Arisen, Book Nine - Cataclysm

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  He was snap-firing now, having to react more quickly than ever before. As a sharpshooter, he was usually able to take his time with a shot – and was virtually always static while shooting.

  Now if he went static he was dead.

  But he was getting the hang of it, leaping over ditches and brambles, dodging around trees, taking shots on any that got too close. Developing a rhythm. Making headshots on the fly. His twenty-round magazine went dry. He tried to keep his head up while changing it but both his pouches and his weapon were bouncing around, so he had to look down. When he’d reloaded and looked up again, there was one stepping into his path twenty yards away.

  Chug. Down it went.

  A runner piled into him from the side, but it couldn’t have weighed ninety pounds, so Elliott bounced off it, shoved it with his rifle stock, twisted at the waist and fired – chug, headshot – then faced forward, never really slowing down. The edge of the trees and the next field appeared ahead, with some kind of gully or ditch right at the border. Elliott got ready to leap it – being fully kitted out for combat was like being on a heavy-gravity planet – when a shadowed figure rose up out of the ditch, facing away.

  Chug, headshot, and it dropped back down.

  Elliott leapt over the gully, landing awkwardly on the other side.

  And he skidded to a halt.

  Oh, my God. He couldn’t have seen what he just saw. He’d only caught a flash in peripheral as he went over the ditch. But he thought he’d seen two things – the camouflage pattern of the clothing. And a stark white cylinder in its hand.

  Loo roll.

  He’d just killed another Para.

  Oh, dear God. Why wasn’t he wearing his helmet!? This couldn’t be happening. Elliott tried to will his legs to step back to the rim of the gully, but he felt mired in cement. And in that instant, three or four dead stumbled out of the woods, hot on his heels, and now literally fell into the ditch.

  And began gorging on the fresh body that lay at its bottom.

  This couldn’t have just happened. It was the exact opposite of what Elliott wanted, of what he was staying alive for. Oh, God, how he would have preferred to have died and this man lived instead. Now he could hear the horrible wet ripping and gnawing sounds as the body was torn apart and devoured, only feet away.

  Within seconds, though, one and then another of the Zulus in the ditch started climbing out the other side, vaguely aware of more prey ahead. And Elliott had no choice but to run, unless he wanted to join them.

  For a few seconds, standing stock-still and frozen with horror, he was tempted. Maybe that would be best. It would be so easy to just fall down into that dark ditch – to stop running, stop fighting, stop being afraid. And, mainly, stop being sad about the loss of his friend. To shield himself from any more terrible pain or regret. It seemed like it just kept adding up, the ZA piling in on him while he was weakest.

  Now the first pair were out of the ditch, lurching toward him with arms outstretched. Elliott looked into their quasi-human faces, their rheumy eyes and mottled skin, blood-slick chins and hands. And one thought obtruded into his brain: right now, he was the only thing that stood between them and the rest of his regiment behind him.

  It felt like willing dead wood into action, but he managed to bring his rifle to his shoulder. And, looking over the top of his sight, as they were only five feet away, he took them down. And something prodded him back into motion and action – almost as if he were watching himself from above. He turned and headed out at a jog into that next field, and then into the next treeline.

  And as he passed out of the open and into the trees, welcoming arms and concerned faces appeared out of the trenches to gather him in. And just like that he was back in friendly lines.

  He didn’t know how close to salvation he’d been when he nearly gave up.

  * * *

  “You all right, mate?” This was a platoon sergeant from C Company, Elliott’s sister company. Elliott vaguely knew him by sight, and saw that his nametape read Bhardwaj. About thirty years old, he was like a grand old man of the Paras, solid and unflappable. Moreover, as he looked into Elliott’s eyes from a foot away, flashing deep and genuine concern for his well-being, Elliott felt like crying.

  He nodded that he was okay, as the sergeant’s strong hands turned him around to check him out, then slapped him on the back. A couple of other squaddies crowded in, keeping him safe and keeping a lookout behind. Elliott felt completely cared for.

