Up From the Depths (18 page)

Chapter 39

Brooks Mountain Range, Alaska

ODA-141 raced up the stairs to catch up with Shark Platoon. The SEALs had been hard charging through the complex, engaging hostiles and spreading wholesale chaos. Now it was time to show them how the Army did things.

Both groups stopped and stacked at the access door to the next level. O’Toole glanced back and saw that his team was covering their sectors. He then looked back as one of the SEALs tried the door to this level. It was unlocked. Smith slowly opened the door just enough to look through the crack then turned and nodded to Willis. The SEAL team officer looked back at O’Toole, flashed him a thumbs up then motioned for his team to enter that level.

O’Toole moved his team up to the door then smoothly peeled out of that fatal funnel and took a position across the hall in a doorway. The SEALs were already moving the other way to clear that section of this level. This section was the Outlaw’s responsibility. Sands went to one knee, 249 up and covering the hall while the rest of the team took up covering positions. This level appeared to be living quarters. The hallway was nicely decorated with potted plants and framed pictures on the walls. The rooms were numbered with plaques that reminded O’Toole of a high priced hotel or apartment complex. Motioning Gillette forward, O’Toole listened for any sound that they had been detected as the plush carpeting masked their movements. The only noise he heard was the clicking of the relays from the fire alarm emergency strobe lights as they flashed and humming of the ice machine that shared the hallway recess with him. Behind them, a weapon fired and was answered with a loud boom that shook the hallway.

“M67 Fragmentation Grenade,” Sands said quietly. “When fuck you just isn’t enough.”

“Keep moving. Stay tight and watch those corners,” O’Toole directed.

The Special Forces team moved along the hall, not really knowing where they were going but determined to clear this section. A door opened and disgorged several of Conley’s security force. Sands cut them down with a burst from the 249 then leaned back.

“Frag out!” Gillette yelled as he tossed a grenade into the room the hostiles had come from. A shout from inside was cut off as the grenade detonated, flinging a torn, scorched, and smoking body across the hall. The time for subtlety was past. The mission had now changed to a breach, bang and clear with some good old fashioned shock and awe thrown in.

Moving to the next door, Gillette and Gorman stacked outside of it while O’Toole and Sands covered them. Gorman used the modified Remington 870 shotgun mounted under his rifle to blow the door handle off then stepped aside as Gillette kicked it open. The room was empty. Moving along the hall they repeated this step until they reached another stairwell access door. Gillette carefully opened the door and looked inside then pulled back and shook his head. O’Toole motioned his team inside and they started up.

***

“What do you mean you don’t know where they are?!” Nathan Bedford Forrest Conley screamed at Baumel. “Someone is tearing this place apart and you don’t know where they are? What do I pay you for?”

Conley stormed across the room to the large windows and looked down at the fires that were burning out of control on one side of the airfield. Shaking his head angrily, he strode to his desk, opened one drawer and removed a stainless steel, Smith and Wesson 4506, slapped a magazine into it, racked the slide and shot Baumel in the head in one fluid motion.

“Incompetent moron!” he yelled at the dead man on the floor before he threw open the door to his office and stepped into the outer office.

“You!” he yelled at one of his mercenary’s. “Get everyone and head down to the hangar and find out what’s happening.”

***

O’Toole stopped his men at the next access door. Gillette leaned close to the door and listened then shook his head. This didn’t make any sense. Intel stated there were at least a thousand hostiles present with the possibility of more. Engaging only a few small units and getting this deep, if it was deep, inside the target facility made no sense. O’Toole motioned for Gillette and Sands to head up the stairs. Gorman moved inside the stairwell access with O’Toole following, closing the door behind him. The door had just shut when they all heard the sound of boots on the metal risers of the stairs.

They waited, expecting this new force to emerge onto their level but from the sound of it, this group was exiting a couple floors above them. The complex was confusing. There were no direct stairs to the hangar. One had to take one stairwell then exit, walk down a hallway and take another. Whoever laid out this place didn’t have efficiency in mind. Of course, it could have been laid out with the idea of an invading force getting lost inside. O’Toole tapped Gillette on the shoulder and the team moved up the stairs. He knew that when the react force they had just heard reached the hangar level, the Rangers would engage them. As if to punctuate that, the distant sound of heavy weapons fire echoed from the stairwell.

