Monkey Business [Drunk Monkeys 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Tymber Dalton

  Roscoe, Niner, Foxtrot, and Kilo were as capable as any of them. Papa wouldn’t consider pulling the trigger on a search unless they hit the six-hour mark without any sign or word from them. And even then, they wouldn’t venture out until ten hours had passed.

  It was March of 2143, and eight months since TMFU—The Massive Fuckup, in military parlance. Communications in this part of the world could be sketchy even on a good day, depending on what was going on. Most of the infrastructure destroyed or damaged in the South Korean peninsula would never be rebuilt, and Japan’s rapidly decaying communication network would likely go unrepaired, too.

  Hell, at the rate that country was losing people, Japan would be practically uninhabited in five years, between fallout, Kite, and emigration.

  Then again, if the eggheads didn’t come up with a way to stop the spread of Kite, the whole world might be uninhabited in less than twenty years.

  Sooner, if some brains’ predictions were right.

  Alpha left to go in search of another beer for Quack. They wouldn’t drink anything harder until their guys returned. And while on ready status, they would all limit themselves to no more than two beers a day, needing to be at the top of their game in case they had to go out.

  No man left behind. Ever.

  So far, they hadn’t lost anyone on a mission, although they’d come close a few times. Fortunately no one had been lost to Kite, either.

  Yet.

  Doc hated the daily procedure, sticking himself first, followed by every guy in line. The only time the other nineteen men showed the slightest hint of fear, waiting to see if their stick test would turn blue or stay clear.

  To see if any of them had, despite precautions, caught Kite.

  Doc knew from his last communication with the military’s medical commander in Manila that Kite the disease pretty much had a ninety-nine-percent fatality rate. And the few who had survived would have been better off dead. Nearly all were left in a near-vegetative state. The extreme minority of those survivors who weren’t remained permanently disabled, unable to care for themselves. The virus created massive and irreparable neurological damage in the “lucky” survivors.

  Kite the drug frequently proved fatal, especially when combined with the virus that spread like influenza and seemed to kill like rabies while creating some effects similar to mad cow disease in the process.

  He’d love to personally wrap his fingers around the necks of whoever had created this damn disease, and the drug, too.

  Fucking eggheads.

  Doc played his winning hand, silently enjoying Quack’s tsk of disgust as he threw his own cards down.

  “I still think you’re sliding aces up your sleeves,” Quack teased.

  Doc held up his bare arms. “Not unless I stuck ’em up my ass.”

  “That’s what she said,” Zed called out from where he was cleaning his sidearm at one of the other tables.

  * * * *

  Papa awoke from his nap an hour later and walked out to the common room. They took turns in the racks, usually half of them awake and ready to mobilize at any given time.

  Doc didn’t want to wake their commanding officer sooner, because the man had gone nearly forty-eight hours without sleep before finally getting a chance to catch some Z’s.

  The major slowly surveyed the room before his hazel gaze landed squarely on Doc. Alpha was outside in the latrine or Doc knew their second-in-command would have gotten the grim honor.

  Doc shook his head.

  “Shit,” Papa muttered. Major Sam Warner, dubbed Papa because at thirty-three he was their CO and the second oldest next to Uncle, looked more awake now as he glanced at his watch. “How long overdue? Two hours?”

  Doc nodded.

  The four men had been sent out on a recon mission that should have taken no more than forty-eight hours. They had a secure sat-phone that they could use to call back to base.

  They hadn’t. And the men hadn’t answered calls to the phone from base at their pre-arranged check-in times, either. It had gone straight to the “off-line” tone response it gave when the phone was either powered off…or destroyed.

  Papa stared at the floor. “Okay,” he said. “Anyone close to rack time, make sure they get a nap, at the very least. We won’t start gearing up for at least another four hours.” He looked up at Doc. “You due?”

  “I got a solid eight hours earlier after we got back from our run.”

