Dead Island: Operation Zulu (2 page)
CHAPTER 2: MACHINE GUN DIPLOMACY
Hale watched the runway disappear out of the modified window next to his seat as the large aircraft lifted off into the sky. The soldier had flown in many planes and helicopters during his fifteen years as an Air Force Pararescueman. He still hated take-offs and landings, but he sure as hell didn’t mind jumping out of them.
Once the plane was in the air, Hale unfastened his seat harness and stood up, getting a good stretch in. The other members of the team followed suit. Hale was the commander of the group of security contractors.
"Not bad." The trim, muscular redhead said, standing up. "At least those two know how to take off."
"Landing would be a plus too," Sergeant Tim Wu yawned.
"One step at a time." The redhead smiled. "One step at a time, Sergeant." Lis Brooks was an ex-Air Force captain and a Northern California Native American. Brooks was also Hale's second-in-command. She was former Special Ops, as was most of the team. "Where's that shitbird Clarke?"
"Ah, Lis." Major Hale smirked and shook his head.
"I got it." Brooks grinned. "Clarke, get your kangaroo humpin' ass up here now."
The big, bearded, former Australian SAS operator groaned and slowly unfolded his oversized frame out of the too-small jumpseat and half stumbled over to the tiny redhead. Wiping some drool from his mouth, he stopped a few feet from the captain.
"What 'ave I been steppin' in now, Cap'n?" The words came out slow and thick.
"You were running your mouth to one of the pilots about this mission."
"I ..."
Lis raised a small but determined finger that stopped the Australian soldier dead in his tracks.
"This is a secret mission, is it not, Sergeant?"
"Yes … yes, Cap'n, it is."
"Then why, if it's a secret, do the pilots know?"
"I …"
"No! Was your mind so lager-filled that you thought you were down under fucking your sister and waiting for the next big wave to break?"
There were chuckles from the other contractors. Wu turned and shook his head, not wanting to watch the rest of this train wreck. The big Australian was turning red. Anger and embarrassment were both attacking his hung-over brain cells. The diminutive captain continued.
"That blabbering of yours has cost the company thousands of dollars, and confidential information is in uncertain hands! You did sign a nondisclosure agreement, right?"
"Major …" Clarke looked sheepishly at Hale.
"The captain is talking to you, Sergeant. I'd listen," Hale said, crossing his massive forearms.
"I don't know how you do it in your country, Sergeant, but this is a joint venture between both our countries since they both have mutual assets involved in this fuck up." Brooks took a breath and looked at the other team members standing behind Clarke. Two males and a female. "How come Sergeants West, Newman, and Gibson can keep their mouths shut? You some kind of reject?"
"No, Cap'n," Clarke said under his breath. "I fucked up. First time. It will never 'appen again."
"It better fucking not, Sergeant, or so help me, you will be swimming home from that island. I do not give a rat fuck if you file a complaint with the company or not. You could have seriously goat fucked this mission. Understand?"
"Yes," Clarke nodded slowly. "Never 'appen again."
Lis shook her head, frustrated. "Alright, grab some chow. We'll mission plan in …" She looked at her dive watch, which was the same make as Hale's but smaller. "Thirty minutes."
As the team disbanded into smaller groups, Hale shook his head, smiled, and rested a hand on Captain Brooks' shoulder.
"Isn't that my job, Cap'n?" he said in a mock Australian accent.
"Sorry, Major. I got a little carried away. That Aussie fuck really pissed me off. Clarke could have sunk this whole OP."
"I know. Clarke’s probably trying to find his ass right now." Hale nodded towards the cockpit door. "I don't think we have to worry about those two pilots. They just want to get paid and get home alive."
"Just like us."
"Amen. Come on. Let's break open some of those box lunches. I'm hungry."
CHAPTER 3: I NEED YOU TO FOCUS
WASHINGTON D.C.
0800 HOURS
Thunder and lightning rolled across the angry sky. A steady staccato of rain assaulted the well-dressed senator, who was trying unsuccessfully to stay dry. The senator fumbled with a tiny umbrella he'd stolen from an aide. As he stood on the curb, waiting impatiently, a dark limousine slid up alongside the curb, spraying water all over his three-thousand-dollar suit. The man cursed the limo driver. A dark-suited man who looked more like a combat Marine then a chauffeur climbed out of the driver's side and opened the passenger door for him.
Without acknowledging the driver, the senator slid his considerable bulk into the back of the limo and tossed the tiny umbrella into the gutter at the driver’s feet. With dead eyes, the chauffeur shut the door behind him.
"That could be a stiff fine," a voice said from inside the darkened vehicle.
"Whatever," the senator grumbled as he looked over at the well-dressed man sitting across from him. "Not my problem."
"Doesn't seem like there's a whole lot that's your problem." The man poured from the limo's mini-bar into an ice-filled tumbler. "Drink?"