They paused at an intersection. Just around the corner, voices could be heard and someone yelling orders. O’Toole tapped Gillette again then pointed around the corner. The SOTIC nodded then stealthily crouched walked to the corner, slowly dropped flat and slid forward until one eye was exposed enough to see who or what was waiting for them. Gillette slid back using his knees, feet and hands, rolled over, sat up and then using hand gestures, informed his team what was around the corner. O’Toole thought for a few seconds then motioned Sands forward to switch places with Gillette. With the 249 in place, Sands would be able to lay down suppressive fire.

O’Toole looked at his team, nodded then moved into the hallway, weapon up and tracking. He nodded to Gillette as the sergeant straightened the pin on a grenade and prepared to throw it around the corner.

***

Chapter 40

Joint Base Lewis/McChord (JBLM), Washington State

Holroyd wasn’t happy.

Their little group had to detour through one of the housing areas on post. The narrow and winding streets would slow them down. As the small convoy wandered through the residential streets Holroyd thought about where the infected had been hiding, if that was the proper term. When the military had pulled out of the installation, the infected had ignored them and focused more on moving south using the I-5 corridor. Now, the Zulus seemed to have stopped their southern movement, returned to the base and stayed out of sight.
Maybe they nested like birds do over winter
, Holroyd thought.

It had to have been the noise of their trucks that drew them out of wherever they had been. He knew that the ones they had encountered in the logistics center didn’t come from the buildings. All the warehouses had been locked and sealed shut. The infected they encountered had to have come from somewhere else. They hadn’t been from Old Madigan, the original hospital complex that dated back to World War 1. Most of that complex had been torn down over the years leaving only a small section that had been turned into offices and an equally smaller residential area. The only way to determine if the infected had indeed taken up residence in the hospital would be to do a room by room, floor by floor, search. Not an operation that Holroyd or the remaining soldiers at Cascade were inclined to do.

As they turned onto 41st Division Drive, the rain decreased to a light drizzle and the clouds weren’t as dark as they had been. Off in the distance, he could see a patch of blue sky trying to peek through the dark gray. Winding through the concrete barriers at the intersection of 41st and Hillside Drive, Holroyd caught movement at the base chapel across the intersection. He looked back and focused on where he thought he had seen something but there was nothing there. Whatever it was it had moved extremely fast or was just an animal. But that didn’t make much sense. Where the infected were present in numbers, wildlife wasn’t.

The gun trucks approached the intersection of 41st Division and Hillside Drive, slowing for the next set of barriers when a huge mass of infected poured out of the wooded hillsides on both sides of the road.

“Contact front!” Holroyd yelled bringing his rifle around.

“There’s more coming up behind us!” Upton reported as he fired the M2 into the mass. Every gun truck opened up on the horde, chewing it apart but still more flowed like an endless sea out of the tree line.

Shit
, Holroyd thought. “Sully! Hard right!”

The sergeant spun the wheel and threw the heavy vehicle into a tire screaming turn. That split second decision placed the group into another of the installations housing areas. Immediately, Holroyd realized the problem. The streets were too narrow and not enough room to maneuver.

“Cut through that yard!” Holroyd directed.
We have to get out of here
, he mentally said. Sullivan didn’t hesitate. He spun the wheel and put his foot to the floor. The MATV bounced over the curbing and plowed through a wooden support for a carport before demolishing a section of fence. Sullivan spun the wheel hard to avoid a backyard swing set then tore through another section of the fence. Holroyd looked back and saw the other trucks following them as they raced across the athletic fields in an attempt to beat the massive hordes of infected to the main road.

Sullivan sped up as they approached an incline that would put them back on 41st Division Drive.

“Upton! Hold onto something!” Holroyd called over the radio just before the heavy vehicle went airborne and crashed down hard on the main road. There was a pause as Upton rearranged himself, looked in the general direction of where Sullivan sat, shook his head, then swung his M2 around to suppress the infected that staggered out of the woods that were on the other side of the road. The rest of the gun trucks breached the incline and followed although not as dramatically as Holroyd’s vehicle had done.

***

Chapter 41

Museum of Natural History, New York City

“What’s the hold up?” Luzetski asked as he pushed his way through the crowd of civilians.

“Its Wiener,” Pruitt said, pushing aside a man who was in the way.

“Thought you were watching him,” Ski said.

“So sue me. He slipped past,” Pruitt said, finally getting clear of the crowd. A small, cleared circle around an access ladder that led to street level had formed. Colonel Richard Wiener stood with one arm around Warrant Officer Doyle’s neck while his other hand brandished his M9.

“Get back! Get back!” he shouted when he saw Luzetski and Pruitt arrive. “I’ll blow this bitch’s brains out!”

