by W. J. Lundy
“And?” Stephens asked.
Marks beamed. “And there ain’t no Deltas in Seveso. And that wasn’t even the concentrated batch.”
Stephens shook his head and prepared to speak. Marks put up a hand, stopping him. “No, the Germans didn’t believe it either, so they got their hands on some of it and sprayed it over an occupied village in the Alps. After twenty-four hours, every Delta in the neighborhood was dead or severely FUBAR and not a single one has moved back.”
“But sir,” Jacob said, “if this stuff is toxic, and say we use it, won’t we just be turning the world into a no man’s land? We might as well just hit them with sarin gas or anthrax.”
James chuckled mirthlessly. “Cherry, we already tried all of that shit; nothing worked. Hell, India even tried nuking the bastards. It incinerated some of them but didn’t even slow the rest of ‘em down. If you’re afraid of hurting Mother Earth, you might as well punch out and sign the deed over to the Deltas. Because I don’t know if you looked outside lately, but it’s already no man’s land.”
Marks again put his hands up, silencing them. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Jacob; there isn’t enough to spray the globe, even if we wanted to. This stuff is pretty hard to come by in the concentrations we need. But if this chemical plant in Middleville has it, we can use what’s available to create a real buffer zone, a border to protect our people while we fight them. All we have to do is verify it’s there and get the hell out. If we can deliver a sample, that’s even better.
“If we can secure enough, it puts us back into the fight. Now let’s get some sleep. We can finalize our plans when we hit the Michigan coastline.”
Chapter 10
Graceful as a herd of stampeding buffalo, the ship’s crew was back in the galley, making coffee and preparing breakfast. Pots slammed together, waking Jacob. He rolled in his sleeping bag and pushed against the wall, checking his watch: Just past two a.m. Looking across the dark galley, he could see a small seam of light escaping from a door leading into the kitchen area. “Damn, nobody sleeps anymore,” he grunted.
“Hell, no. These guys don’t mess around,” he heard Jesse whisper. “Not gonna complain; I’m starving.”
Jacob sat up in the bag and looked back. Jesse was curled up next to one of the galley tables, the other soldiers farther behind them, still snoring away. The ship’s engines hummed, but very quietly now. Jacob could hear the calm slapping of the water against the sides of the ship instead of the breaking of waves he’d heard earlier, letting him know that the forward momentum had halted.
“When did we stop?” he whispered.
Jesse pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned close. “It got quiet about an hour ago. I think we’ve dropped anchor.”
Jacob nodded, letting the bag fall from around his shoulders, the cold night air slowly waking him. He sat drearily; without realizing it, the anticipation was building in his stomach and prepping his body for the day’s activities. As jitters grew in his legs, he found he couldn’t sit still any longer.
Working by feel in the dark room, he dragged himself out of the sleeping bag and removed his meager hygiene kit from his pack. He slunk across the galley, avoiding the other sleeping bags on the floor, and then dropped to a bench while he wrestled on his trousers and boots. Jacob got to his feet, passed through the galley, and stepped into the well-lit passageway.
He found his way down the long p-way, stopping to ask directions twice before he found the second deck head and showers. The other men on the team had taken to growing long “tactical” beards; or at the very least, a solid two days’ worth of scruff. Jacob looked at his own grown whiskers in the mirror, running his hand over the dark scruff. He decided this would be his last shave as he stepped into the hot shower.
The water was hot and the steam did wonders clearing his head. He stepped out into the cold air, dug through his bag, and retrieved a nearly empty can of shaving cream and a clean razor from his hygiene kit. Once he used it, he would discard the remains here. He wasn’t planning to take more than a bar of soap and a towel with him downrange, and this would be less weight he had to carry. No reason to waste his last opportunity for a clean shave.
As he finished wiping his face with a clean towel, a young sailor wearing blue shorts with a well-worn Pearl Jam T-shirt, moved into the room behind him. The young man stopped to look at Jacob’s multicam trousers hanging on a hook over his roughed-out boots. “You with the ground team?” the sailor asked.
