Expedition (The Locus Series Book 2)

by Ralph Kern

  He knew he was good, but was he that good?

  “Karl!”

  He focused. There.

  A staccato light, the fighter opening fire. He sighted it and squeezed the trigger. His rifle barked in response.

  Then he felt himself being grabbed from behind and flung into the dark and icy water as all around him red-hot tungsten scythed through the air.

  ***

  Pearson flinched and released his finger on the trigger as something sparked off his fighter’s nose cone, ricocheted, and pinged off the toughened glass canopy.

  It took him a second to realize what had happened.

  “Cobra 1-1 taking fire.”

  There was no more incoming. When he’d destroyed the RIB, he must have taken out whatever had been firing at him. Whoever it was had done damn well to score a hit, but it had done them no good. Fighter beats some little speedboat as surely as paper beats stone.

  That was just the order of things.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight – The Present

  Laurie started as the mountain gave a shudder. Loose wires and debris rattled in the wrecked cabin. She shook her head, willing it to stop. From outside, the noise of the strange creatures intensified in urgency.

  The grinding settled and Laurie gave a sigh of relief.

  One problem at a time. She turned her attention to the wounded man with her.

  Donovan’s breaths came in quick, ragged gasps; his eyes wide and looking around aimlessly in fear and confusion.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay,” Laurie soothed. She had never felt as alone as she did right then. Lost miles away from friends and family. Her only living company, two terribly injured people, neither of whom were fully conscious.

  She was dredging up the vague memories of the first aid classes she’d had to do as part of teaching job. But the point was first aid was for first aid. It was only meant to keep people alive for a short time until an ambulance or experts arrived. Only here, there was no ambulance and she had no idea when rescue would come. She didn’t know how to use equipment to signal for rescue. She didn’t even know what bloody equipment was on board!

  She gave a sob of frustration.

  No!

  Now was not the time to descend into self-pity. She was it and the buck stopped with her. She needed to deal with this. She took a breath and steeled herself.

  She looked at the branch protruding from Donovan’s chest. The one thing she did recall was that for this kind of injury she shouldn’t remove it. But it was obvious it was interfering with his breathing. As she listened, she could hear a disturbing gurgling sound coming from deep within him.

  “Perry. She stroked the man’s face. From first meeting him months ago, she’d always known him to be a kind and smart man. He never raised his voice. He’d never needed to. And then there was Mack lying next to him, her ebony skin pallid. She was a contrast. She was the stereotype of a gung-ho military pilot. Brash, charming, even swashbuckling, but with a fierce burning intelligence in her eyes and actions. Her gaze fell on the man, Doctor Tsang, who lay in the cabin, his upper half covered by his coat. Someone she barely knew, and now never would, but had stepped up when the fleet had declared a need. No, she couldn’t give up. Couldn’t retreat into herself until help came. She owed them that much.

  Standing, she looked around again in at the smashed cabin for anything which would help. Ammunition spilled onto the deck, wiring protruded from the bulkheads, unidentifiable military... stuff was scattered all around.

  “That locker. Up there. First aid kit.” She turned to see Mack pointing a trembling finger at a large overhead cabinet. Suddenly, Laurie felt a little less alone seeing the pilot conscious.

  Laurie unclasped the cabinet and saw a duffel within. She yanked it out and lowered the heavy red bag to the deck. “Got it.”

  She unzipped it. Within was a tightly packed collection of equipment. It looked far more extensive than a typical first aid pack.

  “Tell me about the commander,” Mack croaked.

  “He’s struggling to breathe. He’s been... he’s been impaled. Mack, I think it might have gone through his spine. I had to move him to get at him. Did I—”

  “Okay,” Mack interrupted, her tone authoritative despite the pain lacing through it. “Open his flight suit. Tell me what you see.”

  Pulling it open, she quickly cut the t-shirt open beneath with a pair of scissors from the kit. She saw Donovan’s chest was discolored by a huge purple welt, like a bruise. She described the ugly wound to Mack.

  “Okay...” Mack said weakly. “I think he might have an internal bleed. Need to drain.”

