ARISEN_Book Thirteen_The Siege

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  The world around them in every direction was deep black.

  But now at least they were up above the death and destruction, the chaos and hazard. All the sacrifice and loss.

  At least for a little while.

  Between Predator and Noise, down on the deck, lay Command Sergeant Major Handon. He still had not regained consciousness after having his lumbar artery severed by shrapnel in the holding action against Spetsnaz at that last riverine bridge in Somalia – and after that vicious blow to the head with Misha’s Desert Eagle. Glancing down at his face now, Noise realized Handon was even paler than he’d been before. He checked the plasma bag pressed against his slowly rising and falling chest, then checked his pulse and respiration, for the tenth time. Then he looked back up at Pred, his face lined with concern. They both knew that bag was the very last unit of plasma onboard.

  “He is going to need blood.”

  Pred held Noise’s gaze. Both of them also knew that not only were they unlikely to be near a blood bank any time real soon. But that any attempt to strike out in search of one on their refueling stops was going to turn a difficult objective into a lethal and impossible one. Moreover, the small patch clearly visible on Handon’s shoulder told the tale:

  O-NEG.

  None of the other blood-type patches onboard, as far as either of them knew, looked like that one. And while O Negative was the universal donor, able to be received by anyone of any type, those who were O Negative could receive nothing else.

  And it was a type shared by only 7% of the population.

  Noise exhaled, looking Pred up and down. “Soon you are going to need a transfusion, as well,” he said, digging into the diminishing aid kit on the deck for more bandages. “And now must not be your time, either.” He started properly wrapping up the wide variety of cuts and slashes that still seeped across the vast geography of Pred’s body, like the blood-red Nile in the Book of Exodus. He had been mostly ignoring his own wounds while they looked after their commander.

  His friend. And brother.

  Just as Noise was finishing work on Pred, Fick and then Baxter appeared from the darkness at the rear of the cabin, lining up to receive some more comprehensive wound care themselves. Both had also been cut badly – mainly, but not exclusively, Fick’s arms, and Baxter’s shoulder and cheek – in the medieval knife-, sword-, and shovel-fight that had nearly consumed everyone in the cabin around them.

  “Thanks, dude,” Predator said to Noise, flexing his giant bicep to see if the bandage would hold.

  “At your service,” Noise said, bowing slightly.

  Together, the two of them started working on the others.

  * * *

  Kate watched Baxter disappear toward the hospital up front, declining to go with him. Together, they had already wrapped up her own shot-through arm, which wasn’t really that painful. But she wasn’t staying in the rear because she didn’t need or want the additional aid.

  It was because she couldn’t bear to leave Jake.

  His lifeless body lay on the deck before her, the body bag around him zipped up to his chin, covering his hollowed-out chest, but leaving his angular, stubbled, and handsome face still visible, as Kate cradled his head in her lap. Somehow he looked intense and switched-on even in death.

  But Kate’s own face was streaked with tears.

  There was no shame in this. Until thirty seconds ago, Baxter had been crying freely as well, sitting hunched over Zack’s lifeless body, also bagged up, both of the dead men moved toward the rear and out of the way. There had been a third body, al-Sîf’s – but it had been thrown out the hatch to save weight. Baxter had protested at first, but finally relented. “Fuck it. He didn’t believe in God or an afterlife anyway.”

  But Jake and Zack were their comrades, and beloved friends. And they were going home. Meanwhile, Baxter and Kate were teammates, the only ones they had left – and they grieved together, side-by-side, for their brothers who had fallen.

  It was a very hard way for those two men to end. After battling through two years of ZA, overcoming every imaginable threat and hardship, never giving up and never giving in… then to be inches from getting out of Africa alive. But both had spent their lives for the mission, to get Patient Zero out of Africa. They had given all their remaining days, to ensure a possible future for everyone else still alive.

  And it was some solace to Kate that Jake had died as he had lived: blasting through at 110mph, never backing down, never giving in, never even letting up on the throttle – straight through to the end. And he had gotten it done. He had accomplished the mission. He had saved all of them.

