Up From the Depths: Book 4 Movement to Contact

by J. R. Jackson

  Then, an associate of Nathan Conley approached him. At the time Baumel had no idea that the officer that sat at his table in the dining facility was part of Conley’s large corporate empire. In fact, it was rare for anyone to sit at his table as he was now looked upon as persona non grata, a pariah in the world of the military. When the colonel had sat down at Baumel’s table, it had shocked him to the core. The man was of a rank that Baumel felt he was never going to attain given the current turn of events. During those lunch chats, the colonel with the name tag of Smith on his uniform explained how he could help with the case, how things could be worked out and how Baumel would be cleared of all wrongdoing and would be able to continue feeding his habit. Baumel listened intently; hanging on the man’s every word before he had agreed.

  At the next pre-trial hearing, evidence was produced that showed the majority of the material Baumel had allegedly purchased to have been defective and sent back to the manufacturer to be destroyed. The soldiers who had signed off on the travel vouchers were on deployment with a unit involved in combat operations. Those that were still alive, had somehow made sworn statements attesting to the facts as listed on each voucher.

  To say that this had shocked Baumel was an understatement. He knew that the equipment that he had spent the money on never existed. The soldiers in his command that attended the schools according to the travel vouchers had already been dead when they had allegedly attended those schools. Baumel had spent the money on himself.

  Almost every weekend he had hired a couple of high priced escorts and spent the weekend in sexual debauchery. The coup de grace was when he signed out for a week of extended training and spent that time in Las Vegas gambling and working his way through the girls of the various escort agencies and brothels.

  Baumel was addicted to the two of the oldest vices known to man, sex and gambling.

  After the hearing, he was cleared of all charges but knew that no matter what the presiding council said, this would follow him all through his career, or rather what was left of it. He sat alone in his on base housing unit, considering the options available to him. Stay in and remain a major no matter how hard he worked but most likely be reassigned to some out of the way, remote installation where he would be forgotten. The decision he made was the only viable option that he could see.

  During the week that he resigned from the Army, the anonymous colonel visited him with a job offer and promotion. Baumel was offered a chance to be back in command, to be the commanding officer of one of Conley’s private military corporations, with a promotion. He still had his addictions but now Conley allowed him to indulge in excess as long as he did so in one of his corporation’s casinos and with the women hired through a talent company that was also owned by a subsidiary of Conley’s vast empire. That way whatever he did was kept in house so to speak.

  Baumel spun his chair and looked out at the mountains. He couldn’t help but think that had events played out differently, his view would have been through a small, barred window at Fort Leavenworth Kansas. His allegiance was now to Conley and not to the Army or the country that he had once sworn to protect from all enemies, foreign and domestic.

  A knock at his office door disrupted his musings. Spinning around to see who it was, the door opened and a female sergeant entered closing the door behind her.

  “Sir, I have an important message from Mr. Conley, “ she said as she reached back and undid the tight bun that held her hair up, shaking it loose then fixing Baumel with a flirtatious smirk as she slowly unbuttoned her uniform shirt and locked the door.

  God, the shit I end up doing, she thought as she performed her little strip tease for the sweaty little man behind the desk. At least the money’s good, she thought as she reached back and undid her bra.

  ***

  Chapter 29

  West of Central Park, New York City, Sierra-3 Forward Recon Team

  “Jiminez,” he called quietly. “Try the Comms again.” Jiminez nodded, went to one knee and keyed the JTRS radio.

  “Any station, any station, this is Sierra-3.” Static crackled in the team’s earpieces. “Any station, any station, this is Sierra-3.”

  They all listened for a reply as Ski looked at his watch. The schedule he had made for radio contact was every four hours starting at 0900 each morning and lasting for two minutes each attempt. Seconds ticked by broken only by the sound of static.

