STRYKER - OMNIBUS: BOOKS 3-5: A Post Apocalyptic Tale

by Bobby Andrews

“You really are insane,” Edwards muttered as he again looked through the spotting scope.

  “No risk it, no biscuit,” Stryker murmured back.

  An hour went by, and both Stryker and Edwards were blinking from their non-stop over watch of the building, occasionally rubbing their eyes and trying to keep clear vision on the target.

  “You think they left?” Edwards asked.

  “No, they are trying to wait us out?”

  “How long will they wait?”

  “A few minutes less than us,” Stryker grumbled.

  They waited again, both staring through their scopes and still sweating buckets. The minutes that passed seemed like hours, and Edwards finally said, “I need water.”

  “If we move, they’ll spot us,” Stryker replied.

  Edwards continued watching and finally said, “Target three, fifth floor. Stryker traversed his weapon upward and settled in for the next shot. He fired when he saw movement and saw a muzzle flash from the same window.

  “Move,” he screamed and rolled to his left. Edwards rolled right and the slug struck the deck between them. A loud booming sound followed the shot.

  Stryker again sighted at the target and fired below the window sill. He then aimed one floor down and fired two more rounds below that window.

  “Get the Ma Deuces firing and let’s get the hell out of here,” he said.

  Edwards rose to his feet, as Stryker continued to fire between the two windows, and keyed his throat mic. After a few seconds, Stryker heard the rumble of the big .50s and saw dust rising from the front of the building.

  He rose and ran behind Edwards, reaching into his messenger bag as they ran. When they were inside the hatch that led to the stairwell, he handed Edwards his remaining three mags, dropped the one in the Barrett, and caught it with one hand and returned it to the messenger bag with a single motion.

  “Armor piercing,” Stryker said calmly.

  Edwards shuffled through the mags, and handed one to Stryker. He shifted the Barrett to his left hand and slammed the mag home with his right. He peeked around the hatch, brought the weapon up and, fired. Then, he ducked back into the stairwell, and waited for return fire.

  “You’re firing left-handed.” Edwards sounded confused.

  “I’m ambidextrous and trained with both hands,” Stryker replied before again leaning around the corner and draining another four rounds out of the mag.

  “That was not a fucking .308,” Edwards said.

  “No, Stryker agreed. He paused, thought it over for a few seconds, and then added, “It must be the Russian KSVK 12.7. It’s good to fifteen hundred meters and we just got very lucky. If that round was not in the air for two seconds, one of would not be here.”

  “Shit.”

  Stryker again leaned out of the hatch and fired another four rounds, one on each side of both windows. The rounds were not puffing up dust, but punching holes in the façade of the building.

  “We’re lucky that guy is a shit shot,” Edwards said.

  “He’s not; that was a great shot,” Stryker answered. “That bullet was in the air for over two seconds, and we’re lucky I saw the muzzle flash, because it hit the deck exactly where I was set up.”

  “Well, that’s comforting.”

  “Talk to your therapist.”

  Edwards again pressed the earbud deeper into his ear, listened intently, and then said, “Erin says that they heard a scream after the last shots.”

  “Which window?”

  “She doesn’t know.”

  Stryker fired the last two rounds and then set the weapon down, sat with his back to wall, and looked at Edwards.

  “They are going to move to another building now,” He said to Edwards.

  “I know.”

  “They’ll wait for nightfall.”

  “I know.”

  “We got two of them, so there can’t be more than four or five left, max.”

  “I know.”

  “Well,” Stryker said as he rose, “Let me know what you want to do.” He walked down the stairs, leaving Edwards staring at a wall, and left the ship after walking down the gangway, and then starting up the pier toward the comms center.

  CHAPER TWENTY-FIVE

  Stryker sat in the cafeteria drinking coffee he brewed himself after realizing that nobody else was there. It was close to midnight and Erin had gone to bed, Edwards stopped by and said hello, but left immediately, so he sat twirling his cup as he thought.

  Stryker loathed snipers, even though he had been one. Most marines and soldiers felt no differently. He had seen the hardest men he knew dissolve under the burden of sniper fire. It was unnerving to know you might be in somebody’s sights; that they were tracking you as you walked. Then, a shot rang out and, if you were lucky, a man around you went down. If you weren’t, it was you.

  Everyone wanted to be cautious, and slowed down and presented better targets and, when that failed, they ran and presented an even more open shot for the sniper.

  Men would die every time.

  The only way to locate the shooter was to be lucky enough to see where the shot came from, and that meant that somebody was already dead.

  The best snipers were the ones who divorced their humanity and were coldly efficient. Stryker had been one of those and had done his duty, but always with distaste for it.

  He thought about the world he now lived in, and how brutal it had become. He thought about his countrymen and what they had endured, and then he thought about his first wife and child, and a cold anger passed through him.