“Easy there,” Ski said, moving his rifle around to his back and bringing up both his hands to waist level. “Tell me what’s happening here.”

“You know what’s happening!” Wiener shouted.

“No. No, I don’t. Why don’t you tell me,” Ski said. He watched Wiener’s face. The man’s eyes were wide and there was a manic look to them. Sweat poured off him.

“It’s all messed up,” Wiener said. “All of it’s messed up.”

“Colonel,” Ski said. “Tell me what’s messed up.”

“All of it! Don’t you see?”

“I’m a little slow on the uptake. Explain it to me,” Ski said. In the semi-darkness of the tunnel, he saw movement and shadows behind the officer but couldn’t tell who it was.

“I had everything under control. Me! It was under control,” Wiener said. “I was in command! Then you and your slut had to ruin everything!”

Ski didn’t say anything but saw Pruitt moving to his right in his peripheral vision.

“Don’t you fucking move!” Wiener said, spinning to face Pruitt. A hand darted out of the shadows; something glinted in the low light. Wiener gasped as his grip on the pistol relaxed involuntarily as a red line appeared across the underside of his wrist and seconds later, across his throat. He tried to comprehend why he couldn't keep the weapon in his hand and how it had become so hard to breathe. The M9 was plucked from his grip as his knees weakened and flexed. Wiener watched Doyle step away and turn to look at him as he felt warmth on his shirt. He looked down and saw dark fluid spraying out from somewhere. His arms seemed to be weighted down and difficult to move. A look of shock crossed Wiener’s face as he slowly realized that the fluid was blood. His blood. He looked up at those around him as a thin dribble of blood formed at the corner of his mouth. He brought one hand up and touched his neck. That hand came away red and warm.

“I was in command,” Wiener tried to say before falling forward to the tunnel floor, dead. Doyle squatted down and checked for a pulse. She looked up, caught Ski’s eye and shook her head. Ski looked at the shadow of the person who stood behind the ladder that Wiener had been at. The figure stepped into the dim light. It was the priest, Father McFadden. In his right hand was an old Sykes-Fairbairn Commando Dagger. McFadden stepped around the ladder, switched the weapon from his right to his left, made the sign of the cross then tucked the knife into the back of his pants, handing Doyle Wiener's M9 as he did. She shoved the officer's pistol into the front of her belt.

“God forgive me for what I’ve done,” he said quietly. Looking up at Doyle, he spoke. “The man was obviously deranged. I noticed a change in his behavior earlier and when he pulled his weapon on you, I knew he was beyond redemption.”

Doyle reached down, rolled the dead officer on his side and removed her M9 from Weiner's belt where he had tucked it. She holstered it then reached out and put her hand on the priest’s shoulder.

“You did what you thought was right given the circumstances,” she said. McFadden nodded then stepped to one side and removed a small bible from a pocket. He went down on one knee and began to give Wiener the Last Rites.

“Show’s over, people,” Doyle said. “Let’s keep it moving. Sergeant Winchester?”

Winchester pushed through the crowd.

“Get someone up to that cover and see what it looks like,” Doyle said as she glanced at her watch.

“Hoo-ah,” Winchester said before he turned to the crowd. “Murphy! Williams! Get up there!”

Two soldiers made their way through the civilians, stepped around McFadden and climbed up the ladder. The sound of metal grating on concrete carried all the way down to where Doyle and Luzetski stood looking up.

Williams cautiously poked his head out and slowly looked around.

“Clear,” he whispered to Murphy before he boosted himself out of the hole, brought his weapon up and scanned the area more thoroughly.

“Start sending them up,” Murphy said before he followed Williams out of the hole and took up a covering position.

“Pruitt, you’re up,” Ski said. The designated marksman for Sierra-3 let his rifle hang then climbed up the ladder. Once he reached street level, he looked around then moved quickly across the street and took cover at the corner of a building. He brought his rifle up and began glassing the streets. DeMillio sent up one of his squads to expand the perimeter before the civilians starting coming up. Luzetski, Jiminez, and Graham came up in the next wave and took up overwatch positions. Doyle climbed up in the next wave, looked around at the mingling civilians and started organizing them into groups. DeMillio appeared followed by another of his squads. Both he and Doyle put their heads together and had a quick conference.

Pruitt hissed to get Ski’s attention. Ski glanced over to see Pruitt pointing down the street. Ski moved to a better position to see what was going on.

“Friendlies coming in,” Pruitt radioed as he watched the Marine Recon unit move in a bounding overwatch pattern down the street. Ski looked back at Doyle and waved one arm to get her attention. He tapped his ear then keyed his radio.

