Winchester Undead_Book 4_Winchester [Rue]

by Dave Lund

  “No Gonzo, they’re Korean.”

  “What the hell, Chief, I thought the Chinese were behind this.”

  “I think they are, I think they both are. Too bad none of you slap dicks know any Korean or Mandarin.”

  “I know a few curse words in Korean.”

  “Thanks Hammer, you’re a real help here. Screw it, let’s get to work.”

  Chuck and Gonzo stood at the computerized console. Long gone were the days of bells to the engine room or even a full ship’s wheel. The maneuvering thrusters were controlled by joystick, the main screw by a tiny wheel to set bearing, and the computer screen in the console showed the engine status and all a captain needed to know. Although written in a language neither understood, the diagrams showing the system status next to each made it easier for Gonzo and Chuck to get the main engines on line.

  Once the enormous engines were online and had run long enough to reach a running temperature, Gonzo tapped a button. The engine power indicated on the screen raising steadily, the ship slowly pushed forward, pulling against the anchor chains. Chuck tapped through some menu options on his screen before finding the right selection. The winches pulled the heavy chain and anchors up, out of the water, the ship steadily gaining speed with each passing moment.

  The rest of the team searched each crew member’s pockets, the drawers and cabinets on the bridge for any piece of intel that they could find, stuffing what looked remotely important into waterproof bags that were clipped onto their combat gear when full.

  Gonzo continued until the engine showed to be operating at just above one hundred percent of ability.

  Aymond whistled and circled his hand over his head. Gonzo used the muzzle of his M4 to smash in the monitor at the engine control and helm before following his team through the open hatch, the Korean crew members yelling after them, flopping on the floor of the bridge like fish, unable to move their feet or hands.

  With lightning speed the team ran down the gangways, deck by deck, before reaching the main cargo deck. Looking over the edge and at the passing shore, it appeared that the ship had already reached five knots. Five knots didn’t sound like much until one considered all the kinetic energy the fully loaded cargo ship held at that speed, and it was pointed straight towards Shelter Island and the big right turn to the harbor.

  One by one his team members leapt from the side of the ship, falling forty feet to the water below, feet crossed, hands holding their rifle in place as they hit the water hard. If they could hit and roll on the water they would have, but instead each of them punched through the dark surface and sank before pulling on the handle that inflated their survival gear from a cartridge of compressed gas. Shooting up to the surface, the team bobbed in the wake of the big cargo ship leaving them behind. Aymond paddled in place, counting dark spots on the waves. Happy to see all of his team in the water and above the water, he turned and watched the ship lumber at greater and greater speed towards land.

  M-ATV 1, Coronado, CA

  Simmons and Jones roared south towards Imperial Beach in one of the M-ATVs. As Aymond had predicted, the overflights ceased shortly after nightfall and they should be able to maneuver without too much issue. So far he’d been right, except that the Zeds seemed to be out and in a partying mood, Jones rocking the heavy armored truck through the traffic of death.

  They weren’t lucky enough to have any Mark 84s to rig as explosives, and in reality Simmons considered themselves lucky for not having any. Neither he nor Jones knew the first thing about those bombs; their expertise lay in being a rifleman first and a highly trained diesel mechanic second. In the back of the truck was a full ten pounds of the putty-like explosive, plus detonation cord, blasting caps, and a timer that was supposed to work. Imperial Beach was just one more airfield they had to destroy. As of yet the Chinese didn’t appear to be using the airport, but after the previous night’s excitement on Halsey Field, who knew what the Chinese could do.

  Jones’ map of the area was an overhead photo that they had taken out of a picture frame in one of the offices of their building. It was the best they had, even though neither had been to Coronado before and the photograph didn’t have any street names. One of the other Marines had labeled the major roads with a Sharpie, but even then the surface streets were a jumbled maze of homes and businesses.

  The short section of desolate highway along 75 gave way to a mass of homes and businesses in strip centers. All of the homes glowed different shades of green in the NVGs both men wore.

