Escape The 1st Omnibus: WTF Books 1-3

by Lundy, W. J.

  “Socotra. It’s an island about a thousand miles from here, off the horn of Africa. I did some exploratory drilling near there with the company in the late nineties,” Bill said, unrolling a map.

  He laid the large map out flat on the deck and pointed to the island. “I heard our sailors talking about it. The island is just off the coast of Yemen. Not many folks live there and they said it was infection-free. Well it was anyway.”

  “What exactly did the sailors say ,Bill?” Sean asked.

  “I don’t know a lot. They were pretty quiet about it, but rumor had it that the U.S. military had occupied the island and they were staging things there. The island has a small airport. We even heard a carrier strike group was plugged into the island.”

  Brooks put his hand on the map and drew a line with his finger from the platform to the island. “A thousand miles, that’s a hell of a haul,” Brooks said, looking at the map. “I don’t know if we could take that patrol boat across the open water, but I would be more comfortable hugging the coast.”

  “How old is this information?” Sean asked.

  Bill scratched the side of his head and squinted. “Well, I figure it’s been at least three weeks since I heard it. You kind of lose track of time out here.”

  Mr. Douglas stared at the map. “That’s going to stretch the limits of the chopper. I don’t think we can make it on one hop without getting wet.”

  Swanson leaned over the map and pointed at a small island off the coast of Oman. There was a small airport symbol at its northernmost point. “What’s this, sir? Could you fly here?” she asked.

  Captain Bradley looked at the island. “Masirah Air Base, yeah, that’s about five hundred miles. We could make that, but is it safe? It’s not like we can turn around and go home if it’s not.”

  Brooks looked at the chart and then went to look over the rail at the attack craft. “I would feel a lot better about taking that boat five hundred miles than a thousand. But we don’t know shit about that place; what if we get there and it’s overrun?” he asked.

  Sean took the map and drew a circle around the island. “It looks isolated enough, and it’s within our range. I say we go for it. We may even find a suitable fixed wing there to take us home. But how do we travel: sea, air, or both?”

  Brad sat listening to the conversation, taking it all in. He wasn’t a fan of the ocean, but he had never been very comfortable with flying, either. That’s why he’d joined the Army instead of the Navy or the Air Force. Today though, his options were very limited.

  He chimed in, “Absolutely by air … I mean, if the pilots are comfortable with the distance. We don’t know the condition of the boat yet. But the map shows a port, also, so let’s ready the aircraft while we secure that ship and see if it’s seaworthy.”

  Captain Bradley examined the map again, using his finger to estimate the distance. “Shouldn’t be a problem finding it, but I’m somewhat worried about the aircraft. It’s really overdue for some heavy maintenance. We picked it up off an abandoned airfield weeks ago and, other than fuel and washing the windows, we haven’t done much to it.”

  “It’s your call, sir,” Sean said.

  Bradley smiled and, leaning back against the rail with his hands in his pockets, said, “I’m willing to give it a shot then.”

  Sean took the map and rolled it up before handing it back to Bill. “Okay, we have a short term plan then. Captain Bradley, prep your aircraft for the trip to Masirah. You will take Bill as your crew chief, and one of the Marines as a gunner. I have the rest. Tomorrow … mid-day … we’ll assault the ship and take it back.”

  The helipad cleared out quickly after the meeting. Bill had asked Chelsea to give him a hand refueling the generators, and Brad once again found himself alone. He moved down the stairs and wound his way along the walkway till he reached the center deck facing the disabled lift. The space was clear now; there was no evidence of the small skirmish from earlier in the day when they had lost one of their own.

  Wilson and Nelson were on watch. He greeted them and moved closer to the exposed mouth of the lift, looking into the dark space while keeping his distance.

  There was a mashed bit of flesh and blood at the lip of the deck below the opening. “What happened here?” Brad asked.

  Wilson stepped forward, trying to conceal a grin. “Ahh … well … one of them things kept sticking its hand out every time we got too close to the opening. I guess we kind of smashed its fingers with the sledge. Yeah … it ain’t been doing that anymore.”

