Fear Mercy

by Fergal F. Nally

  “OK, so that’s a SEAL thing then. So what does the UDT stand for?” Mercy interrupted.

  “Underwater demolition team,” McShane answered.

  “Nice,” Rose said, “like we’re going to be blowing shit up underwater on this trip.”

  “So, how’d you guys get on with the horse simulator?” Pace changed the subject.

  Tawny shook her head.

  Flynn snorted in disgust.

  “I know you said the militia were using horses, so I get it. We need to learn to stay on the things at least. It may be our only form of transport, at least for part of the way, that’s if we can find any horses left alive. In Manhattan they were all trope food within hours of the first wave. The Central Park carriage horses didn’t stand a chance—” Mercy said, her voice flat.

  “I’ll give the horse machine another go,” Rose said, “I’ve been walking like John Wayne since my first attempt. I don’t understand why people used to ride horses for pleasure.”

  “Somehow I never imagined there’d be a horse-riding simulator on an aircraft carrier,” Tawny said.

  “Not to mention the firing range, golf simulator, cinema, gym and sauna. It’s a regular floating holiday resort,” Mercy added.

  “With some serious air power,” Rose stood up and massaged her shoulder.

  “Yeah, give it another go everyone,” Mears interjected. “It’s a long walk to Washington from the Outer Banks. We’ll use the kayaks in Albemarle Sound and Currituck Sound, providing we can portage them across the peninsula. If we keep away from land as long as possible we can avoid tropes and militia. That’s the theory anyway.”

  “We can also carry our packs in the kayaks, means more supplies which is always good,” Erickson said.

  “The sound is fresh water then?” Flynn asked.

  “Mostly, fresh water or brackish, lots of rivers run into the sound, so that’s a help for us too, although we’ll still need to purify our drinking water—” Pace added.

  “Yeah, dead bodies tend to spoil water,” Rose said.

  “So do alligators,” Flynn jabbed his finger at the map on the table. “Look, there’s even a river called Alligator River, it feeds into Albemarle Sound—”

  “Fuck, that’s all we need, alligators and tropes. Give me a city any day, at least you can press your back up against concrete and glass,” Rose said.

  Mercy looked around at the eight men they had been training with the last few days: Lieutenant Cronin, Ramirez, Pace, Erickson, McShane, Mears, Renton and Hicks. Being embedded in a Navy SEAL team was the last thing she’d expected.

  It is what it is, we are where we are. These guys will help deliver me and the others to Washington, that’s all that matters. I haven’t got time to figure them out, the important thing is they are a team and they trust each other—

  Mercy frowned. Mears and Erickson were pulling at each other’s sleeves.

  What are they doing?

  Rose frowned, “Hey guys, whatcha got there?”

  Mears looked up, “Kevlar sleeves, we used to duct tape all kinds of shit to our arms to stop trope bites. It worked but was awkward, we picked these sleeves up in Guantanamo Bay, supposed to be like lightweight chainmail. We’re gonna test it, check it out.”

  Mears and Erickson adjusted the Kevlar sleeves to cover their forearms and part of their upper arms. Mears pulled out a SOG Seal Team Elite knife, Erickson produced a USMC Ka-Bar combat knife. Tentatively, they pressed the blade edges against the Kevlar sleeves and sawed up and down.

  Erickson smiled, “Fuck me, look… nothing, this shit works—”

  Mears raised his eyebrows, “Ditto, this piece of kit plus our reinforced gloves will really help out there against those things.”

  “Hey, do we get those sleeves too?” Tawny asked.

  Erickson nodded, “Yeah, we got enough for the whole team. Tropes always go for the neck and arms, legs too. Not much we can do for legs and neck without full body armour but these sleeves might buy time in a fight.”

  “They weigh almost nothing,” Rose said, picking out a pair of sleeves from the open box on the table.

  Cronin walked into the room, “See you’re getting used to your new kit. How’d you get on at the firing range? You all good with your new weapons?”

  Mercy picked up her Sig Sauer P226 Legion pistol, “I miss my M9 but this baby and me… we’re bonding—”

  Tawny patted the M16 rifle beside her, “Happy with your standard issue Lieutenant, iron sights adjusted, no problems.”

