The Tide: Ghost Fleet (Tide Series Book 7)

by Anthony J Melchiorri

  “Very similar,” Ronaldo said. “We’ve also heard that the FGL is establishing forward operating bases dangerously close to the civilian strongholds we’ve discovered.” He stabbed his finger down onto the map. “Stockholm, Copenhagen, Athens. In fact, there are groups of civilians awaiting rescue or struggling to survive, much like the group you encountered in the Congo, in most of the locations where the FGL has been loading its container ships. Not only are these places convenient for the FGL to launch their attacks, but they might be using these survivors as human shields against us. We cannot be too liberal in aerial attacks, and the presence of civilian populations complicates the logistics of a ground-based attack.”

  “And now we’ve got a whole fleet headed to DC,” Meredith said. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the map. “Doesn’t that seem a little suspect?”

  “Absolutely,” Dom said. He saw where she was headed. “The FGL is up to more than just an attack on Washington. Spitkovsky wouldn’t risk everything just to take out the capital, just like we won’t risk everything in a suicidal strike against the FGL. He’s definitely planning something else. The question is: what?”

  ***

  Darkness choked Arcachon Bay off the coast of France. No stars pierced the dense cloud cover. The air carried a humid breeze promising thunder and rain. The birds roosting in the trees along the shore had long since gone silent. The villages and towns scattered throughout the forest lining the bay appeared just as quiet and still. There were no lights marring the black. Not so much as a flame flickered from a window.

  It was exactly the way Admiral Mokri hoped it would be. He retreated below deck to the cargo hold. There, his troops waited for him. A Takavar Sepah Navy Special Forces unit stood in their black fatigues, carrying a mix of FAJR 224 assault rifles and MPT-9 submachine guns. Next to them was a squad of Hybrids. In lieu of jackets, they had painted their bony armor black. It gave them a demonic appearance that sent a shiver through Mokri, though he strained not to show it. The Hybrids, with the spikes along their backs and shoulders bolstered with bony plates, stood taller than the Takavar forces, and besides their deadly claws, they carried Vityaz-SNs and other Kalishnikov variants. Those claws tapped against the sides of their rifles, and their nostrils flared like predators sniffing the air for prey.

  All, men and Hybrids, had their eyes on Mokri from the moment he walked through the hatch. They stood at attention, though Mokri noted a few Hybrids’ muscles twitching. Their plates rattled slightly. They were tantalized by the prospect of battle.

  “Tonight, we take what should have been ours long ago,” Mokri began. “And this is just the beginning. Our success here will ensure our victory. We will not rest until everyone who would not submit to the Forces of Global Liberation is defeated. There will be no prisoners and no witnesses. There will be no one to stand in our way.”

  A cheer rose from the assembled special operators. When Mokri raised a hand for silence, the Takavar quieted first. It took a few seconds longer than he’d liked for the Hybrids to follow suit.

  “Now we ride,” Mokri said.

  The troops loaded into the all-terrain, amphibious BvS-10 carrier. The Swedish vehicle had a front cabin and separate trailer unit propelled by dual, tanklike treads. Mokri got in behind the driver. Admiral or not, he was not waiting behind on the ship. Spitkovsky insisted that the FGL’s leaders rode into battle beside their men.

  The doors to the cargo bay groaned open and released the BvS-10 into the bay. The vehicle crawled through the water at only four knots. It was painfully slow, but at least it would keep them hidden from prying eyes. A chopper, even in a night as dark as this, attracted too much attention.

  Once they hit the shore, the heavy treads carried them out of the water and down a roadway into the forest. They passed a stone church that no longer offered salvation to the living. Its windows were shattered, and there were bones piled around it. Next to the road stood abandoned restaurants and bakeries whose interiors were littered with broken glass and trash.

  Then something caught his eye in a simple two-story house. A flash of light through a window. A glimpse of a face disappearing into the shadows.

  He hadn’t been the only one to notice.

  Sergeant Alexei Semenov, the leader of the Hybrid squad, gave him a devilish grin. “No witnesses, right?”

  “Go,” Mokri said.

