ARES Virus (Book 2): White Horse

by John O'Brien

  “Okay. I have a tailgating trawler to see to.”

  * * * * * * *

  Arabian Sea

  October 7

  Commander Pellins parks the USS Spruance three hundred yards to the port side of the Russian trawler and slightly astern. The guided missile destroyer had been pulled from its duty as part of the inner screen of warships and tasked with chasing the trawler away. Pellins stares through the bridge windows at the trawler pushing through the light swells of the sea. With five minutes remaining until the exclusion zone goes into effect, the spy ship hasn’t made any effort to pull away. Near the horizon, Pellins sees the towering hull and superstructure of the USS Nimitz. Also visible are several other vessels providing security.

  Pellins watches the second hand as it circles the clock, one slow tick at a time. The destroyer sends a small spray of water outward as it plows through each swell. Having done this numerous times, Pellins knows that the trawler will play a game of cat and mouse for as long as possible. They usually sit within sight of the fleet or task force and claim the international waterway rights every time. This time, however, things are different, and they should surely recognize that fact.

  There’s no one left to report their intel to, so why are they still here? Pellins thinks as the clock winds down to the prescribed time. Perhaps they’re as lost as we, and are only doing what they know how to do, or following their last orders. Who knows?

  “Hail the trawler and inform them that they are now operating in a military exclusion zone,” Pellins orders.

  “Sir, they replied that they are operating in international waters,” a sailor reports.

  “Kindly inform them that this is in agreement with their commander aboard the Kiev. They are to immediately turn about and exit the zone.”

  A few seconds pass before the reply is conveyed.

  “Sir. They stated again that they are operating in international waters and don’t recognize the unilateral authority to establish an illegal zone.”

  “Make a pass across their bow. Five hundred yards should do for now,” Pellins orders. “If that doesn’t get his attention, we’ll really crank it up a notch on the next shot.”

  The Spruance surges through the water as their speed increases. Pellins loves the destroyer and its ability to maneuver. He views it as the fighter plane of naval vessels. Except when they encounter particularly heavy seas. Then it becomes part submarine as its sleek bow becomes submerged in the tall swells, the water sweeping across the decks and occasionally over the bridge. Then, it becomes a matter of strapping in and riding it out, leaving everyone exhausted afterward.

  Abeam of the trawler, the bow begins a slow swing to starboard and starts to close the distance. Seeing the maneuver, the trawler also makes a slight turn away. This is how it begins. It’s a frustrating game, much like having to endure the antics of someone else’s kid out in public, unable to do anything about it. And, they know it and do their utmost to antagonize. The trawler knows that they won’t be rammed, but they don’t want to get wet either. They’ll maneuver along in the same manner as the warship, all the while keeping an eye on the fleet and listening to their transmissions.

  “Fuck that. I’m not playing this game,” Pellins mutters. “Put another round closer up his ass—two mil offset.”

  Pellins orders the ship to match course and speed, watching as the five-inch single-barreled turret swings quickly to starboard. The barrel lowers.

  “Mount 51 is loaded, request Batteries release, sir.”

  “Batteries release,” Pellins commands.

  Pellins hears the sharp report and feels a heavy vibration as the barrel recoils, the percussion from the cannon just in front of the bridge felt in his entire body. A grayish-white cloud shoots out of the barrel. The shell rapidly crosses the short distance and slams into the sea just ahead of the steaming trawler. A plume of water rockets skyward from the impact and subsequent explosion. The trawler sails through the turbulent water left behind, continuing along its course.

  “Prepare another round,” Pellins orders. “One mil offset.”

  The Batteries Release order is given and the barrel lowers a touch before sending another shell streaking across the narrow distance. A second plume towers into the air, this time showering the small vessel. Again, the spy ship rocks as it plows through the choppy water without altering its course.

  “Kindly inform our neighbor that we aren’t playing and they will be fired upon directly if they continue their current course of action. They are to immediately turn about and exit the exclusion zone. This is their last warning,” Pellins orders. “And inform the Blue Ridge that the trawler isn’t cooperating.”