  “Weren’t out there all by yourself, were you?”

  He shook his head no.

  “The others?”

  No again. He finally found his voice. “Where’s D Company? I need to get back to my unit.”

  “Not likely, mate. We’re scattered all over the damned countryside now, moving north more like deaders ourselves than any kind of disciplined military formation. Nah, you stick with us for now, you’ll be all right.”

  Elliott’s throat caught again. And once again he nodded his assent.

  Five minutes ago, back at that ditch, now seemed like a lifetime ago, and a world away. And Elliott thought: thank God he hadn’t given in to despair.

  He had to never let that happen again.

  Secret Squirrels

  Camp Lemonnier - Southwest Guard Tower

  “At a certain point,” Zorn said, “I realized it was safer just to herd the damned things, rather than try to destroy them all. Especially working on my own.”

  Zorn, Handon, and Fick were now up in another one of the guard towers – also on the south wire, but farther to the west. Zorn was pointing out his handiwork – how he had segregated the camp into discrete sections with fencing and HESCO barriers. And then, section by section, had cleared them by herding all the dead into the next pen, then closing up the fence behind them.

  “How’d you herd them toward one side,” Fick asked, “but get the fence closed behind them?”

  Zorn nodded. “Generally, I threw flashbangs, or fired forty-mil smoke rounds. They’d usually follow those. Then I used this.” He opened up a little storage shed against the wall and pulled out a metal box with a variety of buttons. “These control the motor-driven sections of gate. I can open and close them, and channel the dead around that way.”

  “Clever,” Fick said. “What happens then?”

  “Once I get a group penned in next to the outside wire, I open that up, and set them free. It’s a lot easier than fighting them. Not to mention safer.”

  “I’ve seen enough,” Handon said, and started to climb down.

  * * *

  Brady covered Reyes as he passed by the main vehicle entrance in the north wire, and eased open the smaller person-sized gate near the remains of the security shack. It opened without squeaking and he stepped outside. The two of them were doing a recon of the main camp gate on their own initiative. It seemed like it would be helpful to verify that the outer wire was actually intact. So far, it was.

  Stepping outside the camp and scanning to the north from left to right, Reyes could see Djibouti Town out in front of them – and could just about make out a variety of slouching figures standing around, unmoving and peaceful. To his right, a little way down the road, a line of pickup trucks on the roadside made it look like a parking lot at a country music festival.

  In four minutes, he and Graybeard had checked and cleared the vehicles.

  Graybeard touched his radio button. “Hey, Master Guns, it’s Graybeard.”

  Fick’s voice came back, thin and slightly hissy. “Go ahead.”

  “There’s a whole bunch of raggedy-ass civilian pickups parked just outside the main gate. If we can get those running, they should do for transport.”

  “Copy that. Any idea who they belonged to?”

  “Militia, I’d say, judging from the brass scattered on the seats.”

  “Copy. Nice job. Now get back in here.”

  * * *

  “Okay,” Fick said. “What now?”

  After putting Zorn back i
n his office, he and Handon had stepped out again to confer in private.

  “We could do a sweep of the town,” Handon said. “See whether any of what he told us is true. And see if we get lucky finding a local or an American in uniform.”

  Fick nodded. “Yeah, but that won’t come for free. Once we start poking around out there, we may rile up the dead – wherever the hell they’re from.”

  “Let’s get some aerial ISR on the town. We’ll take a look at the footage, and depending on what we see…”

  “Yeah – just move on to the next phase of the plan. Go directly to Hargeisa.”

  “Exactly,” Handon said. “But with one tactical advantage.”

  “This guy,” Fick said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the building behind them. “Bring him with us. Local knowledge, local guide.”

  Handon nodded. “Exactly. Odds are he can help us find an earlier-stage victim than we would on our own.”

  “And he might even keep us breathing a little longer than we would otherwise.”

  Handon nodded and led the way back inside.

  Henno came back at the same time – catching the door as Fick was trying to close it on him.