  Cronin nodded, he looked uncomfortable. “Shit, there’s no easy way to say this… so I’ll just say it.”

  The room fell silent.

  “What?” Mercy said.

  “Well, we’ve got eight SEALs in this team and four civilians, that’s ten bodies to conceal in enemy territory. We’ve already sent in two Spec Ops teams so the NSA Militia will be on maximum alert, that’s on top of all the trope shit we can expect to encounter—” Cronin paused.

  “And your point is?” Rose said.

  “Well, the more people in the field the more chances of mistakes. My men are all trained, we can reduce the risk of mistakes… you three—” he looked at Mercy, Tawny and Rose, “ well, you have that NSA biotech implanted in you so you’re protected from tropes to a degree but—”

  Cronin looked at Flynn.

  Flynn stood up, “I can see where you’re going with this Lieutenant and you can stop right there. I’m going in with you guys, I’ve been in on this thing from the start. I’ve been experimented on by the NSA, so yeah, my body rejected the biotech… I nearly died,” Flynn’s voice wavered. “My brother is dead because of this shit, because of Mitchell and his NSA bastards. I owe it to Stevie to see this through, you can’t stop me. I won’t take no for an answer, and I know my friends will back me up.” Flynn looked at Rose, Tawny and Mercy.

  Mercy did not hesitate. “Flynn’s coming. End of—”

  Cronin nodded. “Good to know, sometimes things are best said out in the open. We all know this operation’s a one way ticket.”

  Chapter 3

  Cold Storm

  Mercy watched the black waves, her mind still.

  They had risen at 2:30 am, fully prepped and had awaited final confirmation. The command had been given and now they were on the 85 foot U.S. Navy Mark VI patrol boat, ten kilometres off the Outer Banks. The sea was churning with the approaching storm. They had a few hours’ window to get ashore. Mercy looked at the six, two-man sea kayaks strapped to the deck. She had completed her kayak training over the last few days with Tawny, Rose and Flynn.

  “So, Erickson, you mentioned you served with Barnes, right?” Mercy turned to the SEAL on her left.

  “Yeah, in Afghanistan,” Erickson replied, his face was covered in camo paint.

  Sea spray stung Mercy’s eyes. “If I get to meet Barnes in Annapolis… how do I know it’s really him?”

  Erickson narrowed his eyes for a second, “He was caught in a fire; a flaming Humvee, medevacked out to Bagram… he’s got burns on his back. They patched him up pretty good, took him a year to recover. He’s from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, his father was with the Marines, his family runs a small bar in the south of the city. The Seven Fingers bar, he told me why they picked that name, but I forget the reason…” Erickson fell silent.

  “Good enough, thanks,” Mercy said.

  Mercy caught Rose’s eye.

  Rose is tense—

  Rose nodded at the kayaks and shook her head, distaste written across her face.

  It’s the idea of capsizing that gets me. I know we practiced the wet exiting but Jesus, going under, losing control, being upside down, shit—

  Mercy pulled out a stick of chewing gum. They had checked their kit and weapons and had devoured a meal of steak and beans with coffee, followed by apple pie.

  Wish I hadn’t had so much to eat. Christ, I’ll be heaving once we get into the kayaks. Don’t think about it, the adrenaline will kick in, it always does—
>
  Mercy checked her watch; 3:28 am. Cronin emerged from the bridge and slid down the stair handrails to his men on the foredeck.

  “Mission’s live gentlemen, let’s get our feet wet.” Cronin turned to Mercy, Tawny, Flynn and Rose, “OK guys, remember your training… you’ll be fine. Bottom line: you’ve all got life jackets so you won’t drown.”

  Yeah, but once we hit that water we’ve no back up and no hope of rescue… so we won’t drown but we could die from exposure—

  Mercy saw Flynn’s expression, “Hey babe, don’t worry, it’s all good, I’ll be right behind you—”

  Flynn nodded, “Yeah, it’s all good, these guys know what they’re doing, we’ll be ashore in no time.”

  Rose gave a wicked smile, “Oh yeah? What could possibly go wrong?”

  Twenty minutes later they were in the sea. Waves swamped the kayaks. Mercy gripped her paddle, the rubber spray skirt kept the water out. Sea spray stung her eyes, went up her nose and into her mouth. She turned away from the wind and paddled as best she could, following Cronin’s example. Their heavy backpacks, stashed in the kayak’s forward and aft sections were helping with stability.

