Fallen Steel: Book 2 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (Heaven's Fist - Book 2)

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Fallen Steel: Book 2 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (Heaven's Fist - Book 2) Page 4

by Justin Bell


  “Nice shooting, Severs!” Marcus shouted, taking quick aim with his own automatic and rattling off shots, watching as a moving form stumbled forward and fell to the sand.

  The air exploded, the mounted machine guns on the pickup beds rattling off gunfire, pelting the fence and the ground and driving the Marines into deeper cover around the fence.

  “Take up positions!” Marcus shouted. “Aimed fire, short bursts, center mass! We’re cut off and this ain’t an action movie, conserve your ammunition or we’re screwed!”

  He pressed his back to the fence as gunfire continued bellowing just outside the base walls, wondering if they might just be screwed anyway.

  ***

  Now.

  Monday, June 29th.

  In the skies above the Middle East.

  Chung Hua Fong glanced out of the small, circular window, the second time in less than two weeks that he was crammed into an airline seat, only this aircraft was far smaller than the massive Boeing he had been on during the trip from Boston to Beijing not so long ago. It coasted along at a cruising altitude, the flight a rocky and uneven one, the plane jerking almost non-stop since its ascent a few hours previous.

  He looked across the narrow aisle seat and saw his cousin Bojing seated there, his eyes closed, but his nervous gestures told him that he wasn’t asleep, just trying to forget where he was and what had brought them there.

  What had brought them there?

  “Oh, you’re awake?” one of the young men who had unceremoniously thrown them in the back of a van walked the long, narrow aisle of the plane, using the seat backs as hand holds, trying to withstand the jostling turbulence.

  “I am awake,” Chung replied. “For better or worse.”

  The man smiled thinly and set himself down in a seat in the row in front of Chung, turning to face him.

  “You realize this is for your own good?”

  “What? Grabbing me and my cousins off the street? Throwing us in a van? Forcing us onto this aircraft destined for who knows where? That’s for our own good?”

  The man nodded without hesitation. He had dark skin and a thick mop of black hair and looked like he hadn’t shaved in the better part of a decade. Over his narrow shoulders he wore an old threadbare cotton short-sleeve button up shirt and he laced his fingers together as he spoke. Chung figured him for someone of Middle-Eastern descent, though he couldn’t be certain.

  “And to whom do I owe thanks for this privileged treatment?” Chung asked, trying to sound genuine, but mostly failing he knew.

  “You can call me Bahram,” the man said.

  “The satellite you had us infiltrate… it was Iranian,” Chung said. “You are also Iranian?”

  Bahram drew back slightly with a smirk. “You’re asking a lot of questions, Mr. Fong. Can you not be content with the fact that we likely have saved your life? All of your lives?” He gestured outward and Chung turned, looking at his cousins spread out throughout the seats of the small airplane. Bojing was in the row across from him, his eyes still closed, though his head was turned slightly as if he were trying to listen. His twin brother Sheng was in the row behind him. Both Huang-Di and Tyan-Yu were behind Chung. Besides Bojing, all of their eyes were open and alert, captivated by whatever this man had to say. Up near the front of the plane, Chung could see several more men, men he did not know, who had spent the majority of the trip so far with their backs turned to them.

  “I will admit,” Bojing said suddenly, speaking, though his eyes were still closed, “I am struggling a little with this notion that you’ve saved us from something.”

  “Oh you are awake,” Bahram said in mock surprise. “Did you not hear the early warning systems blaring in the dormitory you were trying so hard to escape from? As the central leadership structure for the Asian Union, Beijing has some advanced detection systems. Very advanced indeed.”

  Chung narrowed his gaze. “So something was… what? Being launched?”

  Bahram shrugged. “Perhaps you could say that.”

  “You seem awfully calm for someone who just initiated a potential global catastrophe,” Bojing interjected. “If you did cause something to be launched at Beijing, you must realize there will be repercussions, yes? Wide scale retaliation?” This time Bojing did open his eyes and in fact, sat up more straight in his seat, glaring at Bahram accusatorily.

