Operation Norway (S-Squad Book 7)

by William Meikle

  Banks lowered his voice.

  “There’s no need for any rough stuff. We’re here to help you, lad.”

  Another roar echoed around the chamber. Banks saw from the corner of his eye that Hynd and Wiggins had moved up alongside him, each of them holding a fresh syringe of sedative. Without taking his eyes from McCallum, he motioned that they should stay where they were.

  We got away with that trick once before. But if this thing’s as smart as I think it is, it won’t fall for it this time.

  “Private McCallum, we’re here to take you home. Wouldn’t you like to go home?”

  That got him other sideways glance.

  At least he’s listening to me.

  “You remember home, Private? Scotland? Family?”

  He was more than aware that the man’s family, at least the ones he might remember, were probably long dead. And it seemed McCallum was indeed smart, for the troll let out a wail that was more of pain and loss than of anger. The troll waved an arm to indicate the beasts that had gone back to the rock, most of them now barely distinguishable from the stone of the cave walls. The meaning was clear.

  These are his family now.

  “We can’t let you—any of you—stay here,” Banks said. “You must know that. You have killed people—children. There will be consequences. There must be. You swore to defend the weak. Remember that?”

  Another roar of pain echoed around the chamber. Banks sensed Wiggins tense beside him and again put out a hand to remind the corporal to stay still.

  “Come with us, McCallum,” he said. “This can be fixed.”

  The troll pointed at its belly, where there was still a weeping hole, the one made by Larsen’s auger. Again, the meaning was clear.

  You call this fixed?

  “That was a mistake. One I won’t be making again. Come with us, lad. Let’s get you home.”

  The troll—McCallum—wailed, a mixture of pain and rage this time, and Banks saw movement in the walls as some of those taken to the rock seemed to stir and start to reawaken at the noise.

  “Cap?” Wiggins said and Banks heard the worry in the corporal’s voice.

  “Not yet,” Banks whispered but he was starting to fear it might already be too late as he saw a huge hand come out of the wall, flatten on the ground, and start to pull its ancient, moss-covered figure out of the wall.

  McCallum turned away from Banks and put his hands on the emerging figure’s shoulders to help pull it out.

  I’ve lost him.

  He gave Wiggins and Hynd the nod.

  - 23 -

  Hynd and Wiggins attempted to execute the move the same way they’d done before—crouching in a wrestler’s stance and rolling quickly forward. But McCallum was wise to it this time and was quick enough to move aside, leaving Hynd out of reach with his syringe. Wiggins managed to stab the troll, not in the groin this time but directly into the weeping hole in its belly. He had taken his chance deliberately and carefully but it had cost him dearly—he wasn’t able to roll away in time.

  McCallum’s huge splayed foot came down on Wiggins’ chest and stopped, pinning the corporal to the ground. Banks knew it would only take the slightest effort by the troll to cave in sternum and ribs and reduce Wiggins’ innards to a bloody pulp.

  The syringe, plunger pushed all the way in, still hung from the hole in the beast’s belly.

  Stall. Play for time. The sedative will take hold soon.

  The only hope he had was that there were enough drugs now coursing through the troll’s system to bring it down—or at least calm it enough to be persuaded.

  “Private McCallum, stand down,” Banks shouted, putting the parade ground into it. “That’s a soldier you’ve got there and he’s one of our own. I will have no fighting in my squad.”

  The other troll had stopped coming out of the wall—its head and shoulders had emerged but they were now, slowly, being drawn back onto the stone. McCallum, still with his foot on Wiggins’ chest, had fallen quiet and still. He touched the syringe at his belly and when he whimpered, he sounded more like a man than ever. Banks lowered his rifle to the ground—the light shone directly on Wiggins’ pale, wide-eyed face.

  “Hang in there, lad,” Banks said softly to the corporal. “We’ll get you out of this.”

  Hynd had pushed himself upright and stood at Banks’ back, with Davies and Olsen behind him.

