Seconds later the deadly ordnance slammed into the infested freighter right at the waterline and turned into an arrow of golden fire, punching through the ship, splitting the aging freighter into halves and coating both ends in a sheet of flame. The creatures roaming the deck were torn apart piece by piece and set alight.
The La Jolla waited and watched as the larger chunks sank into the Pacific while what floated on the surface burned. Then it slipped beneath the currents again, unsure of why it had taken such action but knowing the job had been done.
* * *
The clusters of radar contacts turned out to be exactly what Major Gant had hoped: the cavalry. Also as he had hoped, the hatch at the rear of the security booth next to the communications cabinet was, in fact, an emergency escape tunnel.
Given the choice between staying in the infested base or coming along as a prisoner, the guard chose the latter and helped lead Major Gant and Dr. Stacy out of the complex through a small, tube-like passage that deposited them on the eastern beach beyond the perimeter patrols.
Following Gant's instructions, Captain Campion landed his Sea Knight to extract the trio of survivors while ordering the rest of the ground forces to return to the task force.
A few stray shots from the base's external sentries rang off the skin of the dual-rotor helicopter as it took to the air, but the sound of approaching Harrier jets chased the mercenaries back into the jungle.
"Thank you for the lift, Captain," Gant told his comrade as the helicopter ascended and made for open water.
"Didn't think we'd see you again, sir," Campion said, then looked to Dr. Stacy, who sat with her eyes lowered. "Or you either, Doctor."
"It was close."
"Do you think we'll get anything out of him?" Campion nodded at the former security guard, who sat at the far end with Sargent Franco looming overhead.
"He will probably tell you all he knows, which will have something to do with an anonymous bank account, a mercenary group, and ignorance in regards to the operation's true goals. Beyond that he will most certainly be worthless."
Campion considered for a second and then asked, "What do you want us to do?"
Gant turned his head toward the rear of the helicopter, and while the ramp was closed he could see back across the water and into that den of horrors. He then turned to Dr. Stacy.
"Tell me again what you saw."
That sort of shook her from a daze.
"What? Oh, where? What?"
"Doctor Stacy, concentrate. You were telling me about the items you found in storage."
"Oh … um, I found what I thought was the Phaistos disc along with a lot of other artifacts that all seemed to come from the Minoans. They, um, they inhabited Crete in the Mediterranean up until around the fifteenth century, BC."
"Ma'am? Phaistos disc?" Campion asked as his mouth twisted. The topic of conversation was so far from his expectations that it was like biting into a sour lemon when expecting a taste of prime rib.
Stacy still struggled to maintain her focus, "Ah, um, well, a round disc of clay with symbols on it. There was assumed to be only one. Waters said there were more, that the one he had wasn't the original."
"And what does that have to do with the parasitic fungus Dr. Waters created?"
She answered Gant, "You were the one who said it first. You said it seemed like the thing didn't originate with them." Her focus sharpened a little more. "I found computers and biomathematics all around these artifacts."
Gant asked, "Biomathematics?"
Campion surprised him by answering: "Using mathematics to quantify biological systems."
Gant stared at the captain for a second and then turned back to Stacy and asked, "And?"
"And I think the formula for this thing originated from that disc. I think … my God … I think they were translating it, like deciphering some mathematical code, and that's how they got started with this whole thing."
Turbulence rocked the chopper. Straps and gear around the passenger compartment rattled for a few seconds before calming again.
"You don't get it, do you?" She alternated her attention between Campion and Gant. "There isn't a doctor or researcher today who could manufacture an organism like what Waters did. It wasn't just a fungus and it wasn't just a parasite. It was adapting. Not by evolving through generations but as individual organisms."
"I get the impression you consider that very important," Gant said.
"Listen. Animals, microbes, even viruses evolve when beneficial traits are passed on to their offspring. Like immunity to diseases. Your kids might fight off the common cold better because you had a mutation in your genes and passed it on to them."
Gant scratched his chin and replied, "On the island that gas Waters deployed knocked all the animated corpses down. But back at the base they weren't affected by it."
"Exactly. That type of resistance should have taken a long time to develop, and not every one of the parasites should have had it at once. Especially when you consider that Waters created that counteragent specifically to stop the things."
"So they evolved faster. So what?" Campion asked.
"That's unnatural. And we still don't really know where the original formula for the damn things came from. And for God's sake, are you understanding me when I tell you that it looks like that formula goes all the way back to an ancient civilization that didn't even have aspirin, let alone the medical knowledge to engineer a bioweapon? Am I the only one who is in shock over this?"
