by J. F. Holmes
She blew out a breath, sending a stray lock of fiery red hair waving. “I understand that. I’m even willing to lose you over it, because someday you’re going to get bit or catch a bullet. I accept that, but I’m setting a pretty goddamned high standard for you to go, and I’m going with you.”
He knew that was final; once she made up her mind, it was made up. “OK. I’m getting a little old for this crap anyway.”
“Cahill almost ran you into the ground, didn’t he?” Their final ruck back to the base had turned into a somewhat friendly battle of wills to see who would get on the truck first. Both men had staggered into the farm and collapsed.
“Almost. My stump is killing me.”
She laughed and said, “That’s because you’re an idiot.” He smiled back at her, the tense mood gone. They waited in comfortable silence until the Skype call started.
“Good afternoon, JSOC. Most of you know me, but for those who forgot, and for our guests, I’m Brigadier General Sean Flynn, and I’ll be moderating this operations conference. Let me get a roll call and situation update, east to west, then international. Colonel Agostine, start off please.” The call was scratchy and blanked out every now and then. Ten years had done a number on the satellite communications systems, where they still had access to them.
“Colonel Nick Agostine, IST-1, currently off mission. Finished selection of members for IST-13, starting training. Nothing else to report.” He kept it short, hating meetings.
The rest of the teams called in, each in turn. He knew all the team leaders by name, though not all personally. There were three of them not answering, their status updated by their higher combat commands. He smiled when Jimmy Bognaski came on and reported from Arizona, remembering a young Corporal who’d fought with them in the Second Civil War. He was a Captain now, in charge of IST-8, tracking the Great Mexican Horde.
Flynn came back on and said, “Got some bad news. Team Eleven has been confirmed KIA going after the remains of the Mountain Republic leadership. They were caught in an airstrike that they called in on their own position. Details are sketchy, but they got caught between some Zs and a company of MR militia in western Virginia. The Air Cav evacuated one survivor under heavy small arms fire.”
There was a moment of silence on the air, each participant saying a quiet farewell. Half a dozen friends gone. Damn.
“Next, I want to introduce our guest today. Colonel Agostine, pay attention.” He paused, then continued, “Captain Leah Batya, Reconnaissance Battalion, Israeli Defense Forces.”
A pleasant woman’s voice came over radio, husky and alluring despite the static. “Shalom, and greetings from the Israeli Government in exile, from Cyprus.”
“Oh shit, Leah!” thought Agostine, but apparently he’d said out loud.
“Hi to you too, Nick. Congratulations on your rank and surviving! It’s been a long time, and I’m looking forward to, um, working with you again.” There was a burst of laughter from the other people on the call; they were all soldiers and laughing at his obvious discomfort. Agostine looked over the top of his screen to see one ice blue eye glaring at him. Damn.
“To business then,” continued General Flynn. “We’re going to be sending you, Colonel, to accompany a representative of the State Department to Cyprus. Your job will be to assess the IDF scout teams. From there, you will be directed to work with US and allied forces to recover national assets.”
“I take it this isn’t a volunteer type of mission,” said the Colonel, still enduring the glaring stare of his wife.
“Not for you,” answered Flynn. “You’ll take two teams for the assessment and security, then take command of Operation Blackjack. We’ll give you assets as we can, and you’re expected to work with the IDF, since they have the largest military elements in theater. Expect an email with an OP-Order. Captain Batya will brief you now on the situation in the Med.”
Agostine sat listening, knowing that Brit was staring at him, and also knowing that she might be laughing at his discomfort. Since the apocalypse, it hadn’t always been easy to predict which way she’d go. His wife merely smiled, then said in her best breathy, sexy voice, “I’m looking forward to, um, working with you again!” Then she licked her lips and smacked her ass, said, “Shalom, Nick!” and walked out of the office without a backward glance.
“Crap, that’s not good,” he muttered.
