Storm of Ghosts (Surviving the Dead Book 8)

by James Cook

  I observed the scars on the side of Hopper’s head, the way he wore his weapons, and the steel in his eyes, and took Grabovsky at his word.

  Three trucks were idling outside, one outfitted with an automatic grenade launcher, another with an M-240, and the last bearing a confiscated RPG launcher and a bag of rockets.

  “Get in,” Hopper said. “We’re headed north.”

  Grabovsky’s face lit up. “Lookin’ for trouble, huh?”

  “You know me,” Hopper said, baring his teeth.

  The roads we rolled over were rough and cracked, and in many places, runoff from heavy rains had washed them out entirely leaving behind tangled aggregates of mud and debris. Thankfully, the drivers were competent and the trucks were built for extreme terrain. Nonetheless, we set a slow pace. Tough as they were, the trucks were not invulnerable. If the drivers broke them, we would be on foot and the Resistance would have to send people out to attempt repairs. Operational vehicles were too valuable an asset to abandon no matter how severe the damage they sustained.

  More than an hour went by before the lead truck turned off onto a dirt two-track and parked in a small open space canopied by gigantic cedars, maples, and cottonwoods. The air was still, humid, and stiflingly hot. I hopped from the back of the truck I was in and hauled my rucksack straps over my shoulders.

  I was carrying my SCAR sniper rifle. It had a Nightforce scope mounted to the top rail and a pair of back-up iron sights offset forty-five degrees to the right. The rifle was heavy. I liked it. The weight was comforting. I knew what the weapon was capable of, and I knew what I was capable of with it.

  Back in the First Recon, I’d often confiscated our squad’s sniper carbine from my friend Derrick Holland, our designated marksman, and wreaked havoc with it upon marauders dumb enough to raid farms and small settlements within Fort McCray’s area of responsibility. The practice had cemented within me the lessons of marksmanship I’d learned since the age of twelve: A sniper is a force multiplier. A good one can kill with near impunity. When the enemy sees one of their own go down in a spray of blood, the effect is immediately demoralizing. When more than one goes down, when the bodies start piling up, panic is never far behind. A few well-placed shots can often end a firefight before it starts, especially if the enemy in question is surrounded and a voice from out of nowhere tells them to surrender or suffer additional casualties. It is amazing how fast a big swinging dick raider loses confidence when faced with the possibility of someone blowing his heart out through his spine.

  As I was clipping the rucksack belt around my waist, Hopper addressed the patrol team. “We go on foot from here. Five yard intervals, stay low and quiet. No sound. Hand signals only.” His gaze turned to my group. “Just to be sure…”

  He made a few hand signals. Tyrel spoke up for us, saying what they meant. When Hopper was satisfied we knew the language, we established call signs, covered the trucks with camo nets, and moved out.

  The Resistance fighters took the right flank and Gellar and his men took center, leaving the left side of the skirmish line to my team. Hemingway was to my right. I put five yards between us and matched my speed to Hopper’s as he set the pace. As we moved, I slipped past foliage and branches and ferns and felt the old instincts and muscle memory kicking in. It felt good. The part of me that revels in combat was happy to be on the move again, happy to be doing something aggressive. My ears strained, and I noted with satisfaction I made almost no noise as I passed through the forest. Gabe’s form moved to my left, the big man somehow making his outline hard to detect even in broad daylight. He slipped through the undergrowth like a ghost, his passage swift and fluid.

  He was at home here in the wilds.

  So was I.

  We covered two miles in just under an hour. The land rose up steadily until a ridgeline became visible up ahead. Movement to my right caught my attention, and I looked to see signals passing down the line. I knew the message before it reached Hemingway, but waited anyway.

  Get low. Crawl to the ridgeline and stop.

  I signaled affirmative and looked to my left. Gabe was already signaling Tyrel, who passed the message down to Grabovsky. I slung my rifle around to my back, pushed my spare mags lower on my waist, and did a high crawl to the ridgeline. Once there, I lay flat and still and let my eyes go unfocused, using them as motion detectors.

