by Alan Baxter
And it was about royally fucking up enemy combatants with pointy teeth and centuries of hatred twisting up their intestines.
But now wasn’t the time for navel-gazing or introspection on the Art of War. Yolanda studied her oppo and brought him back to the here and now with a bump. “Fuck knows isn’t an answer, Flynn.”
Colby looked up and shook his head. “Yol, you know more about vampires than any of us. Just because I got up close and personal with Vlad in Tokat doesn’t mean I’ve got an inside on his chain of command or their reasoning.”
Yolanda scowled. “Bullshit. You’re our strategist and battlefield tactician. That’s what you do. And you’re damn good at it. So start bloody strategizing! I need to know what his game play is, and what we have to do to make whatever he wants to happen not happen.” She ignored the slightly puzzled look from Terry Warner. “From my perspective, Old World vamps want one thing. Power. I’ll put a week’s pay on Vlad not showing his face openly to us again. One exposure was a meet-n-greet. Two would be pushing it and he’s not stupid enough to expose himself to any potential risk if he thinks we’re ready for him. So I’ll guess we’ll be going up against that lieutenant and his squad, not Vlad.”
Colby nodded. “Agreed. Which at least means we should get a kill out of this shitstorm at the least.”
Gary chipped in. “Would Vlad risk one of his top people against us? I mean, like you said, he’s a general. He values good lieutenants.”
“Not enough to avoid sending them up against us, Gary,” said Yolanda. “Nah. As important as this bugger might be to Vlad, he’s not irreplaceable. He’ll be a tough bastard, so expect a fight. But he can be killed. Remember that, no matter how ugly it gets.”
Colby nodded. “Yol’s right. This is a game of chess to him. He’s a strategist, and a damn good one, too. Don’t ever, ever underestimate this guy. Look, if you’re planning any kind of whacko world domination shit, you take out your enemy’s strongest keystone first, right? As far as Vlad’s concerned, the primary threat is us. So he’s gonna throw one of his lieutenants at us and see how we do. If we lose, he’s golden. If we win then okay, Vlad’s lost a link in his armour, but it’s not as if he can’t get a replacement.” Colby sniffed. “It also helps if you spread a bit of panic among the general populous at the same time, too. Makes it harder for the military to contain the situation and mount a counter-offensive. Hearts and minds can be used in a negative context too, you know.”
Micky scowled. “So, okay, what is it then, Col? Whacko world domination shit? Revenge for Tokat? Sheer bloody mindedness? Indigestion?”
“Honestly, who the fuck actually cares right now? We’ve got a train full of commuters that matey’s got lined up as today’s chef’s special, and no plan other than going in and giving him the biggest beasting we can while minimising collateral.” Colby looked at Yolanda. “Back-up?”
“If you’re asking if there’s a plan B, that would be a no. Like you said, we’ve barely got a plan A. Back-up is at least another fifteen minutes out.” She shook her head. “We’re on our own with this one.”
“Perfect. So Vlad’s Rupert, plus guests, plus a shit-load of panicked collateral in the way, in a confined space, and a team of eight with limited ammo. Oh, happy fucking days.” Terry shook his head. “Ah well, more to go around, I guess.”
“Yeah. The one with the least number of kills buys the pizza.” Gary primed his C8 carbine…
* * *
They stopped on the last broad landing before the steps reached the platform. Crouching on either side with their backs to the wall, they were all ready and waiting for the go from Yolanda. She nodded. “Right then. We all know what we’re doing. Watch your backs. Objectives. One, get the civvies out and clear. Two, eliminate the nest. Three, take out that lieutenant with extreme prejudice. Four, bang out sharpish and let the cleaners in to bag and tag. No collateral, and I mean none. Everyone gets out. Except that arrogant little fucker. Are we clear?”
The entire team answered as one. “Crystal!”
Yolanda glanced at her watch. “Right then, gentlemen. We’re on the clock here. Let’s go to work, shall we?” She gave them a dark little smile.
They all knew what that meant.
Bug hunt time…
Alpha and Bravo Unit moved silently down the stairs towards platform two. Everyone knew their role. Staggered two-two formation. Two teams of four. Minimum comms. Chain of command was Yolanda as primary point of contact, Colby leading Alpha team, and Terry Warner leading Bravo.