  Brad shook his head at them. “Just don’t do anything stupid, okay? Have you noticed any changes out of them?”

  Nelson stepped a bit closer to the lip and shone his flashlight into the space. “No, Sergeant, they just stand there … staring at us.”

  Brad moved closer and squatted to the deck. He peered into the gap and could see the pale face of a man looking back at him. Its eyes were focused and intense. Brad could almost feel the hatred of the thing. It was like looking into the eyes of a vicious dog and knowing there would be no reasoning, no calming it down. Brad made eye contact with the primal and it suddenly bared its teeth and lunged forward.

  Brad flinched heavily, losing his balance and falling over on his backside. The two Marines laughed. Wilson extended a hand to Brad and pulled him back to his feet. “Don’t be ashamed, Sergeant, that son of a bitch got me a couple times too,” he said. “I wish we could just shoot them all; I hate looking at these damn things.”

  “Sergeant, do you really think them things operated the lift?” Nelson asked.

  Brad looked back at him. “No, I don’t. You put a monkey in an elevator long enough and it will eventually start pushing buttons. I think they just got lucky. Either way, don’t worry about that, just keep your head in the game.”

  “Yes Sergeant,” Nelson replied.

  “Looks like you fellas have everything under control out here; I’m going to head back. I’ll send someone to relieve you when chow is ready. Stay safe,” Brad said.

  16.

  The men gathered in the platform’s main galley. With the life support systems powered up, the kitchen was operational. Tony and Mr. Douglas had raided the pantries and stores of supplies on the deck and managed to put together a hell of a pot of chili. Tony had offered up another bottle of his finest Kentucky bourbon, but this time Chief had declined.

  There was a lot of work to be done before they assaulted the attack boat, and he wanted everyone to be sharp. The men feasted on the hot chow until their bellies were full. Casual conversations filled the deck, the war stories and joking that had always accompanied meals back in the world. After dinner, the Marines went about their business of cleaning and maintaining their equipment while the pilots looked over charts, plotting their possible venture to the Masirah airbase.

  Those that weren’t working were relaxing in the lounge or preparing for the night’s watch out on the decks. They had set up guard rotations with three-man teams around the clock: two patrolling the deck and one on the radio. There were only eleven of them now, with the loss of Ben. The rotations were four-hour shifts, with Brad and Brooks filling the holes and taking the extra watches at the radio.

  As the sun went down, the men heard the scurrying of movement on the decks below. The primals were reminding them that they were still there, that they owned the lower decks and the darkness. As the patrols walked the deck grating, they could hear the primals moan and scream below them. The darker and cooler the night got, the bolder the primals became. It was a nerve-racking duty, but a price they had to pay to keep the deck secure.

  Sean and Brooks met in one of the offices and planned out the assault on the vessel. This was their expertise, and Brad trusted them to do the right thing. Brad had grown up on the Great Lakes and had some experience onboard small boats, but nothing like this. His most ambitious voyages were short day trips on a thirty-footer, doing some fishing on Lake Superior. Brad left the SEALs alone and made his way to the control tower
to start his shift on the radios.

  Brad sat at the radio slowly turning the dials, switching between UHF and VHF. After he had gone the entire length of the dial with no response, he set the console to ‘scan’. Brooks had managed to get one of the small computers working and found that it had a rudimentary radar application installed. Brad could see the large globe and dish spinning just outside the window, letting him know that the radar hardware was running.

  Brad cycled through the filters while following the notes Brooks had scribbled on a sheet of paper. He could barely make out the coast as a jagged blurred line nearly sixty miles to their north. The radar was set to max scan and he occasionally saw static or surface noise on the screen, but nothing that would obviously identify itself as a ship. Brad cycled from surface to air to weather, noting nothing of interest or anything worth logging.

