Z Plan (Book 2): Red Tides

by Lerma, Mikhail

  A PERMUTED PRESS book

  Published at Smashwords

  ISBN (Trade Paperback): 978-1-61868-351-9

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-117-350-2

  Z Plan 2: Red Tides copyright © 2014

  by Mikhail Lerma

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Matt Mosley

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Special Thanks

  Part I

  1. The Brig

  2. Defectors

  3. Tainted Cargo

  4. Gory Discovery

  5. Quarantine

  6. Scavangers

  7. The Fourth Floor

  8. The Operating Room

  9. Reflecting

  10. Bad Timing

  11. Punch Line

  12. Simple Truths

  Part II

  13. Surviving

  14. Butler

  15. Abbandonato

  16. Little Black Book

  17. Adrift

  18. Taking Stock

  19. Floating Party

  20. Separate Ways

  21. Propositions Gone Wrong

  22. Escaping Heaven

  23. Bienvenue

  24. Unwelcome Diversion

  25. Fastfood

  26. Country Drive

  27. Campfire Stories

  28. Moving On

  29. More Human Than Human

  30. Get Your Ass Up

  31. Past Transgressions

  32. Future Follies

  33. Just Drive

  34. War Crimes

  35. Noncomissioned

  36. Lessons In Leadership

  37. Confessions

  38. Population 1

  39. A Fresh Start

  40. Mountain City

  41. Attacked

  42. Fortify

  43. The Truth Will Out

  44. Better Than He Deserved

  45. Reallocated

  46. Killing Time

  47. Departure

  48. One Hour Out

  49. Just A Blip

  50. Threats Foreign And Domestic

  51. Not A Hero’s Welcome

  About the Author

  Dedication

  This book is for my three daughters; Amilia, Rebekah, and Delilah. I love you girls with all of my heart.

  Special Thanks

  I would like to thank my family and friends for their unwavering support of the first book. I would also like to thank my military family at the 2-123 FSC Illinois National Guard for their support. Thank you K.M. for the insights of your experiences. Thank you S.E. for providing me with the opportunity to experience a vehicle rollover first hand. It gave me a perspective that I could only speculate on before. A big thanks to Keith Chawgo for his hard work over this last year. I’d like to thank my editors, Glenda Wildeman and Bobbie Metevier, who tirelessly worked to meet their respective deadlines that were unexpectedly sprang on them. I appreciate all you’ve done. And finally I’d like to thank of course my wife who knows just what to say to give me that extra boost.

  Part I

  Odyssey Continued

  “While there is life, there is hope.”

  -Marcus Tullius Cicero

  1.

  The Brig

  Cale was ordered to place his hands behind his head and drop to his knees. He did so without protest. Just seconds ago he’d been planning to clean up and then kill himself. He was relieved to see actual people: living, breathing, thinking people. The armed men lowered a rope ladder from the now visible submarine to the deck of the Freedom Runner, and Cale watched as the first man climbed down clumsily. The second man followed when the first touched down.

  “Remain where you are and don’t make any sudden moves!” the man with the bullhorn ordered.

  Four men were now on the disabled vessel, and Cale sat in the middle of the circle they’d formed. All of them had weapons pointed at him. The man giving the orders, along with five others, remained on the sub. The men spoke among themselves in their native tongues. Cale looked up at the grey sky. Clouds kept the sun from breaking through, and it started to drizzle. The man directly in front of Cale approached slowly, the muzzle of his rifle almost touching his nose. He was shorter than the others and slightly rounder. He wheezed loudly, no doubt out of breath from the climb down. His beard hid most of his face, and his dark eyes glared at Cale. The man’s uniform was tan camouflage. Cale couldn’t see any form of identification, such as a name or service rank. He looked past the armed man and back at the submarine. What showed above the surface was approximately three times the length of the Freedom Runner. It too lacked identifying marks. The men broke formation and searched the ship.

  Cale could hear them banging around below deck and questioned their motives. He thought they might just take his belongings and leave him to die, or even kill him themselves. He regretted surrendering so eagerly.

  The fat man shifted back and forth on his feet. Cale could smell him; it must have been some time since he’d bathed last. Cale knew he didn’t smell any better, having not wanted to leave the radio unattended. His chin stubble made him look rugged and older than he actually was.

  The men filed out carrying the boxes of MREs. One of them shouted to the man with the bullhorn. Cale speculated they were discussing his supplies; of course they’d be taking them, but what were they going to do with him?

  The man with the bullhorn replied, speaking in Egyptian Arabic. One of the men began stacking the cases of MREs next to the ladder, while the others went back down for the rest of the supplies. Cale turned his head to see what they’d bring up next, and the fat man jabbed him in the chest with the barrel of his rifle. He turned back to look at him, and the fat man sneered and shook his head. The man with the bullhorn snapped at the fat man, and he backed off a bit.

