Arisen, Book Nine - Cataclysm

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  * * *

  Mann and McDonagh, the two RMPs under Simmonds’s (temporary, they ardently hoped) command, now briskly walked toward the big aviation hangar complex that fronted the helipads.

  Mann looked up at the blue sky and shook his head. It was like September 11 – a beautiful blue sky for a day of total horror. Something about the cool sunshine of the day took his mind back – and he realized he was thinking of the Remembrance Sunday ceremony at the Cenotaph in Whitehall, which happened every November for Armistice Day. When the whole nation stopped what it was doing, and the Queen and PM came out to lay wreaths, and everyone gave thanks for the sacrifices of all those who had fallen in Britain’s wars.

  Mann’s dad had taken him to see it as a boy. He’d been entranced by the pomp and the ceremony and the smart British soldiers in their dress uniforms. It was probably then that he decided he wanted to join the Army.

  Now Mann shook his head, recalling that this year was the first time in over a hundred years they hadn’t held the ceremony. It wasn’t any lack of patriotism. Just lack of personnel. All those soldiers in the Household Cavalry, all those members of the military bands, were now soldiers for real – wearing very unceremonial outfits while fighting in the south. Defending Her Majesty from the hordes sweeping toward them even now.

  Mann knew some of those men. And he wished them well. But, right now, he was going to do his bit here – at the center of the empire.

  He and McDonagh quickly crossed the cavernous space of the main hangar and plunged into the maze of storerooms at its rear. Mann held open the door for his friend, then followed him into the darkness. Neither had weapon-mounted lights, so both juggled small tactical flashlights along with their rifles.

  There was no reason Mann could think of for the lights being off back here – the whole base had reliable power, more so than the rest of London – except that the bulbs in this room had burned out and no one had thought to replace them.

  Or maybe zombie-fighting just isn’t spooky enough with the lights on, he thought cynically. His whole career had turned into something out of a comic book or television show – much more so since the terrible outbreak that morning. He and McDonagh had been right in the thick of things, and were instrumental in stopping the outbreak before it flashed through the base and took it down.

  The troop of Royal Marines who had rocked up were obviously experienced fighters, and they had amazing unit cohesion. But they were not the only military personnel serving there at Her Majesty’s pleasure, nor the only ones who had fought the outbreak. The 174 Provost Company of RMPs, the unit responsible for security at CentCom HQ, had taken heavy casualties in the fighting. Moreover, this was their patch – and they didn’t particularly appreciate a bunch of bombed-out bootnecks coming in and ordering them around like they didn’t know their own jobs.

  Mann looked over at McDonagh as the darkness opened up into a larger storeroom and the two of them stepped into it. They had spent so much time together these past two years they had become de facto best mates. And Mann knew he would not only sacrifice his life to safeguard this facility – he’d lay down his life in a heartbeat to save his friend.

  He felt his heart swell with gratitude that neither of them had fallen in the fighting earlier in the day. Mann figured if the two of them stayed alive, maybe it was going to be okay. And as long as McDonagh was on his feet, he knew he wouldn’t have to worry about his own safety. They’d look out for each other, as they always had.

  The two split up now, moving down opposite sides of the room. Metal shelving, stacked with boxes of engine parts, filled the center. The two shone their lights into every corner, doing their best to keep their muzzles pointed in the same direction as the beams.

  In two minutes they’d reached the back end and the door that led to the next room. When Mann opened it, reached inside, and flipped the light switch… this time the lights came on. That alone lightened their mood – and their burden.

  They stepped inside.

  * * *

  “Got it!” the conscripted radio operator finally exclaimed. Without preamble, and probably without proper radio protocol, he just pulled off his headset and handed it to Jameson.

  Grimacing slightly, Jameson took off the headset he already had on, seated the new one, and said, “JFK from CentCom Actual, message, over.”

  There was a pause on the other end, one which slightly smacked of confusion. Jameson figured it was a clash of radio procedure.

  “CentCom Actual, this is Seven-Nine Actual, we read you Lima Charlie, go ahead.”