At that moment, his email chimed with a secure message from JSOC. Shaking his head at his personal problems, he opened it and started reading. They had a month to get ready; he hoped it would be enough to train the new team.
Chapter 305
“Chief Beck,” said Agostine into the radio, “when you get a moment, I need you in the office. Bring whatever up-to-date materials you have on the Mediterranean and the Near East.”
He sat back and thought about the gossip that would spread from that radio call. The Team, his team, would just start working on their gear, packing things, and planning a loadout. It didn’t matter where they were going, they were ready for a fight or a very long walk.
His next call was to Sergeant Yasser, knowing that Beck would take some time to pull up the latest intel summary. The young NCO arrived within a few minutes, two red welts on his forehead.
“Got you good, didn’t she?” laughed Agostine.
The Afghani smiled and said, “Sergeant Vasquez is a very competent warrior. She took me by surprise with her strength.”
“Well, you’re our sniper, Elam, so I know hand-to-hand isn’t always your priority.”
The young sergeant smiled and said, “I will just make sure she stands in front of me. But that is not why you called me here.”
“No,” said Agostine, “it’s not. I have a question for you.”
“Shoot, as you say here in America,” he answered.
“You’re an Afghani, and a pretty devout Muslim. How do you feel about Jews and Israel?” It was a tough question. When the Apocalypse had started, Iran had unleashed all its proxy militia, assisted by a massive uprising in the Palestinian refugee centers. It had lasted all of a weekend before the plague spread, but the Israeli response, before they evacuated to Cyprus, had been brutal. Tehran was a glowing, irradiated cinder, but with the camps, they’d just pulled out and let the plague run its course.
“Well, there is Islam, and there is Islam. My father taught me that jihad is a personal struggle to understand the mysteries of Allah, and to walk in the way of peace. I have never really understood the mind that bears hatred for the unknown.”
“So you have no problem working with them?” Agostine looked directly at the young man, again reminded of his father Ahmed, who’d started out as his enemy, then became his friend.
“I believe that they are people of the book, and honestly, I have enough shit going on in my own life than to worry about other people,” was the answer.
“Good. Our next mission is to work with the remains of the IDF, and I need you onboard with it. I suspected that would be your answer, but I had to ask.” He rose and shook the sergeant’s hand, then dismissed him.
Chief Beck showed up a few minutes later, carrying a bunch of paper charts that she laid out on the table. They covered the whole of the Mediterranean and further into the Near East. They’d been made before the Apocalypse, and there were numerous red markings on it.
“OK, give me an update, west to east.”
“Sure,” she said, leaning over the table. “Let’s start with Gibraltar. The airbase is functional, and the British Government in Exile runs regular flights between there and the Isle of Wight. They’re busy reclaiming England, so they won’t be any help, but we can hop from there to Cyprus.”
“Any of our forces?” asked Agostine, tracing his finger over the red areas marked “infested”. Spain was mostly clear, and southern France. That was as far as the UN forces had gotten before the second plague. Italy was a mass of red, as was all of North Africa, clustered around the cities.
“The Seventh Fleet has an ope
rational base in Rota, but both the Nimitz and the Roosevelt are involved in ferry operations of refugees from there to New York City, along with the remaining Marine LHAs. We currently have only an Aegis cruiser division on standby, but fuel shortages have kept them mostly in port, in Malta. The Stennis is conducting air ops in the Western Med.”
Not much, he thought. When the teams operated on the East Coast, they usually had air support on call. “Anything else?” he asked.
“Various Burke class destroyers hunting a couple of Russian subs that’re still missing. Got one last year after it fired off a MIRV at targets in China, of all places.” They both smirked at that one. China was home to the biggest horde of undead on Earth, courtesy of their own hubris and the U.S. Air Force.
“OK, tell me about Israel and Cyprus,” said her boss.
Beck rolled out another chart on a much smaller scale that covered the Eastern Med. From Alexandria through the coast of southern Turkey was a mass of red, only lightening up when it hit the mountains. There was a purple sticker where Istanbul had been hit with a Chinese nuke, and another each on Tel Aviv and Alexandria.