  And Kate loved him.

  She wiped at the tears streaking her face. When her vision cleared and she looked up, she saw Juice lowering himself down to the deck beside her, then reaching out to touch her knee. “Jake was an extraordinary soldier,” Juice said quietly.

  Kate nodded, sniffing and blinking, mastering herself. “He was it,” she said. “The heart of a legendary detachment. And, finally, the last man standing in Triple Nickel.”

  “Wait.” Juice cocked his head. “You were detailed to them at the time of the fall, right?”

  Kate remembered 555 was Juice’s old ODA, too. “Yes.”

  “You escaped the fall of Camp Lemonnier with them? Operated out in the bush with them for two years? And took part in both assaults on the al-Shabaab Stronghold?”

  Kate nodded. She didn’t add that she was the princess being rescued in that first assault.

  “And they considered you a teammate.”

  It wasn’t a question, and it didn’t require a response.

  Juice nodded a last time, satisfied.

  “Then you’re the last man standing.”

  * * *

  “It’s going to be close.” Pred and Noise looked up over their bandaging of Fick and Baxter, both of whom also looked up. This was Ali, coming back from the flight deck, and standing over them in the near darkness.

  “How close?” Pred asked.

  “Max range of this aircraft is thirteen hundred miles, give or take. And this journey looks like about thirty-six fifty.”

  Noise said, “So then we may do it with three tanks – stopping to refuel twice.”

  “Yeah,” Ali said. “If we can find places to do it that are basically on a straight line between Djibouti and London. Any more than a few degrees of diversion and we’re looking at three refueling stops.” She didn’t need to add that three was a lot worse than two. And two was bad.

  “So have we?” Pred rumbled. “Found places?”

  “We think so,” Ali nodded. “Egypt first. Probably Alexandria International. Our best bet.”

  Noise finished tying off a bandage on Fick’s arm, then looked down to Handon’s intravenous plasma bag, frowning. It was nearly empty. “No,” he said. “Alexandria Airport was closed for refurb before the fall – indefinitely.” He didn’t need to add that indefinitely now meant forever.

  Ali just shook her head. Jesus. Nothing ever changed in this Zulu Alpha.

  “But do not worry, First Sergeant Khamsi. There is still Borg El Arab Airport, which was used as a stopgap. Only about fifty clicks outside of Alexandria. Small, modern. Manageable.”

  Pred looked up from gently taping down a bandage on Baxter’s cheek with one hotdog-sized finger. “Borg Airport? Seriously? How can that be a good sign?”

  Ali’s annoyed look said: We’ve got bigger problems.

  Noise reached up now for Ali’s left forearm, where she had caught a glancing round in her second midair shootout with Vasily, that sonofabitching Spetsnaz sniper – before she finally blew the back of his head out. “You must let me have a look at that.”

  But the arm wound had already been wrapped up, and Ali pulled it away. “I’m good to go.” She was actually nursing worse injuries. They all were.

  Predator slapped Baxter on the ass as the young man stood up. “And after Egypt?”

  Ali shrugged. “Hailey and I think it’s go
t to be Italy. Brindisi-Salento Airport, most likely. It’s right in our flight path. Like I said – it has to be.”

  Noise nodded in approval. “Both airports are on the water, so we will have something to our backs. And both are outside of town – small towns. It is an excellent plan, with every chance of success.”

  Ali didn’t look convinced. But, either way, they would have to make it work. “I’ll tell Hailey. I also need to spell her at the controls. She’s pretty much flying in her sleep at this point.”

  “Please allow me,” Noise said, standing.

  Ali blinked in the dim and vibrating cabin. “Well, fuck me.”

  “What?”

  “There actually was another pilot, all this time.”

  “At your service.” Noise bowed, then went forward.

  * * *

  “Oh, good, you’re awake.”

  This was Fick, returning from being patched up. He took a seat on the deck down beside Wesley, who had his elbows on his knees, with his head cradled in his hands. He’d been out cold since being walloped in the head with a shovel by a very old and mean Spetsnaz bastard.