  “Sorry about that. We’ve come across a few ships that weren’t as cooperative as yours,” said the man with the bullhorn.

  “What happened to those…?” Cale hesitated to ask but finished anyway, “to those uncooperative ships?”

  The only reply he received was a smile. It made Cale feel uneasy, and he feared even more that they would kill him and take his supplies. The men brought up the last of his provisions and stacked them near the ladder. His mission bag, pistol, and Zach’s knife were among the items. The men spoke to one another, then to their leader. As he spoke, he pointed at Cale, and two of the men approached, revealing plastic zip ties and a black bag. The fat man smirked at Cale as they did so.

  “This is only a precaution; we will have to restrain you and place you into quarantine before you can be processed.”

  Before Cale could do anything, they placed the bag over his head and wrestled him to the ground. One of them pressed his knee hard into Cale’s back. They bent back his arms and fastened them together.

  “Get the fuck off me!” Cale shouted.

  Cale heard the fat man chuckle. The others shouted at each other and then lifted him to his feet. Clumsily, they moved Cale to the edge of the Freedom Runner, lifting him up. He imagined they were throwing him overboard, and he thrashed against his captors, trying to reclaim his freedom. He could feel the hands trying to lift him, but they dropped him back onto the deck. The boarding crew began to kick him as he flailed. Cale’s body crumpled more after each blow.

  “Stop resisting, w
e’re attempting to bring you aboard,” the leader assured Cale.

  They tried to hoist him up again, and this time Cale was still.

  “We need you to walk now,” their leader ordered.

  Cale nodded, and was assisted to his feet. Someone grabbed his arm and moved him forward. The metal walkway banged under each of their footsteps. The chilly sea air was replaced with the warm stuffy air of the sub. He stumbled over one of the thresholds but was kept upright by the man clutching his arm. They took him through numerous corridors, occasionally warning him to watch his step. They halted abruptly, and Cale could feel them cutting the ties that bound his wrists. The bag was removed from his head, revealing a row of barred cells. Two or three people occupied a cell and only a few cells were empty. Cale was pushed into one with two inmates. The door closed behind him with a loud clang, and one of the men produced a key and locked it.

  “Hope you understand this is just procedure. We’ll observe you for a few days, and if by then you show no signs of infection, your equipment will be returned to you,” the leader explained.

  Cale rubbed his wrists. “All of my things?”

  The man laughed as he and the guard turned to walk away. His situation wasn’t ideal, but at least they hadn’t killed him. Cale looked at his fellow inmates. One of them was African, and the other looked Middle Eastern. They sat at opposite ends of the bench.

  “English?” Cale asked

  Both men shook their heads. The Middle Eastern man was sweating profusely. Cale looked toward the other cells.

  “Does anyone here speak English?”

  No one answered. The room smelled like piss. None of the cells had toilets or washbasins. He placed his back against the bars of the door and slumped to the floor. He eyed his cellmates, sizing them up. The Middle Eastern man was about Cale’s size. He had moved from the bench and now sat trembling in a corner, coughing violently. Cale observed the man closely, looking for signs of infection. He hoped the man simply had the flu. He then turned his attention to the African, who stared back at him, probably sizing him up as well. His skin was dark and his hair was short and he was very tall and very muscular. If he were infected he’d definitely be dangerous. In one of the other cells, someone was coughing and retching. This room was a paradise for any kind of virus.

  “Fucking great. Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Cale said to himself.

  Two small bulbs at opposite ends of the room provided the only light in the room. The brig contained four cells and thirteen occupants, including him. The majority of them were men, and all of them were adults. Cale was in the cell farthest from the oval metal door. The vessel creaked and groaned as it descended back to the depths of the ocean. The prisoners sat silently in their cages. Cale watched as one of the inmates walked to the edge of his cell and urinated through the bars and onto the floor. He thought about how many people must have pissed on those floors. Quickly, he jumped to his feet and looked around at the disgusting space. The African laughed at him as Cale checked his pants for a wet spot. The other man was asleep finally and didn’t stir. Cale looked at the African, and started to laugh along with him. The other captives looked at them. The large man rose from his perch and approached Cale, extending his hand to him.

  “Naeem,” he said, as he gave Cale’s hand a firm shake.

  “What?” Cale asked, sounding confused.

  He pointed to himself and said it again, “Naeem,”

  “Naeem?” Cale asked again.

  The African nodded in confirmation. Cale was clueless for a moment, and then realized what the man was trying to say. Naeem was his name.

  “Cale,” he replied. “English?”

  The man shook his head again. They weren’t able to communicate, but at least they knew each other’s names. The sleeping man whimpered but didn’t wake. Cale motioned toward him, but Naeem shrugged his shoulders. The man must have been too sick to speak with him. Cale made a biting gesture and pointed at him again. Naeem shook his head once more.

  “Well, so much for communicating,” Cale scoffed.

