by JK Franks
The pilot stopped forward momentum and dropped cleanly to the small deck with an efficient and practiced motion. Several men greeted Todd and Scott and helped them load up. The helicopter rose before the cabin door was slid shut. They picked up headsets from the seats, buckled in and said good morning to the naval aircrew.
Scott spoke again into the microphone, “I guess we woke up the AG.”
“Probably,” came Todd’s reply. “Although it’s hard to hear much of anything from the passenger decks. I told Bartos to make an announcement if people took notice. And I told him and Angel to keep an eye on that storm.”
The storm. Scott looked out over the dark sea. Everything looked calm, but somewhere several hundred miles south it was building. “So, the entire schedule is predicated on this storm?”
Todd nodded, “Yeah. It’s expected to be quite a blow. Garret thinks it will help cover the insertion. Navy SEALs don’t need clear skies.”
“What about the AG? Will she be okay?”
Todd nodded, “She should be fine, even in a major hurricane. This one’s just a strong tropical storm. All the same, I told the bridge crew to run the radar several times a day to keep track of it.”
The trip took them several hours, and the morning sky was lightening when they first saw the gray flotilla from several miles out. The announcement came over their headsets: “Traveler two-eight, this is flight. You are clear to land on the aft deck.”
The chopper was heading for the lone carrier in the small grouping of ships. They touched down gently, and the men stepped onto the busy, noisy tarmac of the floating runaway. An officer wearing a blue cap with USS Bataan embroidered in gold escorted them toward the bridge wing.
Commander Garret greeted them warmly. Scott thought the man had aged considerably since he’d last seen him the previous year. He liked Garret, thought he was a man with remarkable conviction and intelligence. Scott understood why Todd was so loyal to the man, and to his mission.
Once inside, the sounds from the flight deck were much less noticeable.
“Gentlemen, glad you could join us. Your help on this mission is extremely valuable to us.”
“Did you change ships?” Scott asked. “Where’s the rest of your fleet?”
“No, Scott, just over here for this mission. Much of our fleet is involved in another operation. The Bataan is a Wasp-class carrier, and beyond flight operations, it has some special attributes including the best medical facilities in the fleet. We even have full level-four containment facilities if we need them. I will be transferring back to my command flagship tomorrow or the next day.”
Todd asked, “Do we have a schedule yet?”
“Not precisely. The storm is strengthening but also slowing its northern progression. We need to be ready to go when it arrives. I wanted to go ahead and get you guys out before we turn south. The Bataan will get within fifty miles of the platform and hold position. We don’t think they can spot us that far out, but we’ve also located several derelict vessels drifting in the Gulf currents at about that same spot and plan to stick with that mass in case the ship is detected. Best guess on time is forty-eight to seventy-two hours from now. In that time, we’ll get you guys kitted out, go over comms, talk you through the operation and, of course, introduce you to the rest of the team. For now, Ensign Patillo will escort you to your cabins.” A young man took the bags from both men and led them away.
Several hours later, Garret introduced the insertion team with a minimum of formality. The nearly two-dozen men and women looked battle-hardened and very capable for the fight ahead.
Garret turned to introduce Todd and Scott. “These men are civilians with a unique perspective on the bio-lab’s status and medical team. They also helped us determine the lab’s actual location. While they are not combatants, you need to pay attention to what they have to say. They know the risks, and more importantly, they know the friendlies.”
Todd deferred to Scott when it came to doing the talking. Scott brought the group up to speed on DJ and the research teams. The special ops battlegroup was already aware of the pathogen’s lethality. Scott did not want to sugarcoat it. “Guys, listen, it will never be more serious than this. If you do not secure that lab, the samples and the researchers, it may be the end for all of us, I don’t just mean the people in this room. Everything!” He drew the last word out for emphasis.
“I know your training and mission-op probably says treat everyone as the enemy until you know otherwise. In this case, that could be catastrophic. That research team is our only hope to find a cure for this disease—a disease that’s wiping human civilization off the face of the Earth. From what our man on the inside says, none of these scientists is our enemy. In fact, it seems that for the most part, they are clueless as to what’s going on outside that lab. Most believe they are still doing important work for DARPA. They are not our enemy. I know that throws a challenging element into the mission, but I can’t stress this enough.”
The planning of the mission had been ongoing since Todd provided Garret with the lab’s location. Scott was surprised to learn that the SEALs were trained to both attack and defend oil rigs. This was good news.
“Oil platforms offer very appealing targets to terrorists,” one of the SEAL commandos explained. “Not only does occupation offer the prospect for interfering with the flow of oil and the destruction of a valued asset, but there’s also the potential to cause a large-scale environmental disaster. Think of the problems resulting from the Deepwater Horizon oil spill near here.”
Todd whistled. “Never considered it, but it makes sense.”
The Navy SEAL, whose name was Perez, continued, “Infiltrating a rig is not an easy task. Be much easier just to destroy it—launch missiles at it and watch it burn—but on most of our training missions we had to assume it was a hostage situation and, of course, be cognizant of the environmental damage that destruction would cause. These big rigs hold tens of thousands of gallons of oil and often have multiple drills and pumping lines flowing up from the seabed, as well as a pipeline transporting oil and natural gas away to pumping stations. We’ve worked for years on tactics for a scenario like this.”