  The door opened before he finished the single syllable, and the Hybrids rushed out. They flooded the yard. Instead of entering through the front door, they surrounded the house, scaling it so each was positioned at a window. At Semenov’s command, they broke in. The tinkle of glass shards pierced the evening’s silence. There was no gunfire. Just a single, bloodcurdling scream that went silent a second later.

  When Semenov returned, he was licking his cracked lips. He wiped his claws on his pants. A spray of dark arterial blood across his chest glimmered under the dull red lights of the BvS-10’s cabin when he got in. The blood was definitely not Semenov’s.

  “Carry on,” Mokri said, fighting to hide his revulsion.

  The windows of the BvS-10 were now open, allowing them to listen for any other vehicles as they neared their destination. Mokri wrinkled his nose. Beneath the scent of the approaching rain and the aromas of juniper and pine, he detected the odor of death.

  Mokri wondered if it was from outside the vehicle—or from his bloodthirsty compatriots within. He chose not to ruminate further on the question.

  The headlights of the BvS-10 swept over a sight as horrifying as it was surreal. A swarm of Skulls appeared along either side of the roadway. They charged the vehicle. The monsters’ plates crashed together, making a song like wind chimes from hell. Their ragged flesh appeared a sickly gray under the yellowing armor. Their voices rose into the sky, a cacophony worse than the throatiest of thunders. Talons clicked against the pavement, and bloodshot eyes glinted in the headlights’ glare.

  Allah save us, Mokri thought. His mind flashed to Moscow, where his family waited under the “protection” of Spitkovsky’s men. If he died here, he wondered what Spitkovsky would do with them once they were no longer useful as leverage.

  Mokri wished to live. If not for his own sake, then for ensuring his family remained alive for just one more day.

  The Skulls froze.

  Then they recoiled from the vehicle like they were the ones afraid. Their gazes seemed distant, no longer focused on the BvS-10 or anyone inside. Backward they crawled, parting for Mokri and his men as they drove through.

  Had his prayers been answered?

  A glance around the BvS-10 showed the Skulls’ sudden change in behavior had nothing to do with divine intervention. No, his saviors were the very demons that had just slaughtered the lone survivor in a French village.

  The Hybrids stood or sat in place as if in a trance. Their eyes had glazed over, and their bodies were, for once, still. Gone were the shakes and snarls. No more menacing growls or flaring nostrils. Just utter concentration, enough to make a Tibetan monk jealous. A torrent of rain pounded the ground. Lightning crackled in the distance, followed by deafening thunder. Still the Hybrids did not waver as they maintained their hold over the witless Skulls.

  At last, they reached another clearing. There they found a complex of buildings. Guard towers stretched into the ominous sky. Now all that stood between them and their goal was a chain-link gate.

  “Go through it,” Mokri ordered.

  The BvS-10 crushed the gate, and they accelerated toward the center of the compound. Then a new sound erupted around them, one that broke the trance of the Hybrids: gunfire. Bullets sparked along the armor plating of the vehicle and cracked against the bulletproof glass.

  Mokri had been expecting resistance, but the rattle of rounds still sent a surge of adrenaline flooding through his body. The Takavar and Hybrid units jostled in the rear of the vehicle, their gear clanging together as they positioned themselves near the exits.

  “The facility is straight ahead,” the driver
said.

  “Good,” Mokri said. “Tear those doors down.”

  The roar of the engine rose in a throaty crescendo as the treads dug into the wet earth. Lightning and gunfire flashed outside. Then with a crash, a cloud of dust billowed around them. The hatches of the BvS-10 exploded open, and the Hybrids and the Takavar poured out. Their weapons opened up to answer the chattering volley from the Frenchmen guarding this precious facility. The guards stood no chance. The initial line of defense was shattered before Mokri’s boots touched the ground.

  He led his men on a wave of death deep into the facility. The people inside the building hadn’t had a chance to prepare for this. Most simply ran, allowing their backs to be riddled with bullets. Others tried to fight back with the odd sidearm or, in one noble but foolish man’s case, a steel pipe.

