Shadow Ops 3: Breach Zone

by Myke Cole

  The towels began to shrivel, the cotton twisting, turning green, then purple, then black. A sulfur stink filled the room, tickling Harlequin’s nose, burning in his throat.

  ‘I never had a chance,’ Grace said, as the towels turned to black sludge, dripping off the rack to pool on the tile floor. ‘I never had a choice.’

  Harlequin could only nod. Because it was true.

  Had the towels burned, things would be different, but the SOC didn’t take Probes.

  Thus always to wolves.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Big Fish

  Goblinkind is not united in the ‘Embracer’ tribe belief that mankind needs to be brought back to the magical wellspring of its birth. The ‘Defender’ tribes dub humanity as ‘keach’, or ‘lost’. To goblins raised in the Defender faith, humans actually died when they were cut off from the magical wellspring. The human incursion into the Source is nothing less than an invasion of the walking dead. We are zombies to them, and the exploitation of resources and destruction of their people is evidence of the consequences of our being allowed to exist here unchecked. Just as Embracers would give up their lives to save humans, Defenders fight just as hard to destroy us, with ejection from the Source being their ultimate goal. Unfortunately, Defender tribes outnumber Embracer tribes by roughly four to one.

  – Simon Truelove

  A Sojourn Among the Mattab On Sorrah

  The slope off the Breakwater’s starboard side steepened, and Bonhomme ordered the bow around to port to keep the ship from heeling over dangerously far. The leviathan continued to match their pace, sides swelling as it pulled in more and more water. The goblins formed a frothing patch behind it, out of the line of fire, ready to pounce on the ship once the giant wave capsized it.

  Bookbinder scanned the skies again for incoming helos, saw none. He thought of the Giffords’s sailors turning the white waters red. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

  Think. There has to be a way out of this. Think. Panic clawed at his mind, clouding his thoughts. He couldn’t afford that now. Bonhomme had found a way to use the equipment they had at hand in the last dustup with the goblins; maybe he could do it again now.

  ‘So, we can’t outrun it. Which means we have to fight it,’ Bookbinder said.

  Bonhomme started to snort contempt at the idea, then his expression faded to thoughtfulness. ‘I’m wracking my brain here, sir. Don’t see a way.’

  I don’t either. ‘Well, that OC worked a miracle against the goblins. Flares were a smart idea, too.’

  ‘That thing is underwater, sir. There’s no way to get the OC to it. We don’t have a dive crew even if we had the time’ – he looked doubtfully out the bridge window at the increasing grade of the slope – ‘which we don’t.’

  ‘Can we shoot it? Maybe if we pour enough rifle rounds into it . . .’

  Bonhomme glanced up at Rodriguez.

  ‘That far down? That thing is huge. I don’t think we’d be able to kill it quickly enough,’ the boatswain said.

  ‘Not a lot of time here,’ Marks said, eyes growing wide.

  ‘What we need,’ Bonhomme said, pounding a fist on the console, ‘are damned depth charges.’

  ‘Could we rig some of the pyro for that?’ Bookbinder asked. ‘Some way we can waterproof it and chuck it over the side so it blows up down there?’

  Rodriguez frowned. ‘I don’t see how, sir. That stuff is all meant to go off in air. Get it wet, and it doesn’t work.’

  The grade of the slope increased, and Marks turned to Bonhomme. ‘Sir, we’ve got to accept that we’re about to be capsized. Let me get the crew as ready as we can. Let’s get folks into PFDs and SAR vests and maybe put some rafts in the water, launch the small boats. Not sure it’ll help, but it’s something.’

  ‘Do it,’ Bonhomme said, and Marks raced out the hatch and down the ladder.

  ‘We take the wave bow on,’ Bonhomme said. ‘If we angle it right, I guess there’s a chance we can hold on better than the Giffords did. We’re a different hull, broader and flatter.’ The look in his eyes showed he didn’t believe it even as he gave the orders to the helmsman, and the bow began to swing around to face the creature.

  ‘Maybe if we get right over it?’ Rodriguez suggested.

  ‘So it can blast us into the sky directly from below? That’d be worse,’ Bonhomme said.

