ARISEN, Book Twelve - Carnage

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  Lieutenant (junior grade) Andrew Wesley looked across the dim, cool space of the hangar, in the glare of the two work lights the aircraft mechanics had set up. They had only been on the ground for two hours, and it was only about eight minutes ago they had finished their work on the aircraft – in accordance with the orders of the ground team commander, Sergeant Major Handon.

  And as executed by LT Wesley.

  Wesley and his two-man NSF team, Jenson and Burns, along with the two mechanics, Chief Davis and Pete, had gotten dropped off by the Seahawk that Wesley had basically helo-jacked, in a hair’s-breadth escape from the maelstrom of fighting on the carrier. After they were in the air, Wesley’d had his work cut out for him convincing the pilot to divert to the airport and drop them off. But the man needed them the hell out of his aircraft – he was on a clock to pick up Team Cadaver, along with Patient Zero, at the edge of the Nugal River Valley.

  Wesley liked the man, Cleveland, and wished him well.

  But Wesley had his orders, and those had been to make the plane in this hangar flight-worthy. This had involved – after finding the hangar and plane quickly enough – Davis and Pete springing into action with their packs of tools and supplies, and crawling over and through the aircraft like scrubbing bubbles.

  They performed a complete inspection of the plane’s mechanical and electrical systems, checked for rot or corrosion throughout the airframe fabric and skin, tested flight and engine controls, pulled the turbo-prop engine plugs and scoped the cylinders, replaced the battery, checked for moisture content, replaced rotten lines, hoses, and clamps, repaired minor cracks in exhaust stacks, checked hydraulic lines for leakage, examined the tires for wear or cuts, checked tension of control cables and movement of control surfaces, and finally topped it up with new lubrication and hydraulic fluids.

  At the end of this process, which Wesley and his two NSF guys had assisted with one at a time, while the other two pulled security, Chief Davis stood back, wiping his hands on his overalls, and said:

  “Well… she’ll probably get off the ground.”

  “But is it safe?” Wesley asked.

  Both Davis and his young charge Pete gave Wesley a look like he’d been offered a hamburger and asked if he could also have a herd of cattle. Neither even bothered to answer. Of course it wasn’t safe, at least not by any standards the FAA would recognize. But they’d done their best – done miracles, really, with the resources and time they had.

  And having finished the official refurb and inspection, the two continued to tinker here and there – there were lots of little things they could fiddle with, to improve the odds of the plane staying in the air. And none of them knew how long they were going to have to wait there. Only Wesley even knew what they were waiting for – and he wasn’t saying.

  Eight minutes turned out to be how long they had to wait. But none of them imagined what they were waiting for was a nearby firefight. And they really hadn’t had any expectation whatsoever of what they were about to be asked to do about it.

  They were all about to go way above and beyond the call.

  * * *

  “Stay put,” Wesley told the others. “I’ll be back.”

  Deciding to take the initial risk himself, he slipped out the side door, at the rear on the left side, and darted up the alley between hangars. The sounds of fighting grew louder – and seemed much closer. Then, raising his rifle, but terrified of having to use it, he leaned forward until he could peer out the front and to the right.

  And he could immediately see there was truly a wicked, balls-out fight going on out there. Even with them all hugging tarmac, they were close enough that he could recognize some of the people in the pinned-down force. He recognized them as his friends. And they were about to get murdered out there in the open.

  Wesley turned and headed back into the hangar – at a sprint.

  * * *

  “It’s the shore team,” he said to the four expectant faces that greeted him inside. Before anyone could speak, he drew his side arm, reversed it, and handed it to Chief Davis.

  The others all froze with open mouths.

  Wesley looked over at Jenson. “Give Pete your pistol,” he said. When Jenson hesitated, he said, “Do it!”

  “Uh, what’s happening?” Pete said, reluctantly taking the weapon.

  “Yeah,” Burns echoed – older, more confident, and much less easily spooked. But still concerned. “What’s happening?”