  * * *

  “Here’s the deal,” Handon said, not bothering to sit. “We’re going to recon the town. Then we’re moving overland to Hargeisa. And we’re taking you with us. We need your local knowledge, and we need you to guide us. Help us avoid dangers on the road, and in the population centers.”

  Zorn snorted once. “Oh, do you now?”

  “Yeah,” said Fick, also standing – and taking a step closer. “We do.”

  “Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re going there.”

  “We told you,” Handon said. “Reconning the area.”

  “Yeah, you did tell me that. But what you told me is bullshit. What are you really doing here?”

  Handon shook his head. “It’s classified. And we don’t have time.”

  Zorn laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure it is. You secret squirrels, with your ‘my ops are blacker than your ops’ bullshit.’”

  Okay, Handon thought. He got it now.

  This was one of those conventional forces leaders who didn’t like SOF guys. Didn’t like them operating in his battlespace. Didn’t like them bypassing his operational command, getting all the training money and best equipment, poaching his best men and officers. Handon had seen it before.

  Almost always, the young enlisted guys idolized the operators. They all wanted to grow up to be D-boys, or at least Green Berets. But the leadership was different. It was generally too late for them. Plus they had their own serious responsibilities, and needed their junior men with their minds on their jobs, not on hero worship, or on how to get invited to Delta Selection. And, in fairness, having teams they didn’t control moving a hundred miles an hour in their backyard could sometimes cause headaches, or worse.

  By the midpoint of the War on Terror, though, most SOF and conventional unit commanders had learned to play nice. And where they didn’t, SOCOM and JSOC were so powerful and indispensable they could bear whatever scorn conventional unit commanders cared to throw at them. It hardly mattered. And it wasn’t going to matter today, either – this guy was not going to fuck with Handon’s mission.

  “Look,” he said. “This isn’t a negotiation. We have authority here.”

  “Oh, isn’t it? And do you now?”

  “Seriously,” Fick said. “Don’t fuck with us on this. Suffice it to say the entire goddamned world is on the line.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” Zorn said. “You spec-ops guys think you’re saving the world every time you go for a shit. And you never share the operational details – no matter who it effects – because your shit is so goddamned sensitive.”

  Handon took a deep breath. Maybe he was going at this the wrong way. It was starting to look like this guy wasn’t going to be bullied.

  Before he could reset and try a different tack, Zorn spoke up again. “I’ll tell you what, though. I’ve got one last big section of this camp to clear – the whole northwest quadrant. I’d already got it half-cleared, when a small but mean herd blew in, took down a section of the outside wire, and overran the sections I’d already done. Re-clearing it all would take me a month or more to do on my own. But with your ten guys, we could have it done in a day. You do that for me and, sure, I’ll guide you to Hargeisa. No problem.”

  Handon looked to Fick, then back to Zorn. He noted the Ranger tab on the man’s shoulder. It meant he had completed the toughest combat leadership course in the U.S. military, 61 days of near-hell. And Handon had as well. When you joined the Unit, you pretty much stopped wearing patches and insignia – hell, you didn’t wear uniforms most of the time. But one thing Handon missed, and still felt slightly naked without, was his Ranger tab.

  It told you something about a man.

  “Why is it so important to you to clear this base?” Handon said.

  Zorn paused. “Because it’s my goddamned job. You’ve got your mission. Mine is to retake this installation. So that at whatever time I am either relieved or reinforced, the U.S. military’s outpost in East Africa will be secure, operational, and standing tall.”

  Fick shook his head. “You do realize there’s no longer a U.S. military?”

  Handon shook his as well. “Look. I’m sorry. We don’t have time for that. What we’re doing here is for the benefit of everyone left. Not just the military.”

  Zorn snorted. “Somehow I doubt that, too. For the benefit of SOCOM, most likely.” He paused and looked from Handon to Fick and back. “We’ve got different chains of command, right? You guys make that clear enough whenever you’re posted to our AO and want to do whatever the fuck you want, with no regard for what we want, or for the overall mission in theater. You spec-ops guys are used to getting your own way whenever you need the conventional battlespace commander to do something for you. Well this time the shit’s on the other goddamned foot.”