  “How?” Laurie looked at Donovan. His skin was waxy in pallor. He blinked and looked at her, his bloodshot eyes wide. Oh god, he knew what was happening to him. He was conscious. He opened his mouth, gargling as he did.

  “Tube. Sharp pointed tube in the kit. Stick it in him. In the ribs.”

  “No bloody way!” Laurie whispered. “I need to stab him?”

  “Do it. He can’t breathe. Pressure needs to be equal...” Mack’s voice started to fade again. “Just do it.”

  Laurie rummaged in the kit, finding a long thin piece of packaging. She quickly ripped it off, revealing a vicious looking instrument. Like a metal straw with the lip of one end filed to a blade.

  “Do it,” Mack rasped.

  Laurie touched the end to Donovan’s rib cage and gently teased it in. Donovan moaned, his eyes rolling back. His breath getting shorter. One hand beat against his flight suit breast pocket.

  “Do it,” Mack repeated. “Hard.”

  Closing her eyes, Laurie slid it in. From the other end of the tube, a stream of blood erupted, spattering onto the deck. Donovan’s chest seemed to deflate like a balloon, then his breath began to return to a gargling normality.

  “I.... I...” he hissed even as the beating on his breast pocket became more frantic.

  He wanted something from it, Laurie realized. She gently pushed his hand aside and pushed two fingers into the pocket. She pulled out what she found. A chain with a small crucifix and a folded piece of paper.

  “Here you go.” Laurie placed the crucifix in his hand and unfolded the paper. On it was a picture of Donovan arm-in-arm with a woman she recognized. Tricia Farelly, Atlantica’s head of IT. He relaxed as he felt them in his bloody hand.

  “Me now,” Mack croaked. Laurie refocused. “I’ve got an open fracture. It’s causing a bleed but that’s not the major problem. I’ve lost feeling in my hand.”

  Laurie moved to squat next to Mack, brushing debris out of the way as she did so. She gently moved the pilot’s left hand out of the way from where she was cradling her right arm.

  “I need you to check. Cut my glove off.”

  Laurie pulled a pair of surgical scissors out of the kit and as gently as she could, began slicing the glove away, revealing Mack’s right hand. Her fingers were bloated.

  “I think the fracture is blocking one of my arteries,” Mack’s voice was faint. “You need to put a tourniquet on my arm, up near the shoulder. You’ll find the bands in the kit. Put them on and draw as tight as you can.”

  Laurie slipped the loop over Mack’s right shoulder and drew the loose end back.

  “No, tighter.”

  Laurie nodded. “Ready?”

  “Do it.”

  Bracing herself with one foot, Laurie hauled back on the tourniquet, tightening the loop. The pilot gave a gasp and arced her back before relaxing back down.

  “Fuck me,” Mack sobbed before giving a long exhalation.

  “What now?”

  “That’s it, babe.” Mack started to fade. “I just needed to be secure until rescue comes. They’ll come.”

  Laurie looked at the woman. Her eyes began to close.

  “Mack?”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Mack said faintly as she relaxed her head back to the deck. “I think I’m going to pass out now.”

  ***

  Creighton watched the heli
copter disappear into the distance, a contemplative, worried look on his scarred face. Neither of those were emotions which Wakefield would associate with his security chief.

  Even when he’d been brought into the ship’s small clinic, horribly burned after the attack at Nassau, he’d faced his injury with stoicism. He hadn’t been full of piss and wind, instead insisting he was up to the job of protecting the Osiris. Truth be told, Wakefield had been tempted to leave him behind, but he must’ve become soft in his old age and allowed him to be treated in the Osiris’s small med bay.

  And boy was he glad he had. Within a week, the former Special Forces officer was back coordinating his PMC team from his bed in the yacht’s med bay, and a fortnight later was training with them again.

  He’d really got what he’d paid for with Creighton. And he hadn’t come cheap.

  “Penny for your thoughts.” Wakefield moved next to him.

  “I’ve seen him before somewhere.”

  “Who? Cohen? The man’s a fixture on Atlantica,” Wakefield said dismissively. “No wonder you’ve seen him around.”

