schardt said loudly, his voice ringing out in the night. Groves saw he’d raised his rifle a little bit. Enough to gain a half second, maybe. “Make your decision, Private.”
Cobb stayed perfectly still. He had a good view of Groves’ face and half her crew from where he stood. For a couple seconds, he thought the situation would deescalate. He didn’t think Groves had the guts or stupidity to make a bad situation worse. He had thought she wouldn’t turn traitor and try to throw him off the side of Shangri-La. He was wrong about the standoff too.
Something in her eyes changed. Then the set of her shoulders and her overall body posture changed too. She’d made her decision. “Oh, shit,” Cobb said just as she corrected her aim and shot Master Sergeant Schardt.
Everything exploded at once. A pair of Groves’ more alert cohorts blazed away without bothering to raise their rifles, firing from the hip. Cobb had a perfect view of Tango and Zim. Both men responded coolly and quickly, sliding sideways and dropping to one knee. The result was that they were immediately behind the cover provided by the massive, metal, shipping containers they’d come out from behind.
The sound of the rifles wielded by Groves’ people tore at Cobb’s ears like icepicks. He’d removed his next generation hearing protection with the rest of his gear. He could see bullets from the two mutineers who’d opened fire immediately after Groves stitch up the side of the containers, trying to track Tango and Zim. They clearly had the older issue M-16s from the national guard, because the guns were on full automatic. The recoil of their guns on auto drove them up as they tracked sideways, missing the dodging men by a large margin.
Zim and Tango weren’t guardsman. They were experienced operators, knew their weapons, and weren’t afraid of being shot at. Both had their newer M-4 carbines on selective fire. They released 3-round bursts at their targets. Two of the mutineers were hit by the controlled bursts. They were close enough to Cobb for him to see and feel the bullets tear through the men’s torsos.
One of the men screamed and dropped his weapon, clutching at the fountain of blood pouring from his neck. The other dropped like a sack of wet cement. A bullet had bisected his heart, killing him instantly. The reactions of the remaining six men were surprisingly varied and reflected the feelings of a group who’d chosen Groves because she could provide things to steal.
One dropped his gun and ran. Two ignored the weapons over their shoulders and put their hands to their ears against the fierce assault on their hearing. The remaining three raised their weapons and unleashed undisciplined fire toward Zim and Tango. They weren’t firing crazily on full auto, they were jerking the trigger on semi-auto. At least, two of them were. The third jerked the trigger on his weapon while it was still on safe, with predictable results.
Cobb took a knee. He hoped the move would remove him as a valid target, and he was correct. They were much more interested in the far more deadly armed soldiers doing their level best to kill them. Zim and Tango were completely behind cover, confident the 5.56mm rounds couldn’t penetrate the relatively heavy steel containers.
The bullets punched into the steel, and some even penetrated the facing wall, but because Zim and Tango were around a corner, the bullets had to punch through yet another piece of thick steel to get to them. Cobb could hear the rounds bouncing around inside. Hope there’s nothing explosive in there!
The cause of the entire situation had spent the first few seconds screaming ineffectually at her men. Zim and Tango were timing their attacks, waiting for the remaining attackers to go bingo on ammo, at which point they became easy targets. Once they ran out, Zim and Tango both leaned out. Sadly, it was just as the dufus who’d been pulling the trigger on a safed gun finally figured out his dilemma, released the safety, and opened fire.
Zim, being older and more cautious, reversed immediately and retreated behind cover. Tango, being younger and a Marine, didn’t seek cover. Instead, he placed three perfect shots in one of the two men who were reloading. Two bullets hit the man in the chest and one in the head, dropping him immediately. Only then did Tango return to cover, but not before a round from the dufus caught him in the chest.
“Oof,” Cobb heard him utter as he fell back.
“Tango!”
Schardt was down, but not out. He raised himself up on an elbow and propped his M-4 on one leg. Cobb could see his lower extremities covered in bright blood as he sighted with a one-handed grip and put a three-round burst into the dufus. The survivors had completely forgotten Cobb, who waited for an opening, then kicked the right knee of the dufus who, despite being shot three times, was still up. The knee gave a satisfying crunch, and the dufus folded like a bad hand of Texas Hold ‘em. He hit the ground and gagged on his own blood.
Something hit Cobb in the side of the head, and his vision exploded into stars. The impact knocked him over, and when his vision cleared, he saw Groves standing over him, her pistol pointed at his face. There was blood on her hand and the magazine well of the gun, answering the question of what had hit him on the head; she’d pistol whipped him. Rude.
“Enough!” she yelled. “One more shot, and your precious colonel dies.” She continued to say his rank with as much contempt as she could manage.
Cobb took advantage of the pause in hostilities to take account of the situation. His head was bleeding, but not badly. It didn’t feel like she’d fractured his skull, though a mild concussion did seem possible. He was having a little trouble focusing, and his senses were blurry. He’d been on the business end of an IED once, which had helped him decide to retire later. He was far luckier than the three men in the lead Humvee, all of which hadn’t survived.