  Stryker drained the cup, stood up, and shouldered his messenger bag and pack. He walked back to the coffee maker, turned it off, and drained the last of the black gold into his cup.

  Time to finish this, he thought.

  He walked to the comms center, checked the feeds on the monitors and left without a word.

  Stryker walked down the perimeter of the base, found the cut in the fence where they observed the pilots leaving the base before it became their home, and passed through it.

  Walking down abandoned streets, with no movement or sound, he felt like he was back in Fallujah, passing by abandoned building and a city that had died. There was no rubble or bricked up doorways, but it was like he had stepped back into the past.

  There was a humid chill in the air as wind gusted off the ocean and surrounded the city with the scent of the organic smell of oceans and the life they contained.

  He came up to the building that had been the source of the sniper fire and examined it from the front. The pock marks from the base’s fire were evident on the façade of the building, and he moved by it soundlessly, and walked to the next building.

  Stryker stopped and honed his hearing. He could barely make out the sound of quiet voices; distant and faint but definitely present in the night air, and he followed the sound until he reached a parking ramp that towered over a low building. The sound was more distinct now and seemed to be coming from above. He glanced up and noted the faintest gleam of light of light emanating from the ramp’s fourth floor and realized this was the next day’s sniper hide for the terrorists.

  Stryker screwed the suppressor into the barrel of his M-4 and advanced on the building in a crouch. He found an open door to the stairwell that climbed up the side of the ramp and passed through it soundlessly.

  He stared up the stairwell for a moment, remembering how many times he had avoided what he was about to do; stairways were death traps in the sandbox; grenade magnets that usually resulted in death for whoever was foolish enough to attempt to maneuver up them.

  The voices were barely audible as they were muffled by the concrete floors of the ramp. They were speaking in hushed tones but in a world filled with silence. There was no more road noise, honking of horns, or music blaring from restaurants; it was now a world filled with dead air and even the smallest sound was detectable to anyone who bothered to pay attention.

  Stryker carefully propped the M-4 against the wall and slowly re
moved his boots. After recovering his weapon, he started up the stairs, stopping at every tread and listening carefully. The murmur from the conversation above him did not stop by the time he reached the first floor and he continued upward.

  He stopped again on the second floor and considered his options. He would prefer to take the men out while they slept, but had the advantage of his advance being masked by the sound of their voices.

  He started up the next flight of stairs, and again paused at the landing. The voices were now clearly audible, although he had no idea what they were saying.

  The last stairwell seemed to take forever to climb. When there was a pause in the conversation, Stryker froze, waited patiently, and then moved silently up the stairs when the men resumed speaking. He stepped up to the landing and moved to the side of the open door that led to the parking lot.

  He listened as the men continued talking, trying to understand where they were in the parking area. Dim light filtered through the doorway from within and, from the uneven flicker of the illumination, Stryker guessed they were burning a small candle. An hour passed and still the men continued talking.

  Then the conversation sputtered to a halt and the candle was extinguished. Stryker waited another half-hour before gently lowering his monocular and peeking around the corner. The men appeared to be asleep and lay in a semi-circle facing away from him. They all slept with AK-47s to their side. He moved back behind the wall again, and waited another fifteen minutes before he softly removed an M-67 from his messenger bag, armed the grenade and lobbed it underhanded into the middle of the sleeping men.

  Stryker darted back behind cover, heard the grenade hit the floor of the garage, and then a massive explosion, magnified by the enclosed space, rolled past him.

  He entered the area with his weapon up and peering through the thermal scope. Three men lay on the floor without moving. The fourth was crawling away from the carnage and whimpering as he moved. There were no other fighters present.

  Stryker saw all their weapons were still on the floor, leveled the M-4 at the survivor, and fired a burst into his back. He then walked to the men who remained motionless, and fired a round into each forehead, before moving back to the man he shot first.

  He had managed to roll over and lay on the floor with an expression of pain etched on his face.

  “Stop,” the man gasped.

  “English?” Stryker asked.

  The man nodded weakly.

  He stared down at the man, thought for a moment and then asked. I only have one question and, if you answer it truthfully, I’ll end this now.

  “Yes.”

  “Are there any more of you?”

  “No.”

  You want to make that your final answer?”

  The man again nodded.

  Stryker lowered the barrel of his carbine to the man’s forehead, and then pulled the trigger.

  He stood staring down at the body and wondering if the man had been truthful, again glanced around to make sure nobody else was in the garage, and then moved over to the west side of the ramp and looked down at the base. It was dark, and the air was so still Stryker could hear the sound of the ocean gently lapping at the beach that bordered the base to the north.

  Stryker glanced again at the bodies.

  “My work here is done,” he murmured.