  But the body armor of the Takavar soldiers and the plates of the Hybrids absorbed nearly everything the French threw at them.

  “No witnesses! No prisoners!” Semenov cried as he plunged his claws through the throat of a hapless man in a white coat. When the claws came out, they held the ropy remnants of what Mokri assumed was the man’s larynx.

  They pushed forward through a makeshift barricade. The Hybrids used themselves as living battering rams, making short work of the stainless-steel tables and wooden chairs meant to slow them. Urgent voices sounded from an adjacent room. Mokri rushed it with a few of the Takavar.

  Inside, a man held a handset attached to a radio. He kept yelling into it even as his eyes locked onto Mokri’s. His voice never stopped until Mokri put a bullet through the man’s forehead. The radio broke into static. No one answered the man’s desperate pleas, and Mokri rejoined the others in the hall.

  They surged deeper into the complex. The cries of Skulls, no longer held back by the Hybrids, echoed through the halls. No prisoners, no survivors. They would finish what Mokri had started.

  But despite the bodies that now lay bleeding on the floor, it was not just destruction that Mokri had come to reap. No, there was something here, deep within the facility, that Spitkovsky had charged him to retrieve.

  When the remnants of the French defenses fell, there was only one more door between Mokri and what he had come for. He strode ahead of his men. Semenov stood beside the door, his chest heaving, blood still dripping from his claws. The sinister grin had become a permanent fixture on his face, seeming to grow wider with each kill. He wrapped his claws around the door handle as if to open it, but Mokri waved him off.

  It was important he go first. He had to lead these men to victory. To the very thing that would change the course of this war. The gift he needed to ensure Spitkovsky would return his family.

  With an exhale, Mokri pushed on the door. The mechanized hinges did the rest of the work. Another set of security doors was revealed beyond, requiring the concerted efforts of explosives and electronics to break through. And when Mokri led them into that last chamber, they found themselves inside a sterile metal chamber. The few guards and technicians inside went down in a storm of bullets and claws. In the center of the room was a large metal sphere with markings on it that were all too familiar to Mokri.

  This was it. He had found his prize, and may Allah have mercy on his soul.

  -16-

  Meredith massaged her forehead. A passing storm hammered the Huntress with a torrential downpour. A headache was beginning to take seed behind her eyes. She blamed it on the pressure changes from the mercurial weather.

  But it was more than that. Her headache had more to do with internal pressures and annoyances. She traced her finger over the map Ronaldo had given her. Spitkovsky and the FGL were planning something. Sure, they might attack Washington, DC. But that wasn’t all they were up to.

  It couldn’t be.

  She was no master strategist, but she had a hard time believing that the FGL was going to send everything they had at one American city and leave Europe behind. While they’d been drifting in the Atlantic, patrolling close to France, Spain, and Portugal, she’d contacted Alizia Mudimbe back in the Congo. Their newfound ally had reported that, despite the destruction of the facility there and the Titans within it, her group had still seen FGL activity in the area.

  Something was definitely going on.

  A red light suddenly glared from Chao’s desk, followed by a chirp. Meredith jumped in her seat, knocking over one of the Watchmen figurines that had belonged to the workstation’s previous owner. Gingerly, she replaced Adam’s toy on his desk then joined Chao.

  He listened to something. Then with a flick of his wrist, he motioned to Samantha. She gave him a quizzical look.

  “Translations!” he said.

  She tapped on her keyboard, and the monitors at the front of the workshop sparked to life. The speakers let out a scratchy voice speaking what sounded to Meredith like French. Memories of the language swirled through her mind from when she’d studied it in high school, but they weren’t sufficient to understand what the voice was saying. What she could understand was the desperation in the rapid staccato of words.

  Then the natural language processing program Samantha had worked on took hold.

  The message, though slightly butchered by the computerized translation, was clear: There was a land-based attack underway on a French military base. Though Chao had recovered the approximate location of the base, the radio operator had been silenced before he could give them anything more.

  The last few moments of the transmission, however, were most telling to Meredith. The operator reported “men who look like Skulls carrying guns.”