Jacob hesitated, still not feeling like a member of the Assassins yet. He took a deep breath as he wiped the rest of the shaving foam from his chin. “Yeah, I guess you could say so. Just recently joined them.”
The sailor nodded then squeezed past Jacob to one of the benches. The man stripped down and entered the shower. “Hey, you know anything about Virginia?” he shouted over the spraying water.
Jacob stuffed his things back into his kit, tossing the shaving gear into a trashcan before draping the damp towel over his shoulders. “Virginia? What about it?” he asked.
“Yeah, you know, Norfolk, Virginia Beach, Little Creek? Anything… how they are doing, any news? Since we moved up here, nobody has heard from home.”
Jacob paused, moving against a bench to dress into his uniform. “Sorry, kid, can’t say that I have. I’ve been up in Canada. I’m from Chicago originally, but I’ve been pretty cut off from the world myself. How long have you been here?”
The man turned off the shower and exited, drying his face with a towel. He stopped and looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. “Hell, a month, I guess. No, that ain’t right… hell, maybe even three. I’m not sure; times and dates don’t have the same meaning that they used to. We stopped counting when they told us we were never going back. Has to have been a while because we’re damn near out of everything on board.
“This patrol ship isn’t set up for long periods between replenishment, out here operating alone like this. We do what we can, taking from other boats or salvaging when we find a friendly port, but it’s still hard. Too hard even, for some of us.”
Jacob laced his boots, happy to have found someone who wasn’t afraid to speak. Most of the men in his team weren’t talkers, or when they did, it was like getting juice from a peanut. They were always abrupt or directly to the point, intimidating and making him uncomfortable to ask questions. Maybe once he got to know them better, he thought. Jacob put on his T-shirt and left his towel wrapped over his shoulders. He leaned back against the wall. “What’s that mean—’too hard’?”
“Well, you know, like the skipper. He just shut down on us… don’t even leave his berthing anymore. And a couple of the guys jumped ship one night; said they’d had enough and were going home. I’m sure you’ve seen some of the same where you come from.”
Jacob nodded in understanding. “So how did you end up in the Great Lakes?”
“We got rapid deployed right after the first attacks. We traveled fast, came up the seaway… you know; back when it was still open. Sailed on through… right up to Detroit. They tasked us to help in the fight to save the city. No luck… we got here too late to make a difference. Spent most of our time ferrying survivors across the lake.
“Been stuck in these waters ever since. Once the seaway was lost, we got trapped. It’s been pretty busy running teams like yours back and forth, supporting missions inland with our UAV, even helping escort some of the larger civilian ships. Things have slowed down lately; most people that want out have left, and we are close to being the last vessel out here now.
“Most of the civilian freighter crews beached themselves on the Canadian side and disappeared. I’m sure we will do the same eventually. Hell, Chief says if we don’t get a real resupply soon, we may have to go into port for good. We got some firepower on board, but this low on ammo and supplies, we aren’t much good to anyone. Hardly got enough on board to even defend ourselves, if it comes down to it.”
Jacob sat listening, not wanting to interrupt. He watched as the young man fin
ished shaving and gathered his belongings. He stepped to the door then paused to look back at Jacob. “Hey, good luck, man. We take a lot of you all to the States; not many of you come back.”
“Really, is it that bad?” Jacob asked.
The sailor furled his brow. “I know about the dioxin. Let’s just say you ain’t the first team that’s been tasked with this same mission.” The sailor dipped his chin then turned and left the room, leaving Jacob alone.
He gathered his things and moved back to the galley, returning the way he came. The rest of the team was up now, feasting on plates of powdered eggs and toast with plenty of black coffee. Jacob walked past them and stuffed his things back into his rucksack. Jesse called him to a galley table and slid a large plate of powdered eggs and burnt toast across to him.
“These guys must like us; they fixed up the last of their eggs and fresh baked bread just for us,” Jesse said, grinning.
“More like a gallows meal. I think it’s more pity than like,” Jacob said.
James grunted. “Hold your tongue, boy. It’s respect; they know where we are headed.”