  “Turn it off, we’ll try again later,” Ski ordered as the hands on his watched moved to the time mark. He was so glad that he had not bought some high speed digital watch and had kept the watch his father had given him from his own time in the military. The scarred, old and somewhat battered Timex lived up to its trademark slogan, it had taken a beating and definitely kept on ticking. Kind of like this team, Ski thought to himself. Taking a knee and looking out at the empty streets that awaited them before removing the heavily creased map from his vest, he looked at the progress they had made so far. In a couple of hours, they would have to start looking for someplace to hunker down for the night if they couldn’t find a way into Fort Ticonderoga. The loss of communications with command and everyone else further supported the theory that Ski had come up with some weeks ago. The civil unrest that they had initially been deployed for to assist other units in containment, had changed to quarantine of infected citizens. That had changed again to eliminate the infected.

  When they had barely survived their first contact, losing two of the recon team and communication with higher in the process, the mission parameters changed once again. The new mission was to facilitate their own extraction to Forward Operating Base Fort Ticonderoga in Central Park by any means necessary. Ski had made that decision when he realized that waiting for extraction was not a viable option if they wanted to stay alive in a city inhabited by these ghouls. The goal was to move fast, stay low, shoot first, and use all the skills they had to keep going and not get bogged down engaging the infected. That had worked for the weeks it had taken to move through the city. What would have normally taken just a few hours, had taken longer due to the constant threat of encountering the infected. Ski was proud of his team. They had performed beyond expectations and conducted the required urban creep needed to stay alive this long. Now, close enough to Fort Ti to see the Hesco barriers that formed the FOB’s perimeter, they were stopped not by infected but by the massive roadblocks that had been erected on all the streets save one. That one street served to funnel the infected into the kill zones or Death Valleys as some soldiers had referred to them as. The work of combat engineers could plainly be seen as buildings had been incorporated into the barricades as had anything that was remotely portable and some items that were not within the category of portability. Items that he would have thought unmovable the engineers had moved as was evident by the cars, trucks, buses, vendor carts, mail boxes, light standards, and other items that made up the barricades.

  Ski consulted his map; the acetate overlay was covered with marks that he had made. Each mark, depending on the symbol or color, meant safety or death. He glanced up at the buildings around him. The structures were old, brick, mortar, not the high-tech glass and steel. The radio transmissions from units that had sought shelter in those monoliths of construction had soon found that the floor to ceiling glass on the ground floor was like chumming the water with blood. The infected acted on visual cues and sound, what they saw or heard they went after. Ski had chosen each of their hide sites carefully, avoiding newer structures for the old, limited access, second floor walk-ups as opposed to ground level commercial or retail locations. That had saved them numerous times. This drizzle was slowly turning back to rain and that was a good thing. They would get wet but the noise of rain hitting the vehicles, the street, and everything else would cover the minimal noise that Sierra-3 made. While that would mask the sounds of their movement, it would also mask the sounds of any infected making their movements through the streets slower and more cautious.

  The crack of a high powered rifle broke th
rough the noise of the downpour. Ski quickly looked to where Pruitt was still holding station at the end of the block.

  “Shooter, shooter, sniper in the zone,” Pruitt reported. Ski moved as fast as he could towards the team designated marksman, Graham trailing behind.

  “Where is he?” he asked.

  “Unknown,” Pruitt replied as he used his scope to glass the surrounding buildings. “But whoever it is, he’s got some serious hardware.” Another shot rang out, the sound reverberating along the streets and buildings around them.

  “Got him,” Pruitt reported. “West side of the park, rooftop of our RV point,” he added indicating with a hand thrust.

  Ski leaned out and looked in the direction Pruitt had indicated. All he saw over the Hesco barrier was an older edifice with pillars at the front. They’d have to enter Fort Ti and cross the park to get to where the shooter was.

  “Shit,” Pruitt muttered. “He’s going to bring the Zulus down on us with all that noise.”

  “Any idea who would still be engaging?” Ski asked scanning the surrounding streets for sing of the Zulus.

