ARISEN, Book Twelve - Carnage

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  Which kept him in a constant state of being freaked the hell out.

  And she never told him a damned thing, but he presumed they were now off to kill more Americans, or maybe Brits. It still made no sense to him. Surely the living should be working together. Back before the fall, their unit had done cross-training with the 160th SOAR (Special Operations Aviation Regiment), the Americans’ spec-ops helo pilots. And those had all been amazing guys – smart, funny, super-skilled. And very generous with their time and expertise.

  Surely these Americans they were hunting now were no different.

  “Nina,” he said, across ICS. “Do you remember cross-training with the American pilots?”

  She must not have seen the relevance, because she didn’t bother responding. Or else she already saw where he was going with it, and had no interest in going there. As Bazarov considered whether he had used up his last bit of rope with her, she settled the matter.

  “Shut the fuck up,” she said. “Man the radios.”

  Once again, Nina was both flying and operating the weapons systems. And when a call did come in, Misha wanted talk-through directly to her anyway. Bazarov stayed on the channel to listen.

  “New tasking,” Misha said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Get your ass back to where I am and set down. Transmitting a grid reference now. More when I see you.”

  “Understood. En route.”

  Bazarov watched Somalia tilt and spin beneath them as Nina brought them around again. They were heading back toward the last river valley.

  Well. That was something.

  * * *

  With all enemy aircraft destroyed or captured, and the besieged carrier’s flight deck a no-go, the Russians had total control of the skies again. So Misha’s Team 2 convoy could safely drive the dusty roads that criss-crossed the vast brown spaces that comprised most of this tumble-down country. Vasily sat in the passenger seat and watched it all go by.

  Beside him, Misha was driving the lead vehicle himself. He rolled them to a muddy stop as the dark insect shape of the Black Shark flared in right in front of them. Wordlessly, Misha exited the vehicle. Vasily climbed out on the passenger side, holding his rifle.

  Standing behind the door, eyes squinted against the rotor wash, he could see the helo touch down and the pilot climb out of the cockpit. The gunner, Bazarov, stayed inside while Nina, compact and trim in her flight suit, trotted over to Misha on the other side of the SUV. Misha leaned way down, she craned her neck up, and the two of them conferred. Then Misha nodded.

  Straightening up, he shouted, “Bazarov!” – loud enough to be heard thirty meters away over the noise of the turning rotors. The gunner wasted no time in climbing out and trotting over.

  “You’re relieved,” Misha said. Then he looked across the top of the truck at Vasily. “You’re up. Get in.”

  Vasily hefted his rifle and moved toward the aircraft. This was unusual, but everyone in the unit knew better than to ask Misha for the reasoning behind his orders. They knew where that got them.

  But when he was halfway to the helo, a thunderous boom sounded behind him, and Vasily instantly recognized it as Misha’s Desert Eagle. Just as no one sounded like Misha, his side arm was also a true original. Nonetheless, he couldn’t resist turning to see who had just gotten shot.

  It was Bazarov.

  He lay face down in the mud with a big hole in the back of his helmet – and a long and wide arc of blood, brains, and face spread out in the mud before him. Vasily locked eyes with his boss.

  “He wasn’t comfortable with the mission,” Misha said.

  Vasily turned again, and headed out.

  I’m Getting Killed Today Anyway

  JFK – 02 Deck

  Blurring bulkheads whizzing by. Sweat droplets thrown from heads moving on swivels. Weapons up, the indistinct sounds of shouting and gunfire rising up and falling away again. Boots pounding the deck. Marine Sergeants Lovell and Patrick sprinted though the dark maze of the Kennedy’s 02 Deck – and they were running under not only their regular combat load of arms, armor, and ammo, but also the additional crushing weight of giant rucks bouncing on their backs, one stuffed to the top with ammo and explosives.

  The other with a goddamned boat, engine included.

  Only adrenaline and desperation kept them moving this close to their top speed. They also absolutely had to avoid getting caught up in any of the mini-engagements they could sense going on around them, as Spetsnaz battled for control of the carrier, and the crew fought for their lives and their home.