Jacob took in a heaping forkful of eggs and washed it down with the hot coffee. “I heard about the one-way missions…”
“If you’re looking for a one-way trip, it can be arranged for you. If not, then shut your damn mouth. It’s bad juju to talk shit like that before an op,” James spat.
Marks passed across the room, with the chief of the boat, Bud, close behind him. The chief was holding a black canvas bag in his hands.
“That’s enough, fellas; let’s save it for the Deltas. Bud was able to give up these toys for us. Could be a difference maker,” Marks said.
The chief set the bag on the table and opened it, revealing six M4 suppressors and MK III silenced pistols with a number of boxes of subsonic rounds. Bud reached into the bag and stacked them on the table. “The SEALs left some gear in the weapons locker. It ain’t much, but I know what you’re up against, and I thought you could use it,” Bud said. “There’s more shit they left behind in the corner over there; take what you need.
“And fellas, be careful with this gear. Don’t go filling it up with bullet holes and bleeding all over it. Bring it back to me in one piece, okay? I’m sure when we get back to port they’ll be asking for it and wanting to take it out of my paycheck.”
“You’re not staying?” Stephens asked.
“Afraid not. We’ve been recalled back to Meaford. Leaving as soon as we drop you off, hopefully for a refitting and resupply, but I have my fears that it’s not in the cards for us.” Bud used his hand to pull at his overgrown mustache. “Listen, if you get into trouble, get a message to me and we’ll come running, orders or not.”
James shoveled in the last of his eggs and reached for one of the small Ruger pistols. He drew back the slide, showing an empty chamber. Grinning his approval, he shoved the weapon into a pocket on his tactical vest. “Thanks, Chief. I’ll make sure I nail one right between the eyes for you.”
Bud nodded. “Just keep your ass alive for me; that’ll be thanks enough—”
A radio on Bud’s shoulder squelched, interrupting him. He reached up and pressed the transmitter button. “Go ahead.”
“All ready, standing by,” came a metallic response.
“Ten-four, I’ll let them know,” Bud said. He looked back at Marks. “The RHIB is ready to launch when you are.”
Marks slapped his hands together. He ordered the team to finish their chow and to get to the top deck in ten. Jacob gulped down the last of his eggs and coffee and scrambled to his gear. He stuffed in the remnants of his belongings, pulling straps tight on the pack to crush its size and make it more manageable. Rogers moved to his side and snatched away his M4, using a wrench to remove his flash suppressor and install the new silencer. He then handed Jacob two magazines with a strip of black tape at the bottom of each. “These are if we go quiet; make sure you have the right mag in, or the suppressor won’t do us much good.”
Before Jacob could ask a question, Rogers had already moved on to set up Jesse’s rifle. Jacob waited for him to finish then hoisted his rucksack and moved to Jesse’s side for the walk up to the top decks.
The others passed them moving fast. Jacob picked up his pace climbing to the top and out onto the deck. The air was cold and damp. Still dark out, the stars shone bright over a clear sky, reflecting over the calm Saginaw Bay. It was impossible to tell which direction the shore was in, as there were no coastal navigation lights to be seen. Water calmly slapped at the sides. A number of sailors were standing around, having come on deck to witness their departure.
The team followed a sailor along the decks and to the fantail, where a large ramp had been deployed. They were offered a set of orange flotation devices, which Marks waved off. A man tossed them aside before moving to the business end of a winch control station. Following the cable down was a black RHIB, similar to the one they’d used to get there but far larger with a wood deck and a machine gun mounted in the bow.
Jacob walked close and Rogers took his pack, loading it into the boat with the other gear. Two sailors moved in close, both carrying blue five-gallon jugs of fresh water and other supplies. They set them on the deck and Jacob handed them off to Rogers. When all the gear was loaded, Stephens gathered them all off to one side.
“Easy day today. We’re gonna egress to a marina at the mouth of the river. The sailors say that the marina is nearly empty—”
“What does that mean, nearly?” James interrupted.
“Nearly,” Stephens said. “The marina is isolated north of the city. They’ve spotted Deltas on the main roads, but nothing concentrated. We have a couple of hours of UAV support. Right now they’re coming up empty. We will have eyes while shelter. After that, we are on our own. If everyone is ready, let’s mount up.”