  “No, the other one who was with him.”

  “Oh... him?” Wakefield shrugged. “That’s Karl Grayson. One of the pirate types. Apparently, he gave Atlantica a pretty hard time when they arrived. But I guess they decided to cut him a little slack.”

  The scarred man didn’t respond. Instead, he unhooked one of the rope bollards and walked down the corridor. Wakefield followed behind. To see his very expensive PMC commander looking unsettled wasn’t good.

  Creighton entered the security center, a room which had previously been a holding dock for all kinds of rich people’s toys. Except where there were once jet skis and scuba sets, it was now a barracks. It was a cramped, but comfortable billet for the soldiers who made up a good portion of the crew he’d brought with him.

  They wound their way past the bunks and stowage to a desk in the corner. Creighton sat in front of the laptop and opened it up.

  “Phil, you mind not keeping your boss in suspense here?” Wakefield didn’t appreciate people holding back on him for dramatic effect.

  “Look.” Creighton span the laptop toward him. On screen was CCTV footage from the battle at the Nassau dock hangers. A man skidded behind the cover of a crate before smoothly rising to one knee and firing his weapon. His movements were deft, confident, and without any hesitation.

  Wakefield knew the two intruders had been good, damn good. They’d avoided the cameras like pros coming in, but exiting they’d had to move fast and hadn’t been nearly so concerned.

  Creighton focused the image in on one of them. The man’s face became pixelated before the software smoothed it out. It was marred by black camouflage paint, but the features were the same.

  The man who had attacked them was here!

  “Shit,” Wakefield muttered. “Grayson? Are you saying that’s the prick who blew your half your face off?”

  “Yes,” Creighton growled as he stared at the screen. “Yes, I am.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine – The Past

  Cold water filled his lungs. There was no way to orientate himself, no way to know which way was up. For an eternity, he felt himself on the verge of panic as instincts of millions of years screamed at his body to do something, anything.

  Then the cool, calculating cortex took over from the ancient and instinctive lizard brain. He was wearing a life preserver. All he had to do was shed ballast.

  He closed his eyes, willing himself to stay calm. To keep that panic away.

  Grayson slipped the heavy rifle’s harness from around his neck and pulled the magazines from his webbing and let them fall away into the darkness.

  His head broke the surface seconds later. His stomach cramped and he violently vomited the sickening salt water in his lungs before he drew in a ragged breath. The air felt beautiful, clean and invigorating. He felt more awake than he’d ever felt before. A combination of the cold water and adrenaline he supposed.

  He found himself rising and falling on the sea. The full moon cast a silver glow over the otherwise black sea. A way away, he could see the two burning pyres of the Nassau and the Bahamas. The poor bastards.

  But, he was still alive. And if he was, then maybe others would be, too.

  “Max?” he spluttered, then called louder, stronger. “Max!”

  There. A dark figure rose and fell in time with the silver-tinged waves, highlighted by the moon. He recognized the short-shorn hair on a head slumped into his life preserver. Grayson dipped his head into the water and swam over. Reaching for Dillon, he hooked himself around his body, securing them together in a slowly revolving pirouette.

  As his arm wrapped around under Dillon’s shoulders, he felt something strange. He pulled Dillon to him. It was then he realized he couldn’t feel his partner’s left arm. He explored with his numb fingers and touched rags and a bone protruding from Dillon’s shoulder. Lifting his hand out the water, gruesome gobbets of meat slid off his glove.

  “Shit,” he breathed. “Max? Max buddy, you still with me?”

  They bobbed around each other in a floating dance. His partner’s eyes flickered beneath closed lids. Finally, he gave a groan.

  “Max, I need you to wake up.” Grayson slapped him sharply across the face. “Wake up, dammit. Rise and shine.”

  Dillon gave a splutter. Blood splattered across Grayson’s face and more trickled in diluted rivulets down his partner’s chin.

  “I’ve got to check you over, buddy.” Grayson rested his forehead on Dillon’s brow. “Tell me where you’re hurting.”