Master Sergeant Schardt was sitting in the same place. Cobb could see that he’d been hit in the left shoulder and abdomen. Both bullets had missed his armor. He didn’t look good. Regardless, he continued to hold his rifle and look pissed. All Cobb could see of Tango was a foot sticking out from behind the wall. It was moving slightly, giving him hope the young Marine corporal was still alive. There was no sign of Zim. Cobb suspected he was just out of view, waiting for his chance.
Of Groves’ original allies, only one remained standing. He’d finished reloading his weapon and was looking from his leader to the bodies of his former friends. The dufus was still alive, but he was gurgling and spitting blood. Cobb was no longer concerned about him.
“We’re getting out of here, and I’m taking this asshole with me,” she said. “Zim, I know you’re out there!” she yelled to be heard. “Wake up a chopper pilot. I want as much food and ammo as I can haul on board.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Schardt said. The effort made him grimace slightly. “You don’t think the rest of the men heard this? They’ll be here any second.”
Her face darkened as the gears in her mind turned. A well-timed, distant yell came from the direction of the barracks trailers. “See?” Schardt said.
“You’re right. Change of plans.” She looked at her last man. “Kill him,” she said. The mutineer’s rifle moved, and Cobb knew he was out of options.
When Groves clubbed him, he’d fallen on his hidden knife. While the standoff proceeded, he’d slowly slid a hand under himself and gotten a grip on it. When she ordered her man to kill Schardt, he pulled it out and attacked.
Manufactured by Ka-Bar, it was made from high-quality stainless steel. The Ek Commando presentation knife had been a present from his men upon his retirement. He hadn�
�t been able to leave it behind when he’d left his house to search for Kathy Clifford. Its handle was polished walnut, and it wasn’t practical for field work. He’d wrapped the handle with paracord during his exodus across Texas. He rammed the double edged, slightly diamond-patterned, razor-sharp, 6 ½ inch blade into her calf.
Groves let out a blood curdling scream and tried to jump away. Cobb held the knife in the wound, which tore her leg open halfway to her ankle. Her scream became shrill and inhuman.
Her last man hadn’t fired. He was distracted by his leader’s scream, and he turned to see Cobb holding the blade as blood poured out of the wound and over his hand. The man turned his rifle toward Cobb, at which point Schardt put three rounds into his center of mass.
As Groves’ gun came down the barrel loomed like a tunnel, and Cobb saw oblivion as he looked down it. His eyes moved up to her face, which was frozen in a rictus of pain and fury. The corner of her mouth twitched into a smile. At least she was going to get to kill an officer before she died. Then her face disintegrated in an explosion of blood, bone, and brains. Her dead body fell across him with a thud.
Cobb breathed again. A second later, Zim appeared and rolled the dead mutineer off him. “Sorry I took so long, sir,” he said. “Had to find another firing point, and it took a second.”
The scene of betrayal flooded with soldiers. Many had small arms, and others were nearly naked, but all were confused and ready to fight. Cobb saw a pair of men dragging the man who’d run when the fighting started. It was done, then.
“Get a medic for Master Sergeant Schardt,” he ordered as Zim offered him a hand up, which he took. “What about Tango?”
“I’m okay,” the Marine corporal said. He was leaning against the corner he’d fallen behind. He tapped his armor, and Cobb could see a tear. “Round clipped the trauma plate, and the plate slowed it enough for the Kevlar to stop it. Knocked the wind out of me. Sorry to take myself out of the fight.”
“No apologies needed, you three saved my bacon,” Cobb said. Schardt looked like a mess, but he was still alert as a man in navcam with a medical bag kneeled down and worked on him. It was over, and despite his mistake in confronting the murderous traitor, he’d survived.
* * * * *
Chapter 7
Morning, Saturday, May 4
Classified Task Force
100 Miles West of Eureka, California
A storm had blown in overnight and slowed the task force’s progress to the south. Chamuel could have told Michael about it, had she desired to. Frankly, he was an asshole. He was the only one in the heptagon who was from a military background, and it showed. The bastard seemed to think he was a new Caesar or something.
She snorted as she sat in her mobility chair and let her eyes scan the monitors. Her working space was nearly covered in them. She missed their land-side installation in Portland where she’d had 20 monitors of various sizes and a pair of simply gorgeous 75” curved displays for live video feeds.
With the collapse of society and mass media, the need for the big displays was gone. So, when they’d abandoned the base and moved onto ships, she’d left them behind with a certain amount of sadness. She rode in their main ship. It had started life as a NOAA research vessel. The global weather monitoring room served her purposes quite well, and she’d asked Michael to have it modified for her use. He’d done it, if only to get her to shut up.
On the stern of the ship were three, large satellite uplink dishes. Chamuel had appropriated two of them. Despite Gabriel’s releasing her virus to shut down the world’s comms, Chamuel still had considerable assets for gathering intel. Dozens of military intelligence satellites, weather satellites, even commercial imaging satellites were accessible to her, thanks to the old legacy gateway via WWMCCS. Chamuel had to hand it to her, Gabriel had game.
As the sun was lighting the eastern horizon, Chamuel sipped her beloved Darjeeling tea and let her sharp eyes run over the hundreds of data screens set in her monitor wall. The door opened, and she glanced over to see who was coming, hoping it wasn’t Michael. It was Azrael, their archeologist.