  “Our guys are in trouble,” Wesley said. “We have to help.”

  “Not really trained for that kind of thing,” Chief Davis said – though he seemed to belie that claim by smoothly chamber-checking Wesley’s M9 for a round in the chamber.

  Don’t I know it, Wesley thought.

  He knew full well that he and his two NSF guys, Jenson and Burns, were amateur gunfighters at best – and the mechanics no sort of gunfighters at all. And he, just like them, was scared to death and felt an overwhelming desire to just freeze in place, to cover up and hide. Hell, he was probably more scared than all of them, as he had gone and seen first-hand what it was like out there.

  But he had already decided. He’d decided nearly instantly, even before he got back. Their friends out there had no time, and there was only one possible choice to make. So Wesley, as commander, made it – and he did so in a heartbeat.

  Creating a mental map of the fight as he understood it, he realized from the angles of fire that the attackers must be between the hangars, facing out. And he knew there was an alley that ran along the back of the buildings. Hefting his rifle and looking into the four fearful faces, he formed an attack plan as they moved out.

  “Just stay close to me. When we reach the enemy, they’ll have their backs to us. All you’ve got to do is use your guns, don’t lose your nerve – and shoot them all before they turn around. Got it?”

  Davis and Burns managed to nod. Jenson and Pete didn’t.

  But they all followed him out that door.

  * * *

  Wesley instantly discovered that his breezy prediction about the enemy all facing away had been over-optimistic. It was a reminder that he was still a neophyte in the deadly business of armed combat – and that their opponents were consummate professionals. The Russians had a single picket posted in their rear, hunkered down behind a crate at the back of the alley. And only by the purest luck was he stealing a look over his shoulder, to their front, as Wesley rounded the corner at the head of his team.

  In that frozen instant, as Wesley’s eyes went wide, and the guard twisted to face the rear again, Wesley realized God had given him exactly one second, which was his to use in one of two ways. Either he could be fast and accurate and cold-blooded and kill this man, thus perhaps securing for himself the rest of his life forever after.

  Or else that second would be the rest of his life.

  There wasn’t really time to aim, but there definitely wasn’t time to miss, so Wesley said a prayer of thanks that he already had his weapon up, and he used his red-dot reflex sight.

  With perfect and brutal clarity he could see the eyes of the Russian go wide as he turned around to face five newcomers in their rear. But in the same motion the man was also leaning down to his own sight to engage Wesley – and he had a much quicker-acquiring sight than Wes did. All Wesley had was that one precious second.

  He squeezed his trigger, just one time.

  The Russian disappeared behind the crate.

  Wesley kept moving, leading the others into the rear of the main force. And all of the others, seven heavily armed men, did have their backs turned – and were totally exposed. As Wesley started firing, he could hear the others beside and behind him doing the same. None of their weapons were silenced, so the Russians were instantly alerted to their peril, and turned around, bringing their rifles up and shooting.

  Crouching and wincing, waiting for the shot that would take him, Wesley kept shooting until no one was moving in front of them. By that time, his breath was totally magi
cked away, and his eyes were saucer-wide. This was, by a comfortable margin, the most intense experience he’d had on this through-the-looking-glass journey – the most intense experience of his life. They’d not only just intentionally attacked a larger group of career special forces soldiers – they had just gunned down seven living men, from close enough to look them in the eye. When he realized they’d done it, he sagged with exhausted relief, and turned around to face his team.

  He immediately saw Chief Davis was dropping his pistol mag out – but he was doing it with one hand, because the other was pressed to his shoulder, where blood was already seeping out. Wesley’s face paled with concern – but then he saw Davis didn’t look all that worried. Maybe he was okay.

  But Jenson definitely wasn’t.

  The young man was down on the deck. And when Wesley knelt down to check his breathing and pulse… he had neither.

  Jenson was gone.