  Bahram kept his eyes locked on the other man, his smirk faltering slightly. “You have no idea what you’re in the middle of, boy.”

  “Oh you mean besides breaking through security protocols on an Iranian satellite and using it to create World War III? You mean beyond that?” Bojing looked downright angry, turning in his seat to face the other man. Chung glanced up toward the front of the plane and saw a couple of heads turn with the sound of the shout.

  “Bojing,” he said. “Calm down.”

  “Calm down? Don’t you realize what these men made us do? Made you do?”

  “You did nothing,” Bahram replied. “We ran a penetration test on an Iranian Space Agency firewall. That was all.”

  “You’re a damn liar,” Bojing snarled, turning away from him.

  Bahram drew in a breath, looking down at his shoes as he sat in the seat. Placing his palms on his thighs, he stood, crossing the aisle to stare down Bojing. At his full height, Chung could see that he was close to six feet tall and although his shirt was simple cotton, his pants swept around his legs smoothly and expensively. They looked like a tailored suit. He crossed his arms and glared down Bojing, who remained seated, but looked no less angry and no more intimidated.

  “We could have left you in Beijing,” Bahram said. “Perhaps we should have.”

  “The only reason you didn’t is because you still need us,” Bojing replied. “Don’t pretend any of this was out of the kindness of your own heart. You guys think you’re smart, but the truth is, without us, you can’t take whatever this is to the next level.”

  Chung snapped his head around. “The next level?” he asked Bojing.

  Bojing glanced at him and shrugged lightly.

  Bahram stood in the aisle, looking at the five boys, then lowered his gaze again. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and strode past Bojing, managing to walk down the aisle even as the plane tilted left and jumped through turbulence. Passing Bojing, he glanced at Sheng, who was a row behind his brother, then his hand snapped from his pocket in a swift blur. Sheng shouted and jerked, clutching at his neck and Bojing whirled around in his seat.

  Bahram kept his arm out straight, a narrow, gleaming blade clamped in his tight fist. Sheng’s eyes widened as he stared down at his hands, which came away from his neck slick and wet with crimson. His mouth worked, struggling to form words as blood coursed from the wound on his neck, just under his chin.

  “No!” Bojing screamed and threw himself to his feet. “That’s my brother!”

  Bahram turned effortlessly, picking his knee up, then throwing a kick, his fancy shoe slamming Bojing high in the chest, kicking his feet out from under him. He slammed back-first on the floor of the aisle and lay still, groaning. Sheng made some final choking gurgles and tried to move, but only ended up toppling over and spilling out from his seat, hitting the floor just behind Bahram, who had stepped closer to the fallen Bojing.

  “Your brother is now dead. You are not wrong, boy, we do need you. But we do not need all of you. Keep that in mind the next time you decide to forge a backbone.” Bahram glanced toward the front of the plane and gestured. Already two well-dressed men stood and made their way toward him.

  “Clean up this mess,” he said, pointing toward Sheng on the floor. His eyes were still wide and his mouth gaped open, but he was prone and motionless.

  Chung stared wide-eyed at the scene, speechless, barely comprehending what was happening in front of him. The two well-dressed men made their way past Bahram, then bent and hooked Sheng’s arms, lifting him and carrying him toward the rear of the plane. Suddenly the aircraft bucked, the nose jumping up, holding for a mome
nt, then plunging forward and Chung gripped the seat back in front of him, knuckles pulling white beneath his skin.

  “Apologies,” Bahram said, steadying himself, still standing in the aisle. Bojing was slowly picking himself up, his face pale. “They are flying the plane without satellite guidance. In fact, most of the instruments are non-functional. An unfortunate by-product of the incident in orbit. But they are well-trained. They will get us where we want to go.”