  We’re making progress—

  Mercy’s arms ached. The Mark VI had dropped them five kilometres out. They were paddling hard but their progress seemed to slow the nearer they got to shore. Understanding hit her.

  We’re fighting the tide—

  Mercy’s eyes went to the sky.

  Hell… storm’s worsening—

  A high wave struck the kayak side on. Mercy’s paddle cut into the swell and was torn away. The wave crashed around her, the kayak capsized. In a heartbeat she was under water, upside down. Surprise surged through her, she held her breath and tried to remember the emergency training.

  Wet exit—

  Nothing but the words came, she watched as Cronin fought to right the kayak, the paddle leash pulled at the pad-eye on her right, her paddle flashed before her, narrowly missing her face. Bubbles streamed from her mouth and nose, her heart pounded.

  A second later the kayak broke the surface and they were the right way up. Cronin fought for control and rode the crest of the next swell. Mercy gasped, filling her lungs with salty air. She squinted.

  Surf, we’re almost there—

  She reached down, pulled on the paddle leash and recovered her paddle. A flash caught her eye, she looked left.

  Lights moving… on the horizon, it must be land—

  Mercy squinted, focusing on the lights, surf crashed two hundred yards away.

  Shit, headlights, a jeep—

  Mercy tapped Cronin’s shoulder and shouted, “Car on the shore, lights to the left.”

  Cronin jerked his head and registered the lights in the distance. He swore and began paddling away from the lights, keeping parallel to the beach. Mercy turned and saw another kayak, ten yards away. She recognised Rose’s outline.

  Rose’s kayak, hell, where are the others?

  Mercy paddled fast, following Cronin’s lead. She risked a sideways glance, the lights had vanished.

  What the—?

  They paddled another twenty minutes. Mercy’s shoulders felt as if they were going to pop out from their sockets. Cronin’s rhythm changed, she looked over his shoulder. A large structure rose from the water in front of them. Mercy tilted her head and processed the information.

  A pier, concrete pilings… wait, there was a pier on the map; Jennette’s Pier. This is Nags Head. We’ve made it… we’re a bit further north than we’d planned—

  Cronin steered the kayak to relative shelter under the pier. The structure was in disrepair, above them the boardwalk was riddled with gaps. Still, it kept most of the rain off and even the wind was less underneath. Cronin stopped beside a piling and looked back. Rose’s kayak joined them a minute later. One by one the others arrived.

  These guys must’ve kept within line of sight of each other. Everyone’s made it, they know what they’re doing—

  A series of lights flicked on, pointing out to sea on their right. Cronin flinched and watched as the lights travelled along the beach away from them. A minute later they were gone.

  Cronin turned to his men, “Landing zone is hot, we need eyes on. Renton, Mears, use that access ladder, get up top, scope out what’s going on from up there. Be back in fifteen—”

  “Roger that,” Renton answered, he paddled to the ladder and tied off the kayak. He and Mears climbed up and disappeared onto the boardwalk overhead.

  Mercy checked her watch; 4:43 am. She scanned the beach on both sides for activity. All was dark. Surf pounded the sand, wind and rain battered the pier. The security and warmth of the USS Abraham Lincoln seemed a lifetime away.

  They waited in silence, cold penetrated Mercy’s bones, she began to shiver despite her layers. Cronin checked his watch and shook his head.

  He turned to the rest of his team, “They’ve been gone twenty minutes. I need to see what’s happened, stay here.” He paddled his kayak over to the access ladder and tied up. “It’s you and me Dawes, we’re on. I’ll hold the kayak, you go up first.”

  Mercy chewed her lip and released the rubber spray skirt. She reached down for her rifle.

  Don’t mess it up girl—

  She slung the M16 around her neck and grabbed the ladder.

  Chapter 4

  Demons

  Mercy raised her head over the top of the ladder. The wind howled along the pier.

  Nothing, move on—

  She pulled herself onto the boardwalk and crouched behind a cast iron bench. Cronin appeared, his night vision goggles obscuring his eyes.