  The ship groaned as it came hard to starboard, heeling more deeply into the slope. Bookbinder was impressed with how agilely the buoy tender turned while simultaneously sickened by the steep grade sweeping past them. Out the bridge window, the wire-rope swung off the LOVE ME TENDER’s boom, the huge crane groaning as its weight slewed to one side.

  Bookbinder’s eyes shot wide. ‘How much does that . . . thing on the end of the crane weigh?’

  ‘What?’ Bonhomme asked.

  ‘The ball and hook thingie! The one that’s holding the boomer?’ Or what was left of the boomer. The oil drum was scorched black, splashed with blood and so full of bullet holes it looked more like a desiccated sponge than anything metal.

  ‘The hook? I don’t know. Depends on whether they’ve got the ball or the sheave block up there. I think it’s the ball. It’s more than half a ton. Maybe a ton.’

  ‘Is there any way we can drop it on that monster? Maybe tip the whole crane over the side? It’s not a depth charge, but . . .’

  ‘We can do it,’ Rodriguez said suddenly, her voice rising.

  Bonhomme nodded. ‘We’ll need to be right over the top of it, but if we drop the hoist brake or cut the wire-rope, the ball weighs enough to throw it down. If we extend the jib, it’ll drop from sixty feet up. That’d give it some speed. Assuming that thing is as big as a blue whale? Should punch a hole in it. Jesus, that’s a crazy idea.’

  ‘Well, the sane ones aren’t doing us a whole lot of good right now,’ Bookbinder said.

  ‘Point,’ Bonhomme said. ‘Bosun, get that boom extended as high as you possibly can, over the starboard side. Cut it as close as you can to the starboard rail, so the ball just misses us.’

  ‘We might be able to load a heavier . . .’ Rodriguez began.

  ‘No time for that,’ Bonhomme cut her off. ‘Just get it in position.’

  He turned to the helmsman and called out the commands that would bring the Breakwater directly over the leviathan. They had come fully about by now, the helmsman making slight adjustments as the monster grew larger before them. The bow dipped sickeningly far, the ship picking up speed as it slid down the slope.

  Bonhomme gripped the console railing. ‘Shit,’ he whispered. ‘Shitshitshitshitshit.’

  A howl went up from the goblins as they realized the Breakwater was charging them. They rushed the ship, the water whipped to a froth around the leviathan’s growing form.

  Bookbinder heard splashes and saw one of the ship’s small jet boats racing off the port bow, two of the precious rifles held by sailors on board. A small pseudopod of white water rippled out toward them, but the vast majority of the creatures swarmed back aboard for the third time, clambering up onto the buoy deck just as Rodriguez raced out of the hatch, making for the crane.

  Bookbinder turned to Bonhomme. ‘Can you keep her on top of that thing?’ Bonhomme kept his eye on the compass and continued calling commands to the helmsman, pausing only long enough to shout ‘Go!’

  Bookbinder raced after Rodriguez, finding himself in the same passageway where he’d first stood with the boarding teams. The hatch stood open, Marks outside it, ushering sailors back inside as the first goblins appeared around the crane.

  Bookbinder and Rodriguez charged out, waving at them. ‘Turn around! We’ve got to get to the crane!’

  ‘What?’ Marks asked.

  ‘The crane!’ Bookbinder shouted. ‘Get to the crane!’

  Marks turned, leveli
ng his pistol and firing twice into the packed group of goblins. They covered the buoy deck now, outnumbering the sailors at least ten to one, with more climbing aboard every moment.

  ‘Well, shit,’ Rodriguez said.

  ‘Yup,’ Bookbinder agreed.

  ‘Charge of the Light Brigade, eh?’ Marks asked.

  ‘Something like that,’ Bookbinder replied.

  ‘Can we do it?’ Marks asked.

  Bookbinder shrugged. ‘Only one way to find out.’

  He gave a yell and charged. Marks, Rodriguez, and the remaining sailors went with him. Guns boomed around him, the nonskid surface of the deck resounded beneath his boots. He had time to draw his pistol and fire once before sailor and goblin collided and mixed, a writhing mass of blue, blaze orange, and sick sea green. Both sides let out a cry and Bookbinder found himself face-to-face with a thing out of a pirate’s nightmare.