They’d practised this a thousand times in the old Charing Cross tube station on the Jubilee line, selected as a kill house because it was the most recently abandoned station and had the most up-to-date layout. Now they had to put that training into real-time action, but with both warm bodies and a shit-ton of civilians adding an unknown element into the mix.
The plan, if there was such a thing, was simple. Kill the lights. Bravo team led by Terry Warner would hit the tunnel end and take out any close proximity Taints. Alpha team would take the platform to lay down cover if needed while Colby and Danny dropped down and used Primacord blasting cord to daisychain a series of detonations on the train doors. Create a series of small, contained explosions that would be enough to blow the doors open, cause maximum diversion and allow the passengers to get the hell out of Dodge on the hurry-up. Bravo team would get the civvies out. Alpha team would breach and attempt to take out the tango with extreme prejudice. As fast as Vlad’s lieutenant was, even he wouldn’t be able to contain an entire tube carriage of stampeding London commuters and take on a determined and highly-trained Special Ops team at the same time. Plan A just might work.
Well, that was the theory, anyway.
The teams stopped at the bottom of the stairs, just out of sight of the stationary tube train. The darkened platform wasn’t entirely pitch black, but there was more than enough deep shadow to mask their movements. Yolanda turned to Danny and Flynn, keeping the commands to a minimum, delivered in a sharp whisper. “Doors. Go.” She turned to Terry and the rest of Bravo team. “Tunnel. Go.” Finally, she glanced to her left. “Micky. Exit point. Go.”
Danny and Colby hunched up and scuttled along the length of the train, staying tight against the metal skin and expertly positioning a series of Primacord strips on each set of doors. As they placed each strip, they cautiously checked for commuters standing too close to the doors, and waved them back. The orange Primacord2 had a central core of 2.1 grams of PETN explosive per meter of cord, which shouldn’t be enough to actually kill anyone, even close up. But an injured commuter could slow the extraction process. This needed to be fast, furious and with minimum casualties. And the entire team knew that ‘minimum’ in Yolanda’s book meant no fucking casualties at all.
A link cord connected the blasting caps on each strip, and led back to the detonation button cradled in Yolanda’s gloved hand. She was conscious to keep her finger well away from the button at this point. It might not be enough to kill, but the Primacord could certainly take a hand off at the wrist.
Danny and Colby took up position at the far end and gave the ‘Ready’ signal. Yolanda nodded and glanced back towards the tunnel, where Terry nodded and gave another ‘Ready’ signal. Micky nodded and made it three-for-three. The whole thing had taken less than a minute.
She held up three fingers, ensuring all the teams could see.
Stand by.
Three… two… one…
Yolanda flipped up the cover switch and pressed the detonator.
The teams recoiled from the daisychain of blasts that ripped through the station. The tube train doors tore open, accompanied by screams and shrieks from dozens of terrified commuters.
In the tunnel, Terry and Bravo team unleashed an organophosphor shit-storm towards the glistening eyeshine. The waiting pack of Taints were mowed down in a heel-drumming firework display. The organophosphor
payloads sent their bodies into overdrive, coursing through their veins like lava and igniting into an explosion of guts and body parts. An intense fire consumed every last one of the bastards, sending clouds of hot ash cascading and tumbling into eddies and whirls, which pulsed down the tunnels and sent the ex-Taints spiralling into oblivion.
A series of double taps took out the last stragglers, including one that lunged towards Terry’s face, slashing at him with a freshly mutilated hand. Terry calmly grouped two FMJs in the centre of the bastard’s chest, and watched the creature thrash on the floor. This must’ve been the one Colby stomped on earlier. “Manicure that, motherfucker!” Without even a hint of a reflexive flinch, he grinned as the Taint exploded. Terry shouldered the C8 carbine and did a quick double check. “Tunnel clear.”
“Get the civvies out.” Yolanda kept her instructions minimal and crystal clear. She trusted every one of her team to do their job. They didn’t need babysitting.