  “Where are you taking us?” Chung asked. “You say Beijing was going to be destroyed… how do you know anywhere in the world is safe?”

  “I guess we’ll all find out together,” Bahram replied. He stepped over Bojing and walked toward the front of the plane, moving in with the group of men sitting with their backs facing them.

  Chung didn’t know precisely where they were going, but he had a sudden feeling that it didn’t really matter. Wherever they were headed, they would not be safe. Not from the men who they traveled with and perhaps not from the sky itself.

  ***

  Now.

  Monday, June 29th.

  In the desert outside Tehran.

  Marcus sat in the dirt, his back pressed against the wall on the western border of the K-North Forward Operating Base. Automatic gunfire continued to chatter out in the sand and the wall buckled and chopped with the spattering of bullets. A lingering smoke filtered through the air, and the entire base smelled like spent cordite, the rusty, gunmetal odor of weapons discharge.

  He glanced over at Francesco who was on the ground next to him, his back also against the wall. He held a weapon in his hand, though Marcus wasn’t sure he’d even fired it.

  “You wanna tell me what happened?” he asked. They’d been in pitched battle for a few hours and his breath came in hoarse, choking gasps.

  “Tehran,” replied Francesco. “Tehran is… it’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  Francesco nodded.

  “Nuclear?”

  Francesco shook his head. “Never seen anything like it. Silver streak from the sky.” He looked up, through the lingering cloud of gun smoke and explosive residue and could barely make out the faint streaks of debris. “Like one of those things broke loose and fell to Earth.”

  Marcus followed the direction of his stare, his brain struggling to put the pieces together.

  “Project Thor?” he asked.

  Francesco looked at him blankly.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Marcus replied. “You’re a Private First Class. Only been in the thick of things for what? A year or so?”

  Francesco nodded. Somewhere outside more gunfire rattled off. Someone, one of the Marines obscured by smoke, came out from cover and returned fire.

  “Project Thor is an orbital weapon. Kinetic Bombardment. It’s basically a huge tungsten rod loaded into a satellite where it can be launched at any target in the world. Sounds a lot like what you described… but those things do a ton of damage, I’m surprised you made it out okay.”

  Francesco shrugged. “Dove behind a sand dune, shockwave rolled right over me. But yeah, I don’t know how it happened either, I just know what I saw.”

  Marcus lowered his head and closed his eyes, listening to the methodical rattle of exchanged fire. “If that’s what it was, then yes, Weiling and the advanced recon team are gone. Probably didn’t even know what hit them.”

  “Weiling sent me back at the last minute. If that had fallen an hour earlier…”

  “Question is, did someone directly launch it, or was it an accident?”

  Francesco had a look on his face that Marcus did not particularly like.

  “What are you thinking, kid?”

  “Well this whole thing… didn’t it kind of start with the launch of that Iranian satellite from Launch Pad 4?”

  Marcus chewed his lip. The same thing had occurred to him as well, but he hadn’t had the guts to admit it aloud.

  “I will admit, the thought did occur to me.”

  “Well, if it was the Iranians, would they really wipe out their own capital city? That makes no sense.”

  Marcus nodded. “You’re right. That certainly tips the needle toward accident or another actor.”

  Heavy fire from one of the mounted weapons outside punched up chunks of dirt and Marcus whirled right, drawing his knee tight to his chest. Across the opening of the wall, Agent Ashland stood and fired his Glock several times. After fully discharging his weapon he drew back around the wall and leaned heavily against it, breathing hard.

  Gun battle takes a lot out of you, Marcus knew. Prolonged gun battles, as this had already become, can quickly exhaust even the toughest, most resilient soldier. They had to button this up so they could check out Tehran. If, by some miracle, the advanced recon team survived, they had to get to them. Plus, he needed to get eyes on the city as well, find out exactly what they were dealing with here.

  “Highlanders!” he screamed from his perch. “We need to clean up this mess and now!”

  Various shouts scattered around the F.O.B. came back to him.