  As far as Lovell could tell, only the invaders were at all organized – and they were pretty damned well organized. All was confusion in the ranks of the defenders, and most of the shooting happened when individuals or small groups of sailors stumbled too near stations that had been taken and strongpointed by switched-on Spetsnaz teams.

  The two Marines had to leap over more than one body sprawled out on the deck in their path.

  Despite the crushing load, the sweat, the chaos, and breathing like a porn star, Lovell managed to get on his radio as they hauled ass. “This is a MARSOC element trying to raise the Hospital! Is anyone at that station receiving on this channel?” He let off his transmit button to wait for a response, while he focused on his breathing, as well as fighting inertia, as he and Patrick hurtled around another ninety-degree turn. They were trying to avoid the major arteries on 02 Deck, assuming those were more likely to be contested.

  When he got no response, he tried again. “Hospital, MARSOC, how copy on this channel?”

  “MARSOC, Hospital, this is Walker. That you, Sergeant Lovell?”

  “Affirmative! Interrogative: do you hold that station?”

  “Affirmative. Barricaded in nice and tight. Don’t you worry about us.”

  “Doc, be advised – we are coming to you! ETA two mikes your location, how copy?”

  “Solid copy on all. Will be good to see the Marines coming ashore. We’ll be waiting for you.”

  Lovell didn’t bother signing off – in part because he had no breath to spare for it. And in part because this was the part where they couldn’t avoid one of the two big passageways on this deck – there was no other way to reach the hospital. Lovell took the risk of stealing a glance over his shoulder – the risk being that he would trip and sprawl flat out – and saw Patrick was still right behind him. He was sucking wind and covered in sweat, but he was hanging in – and, moreover, he caught his eye, and gave him a quick head nod.

  It said: Good to go.

  Lovell leaned into the right-hand turn ahead, the two of them slowing no more than necessary. Even so, Lovell’s left shoulder bashed into the bulkhead on the left. He bounced off it, recovered, straightened up – and put his head down.

  And the instant he did so, suppressed rounds started coming in from their six, smacking into the heavy rucks on their backs. They had just fallen in right in front of a Spetsnaz team – one heading the same direction they were, and on the same tasking.

  To secure the hospital.

  * * *

  “Doc, you gotta get those barricades open – and get ready to shut ’em again. We’re coming in hot, bandits on our six!”

  Lovell neither hailed first, nor waited for an acknowledgement after – and half of what Walker heard was breathing and gunfire anyway. She immediately went from supervising the dismantling of the barricade to throwing people out of the way to get in and do it herself.

  “Go, go, go!” she barked, propping her shotgun against the wall, and heaving crap out of the way. “Look lively!” But she ran a very tight ship, and had already organized every man and woman under her command into an improvised but effective defense. And if what was required now was undoing what they had just done, then that would happen quickly and efficiently as well.

  When there was enough room cleared, and the double hatches got yanked open, Walker was already out them, with the hospital NSF guard right behind her. Both instantly found themselves f
acing two hurtling Marines, about fifty feet out – and a pursuing force of boarders behind them. Walker held her fire with the shotgun while barking at the shore patrolman to start putting out rounds. He stole a doubtful and panicked look across at her, but she was already sliding the shotgun across the deck back inside, and drawing her pistol.

  When she started shooting around and between the two sprinting Marines, putting out covering fire right through their two-man line in the narrow passageway, the NSF guy swallowed his fear and did the same, his high-velocity rounds hugging the right bulkhead. “Shoot faster!” Walker said. Covering fire had to be heavy, or it didn’t fucking work. They both emptied their magazines as the Marines crashed into them, and Walker spun around as she saw Lovell squinting and aiming his rifle down the passageway behind her.

  But they both held their fire, making way for the armed woman hurtling at them from the opposite direction. It was Sarah Cameron, arriving at the same instant as the Marines, and not an instant too soon. As rounds cut the air around them, and skittered down the bulkheads and the deck, the motley group of five pulled each other inside and tumbled through the double-wide entryway, as nurses and paramedics slammed both hatches, dogged them – and started rebuilding the barricade.