  “Okay, good. I’m going to go catch another few Z’s then. Wake me up in four if I’m not up yet.”

  Doc nodded. Papa headed back to one of their two rack areas that they all shared. The barracks weren’t much. They were part of a small detachment stationed in a rural area just outside Hanoi, Vietnam. Well, they weren’t officially part of the detachment, but they were taking up space there to run their current assignment.

  Their special ops unit, dubbed the Drunk Monkeys only a month after the program’s inception following an unfortunate incident where their inebriated selves thoroughly kicked the asses of thirty very sober MPs while taking a night off in Manila, was a tight-knit unit of twenty men who’d die for each other. They were sent into situations where few others could go. They included men from several of the former branches of the military, including a few SEALS, Green Berets, and even some AFSOC and MARSOC guys.

  Their official designation was SOTIF1—Special Operations and Tactical Infiltration Force, unit 1.

  When the branches of the United States military unified into one force four years earlier following yet another worldwide series of militant terrorist attacks, the self-contained SOTIF special ops units were created. Now, terrorists were nothing. All the US military cared about was figuring out how best to stop the spread of Kite the virus and to bring the best medical and scientific minds they could onto US soil.

  By any means necessary.

  To the best of Doc’s knowledge, there were at least nine other SOTIF units in the world, maybe more. That knowledge was far above his pay grade. As the group’s on-site medic, it was his job to keep them alive as long as possible. The only reason he didn’t have a medical degree of his own was because he’d been pulled from his residency at the military’s medical school in Baltimore. He’d qualified for spec ops before breaking his ankle and transferring to military medical school.

  Desperate times and all that crap. He could keep up with the others. The powers that be in the brass wanted doctors, not just paramedics, embedded with each SOTIF unit.

  It wasn’t hard for Doc to guess why.

  Now, they were trying to track down a doctor, a Chinese national by the name of Li Kim, who’d disappeared before TMFU. A doctor rumored to have been on the front lines of the initial incursion of Kite-infected patients from North Korea. One of the people on “The List” of scientists and doctors that the international community was desperate to track down, if they were still alive.

  Their current mission was to locate the good doctor and bring him to Manila ASAP for transport back to the US proper. So far, despite regular updates from CIA operatives in the area, they had yet to locate the man.

  And Kite infections were starting to quickly spread in the region. No one on the base had contracted it yet, but it was only a matter of time. They’d already had three exposures amongst their own men, but fortunately no one had tested positive.

  Yet.

  Alpha finally returned from his latrine run, a local newspaper tucked under his arm. He was one of only two of them who could read and speak Vietnamese with any degree of fluency.

  The other was Foxtrot.

  “Papa woke up,” Doc told him.

  Alpha froze. “What’d he say?”

  “He went back to sleep. Wake him in four. Rack time for everyone close to needing it.”

  Alpha tossed the newspaper onto one of the three tables. “Dammit,” he softly muttered in his Georgia drawl. Alpha’s real name was Major Kenner Chasco.

  Every SOTIF unit was set up in a similar manner. Each man used a
code name designation instead of their real name. In their unit, Papa was their leader. Alpha, their second. He was Doc, and Uncle was the oldest, at thirty-four less than a year older than Papa, who was thirty-three and change. The rest of the men had been assigned names from a list that mostly pulled from the phonetic alphabet code. They were also paired off in a buddy system that helped them watch each other’s backs.

  Twenty minutes later their secure sat-phone, which was plugged into its charger, let out a warning blare that meant someone was trying to call in on their special line.

  Doc beat Alpha to it and flipped it to speaker mode when he answered. “SOTIF1 delta tango epsilon.”

  There was a moment of static that nearly stopped his heart before he heard a reply in a familiar voice. “SOTIF1, Niner, kappa kappa deuce. Incoming, full party.”

  Alpha clapped Doc on the shoulder, a broad smile on his face. “Well, they’re all alive.” His southern drawl sounded different than Tango’s Texas twang.

