by Nick Cole
“Set it here, man,” ordered Ramirez. “Okay, let’s get those bodies out of the elevator now.”
They dragged the two large men out into the darkened office and over behind another cubicle a few feet away.
“If it helps,” grunted Ramirez as he strained with the one known as Warren, “I saw these two rape a girl three nights ago and then shoot her in the head.”
Braddock said nothing.
Whatever it takes. That’s what Darling had said.
“Things gettin’ crazy and these two are running amok. Way I see it, they got what they deserved.”
Braddock knew guys like Ramirez. Guys who were almost cold-blooded killers. Almost. Guys like Ramirez needed to justify the terrible things they did.
“Alright,” said Ramirez with a breathy sigh. “Let’s get that bomb open.”
The sound of helicopters a couple floors above rose and fell as their blades beat at the hot air, creating sudden thunderous whump whump whumps as they lifted off from the rooftop helipad.
Ramirez opened the case and stared the dirty nuclear bomb right in the face. Then he smiled.
“Lemme see your knife.”
Braddock pulled his tactical knife from its hip sheath, flipped it and offered the hilt. Ramirez took it and held out both hands like he was hovering over a Thanksgiving Day turkey. As though he couldn’t decide whether he wanted white meat or dark.
Then he went to the side, well clear of the arming mechanism, all lights still in the green, over and through some wiring he moved aside with his free hand, and right down into the actual old soviet bomb. A suitcase bomb. A bomb for spies. A bomb built back when Reagan had gone to Iceland and the SR-71 still photographed parking spots down at the Kremlin to decide who was in and who was out that week. The bomb, the last of the old, cold warriors, thought Braddock.
Ramirez slipped the combat knife under the main housing, took a breath, held it, and lifted. Gently. When the bomb was raised to barely half an inch, he slithered the knife over against the side of the case and used it as a wedge to keep the bomb up off the bottom of the case.
Then he took one long finger and slipped it down underneath the bomb, his head looking up and seeing nothing, his finger doing all the finding.
“Got it,” he muttered.
Braddock was perplexed, but he said nothing. He’d never seen a bomb disarmed like this before. In fact, he was convinced the kid wasn’t even disarming the bomb. He had to restrain himself from shooting the kid in the head. But then he remembered what Darling had told him. Do whatever it takes.
The kid worked for a moment longer and then teased an envelope out from beneath the bomb. It was a wide envelope. The paper was old. Brown. There was even a wax seal.
“What is it?” asked Braddock.
“No idea,” replied Ramirez, holding it up to the orange light coming from the windows. “But this is what the whole op was about.” The envelope was old. It was thin. The wax seal had melted, even chipped away in one corner of the impression. But it was there, still sealing the envelope. “I only know that Mr. Steele wants it.”
Ramirez tucked the envelope in his cargo pocket and pulled out a device from another pocket. It looked like a cheap cell phone. It was purple.
“Tracker,” he mumbled to Braddock. “We don’t need the bomb anymore.”
“Then why track it?”
“He wants to know where the bomb is, I guess. I don’t know and… I don’t ask.” Then Ramirez looked up and Braddock knew that “asking” wasn’t a good thing when it came to Mr. Steele.
Once the tracker was installed, Ramirez closed the metal case and hefted it off the desk with a grunt. He walked over to another cubicle and hid it under the desk.
“Now comes the hard part.” Ramirez smiled, dark eyes flashing. “We gotta get off this tower.”
Chapter Sixteen
When the elevator stopped at the top floor, Braddock knew what he’d find. People. Lots of people, waiting in line. Angry people, frightened people, people waiting to get a priceless seat on the last ride out of the end of the world. And the armed Marines you always find in such places.
The elevator opened on an enclosed atrium with massive windows that looked out into the haze, smog and black smoke of a burning Los Angeles withering under the assault of the afternoon heat. Helicopters circled above the helipad or hovered nearby, waiting for the helipad on the roof to open up so the pilots could make their approach and take on more survivors. Ramirez led the way to the outside doors as a massive twin rotor Chinook lifted off from the roof and turned west for Marina Del Rey.