  “Are you counting streets?”

  “Yeah Jones, second right at a real street. I think we’re almost there.”

  The sign indicated that it was 7th Street, but neither of them cared.

  “At the dogleg go one more block, take a right, go to the second street, then a left.”

  “Got it.” Simmons concentrated; driving with night vision goggles was a different experience, one he hadn’t had before.

  “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

  “No, I’m looking at this damn photo.”

  “Good, you probably shouldn’t look up then.”

  Jones looked up and out the windows. “Holy shit!”

  “Dude, I told you not to look. You’re like a fucking child, now you saw the scary part and you’re going to have nightmares.”

  “Fuck you and damn, what are we going to do about all of this?”

  “Nothing, there’s nothing we can do.”

  Simmons kept the big armored truck rolling close to fifty mph, ignoring the stop sign for Imperial Beach Boulevard. Homes surrounded them, hundreds of homes in every direction. And flooding from each yard, coming out from each abandoned car, turning to follow at every side street, were the dead.

  A body flipped over the front bumper, hitting the windshield with a hard wet thump; no damage to the thick armored glass could be seen, but blood smeared across half of the glass as the body slid off the side of the truck.

  “Fucking Zeds.” Jones used the remote turret to look behind them. “Zeds as far as the eye can see, dude. Shit. They’re all coming to follow us.”

  The neighborhood street they were flying down stopped at a chain-link fence and a locked gate, both indicated by reflective triangles.

  “What do you think, Jones, do we have time to stop and cut the chain?”

  Jones swung the remote turret left and right, the viewfinder displaying in the cabin. “Uh … no.”

  “Fine, fuck it!” Simmons pushed the gas pedal to the floor, the diesel motor pushing all four wheels as hard as it could. The depth perception was a little off with the NVGs, but Simmons lined up the center of the truck with the center of the gates as best he could, and was still accelerating when the front of the truck exploded through the chain-link gates.

  Sparks showered around them, the ruined gate tumbling away from the truck into the desert. As fast as the big armored truck was moving, it bounced across the sandy ground, across the tarmac of disused taxiway, and onto the main pavement of the primary runway. Aymond had told them that the middle of the runway was where they should set up to do the most damage. On their left were rows and rows of containers, equipment, and parts; they didn’t know what all was stored here.

  “Look at all of that up there,” Jones said, pointing through the windshield. More fencing held more vehicles, trucks, and military hardware. “I know where we’ll go if we need parts, dude.”

  The truck flew down the runway, turning to head towards the flightline and a lone tanker truck sitting on the tarmac. Jones swept the turret from left to right, watching the display. “Looks like we have a little bit of time; the first wave is just making the gate now.”

  Simmons stopped the M-ATV next to the fuel truck. “Think it’ll run?”

  “No, but I’m going to try. All of this shit is supposed to survive a nuclear war so it should also survive an EMP.”

  “Fine, but can it survive shitty Navy maintenance and sitting around for a few months?”

  Jones shrugged
before he climbed out of the armored truck and into the green-painted fuel truck, not before slapping the side of the tank a couple of times with the butt of his rifle to see if there was jet fuel still in it. Scanning the dash, he made sure the truck was in a condition to start, flipped the switch to run and waited to see if anything lit up on the dash. Nothing illuminated. Shaking his head, Jones turned the switch over to “start,” hoping to hear the truck turn over, but was rewarded with nothing but silence. Jones climbed out and waved his hand over his head in a circle to Simmons, who responded by turning the M-ATV around and backing up to the nose of the fuel truck. Simmons left his truck running and climbed out to help as Jones was dragging two large chains out of the back of the M-ATV. A few moments later the pintle hitch was chained to the recovery hooks on the tanker, the tanker was in neutral and, with a hard lurch, the convoy rolled slowly forward towards the center of middle of the runway and towards the approaching army of death left in the wake of their flight moments earlier. Simmons left off the accelerator and left the free-rolling tanker slam into the rear of the M-ATV before he pulled on the parking brakes to hold tension, the whole contraption bouncing along against the heavy tanker.