The tall, albino man had a steaming coffee mug in one hand and looked like, once again, he hadn’t gotten much sleep. Chamuel went back to her studying, adding some new data from Europe to her notes. Eastern Europe had plenty of signs of life. Zombie life. The infected didn’t seem overly bothered by radiation, which was good for them, since a good part of Eastern Europe would be radioactive for a millennium.
“Anything new?”
Chamuel was a little surprised her visitor had spoken. It wasn’t uncommon for Azrael to come in, look at the screens while he drank his coffee, then return to his work without commenting.
“No,” she said. “The fallout in Eastern Europe has followed Cold War era patterns. The windstorm, yesterday, over Turkmenistan carried the Mashhad fallout into Tajikistan. It’s a shame; they were a pretty successful holdout to the virus until now.” She brought up a satellite image on the largest of her monitors. The big city of Dushanbe in Tajikistan glowed in the evening light, its boundaries sharp. They’d built defenses and kept the infection from spreading. It was one of only 22 cities with any signs of power. Maybe 10 still seemed to be run by people, the others were probably lit due to automated power sources.
Chamuel put up another image next to it with a timestamp that was 48 hours later. Only a few lights showed now. They were dim and in isolated parts of the city.
“The fallout was intense?” Azrael asked.
“It shouldn’t have been,” Chamuel replied. “I think the radiation precipitated some other event. I’ll keep watching to find out.”
“The statue of Tajik, set under a golden arch in the center of Dushanbe, was beautiful,” Azrael said. He shook his head. “So much lost.”
“It’s probably still there,” Chamuel said.
“It’s not the same.”
Chamuel turned and looked at the archeologist. He looked thoughtful and a little sad. She wouldn’t have guessed the man had emotions before now. How many billions were dead? How few who still thought for themselves had survived? And this man was moved by the loss of a statue? “Your priorities are fucked up,” she said.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Azrael replied. “I found the notes of the linguists from the 1950s. I gave them to Jophiel.”
“Good news. Maybe we can get some answers out of the alien.”
“Michael won’t like it,” he replied.
Chamuel had just turned to her monitors, but Azrael’s comment caused her to turn back. “What do you mean?”
“There are pages and pages of conversations that were recorded once they could understand the Vulpes. Three of them landed. The government talked to them, and they eventually convinced the Vulpes we were open to discussion. The translations weren’t perfect; those linguists were still guessing at some stuff. It was a context issue, I think. The government representatives probably made some offers they shouldn’t have.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the linguists thought the Vulpes were offering aid. They only realized, after the Vulpes left in their ship, that they weren’t offering aid, they were asking for it.”
“Holy shit,” Chamuel said, “classic misunderstanding.”
“Right,” Azrael agreed. “Hundreds of wars throughout history started because of misunderstandings. Anyway, the linguists figured out more of it after the Vulpes returned to space, but they couldn’t talk anymore. The last part is the one which will really piss Michael off.”
Chamuel looked at him, waiting. Azrael finished his coffee and shook his head. “They said it would take about 50 years for them to come back because they were fighting a war. They looked forward to our help and would be coming with refugees. The biological specimens they left behind are from their foods and tissues. They left them so we could adapt the biology to match their different amino acid chains. We translated the requests, but never worked on the food problem.”
&nb
sp; “We invited them here, and when they showed up, we captured them,” Chamuel said and shook her head. “Shooting down the ship was all on Russia, though. Our intel didn’t think they had a directed energy weapon.”
“So, what about Strain Delta?” Azrael asked, continuing his string of uncharacteristic loquaciousness. “You think it was a response to the Russian attack?”
“I don’t know,” Chamuel admitted. “I originally thought it could have been, but I really don’t know. We understand so little about the Vulpes, I can’t make predictions. All I’ve been doing is guessing how things proceeded afterward.” She’d predicted the collapse of global society not long after the first CDC data came in and Project Genesis was activated. The fallback to save humanity. Some fallback. Only weeks into the catastrophe, and they were down to their last resources and final contingency base.
Azrael turned to leave.
“You’re almost done?” she asked him.
“Just about,” he replied. “There’s a few interesting artifacts I haven’t gone through yet. They’re all of alien origin, so until Jophiel gives me a translation matrix, I can’t tell what they’re for. Nobody could figure them out in the 1950s, which is why they were all sealed away.” He left without saying goodbye, which was his way.
Chamuel returned her attention to the screens. How would things have turned out if their government hadn’t been so effective at keeping secrets? All the information, knowledge of the Vulpes, the alien technology, unknown secrets, all filed away and forgotten. Until it was too late to be of any advantage.
“If people knew how much of our tech is based on the few goodies the Vulpes gave us…” she said and sipped her Darjeeling tea.
During her time working for the NSA, where she’d been recruited as a member of the Heptagon inside Genesis, she found out just how much their government watched itself. Each agency spied on the others and their supposedly elected leaders. Nobody directed their resources inward to figure out what sort of old secrets were outside their own views.
Turning Point (Book 3): A Time To Live Page 23