  The terrain below sloped downward for hundreds of yards, thousands of trees standing like silent sentinels, the undergrowth beneath them concealing anything less than three feet in height. For all I knew, there was an entire platoon of ROC troops moving toward us, concealed by ghillie suits. With the amount of real estate in front of me, it would be difficult to spot them. I wished Eric Riordan were there. His uncanny eyesight had proved invaluable on numerous occasions.

  Hopper turned out to be a patient man, a quality I admired. If the scars on his head were any indication, it was a trait he had come by the hard way.

  We waited and watched, eyes straining. According to our maps, we occupied the best vantage point for miles around. If there was anyone moving our way, this was the best place to spot them.

  Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The wet smell of decaying organic matter filled my nostrils, bugs crawled on my skin, and the front of my clothes and MOLLE vest were absorbing water from the damp earth. I heard rodents and lizards skittering through the ferns and leaves, and in the branches far above, the shrill call of birds stirred the air.

  Then, close to the thirty minute mark, the birds went silent.

  Gabe noticed it at the same time I did. I looked at him and he made a signal.

  Hostiles.

  I acknowledged and turned to my right. From what I could tell, no one else had noticed anything amiss. I backed off down the hill, came up into a low crouch, and moved to Hopper’s position. When I was a few feet behind him, I scratched gently in the leaves to let him know I was there. He jumped slightly, and I couldn’t help feeling a sense of satisfaction at getting the drop on him. When he turned his head to look at me, I motioned for him to join me. He crawled backwards until we were less than a foot apart.

  “You hear what I’m hearing?” I whispered.

  “I don’t hear shit,” he said irritably.

  “Exactly.” I pointed upward. “The birds didn’t fly away. They’re still here.”

  He looked up, and after a few seconds, realization dawned. “Ah, fuck. You take left, I’ll take right. Let everybody know we got trouble coming. Tell ‘em to turn on their radios.”

  “On it.”

  My part was easy. All I had to do was move back to my position and signal Gabe. He took care of the rest. I settled into the same spot where I had been waiting before, the ground still warm from when I had lain there a few minutes ago. My eyes traced the slope, a warm sphere of anticipation building in my stomach. It had been too long since I’d had a good fight. The incident in the refugee district back in the Springs did not really count. My opponents had been overmatched. Now, I was up against real competition.

  I thought about the photos I had seen of bodies burning in huge pits dug by the very people lying dead in them. I thought about the way Mike had aged a decade since I’d last seen him. I thought about the video of decimations carried out by KPA troops, and I thought about how all of it could have been avoided if the people who came in on the Flotilla had collaborated with the survivors they found instead of conscripting them into slave labor. I thought about Chinese assault rifles, and the Alliance, and the ROC troops stationed in Carbondale, and the man I had killed in cold blood as he lay sleeping and defenseless in his bed because doing so was the only way to prevent a bloody civil war from tearing apart what was left of my country. I thought about how the images of that night played in my head on an endless loop, over and over and over again, and how many times I had woken up smelling blood and cordite and the seeing the startled, pale face of the woman who had been asleep next to him, her features round and waxen in the moonlight as she awoke to a faceless
terror. A terror that had a name.

  Caleb T. Hicks.

  Think of what they’ve taken, I told myself. Think of what they’ve done. Think of what they’ve made you give.

  I heard the crunch of boots on dead leaves. The sound was faint, like the mumbling voice of someone turning a corner as they walked out of a room. I closed my eyes and tried to figure out how many of them there were. It did not sound like a small patrol.

  Moving slowly, I brought my rifle into firing position. We had the high ground, we were armed, prepared, and had the element of surprise. And soon, I would be looking down at a target rich environment.

  I hoped they were complacent. I hoped they had patrolled this area a hundred times and never found anything of interest. I hoped there were a lot of them.

  And I hoped they showed up soon.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “Alpha One, Charlie Two. I got hostiles, over,” I said into my radio.

  “Roger, Charlie Two,” Hopper said. “From my twelve o’clock, give me a bearing, over.”

  “Spread out from ten to two. Heavy camouflage. Looks like commando types. Over.”

  “Copy. All stations, look for movement, but hold fire until my mark. Charlie Two, give me targets.”

