Arisen, Book Eight - Empire of the Dead

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  If he fell apart, and got everyone killed, took everything down with him. Two inches from the goal line or two thousand miles… two seconds from victory, or two years… it wouldn’t matter in the least.

  It would all come down to nothing.

  And his legacy would be failure.

  And his memorial – death. Death covering the world.

  And in this brief moment of clarity, that voice within him told him the truth: that he had stepped up to take command of the strike group in its hour of greatest need – and had saved this ship and everyone on it many times over. He had kept her floating, and everyone on her alive, for over two years of post-Apocalypse. He had even led them to victory in the Battle of the JFK, damn near miraculously getting the ship and crew out from under ten million Zulus.

  But everyone has limits.

  And maybe he just wasn’t going to be able to take them all the way home.

  His eye was drawn again to the framed photo in the corner of the desk. It was a humble little six-by-four, a photo of the Captain’s family – and evidently the only personal item he had allowed himself. It was a reminder to Drake that one man could only do so much. And that he was not the first person to be pushed past his limits trying to do this job.

  But if he had filled a crucial role for a while, at the critical moment of history… maybe that was enough. Part of him still felt as if he was quitting, running out on his people, and on his duty. And that feeling was lacerating. But maybe the last contribution Drake could make, his last indispensable act, would be to decide that, at least for now…

  He could do no more.

  He picked up the phone handset from the desk.

  And he dialed the hospital.

  * * *

  “Commander – enemy surface contact is slowing!”

  Abrams went back to the station with the drone video and radar feed. Both were now being fed in from their Fire Scout helo drone, which had replaced the destroyed Predator. Up at 15,000 feet and ranging out way ahead, it was also having to fly at a pretty good clip both to keep up with the JFK and, mainly, to stay out of the Russian’s long-range SAM circle of death.

  Abrams sighed as he leaned over the station again. He wasn’t actually sure why he ever left this spot.

  “How slow?” he asked.

  “Sir, they appear to be stopping… enemy contact is now static. It looks like they’re giving up the chase.”

  Abrams blinked once, slowly. “They’re not giving up the chase. They’re consolidating their winnings.” He pointed at the radar display. “Look. They’ve taken up their old position, in the mouth of Saldanha Bay. They’ve got their base back. And their supplies.”

  Abrams straightened up and went back to his station.

  “Helm,” he said. “All stop.”

  Face blank, Abrams collapsed back into his chair. They were now, it seemed, and in every sense…

  Dead in the water.

  High Explosives, No Knife Fight

  Admiral Nakhimov - Well Deck

  Lieutenant Commander Cole, formerly the Kennedy’s CAG, but now a prisoner of war, looked around in the tiny cabin, his pupils dilating and straining to see into the darkness that filled the corners. There were random bits of crap, unused gear, an actual mop in a bucket.

  LCDR Cole retained his rank. But Drake would have appointed a new acting CAG by now. Though, thinking about it, Cole was not entirely sure who that would be. Who was left? Wells, maybe? What a pass things had come to if Hailey was in charge.

  Cole was tied to a chair, his bare feet flat on the cold, wet, not terribly hygienic floor, in a cabin that he had a strong sense was way down in the bottom decks of this huge warship. All his gear, plus his shoes, had been taken from him. But at least they let him keep his flight suit. And his excellent looks, broad shoulders, eyes that flashed with intelligence, and general air of being the master of events was as yet undimmed.

  He shivered slightly and rubbed his bare feet together. It wasn’t warm down here, and it wasn’t pleasant – but it was warmer than floating out on the open ocean, and it was more pleasant than that abortive fist-fight he’d tried to have with the Russian combat swimmers who came for him.

  He’d lost. But he’d at least put up a fight.

  The same might be said of his air mission. He and Tom-o had both gotten their missiles off before being taken down. He’d been blindfolded while in the Russian helo, and while being taken aboard – but he could tell this ship hadn’t been moving at the time, and there was also the unmistakable smell of smoke. Clearly, some kind of damage control effort was going on.

  So one or more of their missiles had gotten through. And they had stopped the enemy vessel in its tracks. He was pretty sure it was moving again now, though it was hard to tell on a ship this big and heavy. Anyway, for all he knew, it might yet sink from the damage he’d inflicted.

  That would rule, he thought, laughing internally at his own self-conscious bravado. But however clichéd the sentiment, it was also true. He’d be delighted to go down with this particular ship.

  As long as he took all the bastards on it with him.

  * * *

  Abrams looked up as an unfamiliar figure entered the JFK bridge. It was Lieutenant Commander Walker, flight surgeon and CO of the hospital. She had a look on her face that said she wished she were here under better circumstances.

  She saluted as she passed Abrams, but then wordlessly carried on walking the length of the bridge, only stopping before the Captain’s Ready Room. She paused a second before knocking twice, letting herself in – and closing the hatch behind her.

  Abrams only had a few seconds to wonder whether this represented good news or not, when the door opened again and Walker exited. She had Drake with her. The two walked side by side to Abrams’s station and stopped.

  Drake looked a little better. But the words that came out of his mouth could have hardly have been more surprising if they had been laser beams.

