Operation Sea Mink

by Addison Gunn

  “They don’t have flashlights,” Morland said, shining his light on the remains.

  “So the lights worked at some point,” Hsiung offered.

  “Think we can get them back up and running?” Miller asked du Trieux.

  She shined her light across the ceiling, following the electrical cords from the light fixtures to their origin, a panel in the wall housing a circuit breaker of some sort. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “How are we supposed to know which box is the one we’re looking for?” Morland asked.

  Hsiung shone her light near the center of the cargo hold. “It’s right there.”

  “What?” Miller twisted around to see.

  “See that long crate right there? It’s the only box labelled in English,” she explained, “and the captain and his posse’s bodies are surrounding it. They were trying to protect it. They’d already rigged a pulley system to that crane over there. Are you all blind?”

  “It’s dark in here,” Morland said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Miller signalled the others to follow suit as he reached across and grasped the dangling rope attached to the rectangular crate. Taking hold, Morland and Hsiung pulled along behind him, with Morland at the tail end.

  The crate rose, the ropes groaning under the strain.

  Below, a brute appeared amongst the bodies of the crewmen. Lurching forward, the goliath bumped the crate, causing it to swing to the side and crash into another stack of crates.

  The rope slipped in Miller’s sweaty hands and dropped a foot before Morland howled and leaned back, stalling it before it completely slithered out of their grasps.

  “Trix?” Miller grunted.

  “Morland, watch your six!” du Trieux shouted.

  “What the...”

  The rope reeled from Miller’s grasp, slipping through his fingers. The crate dropped, but stopped just short of smashing to the floor.

  Gripping the rope tightly, his palms burning through his gloves, Miller heard Morland shriek and checked over his shoulder.

  A brute had climbed atop another stack of crates and bounded onto the center catwalk. Morland swung around and dodged the goliath’s first attempt to bite off his arm, but the beast swung its massive head back around and knocked Morland clean off the platform.

  Miller released the rope and reached for his hunting knife, but couldn’t reach the brute.

  The crate lurched to the floor, sending Hsiung, still holding the rope, into the air.

  Miller faced the goliath brute as it lurched forward, snapping the air in front of it. Swinging his blade, Miller caught the beast across the face, slicing a deep ribbon of flesh just under its tiny black eye.

  The creature roared in protest and backed off.

  Shots rang out.

  Below, Morland had regained his footing and fired upward, hitting the attacking brute in the face and sending it slipping over the edge.

  Just then, the hold was flooded with fluorescent light as the overhead fixtures illuminated the carnage.

  Brutes on all sides of the group, on each side of the walkway, roared and sprinted back into the depths of the hold in search of darkness.

  Du Trieux came up behind Miller and grabbed the rope. Together they pulled Hsiung down from the ceiling, where she was dangling like a worm on a hook and spitting what Miller could only guess were expletives in Chinese. When her feet finally reached the platform, she, Miller, and du Trieux wrenched up the cargo crate, Morland dangling precariously beside it.

  BACK ON DECK, with the crate safely secured to the chopper, Miller waved to Smitty on the bridge, and waited with the others for the pilot to return.

  If all went as planned, they’d have a response to their distress signal and could bug out of there, take the crate back to the compound, and maybe sleep for a week or two.

  It was dark out now and the team was exhausted. The blazing sun had set and Miller took a moment to marvel at the depleted New York City skyline. It was all dark, save for a bright beacon of yellow in the distance which came from the Astoria Peninsula.

  Within minutes, Smitty arrived. He climbed into the cockpit and checked if their distress signal had received a response. There was none. When he exited the chopper, he eyed the crate they’d attached to the landing gear and scratched his head. “We don’t have enough fuel to fly back to the compound with that,” he informed them. “Even if we lost the additional man aboard. We spent too much circling the freighter trying to find a safe spot to land.”

  Miller ran his palm against the leg of his uniform. “Then we wait for rescue. In the meantime, we’d better secure the rest of the freighter.”