"I am afraid," Gant admitted, "that the rest of us do not have your historical perspective."
"Okay then," she said. "Imagine if you found out that Oppenheimer built the first atomic bomb based on a mathematical formula he found buried in King Tut's tomb! This isn't about Waters, it's not about some well-funded eco-terrorist group that wanted to wipe out half the world's population, it's not even about zombies. It's about that disc and what it might mean. We should turn around and go recover it."
"You mean salvage Waters's work?"
"No, I…" she stammered, knocked off balance as she remembered how worried she had been that Waters could paint all scientists with a broad, scary brush. "Not like he was using it. Not like that."
Of course Thom Gant remembered something different. He remembered his friend Brandon Twiste and all the questions he had asked. He remembered being scolded by Brandon that it was his job as a veteran soldier to make things better. To question, not just to follow. He also remembered holding his friend as he died deep inside the bowels of Red Rock in Pennsylvania.
In the midst of that rush of memories he saw the containment cells and laboratories back at Darwin. He wondered if that place — his home — was any better than the chamber of horrors that Monroe, Waters, and their mysterious sponsors had built on that hidden island.
Major Gant turned to Campion and asked, "This task force, Captain, does it have a lot of firepower?"
Campion nodded as he answered, "Yes, Major. Plenty."
"Then I need to speak to whoever is in charge."
"That would be me, Major."
Gant titled his head and a small, sly smile formed on his lips.
Campion added, "Ahoy."
"Okay then, Captain. I would like to request a strike package."
* * *
Jupiter Wells stood on the open-air observation deck atop the superstructure of the USS Peleliu wearing his black BDU bottoms but only a t-shirt on top. To either side of him, as well as in front and above, stood towers, antennas, radar domes, and other elements of the high-tech ship's electronic senses.
He stared out at the horizon through thin, tired eyes. His body had been pushed to the breaking point with exhaustion and dehydration and it would take some time to come all the way back.
Still, he enjoyed the fresh air, or at least the closest thing he could get to fresh air. The smell of aviation fuel sort of competed with the typical saltwater aroma, but that was a lot better than the stifling heat of a lava flow or a dense cloud of
smoke from a burning village.
Below, the crew of the Peleliu went about their business at a fast but focused pace as they orchestrated destruction.
A Harrier Jump Jet rose vertically from the deck, hovered, then rocketed off to the west with the bombs under its wings glistening in the thinning orange rays of sunset. A pair of SuperCobra attack helicopters followed the same route as the Harrier, albeit at a slightly slower pace and much lower in the sky.
Jupiter knew that he was witnessing the end of what had begun a couple of days ago with a high-altitude parachute drop in the middle of the night. Everything in between — from mobs of reanimated corpses to a man-made volcanic eruption — seemed a blur, as if it might be the fading memory of a bad dream.
Sal Galati joined him at the railing and did something he rarely did: he remained quiet. At least for the moment.
A mile off the starboard bow sailed the USS Stethem, an Arleigh Burke — class destroyer. It too played a role in the final act of the Tioga Island incident.
A flash of yellow and a cloud of smoke preceded a great roar as a Tomahawk cruise missile launched from the destroyer, arched into the sky, and then flew to the west, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake.
"One and a half million dollars," Sal said.
"Huh?"
Galati pointed at the weapon as it disappeared into the distance.
"One and a half million dollars each. Shock and awe, man, comes with a price tag."
"Yeah, well, no shit. I just hope it does the job."
Wells watched as another cruise missile left the Stethem, tracing the path of the first, while the sound of activity — from engines spooling to life to voices shouting commands — echoed around them as the Peleliu's crew did their work.
After a few seconds Sal found something to say.
"Cap said we're probably heading back to Guam to catch a flight home, instead of sailing all the way back to Wake."
Wells did not look at Sal but did answer, "Okay. Sure."
"You haven't been to Guam, have you?"
"No," Wells said, and some subtle tone in Sal's voice shook his attention from the Stethem. "Why? What's up?"
"Oh, well, nothin' man," Sal shook his head. "I was there a couple of years ago, that's all. Passed through on a training run."
Wells drew in a deep breath and let out a long sigh, then asked, "Okay, Sal, what's wrong with Guam? What's the problem?"
As he usually did when he had a really, really good tale to tell, Sal played a little coy. That usually meant his story held more truth than usual. The top-of-the-line bullshit normally came out fast, like a sports car trying to race through a speed trap.
"Tree snakes."