“Cyprus is home to Israel in exile, with a current population of around two million.” It was clear; the red markings had been erased but were still faintly there.
“What about the Greeks and Turks…never mind.” What had happened was obvious; he wondered how many the Israelis had lost clearing the island. It could be done with armor, but the island was pretty mountainous. Light infantry work in the cities, too.
“You know what? Let’s call the rest of the team in for a brief on their military capabilities. Give me a written summary of their forces and we’ll sit down over dinner.”
She nodded, then asked, tentatively, “Am I going with you?”
“At least to Cyprus. I need someone who’s in touch with the intelligence world. Undead don’t have brains, but this is a whole ’nother ballgame.”
“We’re going to protect our representative, and assess the IDF Scout Team,” she said, confused.
He smiled a bitter smile. “Robin, I learned a long time ago that nothing is ever as it seems when it comes to politicians. There’s always a hidden agenda, and us soldiers always pay the price.”
Part Two*
“Therefore, no plan of operations extends with any certainty beyond contact with the main hostile force.”
~ Field Marshall Helmut Von Moltke
*Authors note: The following is from the journals and Field Reports of SGM Nicholas Agostine.
Chapter 306
It was a day after my meeting with Chief Beck when my phone dinged, and I had a bad feeling as I opened it, noting the little red flag on the side of the email. It was a calendar date, requesting myself and necessary team members for a classified mission briefing at Fort Orange in three days, report time 13:00, air transport authorized. Not a word about a mission overseas.
“Crap,” I said again. I guess that was my favorite word today. We had a lot of work to do, training up the new scout team, and to leave for a day, never mind the farm, would be a pain in the ass. Still, if I couldn’t take a day off, I wasn’t training my subordinates right. Besides, these missions lasted far more than a day. I wondered how Brit would analyze that, the fact that I was far more reluctant to take off a day for a briefing than to run away for a month to some godforsaken shithole.
In the end, I was going to just go by myself, but I took Master Sergeant Cahill with me. There were some things, I felt, that he had to learn about how we operated. Brit could run the farm, and Shona had the training well in hand. We’d be back at the end of the day anyway, probably irritated, pissed off, and excited. Turned out I was right, sort of.
FOB Orange was located at the old Albany International Airport and was a major logistics hub for military forces in the Northeast. It didn’t help that the Joint Chiefs of Staff were now located in downtown Albany, and the Federal Capital was in Syracuse. Still, as the UH-60 settled down on the helo pad, I couldn’t help but notice that traffic had fallen a bit since last year.
“Little bit calmer than the last time I was here,” I remarked to the crew chief as the rotors wound down.
He answered as he flipped switches and checked worn lines for leakage. “Shifting a lot of shit west to Buffalo, now that the MR got a beat down. Focusing on asset recovery and population resettlement. Hand me that box, will you, Sir?”
I looked down under the seat and pulled out a used cardboard box with a heavy metal part in it. It looked new, and I asked him where he got it.
“Well, we managed to contract with a machine shop in Herkimer. You know the old Remington arms factory?”
“Yeah, I do,” I answered. I knew that factory all too well. The memory of burnt bodies, the smell even in the frozen landscape, ashes everywhere. He didn’t notice the look, or if he did, well, he probably had his own nightmares.
“So they’re turning out individual replacement parts, but the airframe is getting pretty beat to shit. Ten years of hard use, and how much time overseas before that?” He took the part from me and jumped down onto the tarmac. I followed him, wishing I had a pair of sunglasses that weren’t scratched; the glare off the concrete was blinding. Cahill just tagged along behind me; I think maybe he was learning how to keep his mouth shut and actually observe.
“Colonel Agostine?” a voice called, and a Lieutenant approached, wearing an actual Class A uniform. She saluted and held it; I eventually returned it. I’d kinda forgotten about that. She looked like she was twelve. Crap I was getting old. “If you can follow me, I’ll take you to the SCIF.”