  The goblin’s face was distended into a long, lampreylike mouth, the round maw lined with three rows of triangular, sharp teeth. Its bald head trailed seaweed from a field of barnacle-like growths.

  Bookbinder raised his pistol again, but the thing ducked low, catching him in the gut and driving him backward. The tube mouth snuffled at his chest, flexible lips working the teeth against his uniform. He shouted, trying to get a hold on it, hands scrabbling for purchase over the slick surface of its back. At last, he locked his hands over his own wrists and squeezed his arms together. The goblin gasped and he flexed, pressing forward against the monsters behind it. He felt the sharp prick of its small teeth punching through his uniform blouse and scoring the T-shirt beneath. He squeezed harder, and the gasp became a snarl, the bottom of its soft ribs bending under his grasp.

  Bookbinder wasn’t a strong man, but he was twice the size of a goblin. He shouted and squeezed with everything he had, crushing the goblin into its fellows for added leverage. The monster gave a wet wail as its ribs gave way. Bookbinder released it and kicked it, sending it to flop limply along the deck.

  Rodriguez was at his side, hefting an empty shotgun barrel first, shouting incoherently as she laid about her. A goblin leapt over its comrade, reaching for Bookbinder with a saw-edged long knife before Rodriguez brought it down with a heavy stroke to its bulbous skull.

  Behind the goblins, the crane hovered, tantalizingly close. The water had turned black to either side of the Breakwater’s bow, filled completely with the huge body of the leviathan.

  A goblin grabbed Bookbinder’s wrist, its fingers a series of sucker-tipped, waving tentacles. His arm burned as it pierced the skin. He turned to claw out its eyes, and found he couldn’t find anything resembling a head. Its eyes were directly in the center of its torso, looking at him over a horned beak. He punched it. Punched it again and again. The grip on his wrist only grew stronger and more painful as it yanked his hand toward the beak.

  Bookbinder saw Rodriguez’s shotgun stock crash into one of the thing’s limbs, but it didn’t move.

  ‘Gaaaah!’ he screamed, yanking his hand away from the sharp-looking beak, tearing the skin against the sharp protrusions in the tentacles that held him fast. The bladed delta of the beak’s tip hovered over his hand, his wrist . . .

  A sharp crack sounded from over his shoulder and the thing spun away. The tentacles released his wrist, leaving a red, streaming patch that had once been occupied by his watch.

  His finger smarted, bleeding from the knuckle. My ring. I’ve lost my wedding ring.

  It was a token, a bauble, but grief swept over him, followed closely by rage. Julie. I’m sorry. I should have taken better care of it.

  Bookbinder looked topside, where one of the bridge windows had either been busted out or opened. Bonhomme leaned through, a smoking rifle in his hands. He turned, taking aim at another goblin. If he was no longer bothering with the helm, that must mean they were right over the leviathan.

  Now or never.

  Bookbinder stepped on the goblin’s corpse and launched himself into the air, landing across three more goblins, punching wildly. He heard a roar as the sailors followed suit. He felt something sharp slice into his face, his thigh. He shut his eyes tight, raw wrist screaming. His fist thumped against flesh once, twice, then banged painfully against metal.

  He opened his eyes and found himself face-to-face with the crane operator’s control-booth door. He yanked on the door handle and nearly yelled with relief as it swung open, sending him staggering back into Rodriguez, who was screaming, swinging the empty shotgun.

  ‘Bosun!’ Bookbinder shouted, grabbing her arm. ‘I can’t work this! Get in there!’

  He heaved, swinging her around him and into the open door as a goblin sank a bone club into his stomach, doubling him over. He slouched against the crane’s side, winded, listening to the machine’s motor roar into life. Marks was at his side, swinging his empty pistol, punching and kicking, buying him precious breathing room to recover. A moment later, the crane swung out over the Breakwater’s side, throwing Marks and Bookbinder back into the mass of goblins as another shot from the bridge sent one of the creatures spinning to the deck.

  He turned back for Rodriguez, but nausea swamped him, and his vision grayed. Bookbinder had a vague sense of being dragged backward, the crane receding in the distance.

  ‘Wait. We’ve got to get her out of there,’ he tried to say. Nothing came out.

