ARISEN
Hope Never Dies.
First published 2016 by Complete & Total Asskicking Books
London, UK
Copyright © Michael Stephen Fuchs
The right of Michael Stephen Fuchs to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any other means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
About the Author
MICHAEL STEPHEN FUCHS, in addition to co-authoring the first eight books of the bestselling ARISEN series with Glynn James, wrote the bestselling prequels ARISEN : GENESIS and ARISEN : NEMESIS (an Amazon #1 bestseller in Post-Apocalyptic Science Fiction and #1 in Dystopian), as well as Book Nine (#1 bestseller in War, #1 in Military Science Fiction) and Book Ten (an Amazon overall Top 100 bestseller). The series as a whole has sold over a quarter million copies. The audiobook editions, performed by R.C. Bray, have generated nearly a million dollars in revenue. He is also author of the D-BOYS series of high-tech special-operations military adventure novels, which include D-BOYS, COUNTER-ASSAULT, and CLOSE QUARTERS BATTLE (coming in 2017); as well as the existential cyberthrillers THE MANUSCRIPT and PANDORA’S SISTERS, both published worldwide by Macmillan in hardback, paperback and all e-book formats (and in translation). He lives in London and at www.michaelstephenfuchs.com, and blogs at www.michaelfuchs.org/razorsedge. You can follow him on Facebook, Twitter (@michaelstephenf), or by e-mail.
ARISEN
BOOK TWELVE
CARNAGE
MICHAEL STEPHEN FUCHS
For all the ARISEN readers who have served as first responders – firefighters, paramedics, and law enforcement (the thin blue line). You know who you are.
“Love is an abstract noun, something nebulous. And yet love turns out to be the only part of us that is solid, as the whole world turns upside down and the screen goes black. We can’t tell if it will survive us. But we can be sure that it’s the last thing to go.”
– Martin Amis, The Second Plane
“But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God’s wrath on the wrongdoer.”
– Romans 13:4
The End is the Beginning is the End
Djibouti-Ambouli International Airport
The de Havilland Bombardier Dash 8 rattles and crashes down a rutted third-world runway as it accelerates madly toward take-off. Inside the plane’s open main cabin, two rival groups are fighting to the death – and individual life-and-death struggles, mainly fought with melee weapons, are going on all up and down the plane’s length.
In the very back, watching all the lethal violence with barely restrained horror, the crouching form of Dr. Simon Park stands hunched over a black body bag, which is visibly wiggling – and behind a photocopier-sized electronic device, which is plugged into the plane’s onboard power supply.
He clutches a crowbar in one hand – and, in the other, a full syringe with the plunger pulled back. He looks from the syringe, to the body bag, to the crowbar – and then to the slow-motion homicide taking place practically in his lap.
And he tries to decide where his duty lies.
* * *
On the other side of the boxy device, Predator and Spetsnaz warlord Misha are hurling each other around like dinosaurs, giving and receiving blows that would kill mortal men. When Pred hauls Misha up from the deck and hurls him into the opposite bulkhead…
The entire cabin shakes from the impact.
Bouncing off the wall and recovering, Misha manages to get a knife clear. But Pred slaps the outside of his hand so hard it flies halfway to the cockpit. He then steps in and punches Misha in the side of his head with such force that his whole body bounces off the bulkhead again.
But Misha lowers his head and comes straight back.
This time Pred plants his feet, draws himself up to his full height, and punches straight down into the top of the Russian’s skull with his full weight and force, driving him down into the deck like a hydraulic piledriver. But Misha gets up again, smiling, each time rising up from under blows that would put lesser men in the hospital – possibly never to come out again. And it is starting to look as if he is neither going to lose consciousness nor give up – ever.
Pred is going to have to beat him to death with his bare hands.
And he realizes he’s okay with that.
* * *
Just ahead of this rampaging deathmatch, two more Spetsnaz hardmen climb in through the open rear hatch, and advance up the aisle toward the flight deck. The older one wields a sharpened entrenching tool, the younger one a pair of commando knives, which he twirls theatrically over the tops of his hands.
Opposing them are only two men – Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant Fick and Lieutenant (junior grade) Andrew Wesley. Drawing his K-Bar knife, Fick looks sidelong at the Marine Corps Officer’s sword hanging from Wesley’s belt. And he says:
“So – you here to film a recruiting commercial? Or actually use that thing?”
Wesley swallows and draws the blade.
The two Russians come at them, the older one wearing a blank but lethal expression, and the younger one – who looks like he might plausibly be half Fick’s age – a leering smile that says:
I’m really going to enjoy this.
Fick spits off to the side. Oh, no you’re not.
But to Wesley he says: “Whatever happens, we cannot let these fuckheads get past us to the cockpit. You understand?”
Wesley nods frantically.
Fick hopes he does. Because if Spetsnaz take the cockpit, they take the plane – and they stop it.
And then they are all done.