  “Follow my lead, Sarge,” Banks whispered. “Nice and easy now.”

  He took a step towards McCallum. The head came up, staring straight at Banks from under heavy brows. The shadows there were too deep to see the eyes themselves, to see whether they were losing focus, going cloudy and drugged. All Banks had to go on were cues from the troll’s movements—and for now at least, it was still very much awake.

  Wiggins let out a grunt of pain as McCallum shifted his weight.

  “Stand down, Private,” Banks said. “That’s an order. Don’t make me have to tell you twice.”

  McCallum whimpered, looked at Banks, then down at Wiggins, but showed no sign of obeying the command. Once again, it motioned with its hand at the walls. Banks was unsure of the meaning—was he asking for clemency for them all, or was he asking to join them in the stone, to go to sleep?

  “Not going to happen, lad,” Banks said. “I gave you an order. It would be best for you to obey it.”

  Banks was watching the troll closely and now he saw it, the first hint that the drugs might be working as McCallum’s huge chin dropped to his chest and jerked back up again.

  “Last chance, Private McCallum. Stand down or I’ll have you up on a charge.”

  But instead of compliance, Banks got another shout of rage in reply. The walls shivered and great cracks appeared in the stone. The trolls were waking again.

  In one swift movement, Banks drew his service pistol, stepped inside an arm that was already swinging in his direction, and put three shots into McCallum’s left eye.

  *

  The troll swayed, left then right, lifted the pressure on Wiggins’ chest enough for the corporal to roll away, then it collapsed like a falling tree, with a crash that shook the whole chamber, laying the body out flat, face down on the floor of the cave.

  The walls settled, the last echo of the pistol shots faded and the only sound was Wiggins, fumbling hastily to light a cigarette.

  “Fuck me, Cap,” he said once his smoke was lit. “Cutting it a bit fine there, weren’t you?”

  Banks wasn’t listening. He looked down at the prone figure.

  “I’m sorry, lad,” he said.

  “No worries, Cap,” Wiggins replied.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Wiggo,” Banks replied, retrieved his rifle, and went outside in search of clearer air.

  - 24 -

  They watched the end of it from the supply vessel that brought them ‘round from the harbor. Larsen had campaigned, long and hard, for access to the “specimens,” but Banks’ and Olsen’s testimony had persuaded the authorities that much of the blame for the debacle should be laid on the doctor’s shoulders and all the man’s pleas were refused. When Olsen offered a chance to the squad to oversee the final act before heading home, Banks knew he couldn’t refuse.

  Three F-16s roared overhead, six AIM-120 missiles went into the cave mouth, and seconds later, the whole cliff face disappeared in a rumbling roar of debris. When the smoke and dust settled, the cliff face was thirty yards farther inland and there was a new pile of rubble on the shore.

  “I’d keep an eye on that if I were you,” Banks said.

  “It shall be carefully transported, every stone and pebble of it, to one of our high arctic island outposts, into a remote valley where the sun never shines,” Olsen said. “And I have been given authority for the site to be treated as a war grave. Your man, or what is left of him at least, shall not be disturbed again.”

  Banks turned away, lest the captain see the tears in his eyes.

  The End

  Read on for a free sample of Great W
hite Death

  Prologue

  There is a shark of legends in the waters around Aña Nuevo Island. A great white. He goes by the name Great White Death, and stories of his devastation stretch back as far as 400 years ago. Some say he is 20 feet long. Others say he is 30. Some, even bigger.

  Great White Death is said to enjoy killing. Killing anything. His favorite pastime is destruction of his own kind. He kills any other great white that dares enter his territory. Every one of his stories describes his killing, of other sharks, seals, and especially the humans who’ve attempted to live in the area, as bloody. Very bloody. Great White Death likes to break his prey into pieces, leaving their souls the only things left for him to swallow once his teeth are finished.