  “Severs, you and that SAW get up to the wall! Bragg, Garcia, and Deming, you’re fire support! Yallick and Francesco, while they’re drawing attention, head to the eastern perimeter and grab a LAV! Fire that baby up and prepare to ram it down their throats. I’m sick of this!”

  More shouts echoed throughout the camp, victorious cheers and enthusiastic acknowledgements. Almost immediately a chatter of accented, foreign voices came from the area of the trucks outside of the wall and more gunfire echoed, slapping against the wall, which was coming dangerously close to being perforated.

  Severs charged forward, the M249 in her hand, with Bragg, Garcia, and Deming close behind. The agents drifted right while Severs took position at the wall and opened up with the M249 a steady stream of automatic fire resulting in the thrashing metal-on-metal impact of bullets striking trucks. The Arabic chatter turned to shouts and Bragg immediately swung around, opening up with his M4, followed by Garcia and Deming, all three of them taking up positions in the open area between the two walls. Marcus leaped up himself, swinging around the wall and rattling off gunfire as well, trying to keep their heads down. He could hear the thumping of footfalls behind him, the frantic charging of Yallick and Francesco, heading toward the LAV.

  “Pull back!” Marcus shouted as magazines ran dry and the Marines all peeled away, ducking back behind the walls as return fire cut a path down the open dirt. Suppressive fire was the main goal, a strong enough barrage to keep the enemy’s heads down, even if it didn’t kill them. On the eastern perimeter of K-North, the engine revved on LAV-1 and Marcus flashed a thumbs up.

  “Take two!” he screamed and everyone repeated the motion, loading fresh magazines, then swinging out and filling the air with constant streams of bullets, forcing the enemy to duck for cover. The LAV exploded from its spot and leaped forward, charging over the rough dirt of the desert sands, bolting toward the opened gate. Marcus continued firing from his vantage point while the three Marines on the other side drew back, letting Severs continue with the 249. The LAV burst through the gate at full speed with Yallick behind the wheel and Francesco at the controls of the Bushmaster.

  More shouts came from the enemy as they started to scramble away, the LAV angling left while the Bushmaster swiveled right, exploding into a loud chorus of rattling bursts, cutting through the metal hide of the truck and hacking down enemy soldiers as the vehicle screamed around the makeshift barricade. Some of the enemy drew back, running around toward the right of the capsized truck where Bragg and Deming penned them in, opening fire with their M4s and cutting them down.

  Severs pulled back, swapping out the ammo box in her SAW, then moved forward again, sighting on a pair of men trying to sneak away around the smoking, bullet riddled trucks. A swift burst from the Squad Automatic Weapon threw them both down to the dirt as the LAV circled around behind the collection of trucks, making sure nobody else was moving. It came around the right-hand side, the Bushmaster making
one more prolonged rattle of 25-millimeter ammunition, then it traveled back inside the gate and swerved to a skidding halt in the open area within K-North proper.

  “Clear!” shouted Francesco from the gunner platform.

  Marcus pumped his fist. “Well done, Highlanders, well damn done!”

  All around them, the echoes of the battle faded up into the pale sky, leaving an uneasy peace and the growing threat of what lay in orbit above them.

  There was nothing they could do about that, Marcus had decided, and he stepped forward to congratulate his men on a job well done and talk about what they were expected to do next.

  He suspected none of them would much like it.

  Chapter 3

  Now.

  Monday, June 29th.

  In the desert outside Tehran.

  The smoke had long since faded and Marcus stood in the center of K-North, leaning slightly on the LAV-25 that had saved their lives. The Highlanders gathered around him while Agents Ashland, Xavier, and Reckard strode toward them across the packed dirt, Ashland pulling his forearm across his sweat-slicked forehead. Echoes of gunfire were a distant memory, rising into the rippling heat, and a day that had started with an advanced recon team heading into the unknown was starting to wind down with most of that team gone and still very few answers.

 

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