  The dead were closing faster than they would have liked.

  “What do you think?”

  “Jones, you handle the turret, I’ll pull the chains and take care of the demo.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to?”

  “No, this’ll work and I’ll be fast; just keep those fucking Zeds off of me, buddy.”

  Simmons climbed out of the driver’s seat and ran around to the rear of the truck. The chains were easy; flipping the pintle hitch open, he pulled the chains out of the ring and left them on the tarmac.

  Flame erupted out of the end of the M2’s long barrel, the night air ripping open. In short controlled bursts, the heavy machine gun mowed through the nearest Zeds before Jones walked the line of fire up towards the gate they had come through. He estimated that the gate was nearly two thousand feet away, but that sort of distance didn’t matter for the big deuce. Tracers arced through the night sky like a sci-fi laser blast until Jones had the gate entrance zeroed, small movements left and right obliterating any Zed that tried to shamble onto the airfield.

  Behind the truck, under the tank of jet fuel, Simmons duct-taped six blocks of the putty-like explosives. Aymond told him to use one, Happy said to use two, and Gonzo said be safe and use three. Being the good Marine he was, he knew that if some was good a lot more was way better. Blasting caps, det cord, everything went together the way that he was shown; the timer set and armed, Simmons started the countdown timer on his watch as he ran back to the M-ATV.

  “Out the way we came or what, Jones?”

  “No way, man, the way we came is fucked. Head north.”

  Simmons turned the wheel and accelerated hard; they only had a few minutes to get the shit out of Dodge before the fireworks started. He drove fast around the buildings on the flightline and towards the walled edge of the main entrance to the facility. Jones controlled the turret and unleashed the M2 on the brick pillar to which the wrought-iron gate was attached.

  “What the hell, that shit always works in the movies!?”

  “Save the ammo, Jones, we’ll try a gentle nudge first.”

  Simmons slowed as he approached the gate, pushing the front of the truck against the gate before slowly adding power. The gate bent and flexed before breaking free of its mount in the concrete and brick wall, falling to the side as they drove through.

  Zodiac, Coronado, CA

  The negligible sound of their Zodiac came faintly across the waves towards them, the dark form appearing suddenly. The boat passed them and looped back, the engine off, coasting to a spot a few dozen feet away from the rest of the team. Happy and Ski sat in the boat, helping to pull the rest of their team on board one at a time. Once everyone was aboard, the engine ripped to life and the Zodiac’s nose stood out of the water. Save for Happy and Ski still warm in their wet suits, the team shivered in the night air as their boat roared along the coastline towards their beach, their compound, their home. Thirty minutes later, Aymond lay on the roof of the building, in dry clothes, the Zodiac sitting on the trailer and the UTV tracks in the sand on the beach covered by his team. He didn’t hear the sound of his ship crashing through the shoreline and through all the boats tied to their docks, but he imagined it was spectacular. If he was lucky, in a day or two he would be able to admire their handiwork. Right now he watched the helicopters with search lights crisscrossing the area where the ship should have crashed. There were a lot of helicopters in the air and luckily none of them were near his compound or his team.

  The muffle thump of the explosive charges could barely be heard; Aymond slowly moved the spotting scope left to look towards the other PANAMAX ships in anchorage. One of the ships began to list to the stern, slowly leaning steeper and steeper; the containers fell from their perch and onto the other ship. Both of the ships were still there and mostly floating, but even if they tried to salvage them the screws should be on the ocean floor. The PANAMAX ships were now oversized sea-going barges.

  Behind him a fireball erupted into the night sky, the roof glowing orange and red in the sudden light. The pressure wave rippled through him before Aymond heard the explosion. He resisted the strong temptation to spin on the rooftop and look at where Simmons and Jones should be, but he remained perfectly still, watching the searching helicopters as one by one they turned and roared past him across Coronado towards the new explosion.