“We got friendlies,” he said, watching her nod before he turned back to provide cover. The Marine unit reached their position then moved towards the gathering of civilians. As they passed Ski’s position, he saw the haggard looks. He knew that look very well. Another hiss from Pruitt brought his attention back to watching the street. He glanced over at Pruitt. He was gesturing back the way the Marines had come. Ski brought up his rifle and peered through the ACOG scope.

“Shit,” he muttered. There was a group of infected staggering along. Most likely they had spotted the Marines and followed them. Ski keyed his radio.

“Rawhide-61, Rawhide-61, Sierra-3.”

“Sierra-3, Rawhide-61.”

“Tangos spotted. Looks like they were following the Marines.” There was a long pause before Doyle came back on the net.

“Sierra-3, Rawhide-61, copy all.”

Ski looked back towards where Doyle was. She was talking to DeMillio who snapped his fingers and pointed towards Ski’s position. Several Marines jogged over to him and began to set up a M240B machine gun. Doyle worked on getting the civilians moving while the other Marines spread out and formed a cordon around the group.

“Sierra-3, Rawhide-61, we’re moving out now. Give us a ten count then pull back. You got the rear security.”

Ski was about to respond when he saw more movement on the street.

“Rawhide-61, Sierra-3, wait one.” Ski watched the small group as it was joined by a larger horde that appeared from a side street.

“Rawhide-61, Sierra-3. Negative on the ten count. We’ll provide cover for your extraction.”

“Sierra-3, Rawhide-61, you can’t stay behind. We’re all getting out. That means you.”

“Rawhide-61, switch to clear,” Ski said as he reached down and changed channels. He keyed his mike.

“Dayna, you there?”

“Yeah, Ski.”

“We can’t fall back. If we do, these things will be all over you.”

“You can’t stay behind,” Doyle said.

“We’ll hold them off and catch up with you at the rendezvous point,” Ski said as he pulled the magazine from his rifle, looked at it, and slapped it back into the receiver.

“Don’t do this,” Doyle said.

“That’s what you said last time,” Ski said. “And look at how that turned out.”

“You’re a mad fucker,” Doyle said. “I can’t let you go and risk your lives more than you already have.”

“Your job is to make sure these people get out of here safely. My team can give you enough time to perform that task. You do your job, I’ll do mine,” Ski said. “We got this.”

“I don’t want to lose you again,” Doyle said.

“You’ll never lose me. I’m like a bad penny, always turning up,” he said.

“I’m not telling you good-bye,” Doyle said. “You better be there.”

“I’ll see you when I see you,” Ski said. “Hate to chat and run, but there’s company coming.” He reached down and rested his hand on the power button to his radio.

“Ski, I...,” Doyle started to say as he turned off his radio and brought his rifle up. He saw movement at the Marine position. Looking over, the grinning face of Lieutenant DeMillio greeted him.

“What the fuck?” he said to himself. DeMillio moved over to him, still grinning like an idiot.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he asked.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ski asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be providing security?”

“There were more than enough squads for that. Besides, the advance element of recon already secured the ferry docks. They reported that it’s clear between here and there,” DeMillio said.

“Swell. So we end up dealing with the Zulu’s that are migrating south for the winter,” Ski said.

“Yeah. Isn’t this great?” DeMillio said with an excited chuckle before he patted Ski on the shoulder and moved back to the machine gun position. Ski watched the Marine officer direct his men into positions then turned his attention to the advancing threat. Loud conversation, more argument, distracted him. Glancing back at the access cover to the utility tunnel, he saw the Russian contingent standing there while Breckhov gave them instructions. Arkady stood at attention as Breckhov gave what appeared to be orders. Arkady nodded then jogged over towards Luzetski. He nodded curtly to Sierra-3’s NCO then set up the HK21.

“What are you doing here?” Ski asked.

“Preparing to kill a lot of these fuckers and saving our collective asses,” Arkady said in heavily accented proper English.

Ski watched as the big Russian opened up the drum magazines and linked the belts together. Ski shook his head in amazement. The Russian could have left with the rest of the civilians but for some reason, he and most of his group stayed behind. Another Russian jogged over carrying a HK G3 rifle and more ammo cans for the HK21. He dropped down into position next to Arkady.

“Hey, American,” the new arrival called out.

Ski turned and the Russian waved to him with a big smile before Arkady said something in their native tongue. Ski returned to watching the street.

Crazy fucking Russians
he thought to himself.

***