"No. It’s early. What do you need?" the senator said distastefully as he tried to fix the sparse, rain-soaked hair that covered his head.
"Hmm." The man in black took a long drink from his glass and leaned back into the plush leather seat and studied the politician. "You sure you don't want a drink?"
"Yes. I don't have time for this, Black!" He sneered at the man in the more expensive suit. "Cut to the chase."
"I need …" the man threw his glass at the senator, striking him in the stomach and splashing his already wet suit with alcohol "… you to show me some fucking respect," the man said, barely raising his voice.
"Why?" The senator looked shocked and hurt as he tried to wipe the alcohol off with his hands. "I—"
"Enough." The man dismissed his whine with a wave. "I need you to focus and listen to what I'm saying."
"I—"
The man lifted up another glass from the bar, and the senator stopped and just stared. It almost looked like the senator was going to break down. The man filled up his glass and took another long drink. "Good. Drink?"
"No … no thank you, Mister Black," the senator said softly.
"Good." Another long drink. "Let us get down to business now, shall we?" The senator nodded obediently. "Now, tell me about Eller Island."
"We were running the test with an Australian drug company. They say they have a vaccine that works one hundred percent against the Shambler strain. Much better than the vaccine we have now," the senator said proudly.
"So what is the problem?"
"Well …" the senator swallowed.
"This is your problem, isn't it, Senator?"
"Well, Matol Laboratories assured us there wouldn't be a problem."
"Well," the man in black swirled the ice in his glass, "apparently, they were wrong."
"Yes, yes," the senator said too eagerly. "The virus got loose in testing, and now we have a prob— a situation on the island."
"Tell me this situation."
"Matol needed the Shambler virus to test their vaccine, so we gave them several vials of it. One of the researchers was infected during the testing and had some kind of reaction to the vaccine. Now, we have an undead outbreak on Eller Island."
"This vaccine works a hundred percent, I see," the man said sarcastically.
"It works, or is supposed to work, better than the auto-injectors. One shot, and it kills the virus for good. Never another chance of infection."
"Well, that would be a helluva cash cow, wouldn't it?" He smiled, exposing teeth that reminded the senator of a shark. "Key is that it works."
"They are working on it. The tester just had an unexpected reaction to it. Something they are trying to iron out."
"Hmm." Another drink. "How many infected on this island?"
"Up to three thousand," the senator said sheepishly.
"Not good. Not good." The man looked out the limo’s window. After a few seconds of tense quiet, he slammed his glass down. The senator jumped in his seat. "Are you terminally stupid, Senator? Who okayed using the virus?"
"Well." He cleared his throat. "Senator Collingsworth and I did."
"You two are the most worthless bitches I have on my payroll!" He shook his head. "We had plans to weaponize that virus!"
"It's okay, Mister Black. Strategic Solutions has a team en route to retrieve the virus, vaccine, and scientist."
"Hmm."
"These guys are real good at extractions."
"Great. I want the island sanitized. Get a couple of drones from Aerotech."
"No problem," The senator said too quickly.
"Uh huh." The man could feel a migraine coming on. "You fuck this up, and you and Kubicek are dead!" The senator’s eyes grew wide in fear. "I mean it. Dead. Bullet through the eye. No coming back." Then the man thought for a moment and smiled darkly. "No, you will come back. Chained up in my basement." He leaned forward. "Get it? Chained up. And I will pay someone to rape you every day!"
"Y-yes." The senator turned pale and was starting to bail out of the door before the limo had come to a complete stop. "I get it!"
"Good!" the man in black growled as the door banged shut. Black chuckled to himself. Things were starting to play out just as he had planned. He leaned back in his seat and imagined how two undead senators would look chained up in the basement of his summer house. Smiling, the man poured himself another drink and moved on to other dark thoughts.
CHAPTER 4: AIRBORNE- ELLER ISLAND OR BUST
"So what is this fuckin' island anyway?" Crossley asked Jackson as he tapped the fuel gauge cover with his finger. The gauge jumped from empty to half-full. Crossley smiled. Nothing but the best.
"Eller Island used to be a small air base during World War Two." Jackson shrugged. "That's all I know, Nate."
"Hope it's got a decent landing strip," Crossley said, staring out the cockpit window. "Don't feel like springing for new landing gear."
"Just charge the commandos for it."
"Yeah," Crossley said thoughtfully. "Maybe. That female officer looks like she'd rather shoot us than pay us."
"That worries me, boss."
"Ah." Nate steadied the plane's yoke. "I don't think that Hale fella would do that."
"Maybe don't push him for more." Jackson finger-flicked the altimeter gauge. "I think we may have used up all their goodwill."
"Yeah.," Crossley nodded.
"That female officer sure is hot though."
"Yeah, Cal, she's just your type."
"See? You see it too!" He slapped him on the back. "Now, let's find this little island."
"I guess we look for the one with the deader vibe." Crossley smiled.