  And now, at last, Wesley came fully into his own as a combat leader, whether he wanted the mantle or not. Because he had not only just lost a man under his command – he had lost him on an operation that he himself had planned and led.

  He had ordered Jenson to his death.

  * * *

  When Wesley stood again and turned around, the first thing he saw was Predator, walking straight toward him, with a body bag thrown over his shoulder. Wesley still had a lump in his throat, but he mastered himself and spoke to the huge commando.

  “Glorified mall security guards. At your service.”

  Predator took his helmet off and looked Wesley in the eye. “No way, man. Forget I ever said that. You guys are straight-up warriors. And I’m honored to fight beside you.” He then put out his ham-sized hand, and Wesley took it.

  And when Wesley looked back down at Jenson, he could see another soldier squatting down and checking on him. The newcomer was also blond-haired and very young, but tooled up in proper military weapons and gear. He also had a huge grenade launcher slung on his back. It was Baxter – and he could see that Jenson had been shot right through his NSF body armor, which was lightweight and not rated to stop high-velocity rifle rounds.

  Baxter looked up at Wesley and said, “I’m sorry… I think it wa—”

  But he was interrupted by the others trotting up, led by Ali. She said, “Thanks” – then glanced down at Baxter looking distraught over Jenson. “But do yourself a favor and radio ahead next time you’re going to assault into our fire lanes.”

  “Hey,” Fick grumbled, rounding on Wesley and pointing at his waist. “Is that my goddamned sword?”

  Wesley’s face went sheet white. He opened his mouth to stammer something about how Sergeant Lovell had given it to him, and he was just keeping it safe, but he got cut off.

  “Come on,” said Juice. “We need to get the hell off the street.”

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “And after that?”

  Juice said, “Don’t worry. Handon’s got us covered.”

  No one could bring themselves to say: “Handon’s dead.” For all they knew Juice was communing with him even then, out on the other side of death. He led the group into the hangar. He had last been there with Handon, recon’ing it, during their original insertion.

  Ten thousand years ago.

  Better Than to Gaze Upon God

  JFK – 01 Deck

  “Rear dock?” Sarah shouted to Lovell, as the sound of gunfire mercifully faded behind them. It was the obvious place to get their boat inflated and get themselves and Dr. Park the hell out of there, and out on the water.

  “Negative!” Lovell shouted back. “The dock’s how they infiltrated, and most likely how they plan to get reinforcements on board.” Lovell had been given intel that Spetsnaz was holding the rear dock, and holding it tight. He was slightly better wired in than Sarah to what intelligence picture existed. Though none of it was corroborated, and all of it might be bullshit. But, still, they couldn’t risk it.

  “Where to, then?” she asked.

  After climbing up one level, they had just managed to dodge a random gun battle belowdecks. Both knew job one was keeping Park out of the line of fire. He ran between the two of them now, unarmed – except for his laptop satchel and backpack, which were the great weapons with which was he going to win the ZA.

  Lovell looked back. If Sarah was feeling the strain of the load she was carrying, she didn’t show it. He was certainly feeling his. He brought them to a halt, ducking into an unlocked cabin. “There’s a little winch deck for bringing up cargo, just below the flight deck, amidships on the port side. We’re going to have winch the boat, and us, down from that.”

  Sarah said, “That doesn’t sound enormously safe.”

  “Does staying on this vessel seem safe to you?”

  “Fair point.”

  “We can get there pretty quickly from here – up one deck, and a dozen or so frames forward. Everyone okay?”

  Sarah and Park nodded vigorously.

  Lovell led them out again.

  * * *

  The dozen members of Drake’s assault team – Marines, NSF, and militia – crowded into dark corners of CIC, trying to stay out of the way. They appreciated the fact that they were safe in there. But they were also useless. The two Marines had their helmets pressed together – both crying quietly at the death of Corporal Dunham, who had fallen on a grenade right outside the hatch to save all the rest of them. Armour went over to them, draped her arms around their shoulders, and tried to console them.