  This is not a good evening for our Chinese and Korean friends … it’s a good one for us though.

  Once the last helicopter roared past, Aymond slid backwards across the roof to the hatch, lifted it and crawled inside the building, closing the hatch behind him. So far tonight had been a complete success and none of his men were killed while executing the operations.

  M-ATV One, Imperial Beach, Coronado, CA

  The sky broke orange and red behind them before the pressure wave washed over the truck and the sound reached them. Seen over the homes, trees, and businesses was a fireball rolling and churning into the night sky.

  “Holy shit, that’s fucking awesome!” Jones gave Simmons a high five.

  Slowing down so they could dodge the massive amount of Zeds heading towards the big fiery beacon, the pair of motor pool Marines were giddy from their first real Special-Forces-type mission and demolition job. Reaching the highway, Simmons turned to travel back towards Coronado and their home base.

  “What’s that?” Jones pointed through the windshield into the sky.

  A search light screamed across the night sky along the same path as the highway from the north.

  “That’s the fucking PLA, man.”

  “Shit.”

  Simmons turned off the road and parked under the awning for a gas station.

  “We can’t stay here all night; if they have a helicopter up now, then they’ll probably send patrols soon after.”

  Simmons nodded. “Yeah, I don’t know, if we’re seen we can’t lead them back to where the team is.”

  “Do you think they have infrared?”

  “Seems like they would be using it instead of a big spotlight if they did.”

  “We could take the bird out with the deuce.”

  “That would give us away too.”

  “Then why don’t we haul ass after it goes past? Surely they’re going to be more concerned with the huge fucking explosion than anything else, right?”

  Simmons looked at his watch; only about two hours until sunrise. “You’ve got me, Jones, but you’re right, we can’t stay here, it’s going to be daylight soon. Let’s roll and we’ll play it by ear.”

  Simmons drove out from under the awning and turned right towards I-5 and away from the highway leading back into Coronado.

  Dodging the abandoned vehicles on Palm Avenue, Simmons rocketed west, bouncing over the raised median at full speed, the suspension soaking up the curbs
with ease, following the exit ramp the wrong way. Suddenly his night vision goggles glowed bright, lights ahead of them blooming out the display before the high-tech devices could react and turn down. The truck shuddered hard to a stop, tires locked up against the asphalt, and they slid into the side of an abandoned car.

  “Fuck, Jones, scan fast, we need to hide, fucking convoy headed towards us!”

  Jones spun the remote turret, the display a green blur of shadows.

  “Chopper behind us and closing fast!”

  “Shit, OK … hang on!”

  Simmons selected reverse and stomped on the gas, front tires spinning against the car caught under the front bumper, the rear tires pulling the heavy truck backwards and into another vehicle. He turned the wheel hard left, put it in drive and stomped on the gas again. This time the truck bounced across the landscaping, crashed through a small tree and into the parking lot of a shopping complex.

  “Talk to me, Jones!”

  “Home improvement store. Head left about ten o’clock and fucking book it!”

  The parking lot was surprisingly full, and the big M-ATV flew through the open areas, knocking carts and flatbed dollies out of their way in a shower of sparks. Turning hard right and stomping on the brakes, Simmons held on as the truck shuddered and slid towards the covered loading area for the store’s customers.

  Jones spun the turret to the rear, watching the green glow of the night vision sky glow violently with the spotlights on helicopters and the rushing convoy, all racing to the explosion, all racing to catch them. All racing to kill them even though the Marines were sure that the invaders didn’t know exactly who or what they were.

  “Do it Simmons, fucking go!”

  Simmons yelled as he drove through the glass exit doors at forty mph, crashing through the cash registers and checkout lines before hitting the end of an aisle, the rack stacked high with rough lumber. The rack tilted away from the truck, slowly as if played back in slow motion, before crashing into the next tall rack of lumber, collapsing in a heap of metal and broken two by fours.