  I worked from right to left, searching for movement. If I had been a civilian, or even a regular infantryman, I most likely would not have seen the enemy coming. But Mike Holden, Tyrel Jennings, Blake Smith, and my father had spent four years doing their damnedest to spot me in the backdrop of the Texas hill country before I could spot them. They’d cleaned my clock at first, but by the time I was sixteen, I could beat them two times out of three. The guys down the hill from me were good, but not as good as the men who raised me.

  “Alpha One, from your two o’clock, track low and left, big oak tree, cluster of ferns beneath. Look for a tree cancer.”

  “Got him Charlie Two. Good eyes. Bravo three, you got him?”

  “I see a bundle of ferns that looks like its crawling next to a little red maple. That the one?”

  “Affirmative, Bravo Three. He’s yours.”

  “Copy, Alpha One. Standing by.”

  On it went. I spotted targets and called them to Hopper. He assigned them to shooters. Pretty soon, there were more targets than men to shoot at them. I glanced over at Gabe while I worked and noticed a small smile on his face. I had no doubt he had spotted the hostiles before I did, but had let me take the credit anyway. I was pretty sure I understood why. Gabe had street cred among these guys. I didn’t. Showing off a little would inform the rest of the team I was no slouch, and that I brought something to the table other than youthful exuberance. I reminded myself to thank him later, assuming we both survived the next few minutes.

  I informed Hopper we were facing no less than forty-two enemy troops. Platoon strength, in other words. Gabe chimed in and said he was pretty sure it was fifty-six and pointed out a secondary skirmish line I hadn’t spotted. I did not begrudge him for it; I should have seen them myself, and in situations like these, ego goes out the window. There is no room for pride in a firefight.

  Between my team, the six SEALs, and Hopper’s Resistance fighters, there were eighteen of us. Which meant we were outnumbered better than three to one. The lack of bullets flying over my head told me we hadn’t been spotted yet. I knew my group was solid, and had expected no less from Gellar and his SEALs, but Hopper’s men had impressed me. I’d had my doubts about their capabilities, but those doubts were now laid to rest. The Resistance was no joke. They knew their business and did it well.

  “All stations, this is Alpha One. Hold your targets and stand by. When I give the word, take your shots and fall back by fire teams. Cover each other’s retreat, stay in your lanes, and for fuck’s sake, maintain muzzle discipline. Alpha Four and Alpha Six, fall back to the trucks and man the heavy weapons. Everyone else, we’ll lead ‘em on a running fight back to the trucks. Once there, I’ll give the order to hit the ground and my guys will lay the hammer down. This is gonna be danger close, so once you’re down, stay there until you get the all clear. Alpha Four, when the time comes, make sure you keep those goddamn grenades well clear of our guys. All stations acknowledge.”

  The affirmatives went down the line in order, one man at a time, no one tripping over anyone else’s comms. I’d seen experienced infantry platoons that couldn’t do it as well. Again, I was impressed.

  “All stations, Alpha One. Stand by.”

  I put the reticle on target. He was less than a hundred yards away. The 1-9x scope was dialed down to two-power, giving me a clear target picture. I put my finger over the trigger and kept my breathing steady, making slight adjustments as I did so to keep the crosshairs where they needed to be. My heart was a rhythmic drum, beating evenly, my finger twinging ever so slightly between beats. I wanted the shot to go off at the bottom of my breathing cycle between heartbeats. The SCAR’s match-grade trigger was light with only a millimeter of take-up. I put slight pressure on it and waited.

  The earpiece made a static sound. “All stations, Alpha One. Fire on my mark.”

  I breathed in.

  “Three.”

  Lungs full.

  “Two.”

  Let it out.

  “One.”

  Lungs empty, reticle on target.

  “Mark.”

  My heart thumped inside my chest, and between one beat and another, I pulled the trigger. The rifle was suppressed, so instead of a tremendous, echoing BAKOOOW, there was only a medium-sharp crack.