Terry responded. “Copy that,” and motioned to Bravo team. He stabbed a finger towards the train. “Civvies! Out!” The team sprinted back up the tracks and up onto the platform, each taking a carriage and shouting at the terrified passengers to “MOVE!” First one and then a flood of commuters poured out of the carriages. They were shoved unceremoniously towards the exit by Bravo Team. Micky Cox stood on the stairs, ushering the flow of terrified humanity up the stairs and to safety.
From the end carriage a screaming, rolling roar of fury echoed around the platform, amplified by the station’s acoustics. It stopped everyone dead in their tracks – civilian and squaddie alike. Something deep inside every man, woman and child’s soul sat up and screamed in terror.
It was a primeval sensation that stripped away the cosy blanket of safety from an ultra-modern world, like the growl of a wolf next to your ear, or the brush of talons on the back of your neck. It spoke of vast, dark forests and starlit, shadow-filled nights, the sharp tin tang of snow in the air and the metallic taste of your own blood bubbling up in your throat.
It promised nothing but death.
And it was pissed. Man, it was pissed…
Yolanda barked commands, breaking the stunned silence. “Danny! Colby! Fall back! Now!” She threw a quick glance towards Terry and Mick. “Get those bloody civilians out of here! Move!”
Danny and Colby moved carefully backwards towards Yolanda, their C8s trained in front of them, waiting for the sinewy shape of the lieutenant to emerge from the end carriage. Colby’s sighting laser didn’t waver, and Danny targeted his own so the two grouped tightly together. “Don’t cross the streams,” Danny muttered, prompting a snort from Colby.
“That would be bad. That would be very bad.”
They cross-stepped their way back towards the exit point. “Where the fuck is he? Where is he, Col?”
“Focus, Dan. He’ll pop up any second now. We’ve pissed him off. He might not engage this time, but he’s sure as hell gonna show himself, you can bet on it.”
The Taint didn’t disappoint. Right on cue, he emerged from the end carriage, dominating the platform. He turned and faced his challengers, a vicious snarl curling his lips back from those teeth. He held up his right hand.
Danny squinted towards the monster. “What the hell is that motherfucker holding, Col?”
Colby peered through the darkness, and nearly threw up on the spot.
Dangling from its bloody fingers was a severed head that had quite clearly been forcibly torn from its body. Blood pooled at the vampire’s feet, dripping like a broken tap and bouncing off the tiled floor. The grey curls were tangled in his fingers, and the head swung gently in the hot breeze that wafted through the tunnel. Tendons and nerves dangled from the shredded neck, and two streaks of black and red ran down the cheeks, a combination of cheap, gritty mascara and blood.
The Taint threw his head back and laughed – a cruel, dangerous sound that spoke of violence yet to come. He tossed the head casually down the platform like a bowler aiming for a ten-pin strike. It rolled and bounced, coming to a stop at Colby’s feet.
Colby looked down at the once-gentle face and then back at the vampire. Sheer rage overtook him. He aimed the green laser at the thing’s chest and roared. “FIRE!”
Danny and Colby unleashed a swarm of organophosphor FMJs straight at the Taint.
He didn’t explode. He didn’t twitch and writhe as fire consumed his body. He didn’t scream and drop to the floor, heels drumming and body twisting. He merely threw his arms wide open as if welcoming the bullets into his loving embrace. His body took impact after impact.
Nothing.
The bastard didn’t even bleed.
“CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE, DAMN IT!” Yolanda’s voice cut through the cacophony of noise and gunfire. The last shot echoed around the tunnel and finally, silence fell.
Danny and Colby stood motionless, their fingers still on the triggers of the C8s. There was no point wasting any more ammo on this son of a bitch.
“Fall back!” Yolanda, Terry and Micky gave cover as the two men slowly moved back.
The team regrouped by the stairwell, a veritable clusterfuck of ordnance pointing straight at the lieutenant. Yolanda barked an order. “Danny? If you wouldn’t mind?”
Danny grinned, stepped forward and hoisted an AT4 Anti-tank weapon onto his shoulder. Designed specifically for confined spaces and urban warfare, it fired an 84mm round of death and destruction at anything you pointed the bastard at.