* * *
On the outside of the hurtling aircraft, First Sergeant Aaliyah Khamsi clings to the edge of the wing, hanging down between the fuselage and the right-side engine. She’s doing this in order to not get shot.
Ali settles her mind, clearing out all the distractions – such as having her ass hanging off an aircraft that is picking up speed, and being responsible for keeping everyone aboard, which is also almost everyone she loves, from dying in the next minute.
And then everyone everywhere dying soon after that.
She clears out all that garbage because she needs her full faculties, and every last iota of her considerable skills, experience, and abilities. And what she knows now is:
Vasily has to die.
This time, she has to kill that slippery, tattooed, annoyingly unkillable sonofabitching Spetsnaz sniper. She can’t lose to him again. She can’t afford to.
This time, simply, he has to go down.
Even if it means her own death.
Her mind clear, Ali hits her radio. “Hey, blondie.”
“Send it.”
“Get ready to pop and shoot – in three, two, one—”
Ali hauls herself up on the wing, rolls toward the fuselage, bounces to her feet – and takes off running down the length of the plane.
She can already feel the air around her filling with lead.
* * *
Up on the flig
ht deck, Hailey “Thunderchild” Wells is still increasing power and rocketing the plane straight into the teeth of the fearsome Kamov Ka-50 Black Shark helicopter hovering directly in their path. She hauls on the yoke for everything she’s worth, the entire aircraft trembling, straining, and screaming around her. She squints straight ahead into the setting sun – in front of which, that fucking attack helo shows absolutely no intention of moving.
But there’s no stopping this time.
They are either going to take off, or crash into it in midair. Even if Hailey tries to stop now, they will only slam into the buildings at the end of the runway, killing everyone on board. This is a game of chicken with a blindfold on.
They couldn’t stop now even if they had to.
Victory
On Board Jesus Two Zero, 100ft Over Central Somalia
[Six Hours Earlier]
The cool air streaming in and whipping around the shot-up Seahawk felt like redemption… or maybe even salvation. The aircraft was so shot to shit at this point that, as its rotors cut through the gray and sodden sky, air was leaking in all over the place.
Handon had only put this bird up out of desperation. It was the only one they had left, and it was their only way to get themselves the hell out of the Nugal River Valley – and away from whatever survivors or reinforcements Spetsnaz might be mustering.
After victory in the riverbank battle, no one ever saw the body of Misha, the oversized warlord who commanded the Spetsnaz forces like Genghis Khan at the head of his Mongol hordes. Nor Vasily, the tattooed sniper who had almost made an end of Ali over the Atlantic – and with whom she still felt pretty sure she was going to have some kind of a reckoning. No one in Alpha imagined they had finished those two off. Nor could they be sure there weren’t more of the spooky hard-bitten Spetsnaz bastards lurking elsewhere on this giant lethal continent.
With both their fighter aircraft down, and no communications with the carrier – which, for all they knew, was already in the hands of the Russians – the shore team’s situational and tactical awareness was limited to the single UCAV drone flown by Juice, and looking out of their own skulls. All Handon, Fick, and their people knew for sure was that there weren’t any Spetsnaz where they were right now – which was safely up above Somalia and moving fast toward Djibouti.
And that was enough – for the moment.
Everyone left on the helo from the recombined but badly degraded team – Handon, Henno, and Ali from Alpha; Fick and Reyes from MARSOC – finally had a few moments just to breathe, and to reflect. It was a rare and precious break from running for their lives, or fighting desperately for them. And, most stunningly of all, it was a moment when, after long ages of chasing the object of their epic and globe-spanning mission, they actually had it – Patient Zero, the last piece of the puzzle, which should allow them to end the ZA for good.
And to save everyone who was left.
Safely bagged up, the very first Zulu, which had ultimately infected another seven billion, writhed slowly on the deck at their feet. And all of the operators sitting around it were experiencing a very strange sensation.
It felt something like… victory.
It was damned pleasant to win for once, especially after so much suffering, struggle, and sacrifice, and so many terrible setbacks. But the whole point of the operators, what made them who they were, was resilience and resolve – resilience to all difficulties, and the resolve to never quit.
And now, on the impossible mission that nevertheless could not fail, they had gotten it done. And they had almost made it to the other side – maybe all the way to the other side of death. This could be the road to redemption. The end of what had looked like the end.
And the beginning of a new beginning.
* * *
Even as the cool air wicked away his sweat, and the after-effects of the adrenaline bled away, Command Sergeant Major Handon sat still and silent and tried to decide whether he could let himself relax now, or feel any satisfaction.
When he looked up from staring down at Patient Zero, feeling like he was in a good dream for once, he caught Henno looking at him across the dim cabin – and the British hard man didn’t look away. Knowing he should stop himself, Handon said something anyway. He was human, and couldn’t resist pointing out that they had succeeded in their mission, under his leadership – which Henno had all but said was never going to happen.
“A pretty good result,” Handon said.
But in a turn that shouldn’t have surprised anybody, Henno just shook his head darkly. “The only result is when we get this thing back to Britain – along with Doc Park. And then bring a close to the fucking Zulu Alpha. Until then it’s all half-measures.”