  “Commander Abrams,” he said. “Be advised that I am sending myself down to the hospital, and reporting to sick call.” He paused and swallowed. “I am ready to be relieved.”

  Abrams stood, took up the position of attention, and saluted. He said: “I relieve you, sir.”

  Drake saluted back. Snapping it down sharply, he said: “The ship is yours.”

  Abrams held the position of attention and kept his salute up as he barked, “Commanding officer leaving the deck!”

  Every man and woman of the bridge crew – officer, petty officer, and seaman – rose, stood at attention, and saluted. And they held the position until Drake and Walker were gone from sight.

  * * *

  As the hatch unexpectedly opened, Cole opened his eyes again to the harsh glare of lights coming in from the companionway outside. He must have drifted off, for how long he didn’t know. He also guessed the Russian ship had stopped again. As before, it was hard to tell. But there seemed to be a very low-frequency vibration that was missing from before.

  As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw there was a single figure silhouetted in the doorway. The newcomer entered carrying a chair, put it down opposite Cole, then sat down in it facing him. As his eyes continued to adjust, Cole was able to make out an ordinary Russian naval officer’s uniform – long double-breasted tunic and pants, both dark-blue, and dark-blue flat cap with gold braiding – but not much else. There was one striking thing about the officer, and it only hit Cole when she spoke.

  “Do you know what I am?” she asked in lightly accented English.

  Cole was tempted to answer, because he did know – she was a Russian naval intelligence officer. But he wasn’t planning on saying much here, so he figured he’d start as he meant to go on, and just keep quiet.

  “I am a Spetsnaz interpreter,” she said.

  Got that one wrong, Cole thought. Glad I kept my mouth shut.

  His eyes had adjusted now. And the first thing he saw was that she was not a small woman – part of why he hadn’t reco
gnized her gender in the first place. But that didn’t mean she was fat – far from it. Her extremely low body fat was visible in her face, in the fine lines on her forehead, in her big lean frame. She also moved smoothly and radiated some kind of power. Not only was this woman clearly in great shape, but it also seemed obvious she had discipline, probably in all areas of her life and work.

  She radiated pure will.

  “And for interpreter,” she said, “you can translate that as interrogator. And for interrogator, well…” She reached down and patted a black bag at her side, which Cole had not seen before. The fact that he had to imagine what was inside somehow made it much more ominous.

  Cole steeled himself, digging down for his own will – to resist. This, after all, was part of his job. He just never thought he’d actually end up like this…

  But the woman made no move toward the bag. Not yet. Instead, she said, “You know about Spetsnaz?”

  Cole just put on his most bored expression. It was a disguise – to her, but also to himself. He could feel the fear welling up in him. It was unfamiliar, and it was unpleasant, and he didn’t like it one bit.

  “I will tell you a little, then,” she said. “The typical Spetsnaz soldier is a skeptic, a cynic, and a pessimist. He believes in the depravity of human nature, and knows – from his own experience – that, in extreme conditions, man becomes a beast. He does not believe in justice, goodness, or humanity. He exists in a state of complete freedom – in which he fears nobody, trusts no one at all, and would not ask anyone for anything. Especially mercy.”

  She paused and looked down at her hands, which were folded serenely in her lap.

  “Do you understand?”

  Cole had to hand it to her that her English was flawless. But he still had no interest in talking to her.

  She shifted her posture very slightly. “Let me put this in more concrete terms for you. I was once asked, at an embassy cocktail party in Moscow, the following question: How long can a very strong person hold out against questioning by Spetsnaz? And do you know what my answer was? One second. One second is how long the strongest can hold out against Spetsn—”

  But she swallowed her last syllable, as the ship rocked violently, just one time, all around them. Before either could react, there were three more hard jolts, all in a series. The lights out in the companionway flickered, then came back up – then went out entirely. Emergency lighting came on at floor level, providing just enough illumination to see.

  The interrogator traded one last emotionless look with Cole, then wordlessly rose and walked out, pulling the hatch shut behind her.

  “How’s that pessimism working out for you now, you spooky bitch!” Cole shouted after her.

  He had finally found something he wanted to say.

  The Sound of Children’s Laughter

  JFK - Bridge

  When Abrams first sat down again – after Drake’s withdrawal from the field, and his handover of command – he had breathed an enormous sigh of relief. The burden of command was of course terrible. But that was dwarfed by a sense of relief – that Drake was no longer having to struggle to fill his role.

  And, mainly, that a bad or confused call on his part wasn’t going to get everyone killed.

  Now, almost two hours later, Abrams looked around the bridge – his bridge. And it seemed like there was something he was supposed to do, something he had forgotten. It finally hit him. He got up and relocated himself to the Captain’s station. And as he did so, he said aloud: “All standing orders, regulations, and instructions remain in effect.”

  And then he sat himself down.

  “Sir,” the bridge radar operator said, “Jesus Two Zero is inbound. Again.”

  As Abrams rose and headed for the observation deck – as usual, he wanted to see this firsthand – the interior hatch opened, and Handon came back in. Evidently, he had his own radar operator, or other intelligence source. He fell in with Abrams, and they both exited the bridge, stepped outside, and leaned up against the railing.