  Now Jameson paused, slightly confused himself. He knew neither the hull number of the USS John F. Kennedy, nor that the ship’s captain used that number as his call sign.

  “CentCom Actual, repeat, this is Commander Abrams – Charlie Oscar of the JFK, go ahead.”

  Ah, Jameson thought. That he got – commanding officer of the ship.

  “Right. Major Jameson here.”

  There was a distinct pause on the other end. “You’re commanding – Major?”

  Jameson sighed. “That’s affirmative. But only temporarily. After the outbreak we had here, I’ve relieved Colonel Mayes, and will be relieved in turn, hopefully within the hour, by a more senior command element.”

  “Did you put the outbreak down?”

  “Yes. Just.”

  There was another pause, this one with the flavor of awe. “Jesus, Jameson. That sounds like a pretty lethal bullet to have dodged – right in your HQ.”

  “Just one of many. The noose is still closing on London.” But Jameson wasn’t enjoying this line of discussion, and had a lot to do, so he got to the point. “Good news, JFK. Your requested aircraft is wheels up and en route to your location. ETA approx twelve hours – repeat, one-two hours.”

  “That’s received, CentCom, and thanks very much. We will aim to have it loaded up and back in the air to you as soon as.”

  Jameson frowned. “Yes – about that. What can you tell me about this vaccine?” He paused briefly to consider OPSEC. But this was an encrypted channel. And, hell, everyone had much bigger problems right now than keeping secrets from any remaining enemies among the living.

  “What do you want to know, CentCom?”

  “Pretty much only one thing: when it will be ready.”

  There was another pause on the American end. “I’m told we’ve already got what appears to be a working serum.”

  “What does that mean? Is that like a cure?”

  “Something like that. I need to get the bioscientist up here to brief you.”

  “And what about the vaccine?”

  “What do you know about it at this point?”

  “Not too much. I was briefed on your mission by Mayes before he died.”

  “How’d he die?”

  “Torn to pieces – and infected. Lived just long enough to finish himself off.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yes. Quite. We’re a bit on our back feet here. So you can see why we’re keen to know when that vaccine will be ready.”

  “It’s in progress.”

  Jameson pursed his lips in frustration. “Any chance of an ETA?”

  “We’ll try to get you one, CentCom.”

  “That’s received. Please just be advised – right now Britain is hanging on by a thread. If you chaps are going to sweep in and save us by inoculating everyone left… well, you’d better do it fast.”

  “Wilco, CentCom. How long would you say we have to work with?”

  Jameson looked up at the shattered big board at the front of the JOC. In a way, he was glad he couldn’t see it. He knew it would only display a literal ring of death closing in on London.

  “I’m afraid that depends on everything. We’ve got a lot of men and machines in the field, fighting balls out. And we’ve got a giant wall around London. But I honestly don’t know how long we’re going to be able to hold.” He paused and drew breath. “Listen, this isn’t my command, and I’m not even supposed to be
here. I expect we can get you a better sitrep when the new command element lands, which should be any time now. But…”

  Jameson looked forlornly out the lack of window toward the continued and distressing lack of helicopters landing on that helipad.

  “…you probably need to be thinking days, not weeks.”

  Wing Drop

  JFK - Bridge

  The Kennedy’s bridge had unexpectedly become a place of some peace again. Despite the news that Britain, the last bastion of humanity – last one on shore, at any rate – was going down fast, it was hard to feel that peril here. Commander Abrams put down his radio phone handset, leaned back in his captain’s chair, and considered.

  Right now the boat was anchored way out in the middle of the Gulf of Aden, waiting for the completion of the shore mission. All the tracking and supporting of that mission was being done from CIC, and via air ops. There were plenty of workaday things to deal with, not least the never-shrinking list of shipboard repairs. But for once they actually weren’t that second in any kind of terrible crisis or ship-wide peril. And the peace of this empty stretch of ocean and the sunshine on it were nothing short of relaxing.

  It was all unaccustomed, and very pleasant.