  “What happened?” Wesley muttered, sounding badly hungover.

  “The good guys won,” Fick said, digging out two packets of Tylenol from an aid kit and passing them over. Wesley dry swallowed them. Fick thumped him on the arm with the bottom of his fist, making him wince. “And you did good.” He paused before adding: “LT.”

  As he slowly came back to life, Wesley looked over at the man beside him, who was so much more grizzled, and yet of a very similar age. “We stopped them reaching the cockpit?”

  “Yep.” Fick looked across at the sword Wesley had inexpertly wielded during the fight, and which had been laid down beside him, both of them moved out of the way up against the bulkhead. “Congratulations. You’re an honorary Marine officer.”

  Wesley weakly picked up the sword and started to hand it over. But Fick pushed it back into his chest. “Nah, keep it. You’ve earned it. And it’s an officer’s sword anyway.”

  Wesley nodded. “I still have no idea how to use this thing.”

  “Evidently that’s no impediment.”

  * * *

  “I heard he needs blood. O Negative.”

  Pred and Ali looked up. This was Dr. Park, appearing in the front, up from his improvised gene-sequencing lab in the rear of the cabin. He’d been holed up back there with Patient Zero, as well as the tabletop gene sequencer that more than a few people had died getting out of Africa, along with him.

  “Yeah,” Pred answered. “And none of us has got any.”

  Park nodded, touching the corner of his glasses, which glinted in the dim light. “I gather all the military personnel on board already know their blood types?”

  “Yeah. We checked with everyone.”

  “Well, Wesley just woke up, and I asked him. He doesn’t know his blood type. And I don’t know mine. But I can type us both.”

  Pred squinted. “What, here?”

  “Yes. I just need a couple of glass slides, which I’ve got. Blood type is indicated by presence or absence of agglutination, clumping of red blood cells, which can be visualized directly. It’s not the most foolproof method, but it works in a pinch.”

  Pred looked skeptical. “He needs O Negative. And it’s just two guys.”

  Park shrugged. “It’s a chance.”

  Pred looked down at his helpless friend lying motionless before him, and then across at Ali, who held Handon’s hand, then exhaled and nodded. But as Park turned to go, Pred looked up and said, “Hey, how the hell can you not know your own blood type?”

  Over his shoulder, Park answered, “Never really came up. I didn’t get shot at much until recently.”

  * * *

  When the newly bandaged Baxter returned and sat down with Kate, and their two dead teammates, she had finally zipped up Jake’s bag all the way, the act seeming to carry an air of finality. But as she stood, Baxter saw she was holding out Jake’s H&K MP7 machine pistol, the long suppressor sticking out of its drop-leg holster on its belt, alongside a pouch of six 40-round magazines.

  Baxter hesitated.

  Kate said, “It was his Zulu-fighting weapon of choice. He would have wanted someone to carry it after he fell.”

  Baxter exhaled. “What about you?”

  Kate just nodded over at the tan SCAR Mk 20 propped in the corner – the designated marksman weapon Kwan had carried in the Stronghold battle, and which she had gotten back via al-Sîf. And which she had also used to destroy the Black Shark attack helo, making it possible for any of them to get out of Africa in the first place. She already had her inheritance.

  Baxter nodded and took the MP7. “What about Jake’s Beowulf?”

  Kate nodded down at the bag. Baxter could see the 50-cal rifle was laid out right beside him in the bag, tucked up close. “I’m going to bury it with him.”

  Baxter got it. Both the man, and that weapon, were unique. Maybe no one else should try to use it, or even could. More importantly, the two should never be separated.

  Baxter made the H&K safe, then holstered it and strapped it on. Then he squinted down at the Beowulf, which still had a seated mag. “Didn’t you unload it?”

  Kate shrugged. “No. We may still need the damned thing.”

  Baxter got that, too. This wasn’t over.

  * * *

  “Lieutenant!” Noise said. “You have rejoined the living.”