  With the sailors clear of the crane, Bonhomme opened up with the rifle in three-round bursts. The goblins hissed, cringing.

  Bookbinder felt the shadow of the superstructure loom over him as they dragged him backward through the hatch. The nausea subsided, and he struggled to his feet, shrugging off the sailors. ‘I’m fine! I’m fine!’

  But his voice was drowned out by a sudden metallic rasping. The crane’s wire-rope began to race along the metal spool, spraying sparks and billowing gray smoke. The rasping became a scream as the heavy ball and hook dropped like a stone.

  Goblins swarmed over the crane operator’s booth, hammering at the plastic, smashing through with spears and clubs. One jerked back, gurgling, as Rodriguez grabbed a piece of the splintered plastic and drove it into its throat.

  At last, the hook and ball splashed into the water and disappeared, the smoke from the wire-rope turning to steam as it abruptly cooled.

  The goblins backed off, thrusting spear after spear into the operator’s booth’s opening. Bookbinder lurched forward, but Marks held him fast. ‘Don’t, sir. There’s nothing you can do now.’

  The goblins stabbed again and again, then turned, satisfied, moving toward the superstructure. Bookbinder strained to see Rodriguez in the operator’s booth. He looked around at Marks and the remaining sailors, exhausted and bleeding. Any attempt to go back out there would be overwhelmed, leaving the superstructure open.

  ‘Better get this hatch secured,’ Bookbinder said, his throat closing with grief.

  He slumped as Marks and one of the sailors got the hatch shut and put the dogs in place just as the first goblins threw themselves against it, shouting and banging on the metal surface with spear butts and knives. Shots sounded from the bridge again as Bonhomme reloaded and opened fire.

  They were silent for a moment before Marks sighed, ‘Come on, sir. Let’s get up to the bridge and see what we can see.’

  He stationed one sailor on the hatch, all that could be spared now, and the two of them climbed the ladder, shivering from exhaustion and sadness. They reached the bridge to find Bonhomme pulling himself back inside the window, smoking rifle empty on the deck behind him.

  The ship shuddered. The bow jerked suddenly, a huge wave materializing twenty feet past it and rolling slowly forward. The goblins cried out in a single voice. Bookbinder and Marks went to Bonhomme’s side in time to see them pointing at the water, shaking with fury, leaping off the deck.

  Then the stink hit them. Fetid, deep, and rot
ten, as if a century’s worth of garbage left at the bottom of the ocean had bubbled skyward. ‘What the fu . . .’ Marks began, then went silent.

  All around the Breakwater’s bow, dark fluid rose to the surface, steaming the disgusting odor into the air. Chunks of something that Bookbinder couldn’t identify floated in the midst of it. The dark liquid swirled, viscous and thick, breaking off into separate clouds, fed by funnels of the stuff from the leviathan’s shape below.

  A shape that was growing smaller as the creature sank, fins and tail thrashing.

  ‘What would you call that?’ Bonhomme asked.

  ‘A direct hit,’ Bookbinder said. You did it, Bosun. He tracked the direction of the blooming liquid to the giant monster’s front and knew Rodriguez hadn’t died for nothing. ‘Right between the eyes.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Reunion

  Let’s get this straight. You build an entire legal framework dedicated to persecuting and punishing those who deign to use magic outside your arbitrary guidelines. Then, you’re surprised when the pariahs you’ve created make war on you? The only Selfer threat is the one you made for yourself. America is a nation choking on its own hypocrisy.

  – Adam Berrin

  The Nation Online

  With the death of their leviathan, the fight went out of the goblins. They made a few more halfhearted attempts as the Breakwater limped along on its single engine but seemed unwilling to stray far from the slowly spreading stain on the surface that marked the monster’s final resting place. Bonhomme gave the weapons-free order and a few well-placed shots convinced them that they didn’t want back on the buoy deck.

  Bookbinder looked away as they retrieved Rodriguez from the ruined crane. His last sight had been of her face locked in a determined grimace, hell-bent on saving their lives. He wanted to remember her that way. The sailors seemed to be grateful to be left alone to tend to their own, and Bookbinder was content to leave them that way. Thanks, Bosun, he thought, making his way back to the bridge.