  Lovell and the NSF guy were both on the ground, tangled up.

  And both SGT Patrick and LCDR Walker had been shot.

  * * *

  Up in the main passageway on the gallery deck, the highest internal level of the ship below the flight deck, Derwin and his force of three NSF sailors led Commander Drake warily but quickly aft. They had just roused and retrieved him from his quarters, bringing his long mental-health leave to a quick and unceremonious end. But word was Commander Abrams had been killed in the smash-mouth fighting on the bridge, and there was no one left to lead them. The ship, the crew, needed him back.

  And their objective now was: the island.

  Drake seemed perfectly willing to get killed retaking it. But Derwin would have liked to at least keep his four-man team alive long enough to try. These included Morgan, who had very recently been a Storekeeper – as well as MacCauley, who Derwin had not long ago learned used to be a damned bank robber, one of Burns’s survivor group. The last, Petty Officer Third Class Hester, was also the smallest, at about five foot two in her Bates boots, slightly dwarfed even by her rifle. But she was also the only career NSF sailor there, and the only one other than Derwin with complete training and some operational experience.

  Moving toward an intersection of passageways, Derwin slowed the group a little. It was him and Hester in front, Drake safe (or “safe”) in the middle, and Morgan and MacCauley in the rear. All had their weapons out and up, level with the deck, fingers twitching alongside trigger housings. Derwin nodded to Hester, motioning her to clear left while he went right. As soon as he did, he heard her yelp from behind him. Turning, he saw she had literally run into a force of six MARSOC Marines.

  When everyone stood down, and no one had gotten shot, Commander Drake moved up to one of their fire team leaders, Corporal Meyer. “What’s your plan?” he asked.

  “Retake the bridge, sir.” Implicit in his tone was: obviously.

  Drake nodded, respect evident on his face. “I like where your head is at. But they’ll have fortified the shit out of it by this point – and probably wired it up with explosives, as well. Even if your team alone managed to drive them out, they’d just blow it up.”

  “Yes, sir,” Meyer said. “But the ship is underway. With respect, these Communist dick-sucks might be sailing us back to fucking St. Petersburg right now. Sir.”

  Drake smiled and clapped the Marine on his body armor. “You’re not wrong. But we don’t need to retake the bridge to stop the ship.”

  “Sir?”

  “I could tell you, devil dog, but then I’d have to kill you. Try to, at least.”

  “Fuck it, sir, I have every intention of getting killed today anyway.”

  “Good man,” Drake said, raising his side arm. “Follow me.”

  This time he headed out at the front of both teams.

  * * *

  As medical personnel piled up the last heavy objects in front of the hospital’s double hatch, the five evacuees from the passageway got themselves untangled. All were winded and borderline panicked – all except Walker herself, who calmly reloaded her pistol, holstered it, retrieved her shotgun from the deck, and resumed directing the defense – even as one of her people got her arm wound wrapped up. It didn’t look serious.

  Or she wasn’t taking it seriously, anyway.

  Lovell, getting his breath back as he got the giant ruck of ammo and explosives off his back, could see it in her eyes in an instant: Walker was purely operational now. She was a warrior. And she was never, never going to abandon this post. She would expend every pistol round she had, and every shotgun shell she could scavenge. And then she would spend her life.

  She was home. This station, this ship, were it for her.

  As she finished issuing orders to the front-rank defenders, and rounded on Lovell, he handed her a brace of M9 pistol mags from his bag of whoop-ass, and then said, “Is Doc Park in the lab?” But then he saw Sarah Cameron already moving fast in that direction, not waiting for an answer.

  “That’s affirmative,” Campbell said, taking the mags, putting one in the empty pouch on her belt, and shoving the others in her pockets.

