Satan's Gate

by Walt Browning

  All of the forward bases, other than the Forum, had been established at existing airports. Once the five FOBs were linked, it would create a line that covered most of the southern side of the city.

  But progress was slow. Gone were the days of using the massive C-17 Globemaster transports. The giant aircraft could carry his men in company-sized groups rather than the squads that were landing now. HUMVEEs and MRAPs could have been brought in as well and should have been part of his force. But they didn’t have access to those massive transports anymore.

  Being unable to bring armor didn’t alleviate the fact that they were still needed. In fact, the demand to get transportation was so bad that once the FOB was established, their second assignment was to scavenge vehicles from their surroundings. The entire operation was seriously FUBAR.

  “Any word on Freeman?” Jack asked.

  “Coms are down,” Captain Pavlin said. “T.R. says they had radio problems before they left the deck.”

  “For fuck’s sake. This just keeps getting better and better,” Jack grumbled.

  “We wouldn’t expect to hear anything for another hour, sir,” Pavlin replied.

  Freeman Park was about a mile south of FOB Hawthorne. Next to the park was a National Guard base that had dozens of IFVs (Infantry Fighting Vehicles) and other transportation.

  Six fireteams had been inserted in the park with the goal of retrieving as many of these assets as possible, then drive them to FOB Hawthorne.

  Pavlin watched as his CO struggled with the lack of news—not because it was an integral and necessary aspect of their grand mission, but because the major’s only son was leading the Freeman operation. Lieutenant Jack was a good kid but was green as hell. He had been out of OCS less than a month when the shit hit the fan.

  “Tyrell will do just fine, sir,” Pavlin whispered to his CO. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders, and you taught him to listen. He has a couple good NCOs under him that will keep him on the straight and narrow.”

  “Thanks, Dave,” Jack said quietly. “I hope he does his job.”

  “He will, sir. He’s his father’s son.”

  — 5 —

  40th Brigade Support Battalion

  California National Guard

  Lieutenant Tyrell Jack

  South of FOB Hawthorne

  “Good news, sir. We’ve recovered eight MRAPs, six HUMVEEs and three fuel haulers,” SSgt. Michael Braddock said.

  “There’s fuel in the M970s?” Lt. Tyrell Jack replied.

  “Yes, sir. Five thousand gallons of diesel in two of them. The third is about half-full of regular gasoline.”

  Jack laughed. “Filled ’em up before they left. That was kind of the Guard.”

  “Almost like they knew we were coming,” Braddock countered with a grin.

  Thwwwaaaack!

  Both Jack and Braddock instinctively looked up to the roof of the two-story armory, where the team’s designated marksman had positioned himself.

  Thwwwaaack! A second .308-caliber round rocketed from the Marine’s suppressed M40A5 sniper rifle.

  Moments later, Jack’s earpiece crackled to life.

  “Perimeter clear,” the two-man team’s spotter said over the squad radio.

  “That’s nine since we hit the LZ,” Jack said absently.

  Braddock’s eyes darted to the buildings surrounding them. “Yeah. Well, the air jockeys didn’t hit this area, so I’m sure the stragglers didn’t get the memo that we were coming.”

  “You don’t sound too sure of yourself,” Jack said, noting Braddock’s nervousness.

  “How can you be sure of anything? There’s nothing normal anymore.”

  Thwwwaaaack! Thwwwaaaack!

  “Sir. We’ve got a group of Variants four hundred meters east of our position,” the spotter barked over the radio.

  Jack gave Braddock a concerned look.

  Braddock pressed his PTT (Push To Talk) button. “How many?”

  Several tense moments went by.

  “Half a dozen, Sarge.”

  “Direction?” Braddock asked.

  Thwwwaaaack!

  “East. There’s five now and they’re kind of running around in circles. I don’t think they can hear the shots. They look confused. And pissed.”

  Thwwwaaaack!