Huh. A briefing in the Secure Facility. Shit was going to hit the fan. “Captain, any idea what this is about?”
“I’m sorry, Sir, but I’m not cleared for that. I’m just there to let you in. And you have to secure your weapons.”
I stopped right there and said, “Hold on a second there, kid. Not happening.”
She turned to face me, a surprised look on her face. “Excuse, Colonel?”
“You heard me; my weapons stay on me.”
“But Sir, uh, President Epson is, uh, the Secret Service won’t…” She stopped, at a loss for what to do. I felt sorry for her, but after the coup attempt a few years ago, I took no chances.
“You run in there, and you tell Chris that I’m coming in there armed or getting back on the bird.” She fled back to the building with a panicked look on her face.
Cahill looked at me in amazement, and hesitatingly said, “But, uh, I know the medals let you get away with a lot, but that’s the damned PRESIDENT!”
“He shits the same as any of the rest of us,” I said, “and we kind of have a history. I knocked out his tooth once, and he almost broke my jaw.”
THAT left Cahill shaking his head in amazement, and probably wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into.
President Epson stepped out of the building a few minutes later, accompanied by two bodyguards in full battle rattle. “Nick,” he said, in greeting, returned Cahill’s salute, and held out his hand.
“Mister President,” I answered, ignoring his gesture.
He dropped it, and said, “Why are you always such a hardass?”
“Keeps me alive. What’s so important that you want to me to put my weapons up?”
He signed and said, “Not what, who. There’s a source that’s really jumpy, and this is pretty damned important.”
“No.”
At that, one of the goons started to bring up his rifle, and he found himself staring down the barrel of my pistol, hammer back. I wasn’t faster than him, just ready for it. Brit said it was going to kill me someday, never switching off, but I was still alive. Epson stepped in front of the man, pushing his gun down.
“I saved your goddamned life, and this country. Either you trust me, or you don’t.” I said calmly, holstering mine.
I admired the man, but I didn’t like him. When everything fell to shit, as Vice President, he was the one who should have steppe
d up when the government got overrun. Instead, he’d hid away and hadn’t taken up his responsibility to the country. He was a good leader, and maybe could have steered the country away from the civil war, and for that, I’d forever hold a grudge. That and he knocked out a tooth when we first met. He looked at me, thought for a moment, and nodded his head. “OK. Follow us. But your NCO leaves his.”
I let Cahill make that decision himself, neither saying yes or no. He caved, handing his rifle over to one of the Secret Service guys, but looked guilty as he did so.
Chapter 307
It was dark inside, gloomily so after the bright sunlight. We were buzzed into the SCIF, the Captain and armed Secret Service troopers staying behind. The one I’d had the stare down with glared at me as I went by, so I flicked my safety back and forth just to piss him off. No round in the chamber, I wasn’t stupid, but I smiled at him anyway. He tensed up, and I blew him a kiss. I hated people who played at soldier.
Behind what I assumed was a one-way mirror sat a man wearing the BDU camouflage of the Mountain Republic army, so to speak. He was smoking a cigarette, looking nervous, glancing at the mirror every now and then. There were three stars pinned to his collar, and I finally recognized him. Lieutenant General Emil Deschamps, commander of the military forces of the rebellious states of what was left of West Virginia, the Carolinas, and northern Georgia.
“Where’d you pick him up?” I asked Epson. He deferred to his intel chief, an officer I knew pretty well.
“Walked right in, Nick,” said Brigadier General Rabin. “We’ve got control of the entire I-81 corridor, secure down to Knoxville, and two days ago he comes strolling into one of our COPs, unarmed, asking for asylum.”
“And you want me to…” I asked.
Epson shrugged and said, “He only wants to talk to you. Says he trusts your integrity.”
“Nope. You know how I feel about traitors. People who don’t step up and fulfill their oath.” I couldn’t help throwing a dig at him.