  He is only seen in storms. Every single tale of Great White Death takes place in a horrific Pacific Ocean sea storm. They say he likes storms because it makes his attacks more terrifying to his victims. Makes sense. After all, he enjoys killing, right? So, of course he’d want to make it as scary as possible. For this shark, it’s said the thrill is the only reason he eats. He thrives on his feasts screaming and flailing in horror. Some stories even say he has a smile when he finishes, and that he swallows almost immediately after his food finally stops moving for good.

  No two make the same sounds when utterly tortured.

  No two make the same sounds when gored by Great White Death.

  There are so many legends of him locals know, yet no tale tells of a survivor. No sightings reported. Only the stories passed from sailor to sailor, mother to son to grandson have spread, and they all end in everyone dead, destroyed by the great white’s steel-hard teeth. Nobody questions how his existence and his bloody killings could be known, so detailed, with not even a witness to a slaughter ever recorded in a single piece of lore.

  His earliest slaughter was in 1641.

  It was here, on Aña Nuevo Island. A local tribe held weddings here, and in 1641, a beautiful 16-year-old girl was marrying a 15-year-old boy in a tempest.

  It is said the local witch spilled bat blood into the sea. She usually did curses only when paid, but this curse was a personal vendetta, one she knew she’d also suffer the consequences of. The girl’s mother had stolen her father from the witch when they, too, had been young, and married on Aña Nuevo Island. Revenge. The bat blood was said to bring Great White Death from his depths like steak brings a dog. The witch knew of such things, and that’s how Great White Death was invited to a wedding feast of terror on Aña Nuevo Island in 1641.

  People could hardly see each other because of the weather, which was some point of doing such ceremonies on the island during a storm, and there is said to be about 30 of them there. 30 men, women, grandmothers, grandfathers, sons, daughters…a bride and groom…and remember, there were never any survivors.

  The thunder was their music, the rainfall their voices, lightning their fireworks.

  They had a shark lookout. Aña Nuevo has always had great whites, so they always had at least one shark lookout when near shark-infested waters.

  The thing was, the shark lookout never got a chance to give a warning. The witch dropped her bat blood in the sea below his rocky perch.

  Great White Death isn’t afraid of the land or lack of air.

  The shark launched himself at the lookout, mouth eager and wide, full of decrepit yet sharp teeth. The lookout did call out. He wailed, he begged and cried before Great White Death was done, but it during was a noisy part of the ceremony where everyone shouts words of advice to the newlyweds. The witch designed it that way.

  Nobody could see more than a few feet in front of them because of the heavy rain. They didn’t see the shark lookout’s bloody and painful demise.

  Once the lookout uttered his last, the shark swallowed him, went under, and then dove, sliding on his belly, up on the beach and right into the wedding, mouth open, eyes rolled back, wearing a slight smile, they say. He scooped up three people in that dive, and immediately began slowly, gently tasting them as they screamed.

  Then, everybody saw him. He was enormous, a shark so wicked-looking it had to be from a witch’s curse, and everybody knew they were doomed as Great White Death thrashed about, gnawing on bits and parts of people while they wailed. The shark seemed to be able to breathe air. Not even the storm’s rain could wash those rocks back clean from the gore of his mess and blood. The sounds of their tormented dying are said to be heard by sailors in storms near the island over the years, phantoms of horror stuck in time…

  Chapter One – Day 1

  “You’re so full of shit, Lex,” Oliver said, laughing and shaking his head. “There’s no 400-year-old shark here.”

  Lex tipped his hat up and smiled at Oliver. “That we are positive about.”

  Diane stood up and chucked her empty beer can at the trash bin. It landed. “Okay, okay. You two aren’t allowed to get started.” She bent over Lex and kissed him, then stood straight. “It would be nice if Melody doesn’t have explain to Oliver that you enjoy getting him pissed for once after beers.”

  Lex took off his hat and shook his black curls. The humidity made him sweat, Diane saw. “I don’t like getting Oliver pissed.”

  Oliver waved his beer through the air. “She said it, not me.”

  “Then why do you tell a gore-fest story like that about a shark we’re anchored at’s island?” She put her hand on her hip.