  Naeem shrugged and looked confused. Cale shook his head, and the two looked around at the others. Three women occupied the cell next to them, one of them elderly, and the other two much younger. A man was coughing loudly in the cell farthest from them, where he shared a space with three other men. The third cell, between the coughing man’s and the women’s, contained three African men. They shared the bench as they slept. The man in the far cell coughed even louder, until he vomited and fell silent. His sleeping cellmates went undisturbed. Naeem returned to his seat and leaned against the wall, and Cale surveyed the floor once more, looking for a place to sit. Again, he leaned against the bars of the cell, and slid to the floor. His eyes blurred with exhaustion, and his stomach growled. His eyelids grew heavy and gently closed. Despite his predicament, he managed to find sleep.

  2.

  Defectors

  The man with the bullhorn entered the command deck, with two men following him. The room was filled with men working at consoles that beeped and blinked. The vessel’s commander watched over the crew, ensuring all ran smoothly.

  “Prepare to submerge,” he ordered.

  The man’s voice was gruff, and his appearance matched. Admiral Selim was a man of average height and build, approximately forty years of age. He wore a light brown uniform decorated with various medals. A beard hid most of his tanned face. His dark eyes scanned the room, and he stood like a stone gargoyle, unwavering and determined. An alarm sounded, signaling the vessel was returning to patrolling depth. Once the vessel reached the correct depth, they continued their course.

  “Report,” the admiral demanded.

  The bullhorn man jumped, startled by the admiral’s tone.

  “An American soldier, sir.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, sir. He had a ship full of supplies. We brought them aboard, sir.”

  “Good. What of the vessel?”

  “It couldn’t be salvaged sir. We set it on fire like the rest.”

  Selim nodded his approval. He wasn’t the original commander of the vessel but was actually three ranks below admiral. His predecessor, Admiral Mamish, had been careless and had become infected. After they lost radio contact with command, they’d surfaced just north of the hub of naval operations in Alexandria. It was then that they discovered the dire reality of this new plague. Mamish had given the order to bring survivors aboard, leading the expedition himself. A woman who appeared injured had attacked him. It was Commodore Selim who did what was necessary, and held the crew together. Selim field promoted himself to the rank of admiral, and no one questioned his authority. He sealed his title as absolute leader with a speech delivered over the ship’s intercom.

  “Our leaders have fallen to this new plague, and it is up to us to keep going, to keep living. We must hold together, for together we are strong.” His heart had thumped with a surge of adrenaline, and endorphins flooded his blood stream. For the first time, he’d felt in control. “Under my leadership, we will prevail!”

  The men on each deck had cheered; they felt lucky to have such a leader. Selim lead without hesitation, and they started tracking down other naval vessels immediately. Most of them had sustained casualties trying to aid civilians fleeing the continent of Africa. He reestablished order from their chaos, and they pledged their loyalty to him.

  Once he’d successfully gathered a surviving ship, he met with the vessel’s commander. Among these leaders were two men who, in actuality, outranked Selim: Vice Admiral Runihura and Rear Admiral Kalfani. Neither of them liked that Selim had promoted himself, and they argued over command of the fleet. The other commanders watched idly as they shouted obscenities at one another.

  What Selim did was considered murder in the old world, but this was the new one. Selim didn’t want to give up his newfound power, so he shot both men without hesitation, and then addressed the other commanders. He informed them that he would be calling the shots,
or there would be consequences. None of them challenged him and all agreed to his cover story—a neat little tale of how the Vice Admiral was homicidal and had tried to kill them all. Each ship pledged its unwavering allegiance to him, thus ensuring Selim the power he’d always wanted.

  Lieutenant Commander Amun clutched his bullhorn tightly; he hated bothering the Admiral.

  “Sir, what do we do if he clears quarantine?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s American, sir. His government will want him released.”

  “Look around, Lieutenant Commander,” Selim replied waving his hands. “What government? No one will be looking for one soldier.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Once he has cleared quarantine, he’ll be processed like the rest of the…” he paused a moment to carefully consider what he should call them. “Refugees,” he finished.

  “Yes, sir,” Amun saluted.

  “Dismissed,” the admiral replied, returning the salute.

  Amun and his bullhorn exited the command deck. He was a young man, the youngest to ever graduate from the Naval Academy. This had been one of the benefits of having a well-connected family. Whenever he’d had a problem, his father would simply throw money at it. Amun had given up trying to impress his father a long time ago. His father firmly believed that Amun had only made it because of him and his money, never giving his son the chance to prove himself. Amun hated his father, and hoped he was dead, shuffling down the streets of Desouk. Amun smiled at the thought of his father, doomed to walk endlessly, while his body rotted away. His mother had died giving birth to Amun, something his father had never forgiven him for. His father had been a hypocrite; he’d been out fucking anything with a hump hole long before Amun was born. Still, he referred to Amun’s mother as the ‘love of his life,’ as if she were listening from Heaven.