  He picked up the log book. They had opened it back up and had begun using it again. He scanned the entries of the earlier watches: ‘Nothing to report’ and ‘all conditions normal’. Just as he was beginning to think they were alone, the radio scanner locked on a station. It was garbled and broken, but appeared to be in English. Brad turned up the volume and manually tweaked the tuning knob. He listened intently and struggled to transcribe the broken, static-filled message.

  “Ma…ay, …ayday, …ay. This is the …rench vessel …dupar calling all …ons.

  May… …ay, …day, … Captain … of ves… dupar… ead… water… …irty males …board.

  Locat… is North …45 …st 67… …12.”

  “Last calling station, say again,” Brad yelled into the microphone.

  Silence.

  “Last calling station, say again,” he tried once more.

  The radio had again gone silent. Brad logged the communication and looked at the notes. It was impossible to determine anything from the broken call for help, but he would hand the notes to Sean when he left his shift. Brad checked the radar scope again for any vessel and finally gave up in frustration.

  Private Craig came to relieve him just after midnight. Brad quickly refreshed the private on the use of the console. He told him about the broken radio contact and left word for him to send a runner if he heard anything else from the ship. Then Brad waited for the rest of his patrol to pass by the building so he could join them on his way back to the living quarters. They had set up a strict policy of ‘no one goes outside alone after dark’.

  As they walked the grates, Brad could hear the primals following below; the sounds of footsteps and the labored panting were like being pursued by a pack of wolves. Brad stopped, asking the two Marines to hold up. He pulled a flashlight from his belt and shined it between the gaps in the grating. What he saw spooked him and he quickly turned out the light. He looked to the left and could tell that the Marines had seen it too.

  “Holy shit, Sergeant, there are hundreds of them down there,” Private Nelson muttered with fear in his voice.

  “Well it’s nothing we didn’t know, right? We secured the lift, ladders, and the stairs; they can’t get up here,” Brad tried to reassure the private.

  “I’ll be glad when we leave this damn place,” Nelson whispered.

  “Me too Private … me too.”

  As Brad arrived back at the third floor, he found Sean sitting in the lounge cleaning his equipment. Brad handed him the note and told him about the radio contact. Sean took the note and read it as Brad explained the contact and how the radar scope had been clear.

  “Shit, wish there was something we could do for them. That signal could have bounced for hundreds … even thousands of miles. No telling how far away they are,” Sean said, reading the message.

  “Yeah I know. It just sucks, man. Be nice to get some good news for a change. I put Craig on the frequency and told him to wake me if it comes back,” Brad said.

  “That’s all you can do, Brad, now get some sleep. I’m going to need you to be sharp tomorrow,” Sean said, turning back to his equipment.

  Some of the other men were also still up in the lounge, preparing for their watch, not able to sleep, or just avoiding sleep altogether. Sleeping was not a thing people enjoyed on the platform. Often it ended being awakened by nightmares, sometimes by the screams of your buddy in the cell next door as he relived the events of the past month. They all worked until they were exhausted, until avoiding sleep wasn’t an option, but they rarely got more than four hours before they found themselves back in the lounge.

  Brad used his free time and took advantage of the running water to shower and do laundry. It was a recent luxury to have a functioning laundry room and latrine. With the stores of food and the life support systems, Brad wondered if he might be tempted to stay here if they could somehow remove the primals. At least until the food and fuel ran out.

  His thoughts drifted back to the men in the compound and the promise he had made to them. Brad lay back in his bunk, holding one of PFC Ryan’s dog tags in his hand, knowing the other was buried on the man back in the Afghan sand. It was a stern reminder that it wasn’t his mission to find a safe refuge. It was his job to seek rescue for his men. That he was, and would always be, on the clock until he got them all home.

  Brad placed the dog tag on his night stand, then checked his good luck charm: the unfired S&W pistol. He pulled back the slide to make sure a round was chambered, then placed it within arm’s reach. Brad reached up behind him and cut the light, drifting to sleep with the sounds of the humming generators calming his nerves.

  17.