  “Because I like scaring people.” He grinned at her. Winked.

  She winked back. “Go scare Aaron. He likes your kind of crazy.”

  “I think I will. Where are you going?” He stood up, steadying himself on the yacht’s deck against the rough waters. The storm was coming in, just as they’d hoped.

  “Dr. Hammerstein wanted me to help scope out some of the cameras before the storm really picks up.”

  Melody leaned forward. “You’re not supposed to be working. It’s time to call it a day. Have another beer.”

  Diane shook her blonde head. “No time. This is my game. Got to do it right.”

  Melody pretended to toast an imaginary beer in front of her. Diane cracked up as Melody said, “Take one with ya!”

  She paused as she turned to the ladder. Looked over her shoulder at Lex. Scrambled to the cooler, pocketed a can, and then down the ladder she went.

  *

  As Diane passed the enormous, derelict lighthouse keeper’s home from eons ago, she thought about Lex. She’d never gone for the hot type, if you could call it that, and Lex wasn’t exactly hot-guy personality type, but yeah. He was hot. Diane giggled to herself. That guy got her so bad that she reverted to thinking her reasonings with ninth grade wording.

  They’d anchored at the beach across from the house and the other beach where they’d be studying the sea lions’ behavior during summer storm season. Just a five-day trip on the isolated island, but Dr. Hammerstein made it happen—she’d gone to him with her proposal for the study, and he pushed for funding through the school. Stanford took its marine biology school and its students seriously—Dr. Hammerstein especially so—and Diane was granted the funding. The best part was she got to pick her crew. Dr. Hammerstein was a no-brainer.

  Lex was, too, even though his area of study was sharks. Still, he was going. Diane couldn’t stand to be away from him for a night, much less five days. She’d used his shark specialty as a selling point because there were sharks around Aña Nuevo Island.

  Melody, Diane’s roommate and best friend, had given her the idea for the proposal to do the study, and she had to be there. She was an expert on aquatic life in the seas outside Northern California, too, which was perfect. Plus, Melody had gotten Diane on track with this particular project—they shared it, in truth.

  Aaron was into marine botanicals, which would help, and Lex was happy to find out he was into other botanicals. Who wasn’t? Aaron wanted to bring his black lab, Kirby, along. Everybody on the trip was an animal lover, so he was a welcome addition, but Dr. Hammerstein said it was against policy. Diane had an imp
ossible time talking him into leaving Kirby for a week.

  Oliver had some kind of massive memory. He could remember everything he’d ever read. Not heard or have seen, just read. Invaluable resource on a research trip where they’d have no access to the Internet. Diane could tell Lex hated him, and she got it. Oliver talked a big game, and Lex found it annoying. So, he egged it on until Oliver was fighting just to fight. Lex told her that’s why he did it—he was trying to show the guy what it’s like to talk to himself.

  Bunny was along for tech work, but this was also her field. Melody liked to say Bunny was into the production side of marine biology. Diane didn’t know her too well, but that wasn’t because she never saw her. Bunny was shy, or so it seemed to Diane. She was a watcher. She would also be notating the trip.

  Chas was the main tech worker. He was in his last year of graduate studies. Diane thought he was a smart one, quick. He loved politics, but respected that not everybody loved politics. She was grateful for that. Politics right then were an explosive subject. She liked to keep the peace.

  Then there was Joseph. He had been her lab partner for two years in marine mammal studies. They’d dissected god knows how many sea creatures and critters, something they both found fascinating. They related on how they could talk about it with each other and not sound like weirdo creeps.

  Lex didn’t like that.

  Of course, it was still a new relationship, just six months in, but they’d known each other since undergrad. Hell, they’d all known each other since undergrad. Diane had even had a class with Chas when she was a senior. Lex hadn’t shown any other horrible qualities than a little jealousy over her and Joseph talking about sea guts. Diane would take it, because she knew from personal experience that there was worse, a lot worse, than jealousy at what Diane admitted to herself bordered on flirting.