  “Should I order a defensive perimeter?” Jack asked in a whisper.

  Braddock stared around and watched as the men were loading up the various vehicles with salvaged supplies. Not only had they recovered the armored transports, but there was a large supply of CBRN gear, as well as just about any non-lethal piece of equipment they would need.

  “Not yet, sir. We’re close to done. Then we can button up inside the vehicles and head to the airport.”

  “Franks! Let us know if you see more tangos. We should be rolling out of here in ten mikes,” Braddock said.

  “Aye aye, Sarge,” the spotter replied.

  Thwwwaaaack!

  “Another one down,” Franks mumbled, then added, “The last three just bugged out.”

  “What do you mean, they bugged out?”

  “They looked at each other and just took off. Ran like their asses were on fire.”

  “Together?” Braddock asked. “They took off together?”

  “Bosom buddies, Sarge.”

  Jack gave the sergeant a puzzled look. The Variants weren’t supposed to think. According to the intel guys, they acted randomly and on instinct. Unless something drew them away, the last three had coordinated their movements.

  “Maybe they heard something nearby,” Jack said, sensing his sergeant’s concern. “That would explain it.”

  “I hope so,” Braddock replied. “But I’d feel better putting eyes on the perimeter. I’m going up and take a look.”

  A minute later, the staff sergeant scampered to the top of the old brick armory and had his binoculars up to his face.

  The area around them resembled a utility company’s lay-down yard. Its sole structure was a glorified brick warehouse surrounded by a parking lot filled with all types of military equipment. The entire area was enclosed by an eight-foot chain link fence topped with concertina wire. The razor-sharp loops of steel provided protection from a normal enemy, but against a determined Variant, it would do nothing more than slow it down slightly. Ripped flesh didn’t faze these monsters.

  To his east, Braddock saw the Variants his sniper had eliminated.

  He pulled out a map of the area and marked the spot over four football fields away. The intersection where the bodies lay was in the middle of a residential area surrounded by nothing but single-story homes.

  “Which direction did you say the last three went?” Braddock asked the spotter.

  “There,” he said, pointing east.

  Braddock searched for anything that may have drawn the creatures away. In the distance was a cluster of large buildings rising above the homes nearby.

  “Shit!” Braddock said. “Look at this.”

  The spotter glassed the structures. “Looks like medical offices, Sarge.”

  Braddock pointed on his map to a group of buildings, about a mile east of the intersection where the dead Variants lay.

  “A hospital!” Corporal Franks said, looking at the spot where Braddock had placed his thick index finger.

  “Yeah. A place where infected people would have gone to get help.”

  “Fuck,” the spotter spat. “That place must be crawling.”

  “I’ll let the LT know,” Braddock said. “Keep a sharp eye out. You see anything unusual, and I mean anything at all, you let me know. Do you understand?”

  “Aye aye, Sarge. Anything at all unusual and I contact you, ASAP.”

  A low thumping began to vibrate the air around Braddock. He brought his binoculars to his eyes once again and scanned to the west. Off in the distance, a cluster of Ospreys was moving as a group toward Hawthorne airport. The rest of the Marines were on their way.

  Braddock nodded to Franks and scampered bac
k to the ground. The arrival of the bulk of their forces along with the increased Variant activity meant they had to double-time their preps and move with a purpose. What’s more, command needed to know about the change in enemy behavior. Those three didn’t act randomly, and N3 had planned operations based on the premise that the Variants were crazed, primitive creatures and not things that could work together.

  “LT,” Braddock said over the squad radio. “Do we have coms yet?”

  “Negative, Sergeant. Still working on it.”

  They’d been dark over the fleet’s network since their Osprey had taken off. Normally, they would never have begun a mission with broken lines of communication, but these weren’t normal times. As it stood, they wouldn’t be able to get a message to the Roosevelt until they linked up with the rest of the battalion at FOB Hawthorne. If everything went according to plan, that would be almost half an hour from now. And nothing ever went according to plan.