  It’s a bitch not having comms, we don’t know where Renton and Mears are, we’re blind and we’ve split the group. At least there’s no gunfire—

  Cronin crept forwards keeping to the cover afforded by the chairs and rain shelters on the pier. A large, three story building occupied the entrance to the pier ahead. Rain lashed Mercy’s skin, she narrowed her eyes and followed Cronin.

  Where are they? What’s held them up?

  They reached the third rain shelter and paused in the shadows. Cronin seemed satisfied and pressed on, keeping to the outer barrier.

  I don’t like this, that building’s blocking our way off the pier, there could be anything in there. The militia could have night vision too—

  Cronin speeded up when he saw Renton and Mears, their backs pressed against the building’s wall. Renton beckoned.

  “What’s the sitrep?” Cronin demanded.

  Mears leaned in, “This place is crawling with tropes, ground floor’s full of them. Windows are barred, the whole place looks fortified, there’s no way through the building without a fight. We’re trying to find an alternative route around the building. There’s a ladder which drops beneath the pier over there, leads to a maintenance walkway, probably our best bet. No sign of militia, beach seems quiet—”

  Cronin looked through the nearest window and frowned, “Agreed, this place looks hostile, let’s get back to the kayaks, paddle in under the pier and carry the kayaks from there.”

  A scraping sound made Mercy glance up. A rifle muzzle appeared from a top floor window. She tapped Cronin’s shoulder and pointed. They were directly under the sniper.

  How come he didn’t see us on our way in? Sheer bloody luck—

  Cronin froze and watched, waiting. The sniper could not see them. Cronin’s shoulders relaxed, he pressed against the wall and led the way past the windows to the maintenance ladder. The safety gate opened without difficulty, he waved Mercy forwards.

  Mercy slung the M16 across her chest and climbed down the ladder. The others followed. She stared at the last steps and froze.

  Wait, wait… there; a line, fainter than the steps. A wire. Shit… booby trap—

  Mercy swung around the ladder and descended on the opposite side, avoiding the wire. She found the crude booby trap; a grenade, duct taped to the side of the ladder, a wire fixed to the pin extending across the g
ap between the last two steps.

  Son of a bitch—

  She waved at the others and pointed it out. They bypassed the trap and dropped to the maintenance walkway. Cronin led them back to the kayaks.

  “Looks as if the militia are on alert. One of our teams passed through here recently, we’re up against it, these guys know what they’re doing,” Cronin briefed the others at the kayaks.

  “So what’s the plan, LT?” McShane asked.

  “We go in under the pier, under the bastards, take our chances on the beach, get to the dunes and infiltrate the town. See what’s what; either find a place to wait out the storm or press on through to the estuary on the other side of the peninsula—” Cronin replied.

  “It’s gonna be tough, carrying the kayaks in this storm,” Rose shouted above the wind.

  Cronin pulled a face, “You’re right but we ain’t got much choice. We can’t stay here, those jeeps may come back. Move out people, on me—”

  Cronin paddled towards the shore, keeping the boardwalk overhead. Five minutes later the kayak bit into sand. Surf crashed noisily against the beach and the pier’s concrete pilings.

  Cronin climbed out of the kayak and crouched down. He cradled his M16 and faced up the beach. The rest of the team pulled up alongside, strapped on their packs and collapsed the kayaks. Wind ripped through the pilings under the pier. Mercy removed her drysuit and shivered in her combat fatigues.

  “Erickson, McShane, scout the beach and dunes ahead, we’ll watch you. Signal when it’s safe,” Cronin waved his men forwards.

  Mercy looked around, they were directly under the building at the entrance to the pier.

  We need to get out of here, those bastards are right on top of us—

  Erickson and McShane ran up the beach and disappeared over a set of wooden steps into the dunes. Mercy counted to fifty, McShane reappeared in the marram grass at the top of the dunes and waved.

  Cronin grunted. “That’s a go. Move out, everyone on me.”

  Cronin and Mercy lifted their kayak and carried it up the beach. The wind tried to rip the kayak from Mercy’s hands, she held on and swore, fighting the savage gusts. They made it to the steps and hauled themselves up and over, dropping the kayak a short distance down on the other side. Marram grass lashed them from all angles. Cronin and McShane helped the others over the crest of the dune. Mercy spotted Erickson out in front, his back pressed up against a huge beach house.