“Care to share any of it with us?” Scott asked. He and Todd were beginning to get comfortable with the men.
Perez and another man nodded, “We’ve been cleared to give you the basics. The problem is the approach. We must assume they have radar looking out, CCTV cameras pointing down and a tremendous sight advantage thanks to their elevation. There’s really only one way that’s viable.”
The other man chimed in: “From above.”
“Above? Won’t they hear that?” Todd asked.
“Not with what we’re going to use,” Perez said with a grin. “We have a couple of stealth choppers that will deliver some of the crew by fast ropes to the top deck. They will be supported by other assault teams coming in from other locations.”
As they got down to the actual operations, Scott had to admit it seemed plausible. As the first team dropped from the stealth choppers, another team would be approaching underwater via Swimmer Delivery Vehicle: essentially a small ride-on submarine. The last and largest force would be coming in using the Navy’s M80 Stiletto—a fast attack craft designed to present little or no profile on radar—and a new, experimental Safehaven Barracuda Interceptor—a small stealth craft that was both extremely fast and resilient. These forces were to be backed up by long-range snipers placed on neighboring platforms and regular attack choppers once the offensive began.
“As you can see,” Perez said, “the worsening weather is vital to masking these multiple approaches but does also present a much higher degree of difficulty.”
Scott made eye contact with the man, “You guys are aware of how good the men and equipment you’re going up against are, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Praetor units were handpicked from elite branches of service all over the world. Their training is as good as ours, and their weaponry may even be bett
er.”
Scott knew that it had to be difficult for the man to admit this. “Perez, you and your men must assume they are the best. That they will not make mistakes. They believe they are right just as much as you believe you are. In their minds, they are defending civilians who are trying to save the world from a pandemic. Your plan is good . . . but is it good enough to defeat Praetor and preserve the lab and its scientists?”
The SEAL commander, a large man named Ramos, spoke up at this point. The man had remained silent thus far. “Mr. Montgomery, you make an excellent point, and as we all know from experience, no plan ever survives first contact. We will have to improvise and adapt to whatever our enemy presents us with. We may take losses. It is likely that not everyone in this room will return. My team knows the risks, but they also understand the cost of failure. We will not fail.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Grenada, Mississippi
“Pete, where in the fuck are we?”
Pete looked at Hawley’s ruined face. Burned hair and blackened skin surrounded raw tissue that was struggling to heal. “I don’t fucking know. Somewhere near a town called Grenada. Maybe a hundred miles down to Jackson, Mississippi.”
Hawley watched Michael; the man looked much less like a prophet now—more like a pauper. The ferocity of the attacks in Memphis had taken them completely by surprise. The drone attacks took out thousands of God’s Army along with most of the technical trucks and their heavier mounted guns. They’d even destroyed the Jesus Bus. Then came the jets, which had pursued them for miles, until they were deep into Mississippi. Hawley had been next to a Humvee when it was hit by a rocket, the blast from which incinerated two men near him. The Messengers had been divided by the coordinated attacks; most of the surviving ground forces were still over on the Arkansas side of the Mississippi River, but they, too, were heading south. What remained of the Messengers was the core of the movement, Michael assured them: the true followers of the Prophet. The conscripts that had been used as cannon fodder lay dead in the fields, forest and rivers around Memphis.
Hawley looked over at his leader with pity. “Michael, we aren’t strong enough to hit Jackson. We lost too many men and too much equipment. I suggest we hunker down and tend to our injuries.” They had been going nonstop for days with little food, no sleep and countless injuries that required more treatment than they could provide. They had been tossing out more dead and dying hour upon hour. Hawley estimated that less than 4,000 of the original 15,000 in God’s Army remained alive. “We need to find food . . .” he breathed heavily, “nearly all of our supply trucks were destroyed.”
Michael looked up and spoke with quiet fury in his voice. “The Lord will provide.”
“Fuck that,” Pete replied in anger. “We need food and water, not religion. This whole fucking crusade is a sham. Everyone knows—”
The sentence died on his lips moments before the pistol disappeared back into the folds of Michael’s robe. The echo of the gunshot sounded through the forest.
“Hawley, get that out of my sight.” He kicked Pete’s body with the toe of his boot. “Send out patrols to find food and set us a route east of Jackson; somewhere remote . . . somewhere peaceful. Keep trying to contact the other groups and tell them where to rendezvous. Also . . .” Michael toyed with the medallion around his neck, “have we heard anything else from our friend? The one who was trying to get into the town with the cruise ship?”
Several hours later they were gathered in a small copse of trees overlooking a clearing near a large lake. “So, what in the fuck is that?” Hawley asked Michael.
“It appears to be some sort of school or camp,” Michael said, lowering the field glasses. “Send in whatever Judges we have left to round ’em up first.”