“This guy gets on the next bird, alone,” announced Ramirez as they approached the two Marines guarding the door that led outside to the helipad.
“Like hell…”
“General Hirsh. Right now,” ordered Ramirez.
The sergeant made a face, rolled his eyes and tapped the two way radio on his chest above his ammo pouches. “Hey LT, this is Watts down at the gate… we got a priority transport from General Hirsh.” The LT said something that got lost in the beating blades of the next incoming rescue chopper approaching the roof. But Watts understood. “Checking,” he muttered at Ramirez, then turned to watch the survivors queued up along the railed walkway leading to the helipad above.
A moment later they were cleared for the roof, and they walked through the glass doors leading out into the sky above Downtown LA. The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air. Survivors watched them, their faces haunted, even tear-stained as Ramirez pushed through them with Braddock following, up onto one of the two ladders leading to the helipad. Twenty Marines surrounded the helipad along with a ground crew and an air traffic control team busy directing the landings. A news helicopter was on the pad, and Marines were helping women and children into the passenger compartment beneath the whirling blades. Other Marines were carrying camera equipment and throwing it over the side of the tallest downtown building and onto the waiting zombies below.
The lieutenant in charge, bent low, crossed the pad and signaled for Ramirez to come forward.
“What’s this all about?” he shouted, as the pilot of the news helicopter put in the collective throttle, and the chopper struggled off the landing pad. A moment later it was gone and heading west.
“General Hirsh says you got the next bird…” shouted the officer. “Three of you. I only count two.”
Ramirez leaned in close to the LT and Braddock couldn’t hear what was said as a Marine Blackhawk approached the helipad. All around them, LA seemed like a dead thing, bleached and bloating. The sun beat down on the washed-out city below as a yellow and gray haze hung just above the streets. Distant lone columns of black smoke rose throughout the undisturbed, still air. Braddock could see mobs of Infected down below in the city moving like ants, closing in on some unseen prize. Moving like locusts, in waves that seemed to draw the eye and blacken out the details of a city once full of life.
Braddock watched Ramirez come back down the ladder and knew that everything wasn’t going according to plan by the dark cloud he saw on the kid’s face.
“No good!” shouted the LT down at Ramirez, standing up near the top of the ladder. Then the officer turned back to check the Blackhawk idling on the pad. He signaled the Marines guarding the survivors’ queue at the other ladder to let the next bunch through. The Marines began to tap the next twenty survivors as they rushed though in a single line, heads down, toward the waiting chopper. The LT turned back and glared down at Ramirez. “I don’t have to like it. General says you got three, fine. You only got two. It’s a waste to give up one chopper for two men. You get the General to come up here now and clear this, or you can wait like the rest.” Then he turned back to the helipad, shouting more unheard orders above the whine of the Blackhawk’s rising turbines.
“Stand by, we’re going with plan B,” said Ramirez and took a cell phone similar t
o the one he’d used as a tracker from one of his cargo pockets and texted a quick message. Braddock could see the text. It read, “Plan B. Standing by.”
Ramirez turned away from the landing crew, facing the wall and drew the small .22 automatic. Braddock watched as Ramirez pulled the slide back and put a bullet in the chamber.
So that’s how it is, thought Braddock.
Whatever it takes.
He checked the MP5, unscrewed the silencer and stuffed it back in a pocket on his ruck. No need for silence now, he thought. He knew the pistol strapped to his leg was loaded. He’d made sure in the elevator. The safety was off and a round was waiting in the chamber.
Now the Blackhawk lifted off from the helipad and climbed toward the west through smoke and into the milky sun that was beginning its fall toward the horizon.