  “Unknown, but he’s servicing targets in the park,” Pruitt stated watching through his scope as a round drilled through an infected taking off the back of its head as it dropped to the ground. A mighty explosion disintegrated the fallen infected. The park had been mined. So much for crossing the park and getting into Fort Ti. Ski looked back at Jiminez; the Hispanic kid was still scanning his zone. Good, at least someone was maintaining a level of security unlike the shooter on the roof.

  Ski waved to get Jimenez’s attention. When he had it, he gestured for him to try the radio again. Jiminez nodded then moved the boom mike closer to his mouth.

  “Any station, any station, this is Sierra-3, how copy?”

  Jiminez turned to Ski and shook his head but then the static broke and voice came through.

  “Sierra-3, this is Rawhide Six-One, we copy.”

  Jimenez’s eyes widened, this was the first voice he had heard in weeks that responded to their calls.

  “Rawhide Six-One, we need immediate extract. Can you assist?”

  “Sierra-3, Rawhide Six-One, negative. Unable at this time. Say your location,” the voice called again. Ski motioned to the RTO who handed him the handset.

  “Rawhide Six-One, Sierra-3 Actual, we are 300 meters north, northwest of Fort Ti’s perimeter, how copy?”

  “Sierra-3 Actual, Rawhide Six-One, do not enter Fort Ti. I say again, do not enter Fort Ti. The area has been mined and is full of hostiles.”

  “Copy that, Rawhide Six-One, thanks for the update,” Ski replied sarcastically.

  “Sierra-3 Actual, Rawhide Six-One, how mobile are you?”

  “We can expedite movement when needed.”

  There was a pause on the net, long enough for Ski to look at Jiminez thinking the batteries for the radio had finally died or that they had lost the signal.

  “Sierra-3 Actual, Rawhide Six-One, do you see the strobe?”

  Ski looked around at the rooftops.

  “Got it,” Pruitt announced. “Rooftop across the park, it’s the same building that the shooter’s on.”

  “Rawhide Six-One, Sierra-3 Actual, we see the strobe,” Ski radioed back

  “Copy that Sierra-3, that’s where you want to get to. But don’t expect to come to the front door.”

  “Copy that Rawhide. We’re open to options,” Ski said.

  “Stand by, Sierra-3,” the reply came back.

  “Copy that, Rawhide Six-One, Sierra-3 Actual, standing by,” Ski stated.

  Ski looked at his men, they were worn out, low on food, tired and stressed out from running and hiding in a city full of infected.

  The pause was long. Long enough that Ski was becoming uncomfortable being in the alley they had stopped in.

  “Sierra-3 Actual, Rawhide Six-One Actual,” a new voice came on the net. It was female. “You need to head 500 meters south, one of our scouts will meet you and bring you the rest of the way.”

  “Copy that, Rawhide Actual, Sierra-3 moving,” Ski handed the radio back to Jiminez, a grin on his face now that he knew there were other units still operational in this city of the dead besides them.

  ***

  Chapter 30

  Alaska

  The MC-130 Combat Talon shook and vibrated as it flew through the blizzard. They had been unable to climb above the front and now they were in it for the duration. Onboard, the strike team comprised of the survivors of ODA-141, Shark Platoon and a company of Rangers tried to act as if the amount of turbulence were a common occurrence. Putting their heads closer, Sands and O’Toole were deep in conversation.

  “I don’t much like this weather, Cap’n,” he shouted over the engines.

  “We didn’t have a choice,” O’Toole replied knowing they had launched later than planned.

  O’Toole shook his head recalling the phone conversation he had had with General Huber at Elmendorf regarding the weather. The delay in their departure had put them head-on into the storm that was sweeping down from the arctic instead of ahead of it. O’Toole doubted that they would be able to clear the weather given the speed that the front had arrived.