  This is not good, Braddock whispered to himself. This is not good at all.

  — 6 —

  Inglewood Forum

  SCPO Porky Shader

  Quick Reaction Force

  “A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.”

  OSCAR WILDE

  “Coms check,” Shader said.

  The three Marines in the QRF each confirmed that their radios were functioning normally and dialed in to preset two. Preset one was the main squad network, and Shader didn’t want their conversations muddling up coms with the rest of the platoon while the FOB was being prepared.

  Porky Shader did a final assessment of his men, checking for loose items or missing gear. Each was squared away and eager to get the job done.

  When he’d been given the task of leading a platoon into battle, Porky allowed the Marines to choose their own battle buddy then he put two of the pairs together to form fireteams. He held back the best three grunts for the quick reaction force, of which, he’d be the fourth man. He’d had the men for a week of training before Operation Liberty had begun. These three had shown remarkable marksmanship and were quick on their feet. If Porky was going to go into battle with someone, he’d prefer to do it with the best. They may not be SEALs, but they were damn close in proficiency. How they did in actual combat was yet to be seen, but their talent was undeniable.

  The four of them were clustered near a ramp that led below the parking lot. It was a truck entrance for equipment and supplies that, just a month ago, used be a private entrance for performing acts along with their equipment. Now, it was going allow Shader’s quick reaction force a back entrance into the massive coliseum.

  The metal garage door at the bottom had been left open. Paper, along with other trash, was collecting at the bottom of the ramp. The afternoon sun blazed overhead, its rays bathing the path into the underground lot. But like the building’s east side main entrance, the sun’s rays didn’t seem to penetrate the opening.

  “Gonzalez. You’re on point,” Shader said to the short Puerto Rican E-4.

  Pablo Ignatius Gonzalez reminded Porky of the diminutive SEALs he’d worked with in the past. Some of the best operators he’d gone into battle with had been closer to five rather than six feet tall. Speed and precision were a more valuable commodity as a SEAL than size, and Gonzalez’s hustle and tenacity were legendary among his NCOs. The kid just never gave up, which is a rare quality to find.

  Maybe it was his height that made him feel the need to be so unrelenting, or perhaps it was the name his initials spelled. The “PIG” had been molded into an effective Marine. He was the first man Porky chose for the QRF.

  “Aye aye. I like being up front,” Gonzalez replied with a smile.

  “That’s good, ’cause you don’t have to duck when the lead starts flying,” Corporal Antonio Lazzaro said.

  “Secure that shit, Lazzaro,” Shader barked. “I don’t want to hear a word out of you.”

  “Copy that. Just like to review our situational awareness.”

  “Any more sound from your cock-holster, and I’ll make you aware of my boot.”

  The tall Texan quickly lost his smirk but leaned over to the third Marine and whispered, “Told you G-man was gonna take point.”

  “No surprise there. He is Porky’s PIG!” Corporal Keele said, grinning.

  “You two are just all kind of stupid, aren’t you?” Shader yelled. “We get out of here, I’m putting you both on the short bus. Now tighten it up.”

  Gonzalez smiled and man-punched Lazzaro in the arm as he walked to take the lead. “Porky’s pig,” he said, chuckling. “Damn, I kind of like that.”

  Shader just shook his head. Marines, he thought. They suck out their brains in basic and shove grunt-shit back in. These three had just proven it to him.

  “Line up, gentlemen,” Shader barked. “Watch your muzzles and move on my signal. Just like we practiced. I want this clean and quick.”

  The three stood silently.

  “Solid copy?” Shader barked after the three grunts failed to reply.

  Three “aye ayes” came back.

  “Now, let’s move.”

  The four men strode to the ramp’s entrance and started down the slope. About a third of the way, Gonzalez suddenly stopped and stared at the lower level’s black opening.