  I had loaded the cartridges for this rifle myself. I had used my black card to obtain fresh brass from the Army’s diminishing supply. The powder and primers and projectiles were the best I could acquire. I knew precisely the muzzle velocity, trajectory, and energy delivered on target I could expect from each bullet I fired at every distance from fifty to a thousand yards. The man in front of me was less than fifty yards away. Which meant the 175 grain projectile penetrated his chest cavity with over 2,400 foot pounds of energy. That kind of impact would have dropped a bull moose, much less a human being. I couldn’t be sure, but I had a strong suspicion he was dead before he hit the ground.

  Shots rang out to my left and right, and down the hill, men died. The troops below began shouting to one another in a language that I could only assume was Korean, and the ones still standing, which was most of them, raised their rifles and began returning fire. Bullets slapped the ground down the hill and clattered among the trunks and branches over my head. Wood shrapnel began falling around me like sharpened hail. I was now in ricochet country, a place for which I hold a deep and abiding hatred.

  Only my team and the SEALs were running suppressors. The Resistance fighters had no such advantage, which meant as the enemy started shooting back, most of the bullets went their way first. The ones hitting over my head were just wild shots from frightened men trying to suppress anything on the ridgeline. Which, to their credit, was not altogether ineffective.

  “Fall back, Alpha Team,” Grabovsky said. “We’ll draw ‘em off while you take position. Cover us on the way by.”

  “Copy Charlie One. On our way.”

  I’m sure Hopper signaled for his men to haul ass back down the hill toward the trucks. I’m also sure he shouted something to them about closing intervals when they hit the ground to cover the SEALs’ retreat. But I didn’t hear or see any of it. I had my hands full trying not to get shot.

  To my left, Gabe had a SCAR 17 battle rifle of his own. It wasn’t as tricked out as mine, but his skill more than made up for the difference in accuracy. I’m good, but Gabe is great. There is a big difference between the two, and it showed as he went to work.

  Crack.

  A ghillie-suit clad man I hadn’t even seen went down.

  Crack.

  Two men were trying to take cover behind the same tree. Gabe’s bullet passed cleanly through the first man’s torso and hit the man behind him center of mass, dropping them both.

  “You gonna get to work
or what?” Gabe shouted above the din. I didn’t look at him, but I knew who he was talking to.

  I caught movement in the foliage to my right. There was a lump of greenery where the rest of the ground was flat. I put my scope on it. The lump twitched and a fern in front of it swayed as if caught in a strong breeze.

  Rookie mistake.

  I put two rounds into the lump. It twitched and began to roll over, so I gave it one to grow on. The lump went still.

  At best guess, we had put down between fifteen and twenty enemy troops without sustaining any casualties. Not yet, anyway. The rest of the enemy had taken cover, and despite our best efforts, we weren’t making much headway against them.

  I thought back to my infantry days and the tactics we used. When an infantry unit goes on patrol, they do so with the understanding they may be ambushed. If such a thing occurs, one needs to have the means to repel said attack. This is accomplished by the disciplined and coordinated employment of weapons with greater firepower than those being directed against them. As such, most squads have at least one machine gunner and at least one grenadier. The force we were up against was an entire platoon of fifty-six troops, which meant five to seven squads. The best we could hope for was to have reduced their number by a third, and whether or not we’d gotten any machine gunners and grenadiers was a question mark. As best I could tell, the two troops I’d taken had been riflemen.

  As I was thinking this, I heard the unmistakable rat-tat-tat-tat of an RPK light machine gun cutting loose, soon followed by another of its kind, and then the distinct phump-phump of two grenade launchers going off at once.

  “Fall back!” Grabovsky shouted into the radio.

  I did not need to be told twice. Instead of getting up, I simply rolled backward a few times. As I did, thirty caliber projectiles fired by powerful 7.62x54mm cartridges slammed into the forest just above my head. One of the grenades fired by the men below wasted itself against the hillside, but the other hit close to the ridgeline where Gellar and company had been just a few moments ago. I didn’t hear any screams, but then again, despite the earplugs I had put in before the shooting began, my ears were ringing so loudly I doubted I would have heard them anyway. Dimly, I wondered how much permanent hearing damage I’d accrued over the years, and what the long term effects would be.