  Pellins orders the Spruance to a distance of five hundred yards.

  “Target the trawler directly. Maybe they’ll take the hint after looking straight down the barrel.”

  “No response from the trawler, sir. The Blue Ridge has given authorization to disable the vessel.”

  “Is there any indication that they are complying?” Pellins inquires.

  “No, sir. They are proceeding on course and speed,” a sailor reports.

  “Any radio traffic from them?”

  “Not that we have picked up.”

  “Bring us around and close in on their stern. Make mount 21 condition one and make sure the gunner knows we’re only conducting disabling fire on the stern,” Pellins orders.

  The destroyer heels to starboard. Pellins observes the bow swing around; the trawler passes across the nose as the ship begins closing toward a position slightly abaft of the stubborn vessel.

  “Tell them this is their final warning to depart,” Pellins states.

  The trawler makes a course correction in an attempt to keep the Spruance from getting into an optimal firing position. Pellins watches to see if it’s an actual change that will take them out of the area. It only takes several seconds to see that the trawler is intent on maintaining its shadowing position.

  “Mount 21 is condition one, sir.”

  “Position the ship abaft the trawler’s port beam, you pick the distance, just don’t hit it,” Pellins orders the Conning Officer. “Batteries release Mount 21.”

  A staccato burst of gunfire sounds across the deck. Streams of water shoot upward near the rear of the trawler. The trawler remains on course and speed. disregarding the warning fire.

  “I guess they just aren’t going to take the hint. Batteries release Mount 21, disabling fire on the stern,” Pellins says.

  “Batteries release Mount 21, disabling fire on the stern. Aye, aye, sir.”

  Water begins spraying upward, the shells walking across the sea toward the trawler. As they reach the vessel, the concentration of shells nearly hides the rear of the boat behind a torrent of spray. Through the curtain of water, an oily brown smoke bursts through and turns to a dark stream that pours from the stricken vessel. The spy ship’s bow noses downward from the abrupt decrease in speed, then settles.

  “Cease fire,” Pellins orders.

  “Cease fire. Aye, aye, sir.”

  The spray of water subsides, revealing the trawler rapidly slowing to a halt. Smoke pours from the rear quarter of the boat and figures can be seen racing hither and to on the deck. Pellins orders the deck cleared and circles the stricken vessel from a distance. Through binoculars, he sees several crew members yelling at them. One even raises a middle finger. Chuckling, Pellins lowers the glasses.

  “Give one blast from our horn and put us back on station. Inform the Blue Ridge that there are several very upset folks, but that our mission is accomplished.”

  A nearly identical scenario plays out with each surviving task force, only one trawler actually heeding the warnings.

  Chapter Eleven

  Missouri

  October 8

  It looks almost too ideal, Koenig thinks, looking at the farmhouse and surroundings through a pair of binoculars.

  The residence is a two-story house with a wraparound covered porch and a
barn standing off to the side with an attached vehicle shed. Two tractors are parked just outside of the shed, with other farming tools scattered nearby. Two pickups, one older and one newer, sit in the driveway near the house. In the very back, Koenig barely sees two large raised gas tanks, each one stenciled in white to indicate what they hold.

  Probably locked, he thinks, scanning the rest of the area for any sign of infected.

  He wonders why they weren’t better prepared to deal with an event of this magnitude, especially considering the world he had lived in. They weren’t the only ones dabbling in weaponized viral agents. He should have realized that it was only a matter of time before something like this happened, accidentally or on purpose, and he should have been more prepared—but the thoughts had been so terrifying that he had pushed them into the recesses of his mind.

  Slowly turning a three-sixty, he scans the entire area. Some cows huddle in the distance, and birds flit from limb to limb in the trees bordering a creek. A breeze trickles through. A stronger gust occasionally blows past, stirring up eddies in the dirt. There isn’t any sight or sound of infected. The sun sits high overhead, bringing more warmth to an already hot and humid day.