  Meanwhile, Commander Drake was still sitting at a station, typing like a fiend – while Campbell waited for him to explain what the hell he was doing.

  “After the mutiny,” Drake said, not taking his eyes from the screen, nor pausing his typing. “When those goddamned Zealots seized the bridge and ran us aground.” He paused to reach for the trackpad and clicked it.

  “Yeah?” Campbell said.

  “After that, we decided to activate a system that had been developed, and had been rolling out for QA just before the fall. But, in part because it was untested, we’d previously judged it too dangerous to bring online – plus unnecessary.”

  He paused to press his right thumb to the print reader at this station. Then his left thumb. Then right index finger.

  “For reasons probably unnecessary to belabor, our assessment changed after we lost control of the ship and got run aground. But, even then, there were only three people authorized to access or use the system. One, the Captain.”

  “MIA,” Campbell said, squinting into the monitor glow and following what Drake was doing – and slowly getting the picture.

  “Yep. Then Abrams, after he came on board.”

  “KIA,” Campbell said.

  Drake didn’t respond to this. “And me.”

  “WIA,” Campbell said.

  “Yeah,” Drake said. “But still in the fight.” He clicked on an icon, leaned forward, and recited a line from Moby-Dick into the console’s microphone. “‘Close, stand close to me Starbuck. Let me look into a human eye. It is better than to gaze upon sea and sky. It is better than to gaze upon God.’”

  It was both passphrase and voice analysis.

  An alert flashed on the screen: “AUTHENTICATED.”

  And then he and Campbell both watched as a rich and very detailed graphical user interface materialized, across both monitors at the station. Laid out much like the bridge itself, it combined the controls for all of the stations on the bridge: helmsman, conn, navigator, tactical, and radar/sonar – even the CO and XO’s stations.

  “Jesus,” Campbell said, awe in her voice. “It’s like Nuclear Supercarrier the video game.”

  Drake shrugged. “Everything’s video-game warfare now.”

  “And it overrides the bridge controls?”

  “Totally.”

  “I can see why you thought it was too dangerous to launch.”

  “Danger’s relative.” Drake was taking a minute or two to get his mind around the interface.

  “And also w
hy you decided to fight your way here.”

  “Yep. A hell of a lot easier than retaking the bridge.” In a few seconds, Drake was in control – and had the whole kilometer-long warship turning. The approaching Russian Akula sub on the overhead display started swinging to the right, until it disappeared offscreen.

  Campbell said, “Upstairs right now, some Spetsnaz guys are shitting knishes.”

  In exactly another three minutes – Drake had them come around at a safe rate of one degree a second – the Kennedy was facing the opposite direction, back toward the Gulf, and was soon steaming in that direction and accelerating toward her blistering top speed of forty knots.

  Drake sat back in his chair and smiled. He looked up to the big screen where the CCTV guy had gotten a rear camera on the Russian sub – which was now quickly disappearing in their wake. “You jackasses have fun trying to catch us at ten knots,” he said. That was the Akula’s top speed while surfaced.

  An ops officer at the next station said, “They can make thirty-five if they submerge.”

  Drake looked over. “I don’t give a shit. Plus shut the fuck up.” He’d just saved all their asses.

  The least they could do was let him bask a little.

  * * *

  Lovell, Park, and Sarah hugged a bulkhead and strained their ears. Lovell had thought he heard something up ahead and to the right – it definitely wasn’t a gunfight, but something was happening. Or maybe he was losing his mind. He shook his head, both to clear it and to shake off the accumulated sweat droplets.

  Nodding to the others behind him, he moved out again silently and rounded the corner, slicing the pie a quarter at a time. And what he saw down there sent his heart into his throat – it was two boarders literally just turning away, fractions of a second too soon to see him. Lovell figured they had been doing the same thing – standing frozen and silent, thinking they had heard something around the corner. If Lovell had turned that corner a second earlier…