A slate-gray Huey transport, Vietnam era, subdued black lettering that read Tarragon 26, dived out of the holding pattern and crabbed sideways toward the landing pad. The cargo door slid back and a large man began to fire a mounted machine gun at the Marines on the helipad as the helicopter came in fast for a landing. Some Marines scattered, while others went down under a bright hail of steady heavy machine gunfire.
“Move,” said Ramirez as he scrambled up the ladder with the pistol in his hand. The LT was sprinting toward the ladder, running for cover when Ramirez put two in the Marine’s chest as he reached the top. Braddock followed close behind Ramirez. An alarm klaxon was going off. Marines scrambled for cover.
Ramirez and Braddock made the helipad as the chopper flared and slammed down onto the structure, causing the metal support girders to briefly groan. Survivors were screaming and running for the inside of the tower. Dead Marines lay along the landing pad as Braddock and Ramirez bent low and raced for the chopper.
The large man working the gun had a buzz cut and a face chiseled from a granite slab. He wore mirrored aviator shades and there was little emotion on his face as he cut down the few Marines trying to fire back from the roof of the tower. Ramirez climbed into the helicopter first, as Braddock stepped onto the skids and turned back to provide cover. A Marine from the air traffic control crew took aim with a pistol and unloaded an entire clip. Braddock heard a metallic Clang as one of the bullets managed to hit something nearby. He aimed and cut down the Marine with a short burst from the MP5, as he reached back and grabbed a cargo strap inside the bird.
“Go!” he shouted at the pilot.
The chopper rose immediately from the pad and pivoted, knocking a Marine who was rushing and firing at them off the building and into the mass of infected zombies below. Braddock felt himself pulled backward by the sudden change in inertia as the chopper dove for the streets below. The big man at the gun was still firing at the rooftop helipad, still dropping Marines with an uncanny ability to target and put rounds into Marines from a wildly moving helicopter.
The chopper pilot yanked the bird toward the left and followed a downtown street for a few blocks to put other buildings between the aircraft and the Marines still firing from the top of the tower. South of the city, the chopper climbed a few hundred feet and leveled out over the car-jammed 10 freeway, heading east. By that time, Braddock was strapped in and facing the rear of the cargo deck. Ramirez and another man, a sniper who’d been at the other cargo door were seated next to the big man who handed a pair of headphones across to Braddock. Braddock put them on and plugged into a jack in the ceiling. The sniper stared out the window at the cityscape rushing by, watching as mobs of zombies surrounded liquor stores or trapped cars or just seemed like frozen statues, alone and everywhere at once. Ramirez was busy reloading his pistol.
“…Ten minutes to LZ Firestorm, boss,” the pilot was busy saying over the dull hum of the onboard intercom. “Bravo team reports fires set and in full effect.”
The big man was holding his hand up to his cheek. Blood seeped through his massive fingers. “Roger,” he replied to the pilot flatly. “Tell Captain Andrews to return to base.”
Then the big man pulled away a section of his cheek with his hands, exposing more blood. Braddock watched with fascination as the man refused to flinch while pulling away torn skin. When he finished, he tossed the scrap of flesh out into the rushing wind beyond the cargo door and pressed his hand to his cheek once more.
“Ramirez,” said the big man in his flat monotone. “Give me the package and the tracker.” He held out his other hand. Ramirez dove into his cargo pockets, produced both cell phone and the envelope they’d found underneath the suitcase dirty bomb, then handed them over. The big man stuffed both into one of his jungle camo fatigue chest pockets with one hand while he continued to press on the wound to his cheek with the other.
“Captain Braddock,” began the big man. “I’m Mr. Steele. Your mission is complete. You will accompany me back to base where you will take charge of Echo Team.”
After a moment, Braddock nodded.
Whatever it takes.
Twelve months ago, the CIA had brought Braddock and a dozen other operators in for an eyes-only briefing. Someone was recruiting out of the private contractor community for something domestic. Something big. That someone needed to be put down.