Chapter 11
Memories of his first amphibious assault against Museum Park raced through Jacob’s mind as he rode in—flashbacks of the Darkness holding the shorelines and brave men being thrown against the breakwaters like cattle being led to slaughter. They charged the beaches under heavy fire with nowhere else to go. Jacob looked across the boat at Stephens, thinking of Murphy and wishing he were here with them, knowing it wasn’t possible.
This time, the ride was different. Instead of shaking with adrenaline, waiting for the boat to slam against a breakwater while explosive violence filled the air, Jacob sat near the center of the boat, trying to stay hidden. He tried to control his breathing, sure that everyone around him could hear his heart thumping in his chest.
They motored into the center of the Saginaw River then cut the gas engine, switching to a small electric trolling motor to slide them quietly against the current. Cold water sloshed over the bow, splashing against his face and soaking his uniform top. Jacob stretched, trying to ignore the sudden chill, fighting off the shivers aching at his arms. He let his hands slip over the rifle, taking comfort in its weight as he worked his fingers over the selector switch. His eyes looked ahead, and slowly he could make out the black-grays of the distant shoreline emerging from the fog.
The marina was ahead on their right. A sign identified it as a private yacht club. High-end boats were scattered along the shoreline of a main boathouse that was burnt to the ground. Looking into the marina, Jacob could see that many of the docks’ fingers were twisted and broken with sailboats pushed up against them. Summer storms and lack of maintenance had done damage to the place. There were a number of docks branching out like a tree, each branch filled with slips of its own. They skipped the first marina entrance, finding it too congested to maneuver in easily. They passed the destroyed boathouse, motoring into a smaller harbor shelter with a wide entrance that allowed for faster access back into the river.
Once inside the harbor and out of the river’s current, the electric motor was cut to allow the RHIB to drift freely with the occasional correction by a paddle. James lay far in the bow of the boat with his night vision goggles drop
ped low over his eyes. Rogers perched over the fifty-caliber machine gun, searching for threats just behind him. Quietly stroking at the water, they guided the RHIB in close to a large cabin cruiser—the Great Lakes’ version of a yacht. The boat quietly thumped against the dive deck of the larger luxury watercraft. Marks, walking on the tips of his toes, leapt aboard the second vessel and tied the boats together with a nylon rope.
Marks stealthily slipped across the deck and dropped to his knees, peering out at the dock access. He let his rifle hang from its sling as he quietly removed the gangplank connecting them to the dock then allowed the board to slip into the water. Keeping his rifle up, Marks shifted his position and watched James bound up with Rogers just behind him. The two men boarded the boat and patrolled forward below deck. Jacob could faintly hear the men moving about the cabin cruiser; speaking low muffled commands to each other, doors being opened, a glass bottle kicked, a curse at the noise. Silently, the two men reappeared on the deck of the cruiser, turning out in opposite directions.
“It’s clear,” Rogers whispered.
Marks moved back to the edge of the boat, leaned over the RHIB, and whispered a command to Stephens, who touched his helmet. He lurched, crouched low, and looked down at Jacob and Jesse. “Okay, let’s get the gear transferred. This is our home now for a while.”
Jacob navigated to the far side of the RHIB and stepped onto the boat’s deck, leaving Jesse alone. Slowly, Jesse handed over the large rucksacks as Jacob stacked them on the cruiser’s deck. After everything had been moved, Rogers walked past them and secured the M2 machine gun on the RHIB by covering it with a large canvas case. Jacob crept to a corner of the boat and looked out over the surrounding docks.
The marina was arranged in a large horseshoe pattern with boats tied all along the sides in individual slips. Their boat was located at the top of the center arc, facing the river. They had a clear route back into open water if they needed to egress quickly, and a straight run down the dock to reach dry land. Like the marina in Canada, several of the boats here were sitting low in the water, flooded, with their mooring lines stretched and putting stress on the docks. A large sailboat next to them showed obvious signs of a battle. Bullet holes riddled the sides, the sail was ripped and shredded, and a pile of luggage sat on the dock, just next to its gangway.