“Yes, sir,” Hawley sighed, exhausted. He could tell the old Michael was coming back around. They had all been hit hard by the recent defeat, but Michael worst of all. He had all but dropped the role of the Prophet now and returned simply to the ruthless, bloodsucking bastard that had originally started the band of mercenaries that would become the Messengers.
The camp that they’d stumbled upon, hiding here in the deep forest of the Pearl River State Wildlife Management area, was once a Boy Scout jamboree site. Along with the Boy Scouts and the odd scout leader were numerous stragglers from the area, including over three hundred surviving grad students and their freeloading friends from the Mississippi Valley State University up in Itta Bena, Mississippi. The refuge had become a millennials’ haven thanks to the Scouts’ know-how and ample food supplies from the surrounding lakes, river and forest. The scenes that had played out over the last ten months resembled Orwell’s Animal Farm. Most of the group was male; those now in charge had once been the affluent older college boys. They were also the ones who did the least work.
Matthew Baker was an Eagle Scout. He had not yet been to college. He didn’t much care for the group here anymore, but he also had no idea how to get home. Home for him was just north of Charleston, South Carolina, and like all the other people here, he had no car or way out; the Scouts had all come by bus from Jackson last August. The jamboree was supposed to last two weeks. Then the lights went out, buses quit running and phones and radios died. Since then, the group of over 2,000 Scouts from all over the South had dwindled down to just a few hundred.
They had done their best once they realized they were on their own. As others found the camp, they learned more of what had gone on out in the world and had decided to stick it out where they were. They had developed a system based on skills, kept the campsite pristine, learned to purify water, and made do with the basics. Then busloads of college kids began showing up.
Matthew couldn’t blame them for wanting to find a safe place of refuge, but why did it have to be here? The grounds had quickly become filthy with litter and feces. Mud had replaced grass; they had no respect for the place. If the truth be known, he’d have rather been at home playing video games, too, but he also liked Scouting and took satisfaction from being self-sufficient. Scouting had taught him more about himself than it did about bushcraft or survival.
He heard the approaching sounds of motorcycles as he was returning to the camp with fresh water. He ducked down to hide immediately, knowing the sounds did not bode well. He left the larger water containers, tightened his pack and jogged deeper into the nearby woods.
Two hours later, Michael and the remainder of the main command battalion of Messengers rolled into the clearing. The Judges had surrounded the campground and marched everyone back inside the muddy tent. “Fuck, it stinks down here,” one of the men said. “They were living like pigs,” echoed another.
Michael stepped down and walked to the edge of the assembled group of young men. “It smells like loneliness and masturbation. What did you do with all the girls?” All of Michael’s men laughed. “Who’s in charge here?” A young man with a stained and torn college sweatshirt on stepped forward and proudly said, “I am.” Michael shot him in the head. “Nope…wrong answer, college-boy. One more time, who’s in charge here?”
“You are,” came several stuttering and frightened responses.
“Alright, you totally awesome millennial snowflakes, listen up! You’re special and unique and all that horseshit. We all know you are loved and adored and missed by your families. I would absolutely love to take the time to get to know each and every one of you, but, well… honestly, I’m working through some issues right now, and I am a bit on edge. But listen…and this is really important. I need you to put away all your participation trophies and forget about updating your Facebook status because, well…all you bastards are about to die.” With that he stepped back out of the circle of men and gave the signal, and the gathered Judges began firing into the crowd without mercy. Every one of the nearly 600 campers was dead within seconds. All but one; Matthew watched in horror at the carnage from his hiding place.
“Fucking millennials,” said Hawley as he walked by the mass of bodies. “Burn ’em! Gather
the supplies and then burn it all.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Hawley was in too much pain from his injuries to concentrate on his job. With Pete gone, he’d had to promote two others to help take some of the load off: Cyrus, who’d been with them since Kansas, and a tall, Nordic-looking man named Iklin. Neither man appeared that happy with the promotion and were well aware of the fate the previous man with the title had met. With considerable effort, Hawley sat up from his makeshift bed and took the report.
“You’re telling me there are no reserves of food or supplies in this camp?”
“Correct, sir. It looks like just barely enough food to feed everyone a meal, two at best.”
Hawley shook his head. “Can’t be. How were they staying alive? Fuckin’ college boys couldn’t take care of themselves.”
“They have lots of snares, nets and fishing gear,” the large blonde man answered nervously. “Looks like they were hunting and fishing. Living off the land.”
Hawley picked a large piece of dead, blackened skin from his forearm, revealing the oozing and bloody meat below. “Well, ain't that just fuckin’ lovely? Cyrus, please tell me you have better news.”
“Yes, sir. The others are beginning to regroup, although they’re strung out all up the Arkansas line. They are making plans to cross over at Vicksburg and rejoin us. It’ll take them a few days, maybe a week. I told them to look for riverboats and trucks along the way to speed up their arrival.”
“Good idea,” Hawley nodded with his eyes closed.
“Sir, some of the news wasn’t as good. The . . . the commanders say the number of survivors is well below what we thought. Most of the injured have died or been left behind. Many more are dying on the trek south.”