  “Roger,” Doc replied, ignoring Alpha’s response. “Exposed?”

  Another hesitation. “Roger. Three hours ago. No blue yet.”

  “ETA?”

  “Four hours. We’ll take our time. Tell Papa to stand down.”

  Doc breathed a sigh of relief. If they’d been exposed three hours before, it meant every hour that passed and the sticks didn’t turn blue was one hour closer to them being in the clear. “Roger. SOTIF1 base, out.”

  “Niner out.”

  Doc ended the call and put the sat-phone back on the table, plugging it into its charger.

  “That’s good, right?” Alpha asked him.

  Doc glared at him. “You know the answer as well as I do.”

  “I’ll go tell Papa,” Alpha said, heading toward one of the rack rooms they shared.

  Doc wasn’t a religious person. Even less so since TMFU and Kite. He knew recent world events had driven people in countless droves to seek out religion.

  He wasn’t one of them. If anything, he viewed the preachers and other religious leaders taking advantage of the desperate and hopeless as nothing more than charlatans.

  He put his own faith in medicine, science, and in his teammates.

  Chapter Three

  The Reverend Hannibal Silo sat with his back to his stainless steel and glass desk and stared out the window. His penthouse office commanded a gorgeous view of the Sandia Mountains to the east of the city. Albuquerque had flourished in the past twenty-five years. Quite a few large companies had made the southwest city their home since New Mexico loosened and struck down several laws that hamstrung corporations. Lucrative tax benefits helped, too. It didn’t hurt that the city had worked in close quarters with the New Mexico National Guard to turn them into a local police force, meaning they had one of the lowest crime rates in the nation. Banks, insurance, and other financial companies had abandoned some of their traditional city headquarters in other large urban centers and moved here.

  Meaning a large concentration of money.

  Meaning a wide selection of parishioners to fleece.

  He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. The TV network was in its fifth year and growing strong in markets where there were still people who could get TV, much less afford cable.

  It was such a shame it took until the age of fifty-nine for him to finally reach this level. At least the Chinese fucking up the way they did had driven a shitload of terrified new sheep to his church as they feared the impending apocalypse.

  A knock on his office door brought him out of his reverie. “Come,” he called out.

  He didn’t turn from the window when he heard the door open.

  As he’d expected, it was his personal assistant, Jerald Arbeid. “Reverend, Senator Davis is here.”

  “Excellent.” He swiveled his chair around and smiled at his assistant. Jerald wasn’t wearing a surgical mask. Silo had given orders that everyone got tested for Kite before they entered the building. That meant no need for surgical masks inside. He wanted to be able to see a person’s face, to fully read their intentions as much as possible.

  Also, it gave them a false sense of security that could work to his advantage. “Send him in.”

  Silo stood and pinched the creases in the fronts of his slacks, shaking them out as Jerald ushered the senator in before leaving them alone, closing the office door behind him.

  Silo made sure his placid, well-practiced smile was firmly in place when Tom Davis entered. The reverend extended his hand. “Tom, welcome. Praise the Lord, you arrived safely.”

  The sophomore senator from Illinois hesitated only the briefest of moments before taking the reverend’s hand. If it wasn’t for the fact that Silo had over six hours of very explicit video of the senator taking it up the ass from a sixteen-year-old male prostitute, the man wouldn’t even be there, and Silo damn well knew it.

  “Reverend.”

  “Come, sit. Let’s talk.” Silo led him over to a sitting area on the other side of his office.

  “Look, I came to give you a report—”

  “Tom,” the reverend said, turning, “let’s not be crass.”

  The senator shut his foul trap and waited until they were seated.

  “Now then,” Silo said. “God bless you for coming to talk with me, my son.” Which was a load of crap, because Davis was three years older than Silo. “What good tidings do you bring me?”