  Lovell nodded at Patrick, who had been shot in the leg – also a through-and-through flesh wound, and also already being wrapped up by a nurse. As Lovell took the huge ruck with the CRRC in it off his back, he asked Patrick, “You okay?”

  “Fine. Good to go.”

  Lovell smiled. “Hey, if you’re gonna get shot, right outside the hospital is definitely the place for it.”

  Patrick flicked him the bird.

  Still, as Lovell looked back and forth between Patrick and Walker, at the faces of these two wounded warriors, neither of them so much as grimaced. Lovell could understand it with Patrick. It was the Marine mentality not to admit that a wound had gotten the best of you. “Never let the bastards see you coming out prone,” was what they always said.

  LCDR Walker, on the other hand… while she might have been in kinetic situations before, as far as Lovell knew she had never been shot at before – never mind shot. On the other hand, she would have treated an awful lot of gunshot wounds, so maybe she wasn’t intimidated by them. Maybe it was the adrenaline making her insensitive to the pain. Maybe it was her protectiveness over her brood, and her understanding of what leadership required – that if she showed pain or fear, everyone under her would succumb to it.

  Maybe she was just a pure badass.

  * * *

  Lovell told Patrick, “Stay and help with the defense. I’ll be back.” And he headed out fast, or as fast as he could dragging a deflated zodiac in a bag and a giant ruck of ammo and explosives, backing through the hospital and finally catching up with Sarah just outside the lab. They both moved inside, fast – Lovell not even noticing the badly wounded Marine, Corporal Raible, lying on his bed just outside.

  Inside the lab, both Dr. Simon Park and Professor Close, the Oxford bioscientist, stood at the back of the room – both looking wide-eyed at the door. Sarah went straight to Park.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Fine,” he said. “I figured you’d be coming.”

  “Sorry I didn’t get here quicker.”

  “I’m fine, too,” Dr. Close said.

  Sarah smiled at him. “Good to know.” She looked back to Park. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “I know.” Park didn’t look panicked – he’d been through the wringer enough times now that he didn’t rattle – but Close did.

  Lovell dropped the straps of both bags and then stepped forward, and he looked Park in the eye. “Listen up, Doc. I’m going to need you to gather up everything – all your data, all your research materials, as much as you can carry – and be ready to go.”

  Both Pa
rk and Sarah looked at him.

  “Go where?” Sarah asked. “Aren’t we trapped in here?”

  “There’s always a way out,” Lovell said. “And if this ship falls… he can’t be on it.” He unclipped his rifle and laid it on a lab bench. “Come on. Show me what you need, and I’ll help you gather it up.”

  Sarah moved to assist, but as she did so, her pocket rang, to her considerable surprise. It was the satphone Handon had given her. She got it out, found the answer button, and took the call, as she watched the other three moving through the lab at high speed.

  “Go for Cameron. Handon? Oh, my God—”

  But before she could say or hear more, they all heard the sound of heavy objects crashing to the deck, urgent shouting in two languages, and then rapid firing, all coming from outside in the hospital. And they all pretty much knew what that was.

  Spetsnaz fighting their way in through the barricade.

  Last Man Standing

  JFK – 02 Deck

  Browning was one of the few NSF personnel still left alive from the very beginning, and so now one of the most experienced. He was also, in addition to being a crack shot, one of the steadiest men in the unit. He wasn’t a born leader, but Derwin had no choice but to work with what he had. Particularly since what he had was being reduced out from under him in real time.

  So it was that Browning now led a four-man NSF team toward the hospital, with orders to link up with Sarah Cameron and help protect Dr. Park – “no matter what.” Browning didn’t know that Derwin was using Wesley’s exact words. But it didn’t matter. He understood the importance of the assignment, and was determined to complete it.

  He moved forward with his three junior shore patrolmen behind – the old salty dog Rob Callum, and the young kids Dooley and Kate, all of whom had very recently been rated as Storekeepers (Third Class in the case of the younger two). All three had been drafted into NSF after Wesley saw them perform well in the Captain’s In Extremis Force, clearing the flight deck in the Battle of the JFK.