Handon sat up a little straighter. As usual, Henno’s head was probably in the right place – and proving a useful corrective to Handon’s thinking. And he was smart and humble enough to know it.
“You’re right,” he said. That was all he had to say.
He looked to one side of Henno and smiled to see Ali’s head lolling on the Brit’s shoulder. The ability to rack out anywhere was a great operator skill. And it was one of Ali’s special talents to make him smile, even in the worst moments. Just as it was Henno’s job to keep him honest. And just for this moment, Handon was glad he hadn’t had to kill him. He wondered if Henno was thinking the same thing.
Probably not.
He looked out the window and belatedly realized this aircraft was flying at what suddenly seemed like hot-air-balloon speed. He’d been so happy to be out of the bush and moving, he hadn’t noticed until now. He figured he knew the reason already, but wanted to confer with the pilot on a couple of things anyway. And, in part to get out of the way of Henno’s judging gaze, he went up to the cockpit to speak in person.
“What kind of airspeed you call this?”
The pilot, Cleveland, snorted in response. “I call it powered aerial flight, and I call it a damned miracle.”
Handon nodded. “So not much chance of bringing us up to your never-exceed speed?” That was understood to be about 207mph.
Cleveland all but slapped his knee.
“Top speed, then?” That was about 168mph on a healthy and not too overloaded MH-60 Seahawk.
Cleveland said, “Could have sworn I already mentioned the bailing wire this thing is lashed together with.”
Handon checked the airspeed indicator. They weren’t even breaking 100. He opened his mouth again to argue. But as he looked up, he belatedly felt wind on his face – and saw the ragged bullet holes that spider-webbed the cockpit glass, two or three each in front of the left and right seats. And now he remembered: Cleveland’s brother pilots had been killed and grievously wounded, right where they now sat. He looked around for bloodstains, but those must have gotten cleaned up somewhere along the way.
He took a breath and decided to let the airspeed issue go. They were in the air, and they were going the right way. And Cleveland was right – pushing it would be unwise. Hell, sitting in this thing was already dicing with death – even just flying with the weakened cockpit glass wasn’t a great idea. He gave up and switched topics.
“Any contact with Kennedy?”
“Negative,” said Cleveland, without looking over. “Silent as the grave. Comms still totally down – or out.”
Handon twisted at the waist, looked back, and spotted Fick in the main cabin. The old warrior sat still and upright, staring straight ahead, like a granite statue of a Marine. Or like a man at a funeral. He had been losing Marines out here on the shore mission – two of the three he went out with, so far. And now he knew he was also almost certainly losing them back on the carrier. And not only couldn’t he lead or aid his men back there – he didn’t even know what the hell was going on.
Maybe it was better that way.
Handon faced forward again, dug into a duty pouch, pulled out his satphone – then said a silent prayer to the satellite gods.
And he tried Sarah again, on board the beleaguered c
arrier.
* * *
Back at the river valley crash site of their first Seahawk, Juice was getting into the swing of playing drone jockey. And their forest clearing was getting positively homey, since Baxter had turned up, assigned by Handon to provide security. Juice had put him to work doing… well, everything but flying the UCAV.
He could have put the drone on autopilot. He just didn’t want to. Anyway, they were only looking at another ninety minutes of linger time on that jet-fuel-slurping beast. Whatever good it was going to do, they would have to do it fast.
Juice was currently flying it about fifty clicks ahead of the Seahawk, scanning both air and ground for threats – hoping to spot any before they became a danger to the team, and the mission objective. But he was also doing periodic circuits around them, which was pretty easy at its nearly supersonic top speed, and with the Seahawk barely crawling across the sky.
He’d range forward to look for threats ahead, then circle back to make sure they weren’t followed, shadowed, or just shot out of the sky from behind. In a way, he was blocking for the team’s end-zone run. And, with the armaments left on the UCAV, he had a few lethal stiff-arm shoves still available to him.
He stole a look over his shoulder at his new minion.
Baxter was working on their fixed defensive positions, piling up fallen trees into a sort of palisade outside the cargo door of the downed helo. He seemed happy enough to be doing the grunt work. Though, in fact, he was an accomplished drone pilot in his own right. He’d learned to fly them pre-ZA, back in the CIA’s Hargeisa safehouse, mainly because Zack, his boss, had wanted to train him up. Then, for the first eighteen months of the ZA, he had served as lead drone jockey for the al-Shabaab commander, Godane.
But now he was on construction duty, following Juice’s orders as he called them out, policing up the area and turning it into a serviceable combat outpost (COP). Juice figured this was like having an intern, or a buck private in a conventional unit detailed to him. Then again, Baxter had already demonstrated – not least in his handling of their Spetsnaz prisoner – that he was a lot smarter and more skilled than most infantry grunts. Maybe he would have more moments to shine.
ARISEN, Book Twelve - Carnage Page 1