  If Hybrids were involved, she knew who was responsible. She paged Dom over the ship’s comms. He answered almost immediately, and she filled him in on the attack while she studied a map of the area where the broadcast had originated.

  “If we move now, we might intercept them,” she said.

  “This has to be part of whatever the FGL’s planning,” Dom replied. “Chao, send out a drone. Then tell Kinsey what’s up. We’re heading out.”

  It didn’t take long for the Hunters to assemble at Frank’s waiting Seahawk. Soon they were over the Atlantic and soaring along the French shore. Meredith’s heart hammered as a forest spread beneath them. According to her map, there should be little towns dotted all along the coast. But between the dense cloud cover and the pounding rain, it was near impossible to make them out. She might as well have been looking down on Europe as it was in the Middle Ages for all the signs of life she saw below.

  “Where do you all want me to drop you off?” Frank asked.

  Dom called back to the Huntress. “Chao, anything to report from the drone?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Chao replied. “We identified a set of tread tracks leading toward what looks like a military compound in the area. There were flashes of gunfire. Made it pretty easy to find. I’m sending Frank the coordinates now.”

  “Got it.” Frank gave them a thumbs-up, and the chopper banked hard toward their destination.

  “The area’s hot,” Chao said, “and they’re going to have no problem seeing the chopper, even in this rain. I’m suggesting a drop-off point based on our sweep.”

  Soon Frank brought the chopper down in a field near a small village. Miguel took point as the others filed out. The roar of the chopper’s engine drew out the Skulls lurking nearby in the forest. The first one came tumbling through the brush. Water sluiced off its spikes and the remains of a thoroughly soaked pair of jeans. Talons sprouted out of its ragged rubber boots.

  A fisherman in his prior life? It didn’t matter now. A few suppressed shots from Meredith’s rifle sent the thing into the wet soil, kicking up mud as it died.

  “Move out!” Dom said.

  The helicopter took off as soon as the Hunters disembarked. More Skulls sprinted toward them from the woods. Meredith and the others did not hesitate. Soon, the Hunters were winding through the village. Meredith imagined it had once been a picturesque place to enjoy a cappuccino and a pastry at the small coffee shop
. Maybe buy a loaf of fresh bread at the bakery farther down the cobblestone street.

  Now the street was covered in bones and scraps of decaying flesh. Shell casings rolled around beneath the Hunters’ boots, and bullet holes marred the walls of the cottages and storefronts. Shards of glass reflected the lightning breaking the dark sky. Dead Skulls lay against the buildings like trash bags that would never be picked up. The odor of wet earth mixed with that of carrion.

  They continued through the town until they hit another pathway that took them through the woods. The sound of rain hitting the leaves made it difficult to hear any approaching Skulls. Gooseflesh prickled over Meredith’s arms as the cold water seeped into her fatigues.

  A growl sounded off to her right, and she twisted, aiming her rifle into the shadows between trees. She couldn’t see anything, but the bushes in front of her rustled with the sound of a predator preparing to ambush prey. Before she could fire, shots exploded from behind her, followed by the crack of bullets hitting bone plates.

  O’Neil lowered his rifle. “Sensed it before I saw it.”

  “Powerful weapon you’ve got there,” Meredith said.

  “Rifle’s same as yours.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Can you tell how many Hybrids there are out there?”

  “Not quite,” O’Neil said. “But I can tell they’re still around.”

  The Hunters leapt over the fallen trees and skirted between abandoned vehicles, following the road toward the military compound. The spark of distant gunfire drew Meredith’s attention.

  “There!” she yelled.

  They crept to the edge of the forest. A scene of carnage appeared before them. Fresh shivers raced through Meredith’s flesh, and this time they weren’t from the cold. Dead soldiers lay sprawled across the grass. Some kind of vehicle had rammed into the front door of the complex. A chain-link fence and gate lay useless in the puddles accumulating in potholes and ditches. Skulls covered damn near everything.

  One soldier who wasn’t quite dead fired on an approaching monster. In a matter of seconds, he disappeared under a mass of claws and bone plates. His agonized screams exploded amid the thunderstorm for the briefest of moments.