  Henno spoke up from the corner, his voice somewhere between unamused and malevolent. He said, “This is nothing but an ankle grab.”

  Zorn said, “You can tie me up and march me around at gunpoint. But I’m not gonna tell you shit. And I’m definitely not gonna provide you with transport.”

  Fick said, “We’ve got transport. There are trucks outside the main gate.”

  Zorn laughed. “Yeah, good luck getting across half of Somalia in those broken-down jingle buses.”

  “Why? Can you do better?”

  “Fuckin’ A.” Zorn looked toward the door. “Allow me to sweeten the pot.”

  * * *

  Zorn’s back rippled under his fatigue blouse as he pulled on the chain that raised the garage door. Hulking behind it was the mother of all armored vehicles.

  “MRAP,” Fick said, nodding his approval. Pronouncing it “em-rap,” he was using the generic term for Mine-Resistant Ambush-Protected vehicles.

  “Not just any MRAP,” Zorn said, turning back to face them. “This is the International MaxxPro – XL version.”

  Handon and Fick admired the behemoth, while Henno shook his head at yet another gratuitous display of American dick-measuring. The humongous truck was dirt-colored, thickly armored, with six huge knobby tires – and stood fully fifteen feet tall with the gunner’s turret up top.

  “Seats ten in full combat gear comfortably,” Zorn said, “or twelve if you squeeze in. Fifty-cal up top, in a fully protected turret. Tops out at sixty-five mph, and ranges out to six hundred kilometers on a single tank.”

  Fick circled around the side, checking out the steel louvers over the side windows. “What does this bad boy weigh?”

  “Thirty thousand pounds,” Zorn said. “Unloaded. Don’t get in front of it once it gets moving. Obviously, it’s got the V-shaped hull to survive even the biggest IEDs. Not that we’ll see many of those these days. Then again, you never know.”

  Handon spoke drily. “I’m guessing the starter’s been re
moved.”

  Zorn nodded his head slowly. “Good guess.”

  “We’ll find it.”

  “Oh, no you won’t. And in addition to knowing where the starter is, I know the roads across Djibouti and Somalia. I know the impassable areas, and I know something about the herd movements in the region. I can get you to Hargeisa in this in six or eight hours, just as safe as houses.”

  “And we already know your price,” Fick said.

  “Yep.”

  Henno shook his head, not for the first time. “We don’t have time for this.”

  Handon looked at Henno and said, “Watch him.” Then he pulled Fick around the corner and down the alley. Once they were out of sight, he lowered his voice and said, “I’m not thrilled about being blackmailed.”

  Fick nodded. “Didn’t expect you would be.”

  “But then again… there’s actually only one way to find out for sure whether or not this place is a dry hole for our mission objective.”

  “Yeah. Do exactly what he wants us to do anyway. Sweep and clear.”

  Handon nodded. “Yep. Then we’ll either have ourselves a dead American in uniform. Or we’ll know we’re not getting one.”

  Fick cocked his head. “And at that point, we might be glad to have this place as a secure base of operations. Because God knows how long the expedition will last then.”

  Handon nodded. “An FOB where we can top up supplies and ammo. Also a safe HLZ, someplace the Seahawk can touch down without getting swarmed.”

  “And ultimately,” Fick said, “get Patient Zero, not to mention our precious asses, the hell out of here.”

  “Exactly,” Handon said. “And I also still really like the idea of having someone who knows the ground getting us to Hargeisa.”

  “Although not necessarily this asshole.”

  “No,” Handon said. “But you go to war with the asshole you’ve got. And, as you said, he might be all that keeps us alive when the shit comes down. He kept himself alive here for two years – somehow.”

  Fick shrugged. “We can probably clear the northwest quarter of this base in a couple of hours, if everyone pitches in.”