  The Seahawk reappeared from the same place it had disappeared to, emerging from the trees and ground clutter on the coast of Africa, still staying close to the deck. But this time, its sling-loaded mini-sub was gone.

  Abrams didn’t even want to ask where to.

  And then the shot-up helo approached the Kennedy flying low, soared upward to clear the flight deck, then set down by the island, just as pretty as you please – and just like they had been out on any other mission.

  Abrams still didn’t want to ask.

  He and Handon listened as the engines came offline, then watched the rotors spin down. Four figures exited the aircraft – just as several flight deck crew, who had not been alerted this time, raced out to make it secure and safe. They didn’t look pleased.

  But, somehow, the four heading the opposite direction did look pleased. Handon could now make them out as Ali, Homer, Pred, and Henno. The first two were still visibly dinged up, with bandages on their faces and elsewhere. Also, Henno was now wearing a wetsuit, and both he and Homer were still dripping water.

  Intrigued, Handon and Abrams circled around the observation platform, following the four as they went around the island toward the stern. When they reached it, Pred and Henno remained standing, while Homer and Ali sat, their legs dangling off the very back edge of the boat.

  And they all stared off toward the south.

  They looked as if they were waiting for something.

  Abrams looked over to Handon and said, “What the hell are they doing? It’s not like they can see anything from here.” There was absolutely nothing in visual range to their south. Certainly the Admiral Nakhimov wasn’t close enough to see – not even with binoculars – and not even if it weren’t tucked away back in Saldanha Bay.

  Handon just smiled. When Abrams looked back down to the deck, he could see Homer conspicuously check his watch.

  Two beats passed.

  “Commander!” This was his old friend the drone video and radar operator. “The Admiral Nakhimov! She’s…” but his voice trailed off.

  Abrams darted back inside to see for himself on the monitor. And he immediately knew why the ensign hadn’t had words to describe it. Great gouts of water were blasting up on both sides of the Russian battlecruiser, in four different places. Now the ensign found the words.

  “She’s listing, sir! She looks like she’s floundering! She’s going down!”

  And so she is, Abrams thought. Son of a bitch.

  Handon was just wondering what Homer had done with the six remaining limpet mines.

  * * *

  When the first water hit Cole’s bare feet, it was already coming in and rising fast.

  Nice, was all he thought.

  He was going to get to die thinking he and his wingman had done this, with their missile attack – and the follow-on damage it had no doubt caused. He had no way of knowing who had recently been swimming around underneath this vessel, nor what they had been sticking to the keel. And that was okay.

  So the “best day of their lives” had gone rather quickly and completely to shit. But, you know what? He still got to fly today – and he got to fly the best, most thrilling, and most completely ass-kicking aircraft humanity had ever produced.

  Moreover – he got to do his duty.

  And he got to go out doing what he loved.

  So it was still a damned good day.

  And, like every day, it too would eventually end.

  The water was up to his waist now, having only taken a few seconds to rise to that height. This vessel was taking on water at a rate that could only mean one thing – it was heading straight for the bottom. The water was extremely cold. But that was okay, too.

  Cole closed his eyes, leaned back, and smiled.

  It looked like his last thoughts were going to be of his parents, and especially of his sisters, all of them gone these two years now. He wasn’t a believer, and he knew there were actually plenty of atheists in foxholes. And he w
as one of them. But… who knows? Maybe he’d be going to see his family now. It was a lovely thought to have. To choose to have.

  And to finish up on.

  As the water reached his chin, he decided he would hold his breath – just to enjoy a few more seconds of consciousness, of awareness. Of life.

  Of gratitude for having been here.

  * * *

  Handon could hear the uproar, tumult, and celebration exploding out behind him from the bridge. But he stayed where he was out on the observation deck. He couldn’t take his eyes off his three men and one woman below, who he figured could also hear the celebratory whoops.

  What you maniacs did…

  And as Handon looked on, both Homer and Ali, still sitting, leaned way back and rested on their hands behind them. And then… he saw Ali turn and kiss Homer once on the shoulder.

  But then there came new shouts, higher pitched ones, and from down on the flight deck – and these caused Homer to drag his obviously weary bones up from the deck, open his arms wide, and smile enormously.

  “Daddy!”

  Emily had brought Ben and Isabel up from below. Evidently, they’d also gotten word Homer was back. Handon was glad someone had thought to tell them. And as he watched Homer sweep up both angelic children and whirl them around, it became totally obvious to Handon exactly why, and how, Homer had done what he did.

  For them. He did it all for them.

  And it occurred to him: the safest place in the entire world might actually be wherever Homer’s kids were. It was starting to look like they were the future – in every sense.

  Guess we’d better get them back to Britain, he thought.

  Then it would never fall.

  Even if Homer had to defend it singlehandedly.

  * * *

  Hailey got her stand-down order over the radio, and instantly popped her canopy.

  As the breeze hit her, and she climbed out and stepped down the ladder, she realized two things. One, she was soaked in sweat. And, two, she could start breathing again. As the fear and tension melted away, it was as if no Navy pilot had ever been so happy not to have to fly anywhere.