"So Chuck," pressed Nelson, as they strode through the reception area of the main building. “What have you got for me?”
"Option Bl" pronounced White, pushing a pad on the wall next to a large steel door that slid smoothly and noiselessly sideways to expose a cavernous void beyond. The enormity of the space alone was enough to take a man’s breath but what stopped the President in his tracks was the line of nine aircrafts facing him as he stepped into the hangar. The C-5M Super Galaxy was an awesome looking aircraft and with a wingspan of 222.8 feet and standing at a height of 65.1 feet it was a goliath of the skies. Its four GE Turbofan engines could each provide 50,580 lb of thrust and push the giant along at just under 600 miles per hour with a payload of 125,000 lbs in weight for a distance of just over 4,000 miles.
The President's head swept left and right along the line that spread for over a thousand feet in each direction and whilst the scale of the six Galaxy’s, three to the left and three to the right, were spell binding, what stirred his blood was the three other aircraft that took centre stage of the line directly in front of him. The Northdrop B2 Spirit, commonly known as the Stealth Bomber, is a plane that has acquired an almost mythical status in aircraft history. At 21 metres long and with a wingspan of 52 metres it could not measure up in terms of Pure scale against the Galaxy but in terms of reputation and legend it was a goliath.
"You staged this well Chuck," spoke the President eventually, in a tone that was almost reverent.
"Guilty," smiled General White.
"Are these good to go?" asked Nelson, striding to the Stealth in the centre and stroking the wheel strut.
"Almost Sir.”
“I thought the three we used in the attack on Palermo were the only ones flying?”
“Those are good for short internal flights Sir but we could not rely on them for long hauls.”
"How long before they are ready?” asked the USA leader, turning to his General.
"Three to four days, by then we will have the pilots we need, the aircraft in flight condition and........." the General’s voice trailed slightly, "our cargos prepared.”
The President tilted his head to one side as he studied White. "Spit it out Chuck."
#
The Preacher heard the rush of feet, a battle cry rise from two throats behind him. As he spun, he reached over his left shoulder with his right hand and drew the combat knife from its harness the same moment his left hand pulled the Tomahawk axe from his belt, the shaft fitting snugly in his hand. The first man to reach him had a vicious razor edged butcher’s knife raised high threatening a downward plunge at the giant black man who had entered his domain but expectantly that man did not retreat from him, in fact he came at him in a blur of speed.
The Preacher closed on the man seeing the blade begin its downward strike, a subtle jink to the man’s left caused his striking arm to land harmlessly onto his shoulder, the knife jarring from his hand to clatter on the floor behind him. At the same instant The Preacher made two swift thrusts with his combat knife, the first was an upward slicing cut from his attacker’s groin up to the underside of the sternum opening the man’s abdomen, the second, a vicious in and out thrust, was up through the underside of the man’s chin, the blade passing through the base of the tongue through the temporal lobe and into the parietal area of the brain, time expended two seconds. As the lifeless corpse sank to the ground, the frightening black spectre dropped to one knee as the second man charged in, swinging the knife he was carrying like a scythe, the whistling blade passing close to The Preacher’s head. As the assailant passed close, The Preacher’s Tomahawk axe swung once, the head chopping deep into the back of the man’s leg, severing the tendons holding the hamstring to the bone on his right leg. As the man crashed to the floor screaming, The Preacher was on his feet like a cat, time expended six seconds. The remaining group of eight came like a pack. There followed a ballet of death, amongst them the black spectre's blades swinging wildly at the dodging weaving group moving like a panther amongst them. His combat knife and Tomahawk axe found flesh every time they flashed in an ever, spinning movement, the brass knuckle dusters causing untold damage as they drove into nose, cheek and jaw. After just sixty seconds ten bodies, some missing limbs, lay bleeding around the heavily muscled black man. For a second or two the only sound was the low moaning of some of his victims and the soft panting of The Preacher as he stood proud, arms hanging loose at his side, blood still running from his axe head and combat blade.
"So you are The Preacher?" came a voice behind him. It was a deep voice, a voice that twisted the statement into an accusation.