  BACK UP ON the bridge, Miller watched as the first officer released the controls. He hadn’t been too keen on the idea to begin with, but after Miller had convinced him the freighter was a lost cause, he willingly dumped some of the ship’s fuel into the water.

  Miller glanced outside to the edge of the deck and could just make out du Trieux as she fired a flare into the slick. The oil burst into flames and set the water ablaze.

  Even from the bridge, Miller could hear the pseudo-whales and surrounding animals squealing as they burned.

  “Pull up a chair,” he said to the crewmen as he eyed the scorching ocean. “This could take a while.”

  5

  MILLER FELT A slap on his knee and slowly opened his eyes.

  He’d been dreaming of Billy; of the day that he’d taken him to buy his favourite Armani suit. Miller could still smell the wool and leather inside the outlet store. He could still see Billy frowning when Miller had tried on a Hugo Boss three-button pinstripe and realized his build was all wrong for the cut.

  “You look like a linebacker wearing skinny jeans,” Billy had said with a sparkle in his grey eyes. “Just no.”

  Miller shook the image from his head.

  Seeing the look on du Trieux’s face, he briefly worried he’d said something embarrassing in his sleep, but she nodded toward the first officer.

  The first mate gripped the communications microphone in his palm, his knuckles white. He was yelling at someone in a mixture of Korean and English about evacuating the crew, but the line went dead and he turned pale and sweaty.

  “What’s going on? Has the aid arrived?” Miller asked.

  “Not exactly,” du Trieux said.

  “He’s not listening,” the first mate said, turning around, looking panicked.

  It’d been two days since they’d been trapped on the freighter with the crew. The current had pushed them around Governors Island, in the end, and they’d floated right past the Statue of Liberty their first night, and were heading towards the open Atlantic. Scanning the land to the west, Miller guessed they were someplace just south of Delaware.

  Each time the wildlife had attempted another onslaught they’d burned the sea and pushed them back. But the fuel supply was dwindling, and Miller wasn’t sure how many more times that would work.

  Morland and Hsiung had spent the better part of the day before clearing out the cargo hold of brutes to get proper food and provisions, but their ammo was dwindling. An evacuation couldn’t happen soon enough.

  Given the reaction from the first mate, who’d introduced himself as Ryung, Miller didn’t think an evacuation was what the approaching boat had in mind. The modified tug boat they’d used to transport the EMP from Boston for the operation against Stockman’s comms was coming in quick off the port bow. The men aboard were wearing S-Y security uniforms.

  Miller borrowed Ryung’s binoculars and peered out the bridge window.

  “He said no crew, only to give him a special cargo,” Ryung said. “That you’d know which one he meant. I asked him, ‘What about my men?’ He said again, ‘No men. Only special cargo.’ That wasn’t our deal, Miller. No evacuate my men, no cargo.”

  Miller adjusted the binoculars and focused on the crew of the incoming boat. He spotted Kimball—that asshole who had questioned him about researching Samantha—one of Harris’
s men. “Oh, boy,” he mumbled under his breath.

  Du Trieux nodded, glumly.

  Taking the communications mic off the bridge console, Miller pressed the side button and cleared his throat. “Kimball, you old dog. How you been? Long time no see.”

  Through the binoculars Miller watched as Kimball smirked, then spoke into his own mic. “Miller. Good. Is our cargo secured?”

  Miller released the button and turned to du Trieux. “Have the team bring up those crates of greens from the cargo hold and have Smitty warm up the chopper.”

  Du Trieux nodded, then disappeared out the bridge door.

  “What’s going on?” the first mate asked.

  “Just give me a second, Ryung,” Miller said. He hated where this was headed, but didn’t see any alternative. “Cargo is secured,” Miller said into the mic. “Are you our ride back to the compound?”

  “Not quite,” Kimball said. “Our orders are to retrieve the cargo, and nothing else.”

  “That’s funny,” Miller said. “Those aren’t my orders, and I got here first.”

  “Situation’s changed since you left,” Kimball answered.

  Miller watched the boat through the binoculars as Kimball put a hand on his hip and shifted his weight. The small vessel came to a sliding stop several meters away from the freighter, just far enough to give the surrounding oil slick a wide birth.