  “I can’t feel... my back...”

  “Okay, looking now.” Grayson pulled away, circled Dillon in a doggy paddle, and re-approached him from behind. He patted down his back. His hand found a ragged mess on his rear right trapezoid. The wound felt the size of his fist.

  Shit

  “Bad,” Dillon spluttered. “It’s bad.”

  Grayson gritted his teeth as he felt another crater in the man’s body, this one lower. Yeah, he was fucked. Being riddled with 25mm bullets would do that to a guy. “I ain’t gonna lie, buddy. Looks like you might have to miss training for a few days.”

  There were at least three hits, not counting the one that had taken his arm off. It was difficult to assess in the rolling waters, but the through and through to his chest had to have taken out his right lung. The other two were just as bad.

  “Hurts... Karl,” Dillon’s voice was little more than a gargle.

  “I know, man. I know.” He reached for his radio and pressed the talk button. He needed help, and fast. He’d even take it from Osiris. Hell, they were probably the only ones anywhere near them. Although they were just as likely to shoot them in the water.

  One problem at a time.

  He looked around. As he crested a wave, he saw distant lights. That had to be her.

  “Mayday, mayday, mayday,” Grayson called into his radio. “I am a casualty in the water with at least one other.”

  “Karl...” Dillon coughed, this time so violently he almost tore himself from Grayson’s grip. “Legs don’t work.”

  “You’ll be fine.” Why the hell was no one responding? “Mayday, mayday, mayday.”

  “Karl...” Dillon spat again painfully. He reached and gripped Grayson’s hand with feverish strength. “You’re gonna get him.”

  “I will, Max.”

  “Good.” Dillon’s head began lolling resting on the preserver shoulder. “Hurts, and I ain’t going to last.”

  No, you won’t. “Sure you will. Just need you to stay awake. Can you do that for me?”

  “You get him.... Don’t trust military till you do. Compromised.” Dillon’s eyes closed. A last rattling breath left his body. Dillon went limp in the preserver.

  Grayson squeezed his own eyes closed for a long moment. His friend. Gone. That bastard had taken him. And this wasn’t it. He would take more.

  He snapped his eyes open. Reaching into Dillon’s webbing, he pu
lled out the water bottle and energy bars within and slid them into his own spare pouches.

  Then he released Dillon, letting him drift away.

  He twisted to look in the direction of Osiris. She seemed smaller, receding into the distance.

  Grayson’s radio crackled and spoke two words, “I’m sorry.”

  Who the hell’s sorry? The voice sounded strange, like that of a child. He reached for his talk button. “I say again, mayday, mayday, mayday. Is anyone receiving me?”

  There was no answer. The lights of the Osiris disappeared behind a wave. When it broke, the ship had gone.

  And that meant Bradley had, too.

  I don’t care where you go, how far you run or how fucking sorry you are. Grayson vowed. I’m coming for you.

  ***

  “I’m sorry.”

  Pearson cocked his head. Sorry wasn’t exactly the kind of communication he was expecting. The last pass over the two remaining RIBs had utterly obliterated them. The terrorists, whoever they had been, had been sent to Davy Jones’s Locker. Now the two fighters were racing home to claim, as his colleagues in the Royal Air Force would’ve dryly stated, tea and medals. It’d be up to the Navy or Coast Guard to mop up the mess they’d left behind.

  “Overlord, say again,” Pearson asked.

  “Cobra 1-1, Overlord. Are you receiving, over.”

  “Overlord, Cobra 1-1, loud and clear.”

  “Authenticate.”

  What the hell? They’d been in contact over the battlenet for the whole hour of this mission. Why the hell would he suddenly need to reauthenticate? But, if the man was asking. He would get. “Authentication is Snowdrop.”

  “That is sweet. Thank god, Cobra flight.” The relief in Overlord’s voice was palpable. “You’ve been off battlenet for four-nine minutes. What’s your status?”

  “Say again, Overlord? We’ve had datalink for the duration.” He glanced down at the multifunction display before him. It was showing they were picking up the datalinks as they should be. And had been for the whole intercept.