  Shader was next in line, and after a few seconds, he crept forward and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “What’s the problem?” Shader asked. “You’re moving like you’re walking to your own funeral!”

  “I don’t know, Chief. I just got a cold in my spine.”

  Shader was about to berate the man, but he saw Gonzalez staring intently into the gloom and did the same.

  A cool breeze was drifting out. Shader could feel it on his legs as the warm air outside suppressed the cold garage-breeze. It felt like an icy breath was bathing his feet.

  Shader stared even more intently into the darkness. He squeezed his eyes tightly, trying to pierce the black, curtain-like opening. It was futile.

  Shader noticed for the first time that the tunnel’s header was stained. Black, oily liquid had pooled in two spots, giving the opening a virtual pair of inky eyes.

  “Shit,” Gonzalez said as he made the sign of the cross. “This is all kinds of fucked up. Do you feel it, Chief?”

  “Yeah, Gonzalez. I feel it. Now let’s get moving. Standing here ain’t getting the job done.”

  “Copy that.”

  Gonzalez began walking again, but with a great deal more caution. At the bottom, he gingerly stepped into the shadow of the garage and stopped at the threshold of light. He turned back and looked at the rest of the QRF.

  “Fuck it,” he mumbled. Then he brought his M4 up and strode into the inky black hole.

  Shader followed quietly behind, about ten steps back. The darkness was abrupt and complete.

  Shader flipped his NVGs down and pushed the “ON” button twice on his rifle-mounted laser, generating a continuous infrared, pencil-thin emerald beam. It was invisible to the naked eye and could only be seen through their night vision monoculars.

  Ten yards ahead of him, Shader saw Gonzalez creeping forward, his head scanning quickly from side to side as he cautiously moved into the bowels of the massive garage.

  Shader looked behind and saw that the last two men had entered the dark zone. He tapped the push-to-talk button on his neck mic and whispered. “Hold here. Let’s get our bearings.”

  Their visibility disappeared about twenty yards away. The NVGs only intensified existing light, and the blackness of the underground garage was complete. Shader had no doubt that moving another fifty feet further meant even less light to intensify as they put more distance between them and the garage door.

  Shader continued his assessment. The space was mostly empty with a smattering of abandoned vehicles. Nothing big enough to move military gear and supplies, rather more like golf carts or small electric flatbeds.

  Shader had underestimated the size of the garage. It was mass
ive.

  “We have to clear this space first,” Shader whispered. “Gonzalez, move left. You two take the other side.”

  Shader moved up to Gonzalez and put his left hand on the Marine’s right shoulder while Lazzaro and Keele did likewise.

  “Let’s go,” Shader said.

  Deeper into the garage, the darkness began to thicken. Visibility through the NVGs was becoming a problem. With fewer photons to intensify, even the night vision goggles were having a problem creating an image.

  “Turn on your intensifiers,” Shader reluctantly ordered.

  Their monoculars were equipped with an infrared flashlight. It would dramatically improve their field of vision, but it ate away at the NVG’s battery life. With no more batteries being produced, Shader was hesitant to use them, but it was necessary.

  Immediately, the garage was bathed in four infrared beams that turned the space into a green-hued stage. Emerald light danced on the surrounding surfaces, revealing a vast space filled with electric vehicles and a few civilian cars. They all needed to be checked out.

  “Unless a car door is already open, don’t worry about the inside. These things aren’t supposed to be able to operate door handles,” Shader whispered into his mic.

  Shader tapped Gonzalez on the shoulder and pressed forward and to the left. Like leading a horse, he steered the young Marine to the first vehicle.

  The process was tedious. Space was tight and the underside of each vehicle had to be checked along with everything around them.

  “Chief!” Lazzaro hissed. “Over here.”

  Shader and Gonzalez stopped their progress and moved to the other two men. They were standing outside of a large Lexus.

  “What is it?”

  “Check it out,” Keele said, pointing into the car.

  Shader leaned close and stared into the driver’s side window.