  “Gray Matheson has relinquished his position as CEO of Schaeffer-Yeager, and Robert Harris is in charge,” Kimball said. Miller almost dropped the mic. “There’s nothing you or Cobalt can do about it, other than to get out of our way.”

  Miller swallowed, his mouth suddenly bone dry. “I’m going to need verification of that information, Kimball. You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”

  “Verify all you want, but I’m not waiting for my cargo much longer. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

  Miller handed the mic to Ryung, and patted him on the back. “I’m sorry, kid.”

  “Sorry? Why’re you sorry?”

  Leaving the bridge, Miller made it out onto deck in record speed.

  Coming up the stairwell from the cargo hold were Morland and Hsiung, lugging a half-bashed-in crate of limp lettuce and soggy spinach.

  “What do you want with this?” Morland asked.

  “There’s a boat off the port bow. On my go, chuck that on top of it.”

  Morland pursed his lips. “You got it.”

  At the chopper, du Trieux and Smitty cleaned fungus out of the fuel intake and the air filters.

  “Wish I’d had more of a heads-up,” Smitty said, as Miller approached. “Without a full crew to help, this could take a while.”

  “Do the best you can,” Miller said, hopping inside and booting up the communications array. After a brief delay, Miller tapped into the Northwind network, but immediately received an error message and was unable to connect. Clicking again, he got the same result. If he didn’t know any better he’d think the network had been disabled, but that would give credence to Kimball’s fantasy that Gray Matheson had stepped down as CEO, and there was no way Miller could believe that.

  After everything Gray had gone through to get that far? Why would he walk away now? It didn’t make sense.

  No, until he heard otherwise, Miller was proceeding as ordered. Besides which, if Harris was indeed in charge, did he really think Miller would simply relinquish control of a nuclear warhead because his lackey told him to? Harris was smarter than that.

  Or, perhaps that had been Harris’s plan all along—to set Miller up for a gunfight and eliminate Cobalt? That was a real possibility. Either way, they couldn’t stay aboard the freighter, and they couldn’t outgun a boatful of soldiers, not with their diminished supply of ammo. Flight was their only course of action.

  Miller hopped from the chopper and inspected du Trieux and Smitty’s progress. There was still a film of fungus on the fuel intake, but there wasn’t much fuel to begin with. It would have to be enough.

  “Start the engines,” he said, ignoring Smitty’s look.

  Miller tapped his earpiece. “Dump the greens, light the slick again and get aboard the chopper asap,” he ordered Morland and Hsiung.

  “Roger,” Hsiung answered.

  From the helipad, Miller watched as Morland and Hsiung tipped the remains of the crate overboard. Meanwhile, du Trieux, sprinting to the edge of the freighter, dropped a lit flare onto the oil slick and bolted back.

  All three reached the chopper simultaneously, hopping into the bird just as the rotors picked up speed. The engines struggled to ignite the fuel not consumed by fungus in the gas tank, but fired up, giving them lift off.

  “And we’re off!” Smitty yelped, yanking back on the stick and gunning the twin turbo-shaft engines.

  As they rose above the freighter, Miller gazed at the action below. The animals, kept at bay by the oil fire around the freighter, attacked the greenery aboard Kimball’s boat—one of the first brutes aboard knocked a solider into the water.

  Bullets pierced the sky. The chopper lurched to the side and alarms blared—they’d been hit on the right side but had managed to get some distance between them and the freighter. They flew over open ocean, away from Kimball and the jump boat.

  “What the...” Smitty cussed, swinging the bird hard to the left. More bullets zipped in their direction.

  “They’re firing at a fucking nuclear missile!” Morland gaped, rushing to attach his safety restraints.

  Out his window, Miller could just make out the action aboard Kimball’s boat. Soldiers hacked back a trio of goliath brutes as Kimball aimed his assault rifle at them. It wasn’t until Miller saw the outline of a soldier on the boat’s pilothouse hoist a long tube up onto his shoulder that he felt a rush of panic. “Smitty!” he bellowed. “Anti-aircraft missile incoming!”