  Senator Davis was on a few key committees, committees that handled funding for black ops military operations. “I talked to the chief at the CIA like you asked—”

  “Like God commanded you to do.”

  Davis pressed his lips together for a moment. “Sure. That. Anyway, they’re going to put resources into it.”

  “Excellent. You know this is for the greater good.”

  “When I have information to pass along, I will. I’ve been assured I will be kept informed of any developments.”

  “Wonderful.” Silo’s smile broadened. “We wouldn’t want God’s will usurped now, would we?”

  “Look, all I know is I’ve got a lot of very wealthy constituents crawling up my butt and wanting to know why the CDC hasn’t hand-delivered Kite vaccines to them yet. I can only stall them and the CDC for so long before someone realizes what’s going on.”

  Silo slowly waved his hand in the air. “That’s all right, my son. It shall all work out the way God intends.” Silo’s hand paused, palm up.

  The senator reached into his jacket, withdrew a bulging envelope, and placed it in the reverend’s hand.

  “Bless you, my son.” Silo laid it in his lap. “Same time next month, then? Unless, of course, you have news for me sooner.”

  “Sure.” The senator stood. He headed for the door when he paused and turned. “You realize that high-walled enclaves won’t protect people, right? No matter how righteous they are. If Kite gets a foothold here in the US, we’re screwed. There won’t be any rich and poor anymore, because it’ll kill everyone.”

  “Don’t you worry, son. God will provide for his chosen ones. For those who are righteous.”

  “You really believe that? It wasn’t an act of God that caused this. It was China getting pissed off after North Korea created Kite.”

  “All things bend to God’s will, son. All things. The events were merely His tools.”

  “There’s a tool, all right,” Davis muttered before he yanked the door open and strode out.

  Jerald immediately walked in, closing the door behind him. Silo tossed him the envelope. “I don’t know how much longer the Caymanian accounts will be viable,” Silo said. “Perhaps it’s best we move that money back onto US soil. Convert it into solid assets.”

  “Gold?” Jerald opened the envelope and thumbed through the cash inside. The senator was paying Silo twenty grand a month to make sure the video stayed hidden.

  In addition to doing whatever Silo asked of him.

  He was only one of many congressmen, high-ranking military, and other officials who
m Silo kept on short leashes.

  TMFU and Kite had done more for Rev. Silo’s Church of the Rising Sunset’s bottom line than his penny-ante blackmail and racketeering ever could.

  He had a master plan. To get his hands on the Kite vaccine and control it. Make sure he and his closest confidantes received it, of course. Then his most faithful flock—meaning the ones who ponied up the most money. He’d make sure to carefully control who received it.

  They would need a serving class, but only the best of the best would earn their place in his new kingdom. Mechanics, engineers, farmers, carpenters, electricians, builders—those who could help restore America to a better, brighter, cleaner, and more pure future.

  Oh, he didn’t care what color someone’s skin was. He only cared about the purity of their heart—and how strong their faith.

  As long as it was his faith.

  Or, to be more specific, faith in him, in particular.

  There would be no more of this silly class warfare nonsense. Those of lower incomes would gratefully serve in their roles, knowing they were alive because of their faith. They would enjoy and appreciate their place in history, as well as in the Kingdom of the Rising Sunset.

  With himself seated upon the throne, once he ran for and was elected President of the United States.

  Silo envisioned a series of enclaves, with the wealthy and purest at the center, and everyone else surrounding them. With well-guarded perimeters to prevent crime.

  And he could have his very own chosen family in each city.

  His wife, Mary, was far too unsuitable for such a life in a brave new America of his creation. Still, he’d made a vow, and he’d keep it.

  He never said he wouldn’t take any other additional wives. It was his God-given right, according to the Bible.

  And he knew his Bible better than anyone, by God.

  “Do you need anything else, Reverend?” Jerald asked.

  Silo smiled at him. “No, I think for the first time in my life I can honestly say everything is going brilliantly, praise God.”