  Several armed sailors exploded out of the comms center and took cover behind Humvees, each pointing their M-16 around and looking for the source of the explosion. He shook his head, chuckled once, and went back to the stairwell and down the stairs. He stopped at the ground floor and put his boot on, laced them tightly and called the comms center.

  “Go,” the voice said.

  “It’s Stryker. I’ll be coming in in around five minutes. Tell everyone to hold their fire. I really don’t want to get shot this evening.”

  “Was that explosion you?”

  “Yes it was.”

  “What happened?” He asked.

  “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  “I’ll have everyone stand down.”

  Stryker started walking.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Stryker was dog-tired, but knew he would not be able to sleep any time soon, so he sat in the empty cafeteria and sipped coffee he had made himself.

  He had stopped briefly at the comms center, explained what happened to the duty officer, waved off several questions from him, and left the building.

  The year had been one challenge after the other, and not everybody made it through. Sarge had passed. Edwards was damaged goods for now, although he did well during the sniper dual they fought. Erin had turned into a tough little operator, although he sometimes wondered if it came at a cost.

  Elle was probably still pissed at him and he guessed there was a good chance she and Edwards would return to Portland and make a life for themselves. It would be hard to lose any member of their group, but if had to pick one, it would be Elle. That Edwards would be lost in the deal was not the least bit appealing to him, but life is a series of unpleasant choices often times, and he had made his share of them.

  Haley had finally found a man, but Stryker was less-than-happy with her choice, and he knew Erin felt the same way. He shrugged to himself, realizing there was nothing to be done, and sipped more coffee.

  Stryker got up and moved to a window on the east side of the building. The sun was just beginning to peek between the buildings and his eyes moved to the parking ramp where he killed what he thought were the last of the terrorists.

  Thomas walked in, got a cup of coffee and joined Stryker at the window.

  “I heard the news from the duty officer.”

  Stryker nodded and finished his cup.

  “Let me get you another,” Thomas offered. “Seems like the least I can do.”

  “I’ve never turned down a cup of coffee in my life that I can remember.”

  Thomas returned and handed Stryker the fresh cup.

  “You really think we got them all?” He asked.

  “I’m growing increasingly convinced that we did.”

  “That’s a relief,” Thomas answered.

  “Not really. There’ll be something else.” Stryker smiled contentedly as he again sipped his coffee. “That’s about the only thing I really know for sure.”

  “How many were there?” He asked.

  “Only four.”

  “That’s enough,” Thomas asked.

  “I didn’t kill them,” Stryker said softly. “They committed suicide. Those were seasoned urban fighters in a dead city, burning candles and chatting like a bunch of girl scouts on a camping trip. They had no sentry, didn’t even bother to leave the area they shot from, and they were all in the same room. They must have wanted to die, because they had to know better than that.”

  “Why would they want to die?” Thomas asked with a confused expression.

  “It happens when you fight in small units, cut off from supply lines and main forces, and facing a superior enemy. I know what it feels like. They knew they were never going to be able to do whatever the hell it was they wanted to do to us and, at some point, they gave up.”

  “Has that ever happened to you?”

  “More than once.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because I’m the luckiest bastard in the world and I have people who help me get back into the game and keep fighting.”

  Erin and Haley walked into the room and stood next to Stryker.

  “You didn’t come to bed last night,” Erin said softly.

  “No.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Hunting. We got the last of them.”

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  “Well, me.”

  Erin’s faced darkened and she was about to throw a fit. Haley stared at him with a baleful expression.

  “When do you want to go to Mexico?” Thomas asked.

  “Mexico?” Erin asked with a tone of disbelief.”

  “I guess I
forgot to mention that to you,” Stryker admitted, looking away.

  “Mexico?” Erin asked again, her voice rising and her expression growing even darker.

  “Why not? Great food, cheap beer, and gorgeous beaches. What’s not to like?”

  Stryker beamed down at her with a crooked smile.

  STRYKER: BOOK FIVE - REQUIEM

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A NOTE FROM THE SCRIBBLER

  CHAPTER ONE

  There was little more to say.

  When you’re well and truly screwed; well, you are well and truly screwed.

  The world rests on a fulcrum, one that can be tilted in either direction with a slight breeze or change of fate. Once that change occurs, nothing else will follow along the course that was originally plotted. When the hinge turns one way or another, the wings of a butterfly create a hurricane, and one drop of rain creates a flood. One cell mutates, and someone fights for their life. A car crashes into a building because of a brake failure, or a plane falls from the sky due to a suicidal pilot. It’s all predictable – after the fact.

  Or, one lapse in vigilance can lead you to where Stryker and Erin found themselves.

  There were no shadows around them, as the sun was directly overhead, and no trees or bushes were visible to create the slightest amount of shade.

  Sweat ran down their faces as they continued to wait for the attackers to get within range. Both wiped the moisture away with the backs of their sleeves and blinked repeatedly to keep their vision clear.