  Just as Abrams had decided to take himself out on the observation deck and take a closer look at Africa, a sailor walked smoothly onto the bridge from the outside ladder. He was a good-looking blond man who appeared to be in excellent shape – big shoulders, narrow waist, and angular lines framing his face – and wearing the insignia of an electronics technician. He paused, took a long look around the bridge, then saw Abrams looking at him and saluted.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said in a confident voice. “Wrong turn.”

  And he turned on his heel and marched right back out.

  That’s weird, Abrams thought. He hadn’t recognized the inexplicably lost seaman. But that didn’t mean much – he had only been on board a week and a bit, and in command for just a few days. And his plate had been pretty full for most of that. He knew every single hand from the USS Michael Murphy, all of whom had been absorbed into the Kennedy crew. But he was still trying to learn the names of his bridge crew and senior officers – not to mention earn their respect and trust.

  He looked around the bridge, but no one else seemed to have noticed the man.

  Abrams hopped up and went out to the observation deck as planned – but with a different purpose. He got there in time to see the man fast-walking off the ladder and onto the flight deck. For some reason he couldn’t figure, Abrams now remembered the three banged-up seamen who had gotten on the wrong side of Alpha’s British operator… But as the man disappeared again, Abrams looked up and the original object of fascination grabbed at his attention again:

  Africa.

  As was his long habit, he liked to get a direct look at things. Somehow the mediation of drone video kept him from feeling whatever vibe he needed to really know what was going on – on the ocean surface, or out on the ground.

  So he stared off at the world’s second largest continent for a few minutes, trying to picture what it was like for Alpha and the Marines operating on their own in there. He was supposed to be getting occasional updates from CIC on their mission status, so he presumed nothing catastrophic had happened – yet.

  He took another minute just to stare out and sense the aura Africa gave off. It was strange to think he had come out of that place. Then again, everyone had come out of that place – all of humanity. The big question now was:

  Would their shore team be coming out again?

  And would they have the key to humanity’s salvation with them when they did? The secret to keeping the long run of homo sapiens from coming to an abrupt end – a mere 40,000 years after they started their long dispersion out of Africa, going on to colonize the rest of the globe.

  Abrams noted ruefully that it had only taken the virus a couple of weeks, also starting right here, to infect, subsume, and cover the entire planet.

  Give the double-stranded RNA its due…

  His reverie was interrupted by the ship-wide tannoy going, presumably from up in PriFly. “All hands be advised, air recovery ops under way. Make clear the angle deck. Air recovery ops imminent.”

  This would be one of the two surviving F-35s – and one of the two surviving pilots – coming back to refuel. The other one had already blasted off to take this one’s place, providing constant cover for the shore mission, thirty minutes ago. In a way, the recovery was a bigger deal than the launch – it required careful coordination with the movement of the carrier.

  Abrams hadn’t been much consulted for either operation – more just alerted. He honestly wasn’t sure whether this was because he was new, or because the acting captain of the boat just wasn’t that critical to flight ops. He was still learning as he went. Which in some ways was terrifying. But it was also just par for the course. As a grizzled chief petty officer had pointedly asked him once, while trying to drill some basic facts into his newly minted officer’s brain, “You did join the Navy to learn, didn’t you, son?”

  Abrams stayed outside long enough to watch the remarkable and heart-stopping ballet of an aircraft being recovered – and just long enough to see that it had been accomplished without disaster.

  Which was pretty amazing – for a maneuver like landing a jet plane on a boat.

  And then he went back inside and onto his bridge.

  * * *

  The first sighting of the flat-top still filled Hailey with awe, all these years later.

  It was just so damned big – and so small at the same time. Gigantic when you needed to walk across it, or paint it. And pretty damned tiny when you needed to land an aircraft with a 200mph stall speed on top of it. What she was about to do was a seriously complex and dangerous business.

  First she dropped down to her marshaling altitude, about five minutes before her Charlie time – the moment her tail hook would be crossing the ramp. She marveled at what a glorious day it was – mostly clear sky, beautiful rising sun, moving cumulus clouds and a breeze rippling the surface of the ocean and causing it to glint up at her, all the way out to infinity.