  It was go time. Tony was in the cab of the crane. A large steel cable had been looped over the ball and hook that extended from the end of the crane’s arm. Brooks had attached another two hundred and fifty feet of heavy rappelling line to the end of the hook. The SEALs sat on the rail with the ball and hook just over their heads. On command, Tony would swing them out over the open water and lower them to the boat below.

  Sean had synced his wireless headset to the radio in the cab. He gave Tony the word to move them. Brad watched as the crane swung out away from the platform, the SEALs dangling beneath it. Sean and Brooks were dressed in bright green dive suits and swim fins that had been salvaged from a locker on the platform. The men had tried to camouflage or at least darken the colors with grease, but the attempt only made them look worse.

  The crane swung out and abruptly jerked to a stop, swinging the men out and away uncontrollably. Sean reached out at the length of his arm and grabbed the steel cable, stabilizing them. He turned back and shot Tony a cold stare. Tony put his hands up apologetically and then gave Sean a thumbs up. Brooks nodded back and unclipped his D-ring, then began a slow descent to the attack craft below.

  Brad changed positions farther down the railing so he could see the boat hundreds of feet below. He held his rifle at the ready but was not confident he would be much good if he needed to fire at such a steep angle. Brad watched as Brooks descended, then slowed and hung barely twenty feet above the surface of the water. Sean slid down the length of the rope, stopped just above Brooks, and placed himself into an over watch position with his suppressed MP5 at the ready.

  Once Sean was in a comfortable position, Brooks continued his decent and cut into the water. Brad watched as Brooks disconnected himself from the line and quietly swam to the side of the attack boat before he slipped under the water. After several seconds, Brad watched him surface near the dock with his dive knife in hand.

  Slowly and quietly he cut the rope holding the smaller boat to the dock, allowing the small damaged military craft to drift free and away from the platform. He then swam closer to the attack boat and, finding the mooring lines too big to cut, pulled himself out of the water and onto the dock. Brad felt his heart race as he tried to get an angle to cover his friend.

  Brad watched the larger ship also begin to slowly drift free and away from the platform. On closer inspection, he could just make out Brooks’ head barely sticking above the surface of the water; he was holding one of the heavy lines and signaling fo
r Tony to lower the hook and cable. The crane swung and came back to life.

  Next, Sean was slowly lowered into the water. He swam the lead line to Brooks and together they pulled it until the end of the steel cable was in their hands. Working together, they attached the cable to one of the heavy mooring lines. Tony took the slack out of the line and carefully guided the boat out away from the dock and close to one of the four large pylons that anchored the rig to the sea bed.

  Brooks swam close to the pylon and tied the attack craft off to a series of pinion hooks embedded in the base of the structure just above the water line. Once the boat was secured to the pylon, Sean reached up and released the cable from the vessel and allowed it to swing free. Tony raised the cable up and away from the boat below while Brooks and Sean pulled themselves onto the dive deck at the rear of the vessel and ducked down, hiding.

  Tony quickly raised the hook back to the third deck and swung it in towards the rail. Bill immediately unhooked the steel cable from the ball and hook, then hurriedly attached a large basket to the end of the ball and motioned to Brad that it was ready. The basket was nothing more than a steel cage the size of a phone booth. Bill opened a gate on the basket and ushered them in. Brad shook his head but willed himself forward and stepped into the basket with Wilson and Craig, weapons at the ready.

  They held on tight as Tony raised them up and swung them out over the water. The crane again stopped quickly, swinging them out hard. They swung back and forth several times before slowing, and Tony began lowering them down toward the vessel. Brad looked out over the edge of the basket as it passed the second deck. It was far worse than he had imagined.

  A series of elevated cat walks surrounded by heavy pipes and drilling equipment covered the second deck. The walkways were littered with the dead. The sun was high in the sky, leaving the deep internal area of the deck shaded and in the dark. Brad squinted in the contrasting lights, trying to search for movement. There was little he could see but he knew they were there, hiding in a maze of walkways.