  The chopper banked harshly to the left again, tipping sideways over the wretched ocean, nearly twisting in a full circle.

  Smitty howled as he twisted the stick. The engines sputtered and fought, losing thrust as chunks of fungus clogged the tubing.

  On the right, coming in hot, was a trail of smoke straight at them.

  “Miller!” du Trieux shouted.

  In a rush of heat and smoke, the helicopter was struck.

  Miller braced his body for impact as the chopper spun wildly, whirling out of control. With a crash, the chopper dove headlong into the rancid ocean below.

  6

  THE SMELL OF putrid salt water and smoke filled Miller’s nostrils as he choked.

  Opening his eyes, he blinked away the darkness clouding his vision and forced himself to focus. He was up to his hips in sea water. As his sight and hearing cleared, the picture came into view. The helicopter alarms were blaring and it was sinking fast.

  To his left, Hsiung lay slumped in the jump seat. Past her, Morland was conscious but struggling as he sawed through his restraints with a utility knife, his elbow rapping the cracked glass of his door as he worked.

  Miller reached up with shaking fingers and detached his safety belts. Then, twisting in his chair, he unlatched Hsiung and caught her as she pitched away from him.

  Morland, finally free, rotated in his seat and slung one of Hsiung’s arms over his shoulders. “Go!” he barked at Miller, jerking his head toward the door behind him. “Go up!”

  Miller pushed off his feet and shoved his shoulder into the chopper door. It opened with a snap, rushing more water, smoke and stench into the cabin.

  Climbing out of the doorway, Miller jumped into the tainted seawater.

  Morland, climbing out of the chopper just behind him, quickly activated the flotation device in his combat vest. The collar of his vest bloomed up and around his neck, giving him instant buoyancy in the thick, steaming water. Morland then reached around and pulled the release on Hsiung’s vest. Grabbing the unconscious soldier into his arms, Morland pulled her tiny frame into his massive chest, then rotated onto his back, kicking and floating both of them to safety,
a few feet from the sinking chopper.

  Miller rotated his arms, barely keeping afloat as water gushed over his head. Two safe, two to go.

  Swimming back toward the sinking helicopter, Miller reached into the filling cabin, searched with his hands under his seat and found an air canister. Shoving the device into his mouth, he activated the airflow, then sucked in a breath of oxygen, before diving deeper into the muck toward the sunken tail.

  His eyes burned in the putrid salt water. Ignoring the sting, he kicked his legs and arms. When he reached the chopper, the door was closed. Inside the fogged glass he could just make out the sight of du Trieux as she struggled to free an unconscious Smitty from his restraints.

  Miller pounded on the window. Du Trieux turned to him and mouthed something, but Miller couldn’t make it out. Finally, he pounded again and the door opened from the inside.

  Reaching in, Miller yanked du Trieux out. She’d already activated her flotation vest, so she popped out of his hands and rose toward the water’s surface immediately.

  Sucking in another breath from the air canister, Miller dove into the submerged cockpit to free Smitty. The pilot’s eyes were wide open, and unblinking. His mouth was agape and slack.

  Pulling another breath from the canister, Miller sliced through Smitty’s safety restraints with his knife, unlatched the buckles of the pilot’s vest, and removed it from his slack body. Leaving Smitty to his watery grave, Miller climbed out and around the helicopter’s shell in search of the crate.

  By the landing gear, strapped in with three restraint buckles, the nuke was still attached to the chopper.

  Miller cut the buckles loose and tugged on the crate—but he was unable to move the heavy box from the sinking chopper.

  The whole contraption, Miller included, was getting sucked deeper into the ocean. All he could do was hold on until they struck bottom.

  Finally they touched the ocean floor. Finally able to move without fear of losing the crate, Miller pulled another breath from the canister and wrapped Smitty’s vest around the edge of the box, pulling the tab. The vest’s flotation device expanded, partially raising the crate on one side—but it wasn’t enough.