  Wesley was sticking his head up into the flight deck, and smiled weakly down at the dark-skinned face beaming up at him, framed by turban above, beard below, and ICS headset cups on either side. He produced Henno’s cricket bat, which Noise had tossed to him at perhaps the darkest moment of the plane fight, and handed it back.

  “Thanks, mate,” Wes said. “This definitely saved my bacon.”

  “No worries,” Noise said. His expression grew serious. “Thank you for returning it. I must deliver it to Captain Ainsley’s lads when we get back to England. A sacred task, entrusted to me by Staff Sergeant Henno.”

  Wesley didn’t know what any of that meant. But it didn’t matter. He smiled again and turned to leave, but the entrance to the flight deck was blocked by a body in a dusty flight suit. Inside the suit was the bruised body of Hailey “Thunderchild” Wells.

  “Hi, again,” Hailey said, sticking her hand out.

  Wesley’s eyes went wide as he slowly placed her. This was the F-35 pilot who had risked getting busted down to plumber’s mate third class by disobeying orders to conduct the bombing and strafing runs that got Wes, and his NSF and survivor group, the hell out of Virginia Beach ahead of the storm of the dead. And whom he had shortly thereafter fished out of the ocean, half-drowned and pawed at by floating dead, after she’d had to eject. Somehow Wes had never seen her leap aboard during the frantic escape from Djibouti. And he’d been unconscious since.

  He took her hand and shook it vigorously, despite the blood-dotted bandage on the end of his fingertip.

  “Now get out of my way,” Hailey said. Shoving past him, she shook Noise’s shoulder and said, “You’re relieved.”

  Noise looked concerned. “But I spelled you less than an hour ago.”

  “That’s all the rest I need. Plus I don’t trust anyone else with what comes next.”

  Noise removed his headset, handed it to her, and rose.

  “Come along,” he said to Wes. “You have reminded me of something I must return.”

  * * *

  Pred and Ali were still holding their silent vigil over Handon. Both looked up as Noise and Wesley stepped through the aisle and stood over them. Noise was holding out a big tan Herstal FN high-capacity .45 autoloader. “I regret that I forgot this,” he said, reversing his grip on the weapon and offering it down to Predator. “I found it in the footwell of a very strange truck that no one seemed to be driving.” He meant the safari truck, where Predator had dropped it while manually dismantling the Spetsnaz convoy.

  “Dude! Nice!
” Pred said, taking it, obviously pleased. “Didn’t think I’d see that again.” From his expression, it was obvious he loved that gun.

  All four of them now turned and looked to see Juice approaching from the rear of the cabin – wielding a serious-looking commando knife, its wicked tapered tip glinting in the dimness. He reversed it and handed it over to Pred, whose face now really lit up. “You found it.”

  “Took me a half-hour scouring the corners of the cabin.”

  It was Handon’s beloved Mercworx Vorax knife – last seen getting viciously slapped out of the hand of Misha by Pred, and flying the length of the plane.

  “This, too,” Juice said, handing over the knife’s original sheath. “Must have come loose somehow. In all the carnage.”

  Pred sheathed the knife, exhaled slowly, some of the tension being released from his body… and he carefully tucked the knife in between Handon’s arm and his shallowly rising and falling chest.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Dr. Park appeared again, this time holding up a bandaged fingertip. Pred and Ali, maintaining their watch over their fading commander, looked up.

  “I’m a match,” Park said. “O Negative.”

  “Jesus,” Pred said. “The only man who can save the world turns out to be the only man who can save our team sergeant.”

  “I can do both,” Park said. “We just need to move him to the rear before we hook us together with a transfusion tube.” He paused. “So I can keep working.”

  Ali said, “We’d better make it quick.”

  They could all now hear the Dash 8’s propellers changing in pitch. They were starting to descend, their first refueling stop coming up fast. And none of them could have any good idea what would be waiting for them down on the ground.

  But it was unlikely to be good.

  And everyone who could fight was going to have to get geared up to do so. Because the fighting wasn’t over.

  Maybe it never ended.

  Flag