The Preacher took a steadying breath, the air taking several seconds to fill the big barrel chest, before turning slowly, and there he was, the man he had come for, the man he knew was The Butcher.
Chapter 20
"And you I suspect, are The Butcher?”
White sighed as though a man carrying a heavy burden. “If we get into a position Sir, where we are unable to extradite the Pure in the UK by using the cruise ships, we have to have an alternative, a second option."
"How are we progressing with those other ships Chuck?” asked the President, stalling the news that he knew he would rather not have to listen to.
"By the time The Spirit of the Sea returns to the States the other ships will be ready for the return journey."
"It's slower than I would like," frowned Nelson, "but.... the extra ships will certainly help."
"None of us really know how long this Bruger guy will hold back Sir. And in the worst scenario, in that he makes a sudden move on Anderson’s group, we have to be in a position to offer a solution.”
"And this cargo would be that solution?” probed the President.
"I believe so Sir."
"You’d better share?” suggested White reluctantly.
"Might be easier to show you," replied White, pointing beyond the aircraft.
A short walk took the two men through a side door of the hangar, across an open area of ground, around thirty metres, and into a separate building guarded by two fully armed marines who snapped to attention as the pair approached.
"At ease guys," smiled Nelson as he and White entered through a single door.
Even though the inner space was large, around fifty metres by fifty metres, after the sensory overload of the cavernous hangar it seemed modest. White led the President over to an area where a number of men dressed in white overalls were working on lines and lines of what looked like oil barrels.
"This is our cargo sir," indicated White with a wave of his arm.
"Your solution?" questioned Nelson.
"Part of it Sir, these twenty barrels contain Super Napalm, two Stealth’s will carry ten drums each, each drum carries just under 700 litres of Super-Napalm just as we used at Palermo. It’s a mix of gasoline and napalm which is itself a jelly obtained from the salts of aluminium, palmitic or other fatty acids and naphthenic acids, these acids give a viscous consistency to gasoline so that an incendiary jelly is formed. When enriched with polystyrene, sodium, magnesium or phosphorus it creates Super-Napalm which when discharged will burn at temperatures reaching 1,500-2,000°C. It will set fire to any combustible matter with which it comes in contact. A human being in the open cannot protect himself against it. Napalm acts not only by burning but has an equally devastating effect which consists of a complicated process whereby shock, absorption of oxygen from the air [deoxygenation], smoke and noxious gases becomes lethal, no one caught in the central strike area survives because of this phenomenon, only those who have been on the periphery of the strike zone can survive the massive deoxygenation.”
President Nelson looked pale, he knew they had used this weapon of destruction recently at the break in at Palermo but to see it up close and personal and have its destructive qualities spelt out made it real. "And this is your solution?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
"Options are thin on the ground Sir. We have two objectives that we cannot fail on
. Firstly, the child, Hope, with the antibody has to be brought to safety along with as many of Anderson’s people we can save. Secondly we have to ensure this monster Bruger is stopped before he goes on the rampage through Europe and turns his eyes towards us. We also have the threat of these Mutants he has created spreading worldwide. If this maniac backs us into a corner we have to have an option.”
"And is this it Chuck?”
"My plan would have three phases Sir," continued White. “Phase one would be the use of the Super Napalm to literally create a fire break if Bruger marches on Fort London. Two of the Stealth bombers would run side by side at a hundred feet off the ground releasing the barrels at set spacing, probably around every 200 feet. The all-enveloping blanket of fire would gorge an area measuring a kilometre wide by five kilometres in length. All life within that zone would be destroyed, anyone caught close to that killing field would almost certainly be affected by Napalm caught on the wind."
"Phase two?” probed Nelson quietly.
"The Galaxys would land and take as many of Anderson’s people that we can squeeze in, Mr President."
"Estimates?”
"We are looking at restructuring the loading areas of the Galaxys for human cargo to allow us to lift out 500 souls per Galaxy.”
"But....Anderson estimated over half a million Pure at Fort London and several hundred in smaller communes. That means we would only be able to airlift less than one per cent of plague survivors Chuck.”