  Since dawn, they’ve been driving along back roads, taking one sharp bend after another as they slowly transit across the state of Missouri. The going has been slow since the decision was made to stay off the main roads; the landscape has been unchanging. Their progress isn’t measured in miles anymore, but in the number of fields and streams passed. Koenig knows that it’s illusionary, that they are in fact getting closer to Colorado, but it sure doesn’t feel like it.

  This and one other tank of gas should see us there, he thinks, slowly turning another three-sixty.

  They need the gas but he doesn’t want to be taken by surprise like at the RV campground. That was just a bad decision brought about by the desire to hasten their way forward. And nearly being caught at the gas station keeps his eyes to the glasses as he does a third sweep of the area.

  Realizing that he’ll never be a hundred percent sure that the area is clear, he lowers the binoculars. Koenig slides back into the driver’s seat and closes the door.

  “Well?” Liz questions.

  “I don’t see anything,” Koenig answers.

  “Do you think that it’s safe?”

  “I’m not sure that’s something we’ll ever be sure of. But, it seems as safe as any other place.”

  “You pump the gas and I’ll stand watch,” Liz says.

  “No, I want you at the wheel. I’ll watch and pump the gas. After that gas station incident, I want us ready to leave in a hurry if we need to,” Koenig replies.

  Koenig turns off the dirt track and slowly up the driveway. His gaze is constantly roving as he looks toward the front door and the barn. He cranes his head to look into the upstairs windows, watching for any movement. The wind blows a swirl of dirt skyward, rotating into a funnel of dust. The gust moves on, tall grasses bending in a wave that moves across the adjacent field. The trees on the other side of the field pick up the wave, their limbs swaying.

  Easing around the two pickups, Koenig gradually drives closer to the two gas tanks. The crunch of gravel under the tires can be heard as he inches into a small courtyard formed by the house, barn, and tanks; the fourth border is a fence with a grass field beyond. He parks next to one of the tanks, finding that the nozzle and hose are indeed locked.

  After Koenig opens the door and stands, Liz slides across the seat and plants herself behind the wheel. There’s only the sound of the idling motor and the swish of the wind across the fields. Even with the heat and humidity, Koenig can envision himself staying in such a place. Far away from everyone with only the peacefulness of the countryside to keep him company.

  Well, and Liz, he thinks, peering into the dark shadows of the barn.

  A loud slam rocks the peaceful scene.

  Koenig’s heart almost stops as adrenaline is unloaded into his body. Liz lets out a small yelp. He nearly pushes Liz across the seat before he feels a strong gust blow past. He hears the creak of hinges and looks into the barn to see the far door slowly swinging back open. Remaining frozen in place, he continues to watch the door, listening for anything that might tell of infected coming his way. Slowly, he inches back upright, surprised to see that the front of his pants are still dry. Another surprise is that he didn’t discharge the weapon in his hand. His heart still beats rapidly and his knees feel shaky.

  “Fuck me,” he mutters, daring to take a step away from the car door.

  “Let’s make this quick, James. This place gives me the creeps,” Liz says.

  Koenig nods his agreement, the peacefulness he felt vanishing as if carried away with the wind. With the gas handles locked, he needs to find some way to free them. Focusing on the tank stenciled “Gas,” he feels along the edges of the structure holding the tank up, hoping to find the key. Without finding one, he ranges his search to overturn rocks on the ground.

  “Dammit,” he mutters, again feeling along the edges.

  Maybe there’s a bolt cutter in there, he thinks, looking toward the barn.

  With his nerves still on edge, he feels trepidation both about going into the barn and farther away from the car. He was fine with the whole thing until the barn door slammed shut. Now, he’s worried about taking a few steps away from the safety of the idling vehicle.

  Pull your head out of your ass. If there were anyone here, especially infected, they would have made themselves known by now.

  With a deep breath to restore a measure of confidence, Koenig walks toward the barn.