  She noted the exact wind speed and direction, checked the sea state, and got an update from PriFly. No surprises. Then she checked her fuel, mainly to know whether she needed to dump any of it to hit her max trap weight. But she was down to the bottom of the tank – they were keeping both her and Morris in the air every second they could before cycling them.

  Before she knew it, she and her bird were down at 800 feet, pushing 400+ knots, and approaching the stern, a hundred feet or so starboard of the ship. She simultaneously threw the stick over, stood on the left wing, and pulled hard, thumbing out the speed brake and yanking the throttle to idle – which got her down to the 180 knots she needed to be at for this to work.

  She dropped her gear, jockeyed the throttles, picked up the landing ball, hit her glide path – and watched with the inevitable and never-fading alarm that always accompanied the giant steel stern of the boat racing at her at over 200mph. She battled to stay on center-line, then put her hook right in between the 2- and 3-wires, and slammed the bird down onto solid steel. Finally, as the aircraft was yanked from its high-speed flight by a steel cable – going from 180 knots to nothing in 300 feet, causing her body to rage against her five-point harness – she retracted the speed brake and put her throttles to full military power, staying there until she came to a complete, jarring, unmistakable stop.

  She’d done it again. She was safely down. Another miracle.

  She got out of the wires and taxied clear of the landing area in another minute, throwing a thumbs-up to the maintenance chief. His crew chocked and chained the bird, and Hailey raised her cowling, unstrapped her harness, unsnapped her mask, pulled off her helmet, and climbed out.

  “Hiya, Chief,” she said, hitting the deck as her chin-length russet hair spilled around her face, and she worked a little to get her sea legs back.

  “Hi
ya, Thunderchild,” he said. “Did we have a pleasant flight today?” The maintenance chief, whose name was Davis, was a Senior Chief with a lot of years in and the worry lines to prove it. His new number two – the best surviving aircraft mechanic after the legendary Stan bought it on Beaver Island – also gave a nod and a cheery wave, and started checking out the aircraft from the outside in. His name was Pete, a happy and funny kid. Hailey liked him.

  “Feeling a little wing drop on the left when maneuvering, actually.”

  “We’ll take a look,” Chief Davis said.

  These two were the domain masters who kept Hailey in the air, post-Stan. She had no idea how they knew enough to do that job. The Lockheed Martin F-35 Lighting II stealth fighter had about 300,000 individual parts, many of them moving – and none with replacements being manufactured anymore.

  But these guys did it, and they were amazing, and Hailey loved them for it.

  She smiled her thanks and headed below. She had about ninety minutes to get a bite, attend to bodily functions, and basically bleed away the stress of the mission – so she could go up and do it all again when her slot came back around. It was a lot of stress, responsibility – and flying.

  But today was turning into just about the best day of her career.

  Wrecking Crew

  Djibouti-Ambouli Airport - On the Tarmac

  When they left the beach and the half-destroyed shore launch behind them, Alpha and the Marines – collectively known as Team Cadaver – still had a little dawn left. Now they used it to get across the open ground of the airport’s runways and taxiways. They had cut into the fence on the seaward side of the airport, just beyond the dunes that fronted the beach.

  Handon was thinking that must have made for some damned dramatic sunbathing – with jumbo jets landing right over the beach umbrellas. Then he remembered the swarming sharks, and realized it was unlikely anyone would have been doing any sunbathing there.

  And his people weren’t here for sightseeing either.

  Cadaver One, namely Alpha, were on their own now, moving stealthily through the dark brown smudged light and broad open spaces of the airport grounds. Cadaver Two, the Marine element – plus Noise, detailed to them to even out the numbers – were separate but just within visual range. The two teams would be infiltrating Camp Lemonnier from different directions, and at different insertion points. This was one aspect of their “eleven eggs, two baskets” strategy, designed to reduce the odds of the whole force being taken down at once. This way, if one got in trouble, the other could come and help – or, more likely, run like hell, as it was absolutely critical that one group survive to finish the job.