"I know the numbers Mr President but we would be using up every drop of fuel reserves if we have to make that trip sir, also we are using planes that have not been tested at this distance for some time so it's a gamble that they will even make it to the UK but we might have no choice but to try," explained White. "If this guy Bruger carries out his threat it will only be a matter of time before he turns his attention State side, we can't allow the threat of this man getting loose on our soil and bringing those Mutants with him."
The President nodded a sad agreement. "I hope to God it never comes to this Zack.”
"There's more," added White, almost apologetically.
"I wondered about the other Stealth," admitted Nelson wearily.
"Could you come with me please Sir?” asked White, sweeping an arm towards a set of, what looked like offices at the far side of the large void.
"Would I be right in thinking that I am not going to like this?” quizzed Nelson.
General White's silence as he led the way spoke volumes loud and clear. President Nelson knew his assessment was correct, he was not going to like this one bit.
#
The man before The Preacher stood well over six feet eight, his bared upper body a mass of thick hair that was clogged with blood that had turned almost black, the leather apron hanging from his waist down to the ground glistened with vitriol fluids and blood. In each giant paw of a hand was a 16 inch butcher’s knife hanging down either side of the colossus who side stepped through the space surprisingly softly for such a big man.
"And you I suspect," paused The Preacher, "are The Butcher?”
"Many of them called your name," smirked the monster.
The Preacher noted the man slipping sideways as he spoke, small delicate steps, light, precise. He had no doubt that he was completely insane but he was also dangerous, his movements giving away a trained mind. He was trying to gain the advantage of making his stand with the high level lights behind him, lights that would shine down into The Preacher’s eyes. The Preacher started his own movements.
"Who are they?” asked The Preacher.
"Your flock," smirked the man, exposing discoloured teeth. “As I sliced the flesh from their bones, they called for their God, and then for you.”
The explosion of rage within The Preacher stripped away all caution and training as he let out a primeval scream, launching himself at the beast before him which was exactly what his tormentor had wanted. The huge man before him swayed expertly to one side, the blade of the knife in his right hand raking upwards on the charging black man, opening a vicious slash on his side from his waist up to his armpit.
The Preacher admonished himself for his slip, he knew he had been suckered. Placing his fingertips of his left hand on the wound, his eyes never leaving the Butcher, he touched the blood to his lips. "You spill no more blood this day."
The Butcher sprinted at him, covering the ground in a blur that belied his size, the roar passing his lips was matched by that of The Preacher who surpassed his speed, the two meeting in the pool of light thrown down from above in a clash of steel meeting steel and as the two passed and turned to face each other, The Butcher winced as the pain from the wound opened on the side of his neck registered within his corrupted brain. "A scratch," he snarled before surging once more.
The Preacher made his run and feinted left, his intention to jink back to the right and bring his axe up and across the throat of the beast of The Keep. What he had not counted on was the crazed man reading his movements, the result was a frontal clash between the two, the bone jarring impact painful for both. Each dropped their weapons in a frantic bid to get a hold on their opponent. The Butcher gained the upper hand as he threw thick muscular arms around The Preacher in a suffocating bear hug and began to squeeze. In all of his life the giant black man had never known such power as his back and ribs began to crack and pop. Throwing back his head, he snapped it forward in an attempt at a head butt to dislodge the man crushing the life from him but it was weak and pointless against the grinning man. The Preacher couldn't breathe, his head began to swim and as he felt himself slipping away he looked over The Butcher’s shoulder and saw the small body of a child hanging from a chain, a child with blond hair. From deep within his soul came a cry, it was soundless to The Butcher but in the black man’s head it was a roar, a shriek of defiance, a call from the grave of every man, woman and child that had suffered at the hands of this man. Lurching forward, The Preacher locked his teeth onto The Butcher’s nose and bit until he felt the bone beneath and ripped backwards, tearing it from the monster’s face. The man in front of him howled in pain dropping his arms and pulling his hands up to his face. The Preacher dropped to the floor and in a fluid movement snatched up the two knives dropped by The Butcher and in a double handed movement drove them down through the monster’s feet, the blades burying deep into the wooden floor beneath. The roaring giant reached down taking hold of the handles of each of the knives and in a howl of pain pulled them out and bent up right to face his nemesis.