  “James, where are you going?” Liz queries.

  “Into the barn to see if there’s anything we can use to cut that lock off,” Koenig responds.

  Without waiting for a reply, he keeps heading toward the building lest his nerves give way.

  It’s only a fucking barn.

  At the door, he peers inside, trying to pierce every shadow. With the brightness outside and it being shaded inside, it’s difficult to see much of anything. With his handgun poised, he steps inside. His eyes adjust and the shadows melt away, revealing what he’d expect every barn to look like. Bales of hay are neatly stacked along one of the sides and fill one of the lofts. He hadn’t seen much livestock or horses nearby, so he’s not sure what the bales are for.

  It’s probably a requirement to have hay bales if you have a barn, he thinks, turning his gaze to the rest of the interior.

  Hand tools of all kinds cover nearly half of one of the side walls, those with long handles leaning against the structure, some others hanging on nails, while the rest reside neatly on pegboards. Koenig searches the multitude of tools, his eyes coming to rest on three bolt cutters hanging next to each other. Reaching for the largest, a scream penetrates the interior of the barn, followed on its heels by another.

  Koenig freezes in mid grasp, his head sharply turning toward the front door. He races toward the entrance, fear enveloping him. Liz is out there and unarmed.

  I should have grabbed the shotgun out of the trunk, he belatedly thinks.

  Running across the hard-packed dirt floor, he races out into the open, stopping just outside and raising his handgun. He’s just in time to witness a woman run out of the grass and into the fence. Stymied momentarily, she snarls at the obstruction, then shrieks again. A man just behind her, seeing her bounce back from the wire, vaults over it.

  “Hurry, James!” Liz frantically cries.

  Koenig eyes the man now streaking across the yard, followed by the woman, having successfully navigated the obstacle. In a split-second, his mind analyzes the closure rate of the infected and his distance to the car. Although all he really has to do is get in the back seat and close the door, he’s slowed by his suit.

  There’s not enough time to make it, he thinks on the edge of panic.

  He starts in motion, heading for the Land Rover. He hears his panting breath, the sound of the infecteds’ footfalls, Liz yelling f
or him to hurry. Rising above that, nearly drowning everything else out, the screams of the man and woman reverberate off the walls of the house and barn. Their faces are twisted with rage, eager to get to their target.

  Koenig reaches the side of the car at the same time that the man leaps onto the hood of the vehicle. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, and the infected man takes this at its literal meaning. Not bothering with going around, he opts to go over. Scared beyond belief, thinking that he’s reached his end in this courtyard, Koenig slams the driver’s side door closed with his hip. The man leaps off the hood as Koenig raises his gun.

  The image of the man leaping freezes in Koenig’s mind. The outstretched arms reaching for him, the red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes wild and fanatical, the mouth open, dried stains surrounding it. The grimy middle-aged face, torn and deeply stained clothing. The face looms large, growing closer in stages as if some of the slides of the film are missing.

  Koenig sees a gun rising into view, unsure of where it’s coming from. He’s just a spectator watching the event unfold. The slideshow moves suddenly into real speed. Koenig feels pressure against his gun hand, the face so close to his. He hears a scream rising in intensity and realizes that he had been in a well of silence. The sound of a muffled gunshot reaches his ears and he sees chunks of gore spray behind the man in a mist of red. The figure, its shriek cut short, keeps falling toward him. Koenig pushes outward with his hand and twists just as the man collides with him. As if coming out of a long tunnel, he rushes back into his body. Still twisting, Koenig instinctively pushes the man to the side and stumbles over the body.

  The woman, he thinks, trying to gather his balance.

  Putting a foot out to halt his stumbling momentum, Koenig turns back toward the car just as the woman appears from around the back. He raises his sidearm, the sight coming into alignment with her snarling face, and pulls the trigger. The recoil sends his hand upward, the bullet quickly closing the short distance and impacting with her cheek. A mist sprays outward, the round mushrooming against her lower sinuses and tearing them into shards of bone.