  “This shit won’t be letting up for several hours,” Sands remarked after a particularly rough air pocket had dropped the plane down like an express elevator. He was glad he had kept the empty pouch that his MRE had come in and that it was tucked inside his shirt out of sight. If he had to puke at least it wouldn’t be on the deck.

  “Be all you can be, right, Sergeant?”

  “Captain, I ain’t getting paid enough for this shit,” Sands grumbled as he looked around the interior of the airframe. There were a lot of green and pale looking faces among the passengers. It wasn’t all from pre-mission anxiety. He was sure one of them would blow chunks and when they did, it would start a chain reaction. His hand reached for the empty MRE pouch he had tucked inside his load bearing vest, moving it to where he could grab it quickly when, not if, it was needed. He knew that someone would begin spewing any minute.

  O’Toole shook his head again and then looked out the small, round window at the flying snow outside the plane.

  ***

  “Shit,” the flight engineer muttered. “Sir, number four’s doing that RPM thing again,” he reported.

  “Pulling back power on four,” the pilot replied. “That’s going to prevent us from getting out of the worst of this shit.” Working the controls, the pilot fought against the head wind, severe side gusts and the loss of power on the already overloaded plane as he attempted to climb above the storm.

  The large modified cargo plane responded sluggishly. The pilot noticed a drop in altitude that concerned him.

  “High terrain 12 o’ clock, 300 miles,” the radar navigator reported. The pilot muttered a curse under his breath as he applied more back pressure to the control yoke.

  “Climb you big bitch,” he grunted out as the MC-130 slowly started its ascent against the wind of the storm.

  “Number four’s RPMs are fluctuating badly. She’s not liking this weather,” the flight engineer reported as he tapped a gauge on his console. “Aw shit. Sir, we’re losing fuel. Looks like a leak. Could be that tree strike punctured something.”

  “Damn it,” the pilot muttered.

  “High terrain now at 110,” the navigator reported.

  “Coming right to 125,” the pilot announced.

  “Can we transfer the fuel out of the damaged area?” he asked as the plane shook through an air pocket.

  “Not without screwing up the trim,” the co-pilot responded.

  The lumbering plane slowly banked right. The pilot tried to keep the worry off his face but he knew that the plane was crippled. When they had taken off, the plane had been so overloaded that they had used the entire length of the runway. Even then, they had clipped a couple trees with the right outboard engine and wingtip. He remembered the shudder through the airframe from the impact but all the boards had bee
n green so the mission had continued. Now with the leaking fuel, they would have to abort and attempt to head back.

  “Low fuel warning light just came on,” the engineer stated calmly.

  “What?” the pilot asked in disbelief, the leak had to be major for the warning light to come on that quickly.

  “Fault Warning light on the defueling port is lit as well. We must have clipped it on takeoff. Maybe even broke it. With all this buffeting, I wouldn’t be surprised if the damn thing hadn’t snapped off all the way. Either way, we’re bleeding fuel.”

  “Can we make it back to Eielson?” the co-pilot asked.

  “No sir, not at the rate that we’re losing it,” the engineer replied.

  “How bad is it going to get?” the navigator asked.

  “The tanks will run dry then the engines will burn up whatever fuel is left in the lines before they starve and shut down,” the engineer explained calmly. “Then we become a really big and heavy glider just before we crash.”

  “Can we set down somewhere?” the co-pilot asked.

  “We can try but it’s doubtful there’s anywhere that we can land where we’ll be all in one piece,” the pilot stated. “It’s going to be a rough landing no matter what we do,” he added.

  “Rough compared to what?” the co-pilot asked.

  “Rough somewhere between ‘Oh God, Oh God, we’re all going to die’ or where we’re only going to bend the plane a little,” the pilot said.

  “Someone better tell the boys in the back that we’re landing ahead of schedule,” the co-pilot commented.

  ***

  “Number four is overheating,” the flight engineer reported as he watched the engine temperature needle climb into the red.

  “Shut down four,” the pilot stated as he adjusted for the loss of power.