The Preacher knew he had seconds only as the monstrous man in front of him bent to pull out the knives speared through his feet. Rolling back, he snatched up the Tomahawk axe that had slid away behind him. Sprinting three steps, he left the floor in a flying leap as the spectre of evil before him straightened up, his face a mask of blood, his eyes coal black pits of evil. In the same second The Butcher saw the axe coming down from high, he heard his own voice scream out a single word, a word he had heard countless times from so many suffering souls in The Cutting Shed, "Preacherrrrrrr.”
The Preacher drove the axe deep into the top of the beast’s head, the crunch leaving no doubt that splintered bone had been driven into the frontal lobe. For a second or two The Preacher looked in awe as the colossus of a man stayed on his feet before falling backwards, crashing to the floor, arms spread wide, the tools of his life still gripped tightly in his hands.
The Preacher walked from The Cutting Shed just minutes later and returned to his Jeep. There he collected the last of his plastic explosives and returned to the Shed. Five minutes later he stood clear and waited for the timers he had placed to react. The resulting explosion gave him no joy, no release of the pain of loss he felt for his flock. Turning, he walked towards the slice in the fence for the final time but as he neared, his pace slowed as he heard a voice. Spinning, he raised his Glock coming to a halt as he spotted a man in a white coat staggering from the wreckage of the laboratory building, a clear plastic bag of white powder gripped tightl
y in his hand. It was Jeremy Boardman.
#
"This is Jack Keller, Mr President," explained White as they entered what was clearly a laboratory and were approached by a tall man wearing a white lab coat, his spectacles slid onto the top of his head.
"Mr President," beamed the man, taking the offered hand.
Nelson swept a quick glance around the large open planned area where a dozen similarly dressed staff were engrossed at various work stations. "Pleasure is all mine Jack, now please excuse my bluntness but I only have a limited amount of time and I believe you are phase three?”
White noted the confused expression on the scientist’s face. "If you could just fill the President in on your project Jack?” asked White.
"Yes....yes of course," agreed Keller, going into professor mode. “Are you familiar with the concept of anti-matter Mr President?”
Nelson felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, he was indeed familiar with it. It was the stuff of the doomsday bomb, a bomb that if harnessed to a tiny amount of anti-matter would create an explosion ten, twenty or thirty times more powerful than the bombs that took out Hiroshima and Nagasaki during World War Two. Nelson simply nodded in answer to Keller’s question, unable to trust his voice.
"Anti-matter is the opposite of normal matter,” continued Keller. "More specifically, the sub-atomic particles of anti-matter have properties opposite those of normal matter. The electrical charge of those particles is reversed. Anti-matter was created along with matter after the Big Bang, but anti-matter is rare in today's universe, and almost impossible to harness, or so we thought," smiled Keller. "Now anti-matter is a material composed of so-called antiparticles. It is believed that every particle we know of has an anti-matter companion that is virtually identical to itself, but with the opposite charge. For example, an electron has a negative charge. But its anti-particle, called a positron, has the same mass but a positive charge. When a particle and its antiparticle meet, they annihilate each other - disappearing in a burst of light. Despite initial scepticism from many quarters, examples of these particle-antiparticle pairs were soon found. For example, they are produced when cosmic rays hit the Earth's atmosphere. There is even evidence that the energy in thunderstorms produces anti-electrons, called positrons. These are also produced in some radioactive decays, a process used in many hospitals, in Positron Emission Tomography (PET) scanners, which allow precise imaging within human bodies. Pre-plague experiments conducted at the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) produced both matter and anti-matter, too. Bottom line is Sir, that we have been able to harvest sufficient to create a weapon the size of a suitcase that is 100 times more powerful than a conventional nuclear device." Keller beamed, waiting for a reaction from his President, hoping for some air punching or possibly a man hug. What he got was a stunned expression of disbelief from a man who seemed to have shrunk as his shoulders sagged.
Bravo Two Zombie (Book 3): The Final Solution Page 15