"See," Jackson chuckled, "you do have a sense of humor in there."
"Okay." Hale knelt down on the floor of the huge cargo bay and unrolled a map of Eller Island. The rest of the team gathered around him as the plane rocked and shook. Raising his voice, the major tried to compete with the other noises from the aircraft. "Eller is a small airstrip built in '41. It has two landing strips and a small tower. There should be an administrative and a terminal building along with four or five hangars." He pointed to a section marked in red on the map.
"Who is in charge of the airfield now?" Sergeant Wu asked.
"The French." Hale looked up at the former Army Ranger. "The local language is French."
"Great. All I speak is Farsi." Sergeant Terrance "Gator" Knox, a former Marine, spat some chew onto the alloy deck.
"That's okay because Captain Brooks and Lieutenant Wickham are fluent."
"Oui?" Clarke gave Brooks a suggestive wink.
"Parlez vous shut the fuck up!" the redheaded officer said angrily, staring down the giant Australian.
"Sorry, Cap'n." He raised his hands in surrender. "Sorry."
"You're fucked, mate." Sergeant Zoe West, one of Clarkes' Australian team members, chuckled. Clarke rolled his eyes and slunk back to the rear of the group.
"Exactly four miles from the airport is the Matol Research Center." Hale pointed to another marked location on the map. "Road 101 goes right from the airfield and passes by it. Almost a straight shot."
"Nice," Sergeant Roberto "Poncho" Sanchez, another former ranger, nodded.
"Pretty easy. We drive right up to the door and grab our targets then drive back to the bird and head home." The major nodded. "There should be thirty staff inside. We load up those we can in our vehicles and the rest in whatever transport they have. "
"What do we do with the infected?" Wu asked.
"Terminate," Brooks said. "We can't have this virus leaving the island. Locals and techs—it doesn’t matter. Infected? We put them down."
"Great," West said quietly.
"The research data, virus, and vaccine are the most important things," Hale continued. "Home office seems to think this vaccine is the real deal, better than what we have now. Remember what life was like ten years ago." The major scanned all their faces. "We almost lost everything. Hell, some of us did. Anyway, the vaccine is important. This should be a cake walk. Any questions?"
"Yeah, Major, this mission got a name?" Washington asked
"It does, Sergeant." Hale frowned. “Operation Zulu.”
"Not givin’ anythin’ away with that one," Zoe West said sarcastically.
"What kinda weapons we ‘ave?" Newman, the platoon sergeant, asked.
"Mini-14s, a few sniper rifles, some nines, forty-fives, and a few rocket launchers."
"Company must’a got a deal on the minis," Newman smirked.
"Hell, they got a deal on us!" Clarke chuckled.
"Major." Lieutenant Wickham, a former Australian SAS operator, stepped forward. "Is there a police force or security team there?"
"Yes, Lieutenant. Matol has ten private contractors working for them. GlobaTech guys I believe."
"Not as good as us," Gator Knox smirked.
"Obviously," Sanchez agreed.
"There is a small police force. I think they have a handful of cops," Hale added.
"What about the civilian population?" Wickham asked.
"Around thirty-five hundred." Hale rolled the map up and shoved it into a cardboard tube. "Reports have most of them infected. Don't hesitate for a headshot. I just received word on the SAT phone that once we are airborne, the island’s going to be sanitized."
"Sanitized," former Navy Seal Bob "Mac" McDonald crossed his huge tattooed arms. "Nuke? We better be far enough out. I ain't gettin' irradiated for what they're paying us."
"Don't worry, Mac." Wu patted him on the back. "That's the least of your problems."
"We have plenty of firepower and ammo, so that shouldn't be an issue. Like I said, this should be a cakewalk."
"Heard that before," Sergeant Anthony "President" Jefferson said, popping a gum bubble.
Hale ignored the comment and continued. "All our weapons are suppressed, so we won't be drawing more of those deaders every time we fire. Again, shots to the head. Most of you have dealt with this before."
"Too much!" Gator spit out some chew.
"Aye, mate!" Sergeant Alby Newman, another Australian, yelled. "Watch me boots!"
"Sorry, Governor," Gator mocked. "Didn't know your boots were so dainty."
"Knox!" Hale growled. "Stow that shit! Grab a fucking cup like a civilized person and spit your shit into it, or I'll have you shining Newman's boots and cleaning the deck!"
"Ah, no problem, Major." Knox turned and started to look for a cup.
"Listen up, people. When we land, Captain Brooks’ team will clear the hangars, and Lieutenant Wickham’s team will check the buildings then assist, if needs be, with clearing the rest of the hangars once they are done." Heads bobbed in agreement. "Once we finish here, we load up and head out to the research center." He looked at his dive watch. "We have approximately thirty minutes before we touch down, so gear up, people. Elbows and assholes!"
"In this case," Brooks smiled, "it's assholes and assholes!"