Gary turned to Colby and grinned. “Man, you gotta love those Swedes. They might be neutral, but they make seriously funky ATWs!”
Colby grinned back. “Yeah. Let’s see the bastard catch this and still smile.” He glanced up at Danny. “Fuck his day up, mate!”
“Boss?”
“Fire at will, Dan. Like Col said. Fuck his day up, there’s a good chap.” Yolanda glared at the smirking lieutenant, and suddenly gave him a bright smile and a wink. “Hey! Toothy! Catch!”
Danny took aim, and squeezed the trigger. The projectile exploded from the smooth-bore barrel and fizzed like a firework along the length of the platform.
Too late, the lieutenant realised the missile was considerably bigger than the FMJs he’d batted away like bees. His mouth formed an ‘O’ as the missile hit him directly in the chest.
The entire team flinched back from the blast. Even though the AT4 was designed for use in close quarters, the blast was still a little too close for comfort this time.
As the smoke and dust cleared, the all looked towards where Vlad’s lieutenant had stood. All that was left was a dark, sooty mark on the floor and a pile of ashes that danced and whirled in the backdraft from the tunnel entrance.
There was no heel drumming.
No thrashing.
No fireworks.
The fucker simply vaporised on impact. As did a bench, three advertising hoardings, a ‘NO ENTRY’ sign and every single tile on the end of the platform wall.
Danny lowered the AT4 and sniffed. “I ain’t payin’ for the damage, boss. Not on my wages.”
Yolanda stood and walked towards the end of the platform. She stopped and crouched where the old lady’s head lay, discarded and bloody. She unzipped her jacket and took it off, carefully covering the old woman’s remains.
She looked up and into the darkness of the tunnel, and quietly spoke.
“I’m coming for you, Vlad. I’m coming for you…”
DEEPEST, DARKEST
Hank Schwaeble
The most disturbing thought that crossed Hatcher’s mind as he scanned the team members lining the interior of the fuselage wasn’t that this may have been the first time an audit letter from the IRS was a pretext to coerce participation in a covert op, but rather that it likely wasn’t.
The C130 landed on a dirt strip in Malawi, seven miles from the Zambian border. The plane slowed to a bumpy roll, almost coming to
a stop, and the pilot turned a tight radius using the right engines and left brakes. She goosed the engines and taxied the big bird back toward the other end.
Hatcher unbuckled from the nylon webbing of the jump seat and stood, hooking a hand on a support along the fuselage wall. A pale glow was spilling in from the front of the plane through the cockpit. The pilot eased the big transport into another turn, then began shutting down the engines, moving sets of controls protruding from a center console. Hatcher stepped toward the cockpit and leaned in.
“How long?”
The pilot tugged her headset down from her ears, let it hang around her neck. “Ten nautical miles out a minute ago. ETA in about five.”
Hatcher nodded. The inbound chopper would take them into Zambia just as the sun was breaking the horizon. It was a short hop to the LZ.
“You know him? The pilot, I mean.”
She gave him an enigmatic look, like she had to think about the phrasing of her answer. “Not really. He’s Army.”
Hatcher glanced at the co-pilot, who looked like he was about to graduate junior high. The kid smiled and shook his head.
“He sure seems interested in knowing her,” he said. “Or knowing her better. He’s been coming up with excuses to check in with her all day.” He pointed to a display on the console where there were two sets of numbers. He was indicating the second set. Five digits, the last one separated by a decimal point. Vacant frequency, Hatcher guessed.
“That’s quite enough, Lieutenant,” the captain said.
“How long are you in-country?”
“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “We’re flying back to Lilongwe, spending the night there. We’re supposed to wait for orders. I suppose those will be to pick you up?”
“Let’s hope.” He looked at the numbers on the radio again, thinking of the COMSEC limitations his team would be operating under. Zero Airwave Presence.
The whine of mechanisms grew slower and lower, whirring sounds, pinging sounds, ticking sounds. Hatcher stepped back into the main body of the transport and looked over his team, strung together some words in his head. He gave a nod to the one named Woodley, who gave one back. Woodley was some sort of contractor, had done this kind of thing before. Why that guy wasn’t team leader, Hatcher still couldn’t figure. He hated being in command.