Twelve months ago Jack Braddock and the other operators were discharged from active service and sent out to find that someone. Their mission was to join one of the many private contractor security firms and find out who was recruiting for the big project. There would be only sporadic contact with their handlers and once they got close, they were to identify the target. But in the twelve months since the operation had started, no one had managed to get close to finding out who the target was. Instead, there were only disappearances and dead operators.
But one thing kept coming up, a name, over and over again.
Mr. Steele.
In the twelve months of Operation Castle, every operator knew only one thing. Had only one objective. No matter what, even if the United States government was no more, or even the United States itself for that matter was gone, no matter what, find out who Mr. Steele was and terminate him.
With Extreme Prejudice.
The chopper dove over a hill and descended into the smoke filled valley, aiming for the San Gabriels and Pasadena.
Jack Braddock faced three men in the speeding chopper. A sniper. An assassin. And what his handler at the CIA’s most unknown arm, an office everyone simply called the Boons, had once told Braddock was probably the most dangerous man in the world.
“LZ in sight, boss,” said the chopper pilot over the intercom.
The foothills above Pasadena were on fire as tract homes and long streets lined with sprawling houses burned to the ground while flaming palm trees danced in sudden hot gusts. Braddock looked out the cargo door and watched as the chopper circled a small cul-de-sac nestled behind some hills. There were a few dead bodies on the lawns and one in the middle of the street below.
“LZ clear just like Captain Andrews said it would be,” announced the pilot.
“Take us down,” said the big man.
The pilot circled low over the post-modern single story houses in the cul-de-sac, built back after World War 2. Sprawling, blocky, glass and flat roofed structures on large lots that would start as homes for the parents of baby boomers and go on to be fixer-uppers in the valley to those same babies once they became up and coming film directors and power player industry execs. None of the houses in the cul-de-sac were on fire.
The helicopter settled into the middle of the circular dead end street and the pilot shut down the engines, the electronics, and finally the APU. The rotor blades slowly spun to a stop. Still holding his cheek, Mr. Steele exited the bird and Braddock followed.
“We’re good to go,” shouted the pilot from the open side window in the overwhelming silence caused by the absence of helicopter engine noise.
Mr. Steele walked out to the entrance of the cul-de-sac. Houses leading do
wn the hill, all along the streets and down onto the valley floor were on fire. Downtown LA was hidden behind a low row of foothills.
Terminate, remembered Braddock. With extreme prejudice.
That was the mission.
But Darling… she’d said, see where it goes. And then, “Whatever it takes.”
Braddock’s hands remained exactly where they were as he stood ten paces behind Mr. Steele. He knew he could put an entire clip in the big man’s back in under five seconds.
He listened to Ramirez utter a soft groan behind him as the kid stepped out on to the silent street, the Whoosh and roar of the firestorm all around and somehow distant from this once perfectly planned community of the future. Conceived back when an Atom bomb was the scariest thing man could scare other men with. Braddock thought about the twelve frustrating months of chasing the most dangerous figment of the intelligence community’s imagination. And now that figment was standing right in front of him. His back to Braddock. Braddock felt his mind getting ready to send the impulse to his muscles that would cause him to draw and shoot so fast that both actions would seem simultaneous. Braddock knew he’d make Ramirez’s speed look like old syrup sliding down a half empty bottle.
Except… the target had taken a bullet straight to the face.
And it hadn’t bothered him one bit.
Braddock watched as the big man, Mr. Steele, let the hand that had been holding the wound to his cheek fall to his side. Then there was a moment…
A moment when the world could still go on.
A moment Braddock knew he’d never see the other side of.
Braddock would think of this moment in all the days that remained to him. As if…
…as if what was, wasn’t supposed to have ever happened.
“You’ll just go all the way to the end of the world, Jack, won’tcha? ‘Cause you’re too stupid to quit.”
Someone said that, once.
Mr. Steele reached his bloody hand into his chest pocket and came out with the metallic purple cell phone. Braddock watched as the big man rapidly entered a series of numbers on the touch screen.