Wells looked to Galati, cocked his head, squinted his eyes, and repeated, "Tree snakes? What the fuck are you talking about now?"
"Brown tree snakes, man, seriously," Sal said and sniffed in a good whiff of the salt water/aviation fuel scent carrying on the breeze. "Lots of them on the island. Not, you know, native to there or anything, but they started showing up a few years ago and sort of overran the place."
"Man, I don't give a shit about tree snakes," Wells dismissed the whole thing and turned back to the horizon.
Sal put his hands on the railing, stood next to his friend to share the view, and said, "Yeah, I know. It's just that they search all the ships and planes leaving Guam to make sure none get on board. They're causing a real mess on Guam. Don't want them to spread and all."
"That's really nice, Sal. Seriously. I'm glad you shared that. The zombies and the volcano didn't bug me, but fucking brown tree snakes are going to ruin my shit."
"They ate all the birds."
"What?" Wells's face twisted again.
"The brown tree snakes ate all the birds. On Guam. That's the problem."
Sarcasm filled Wells’s reply: "Oh, well, I can see where that's a problem and all. Cute little birds—"
Sal cut him off. "Birds eat spiders. You know what happens when there's nothing around to eat the spiders, don't you?"
Jupiter Wells froze, although his mouth remained open.
Sal went on, "Whole fuckin' island is crawling with them. Big ones, little ones. They're everywhere, man. There's like forty times more spiders there than there should be. Webs all around; everywhere. It's some seriously fucked up shit."
Below them on the flight deck another Harrier took to the sky for another sortie.
* * *
Dr. Water's secret base sat on a small atoll covered in jungle. Camouflage netting and paint combined with information in regards to satellite movements had kept the building, the air strip, and the docks from drawing attention. But now that the U.S. Navy knew where to look, the place could no longer hide.
AGM-88 HARM missiles from the first pair of Harriers honed in on the facility's radar. Had there been anyone left inside the base to care, they would have been rendered electronically blind.
The second group of jets dropped laser-guided bombs on the facility directly, first puncturing a hole in the roof and then detonating in the belly of the target, knocking over internal walls as well as any containment bulkheads that might have been standing. From the pilots' vantage point it seemed as if they had kicked over a rock, given the tight clusters of writhing and squirming creatures inside the exposed structure.
Next came the Tomahawks, each dropping clusters of submunitions that fried anything moving inside the walls. The rectangular building quickly resembled something like a fire pit, but the assault was not yet over.
Through Campion, Major Gant had called for the leveling and burning of every square meter of the place, and the Navy task force at their command took to the job enthusiastically, even if they did not fully understand the nature of the threat. Given the browbeating the Peleliu's skipper had suffered yesterday from the Pentagon, he complied without protest, although his log clearly noted who bore responsibility for the action.
Two last Harriers swooped in and dropped Mark 77 incendiary bombs, the spiritual successor to Vietnam-era napalm. The kerosene and benzene mix brought an inferno to the jungle.
A few of the facility's security guards had escaped the complex during the zombie breakout. Several more had been on patrol on the grounds or at the airfield when things went to hell. A fraction of these men survived the bombing and were chased from the brush by the raging wildfire.
These were the men for whom the SuperCobras came, as well as a couple dozen infected corpses — in various stages of disembowelment — that had withstood the bombs and missiles long enough to escape through one of the now-crumbling walls.
The choppers' Gatling guns swept the beach and the airfield, blasting to pieces everything that moved. The soldiers either ran or unsuccessfully tried to surrender. The walking dead sort of stood there, staring at the flying machines through ivory-coated pupils until the heavy-caliber rounds ripped through the cadavers and punctured the fungal cores.
A hundred miles away to the east, Major Gant stood on the Peleliu's bridge alongside Campion, monitoring reports from both the targeting teams and the strike forces. Everything proceeded smoothly and — more importantly to Gant — quickly.
He knew the clock ticked, for him and for the entire operation.
As he stared out through the bridge windows he saw his own reflection, and in that reflection he also saw the face of his old friend Dr. Brandon Twiste. It seemed to Thom that Brandon's expression was one of approval in regard to burning the entire place to the ground, although he would probably not have been quite as forgiving of the sadistic streak Thom had found in his heart during the whole episode.
Unfortunately, time ran out.
The Peleliu's captain marched to the front of the bridge and issued orders.
"All hands, stand down from battle stations. Recall all forces, cease all offensive operations."
Campion seemed ready to protest but Thom stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
The skipper said, "Major Gant, there's a General Friez on the hor
n for you." A big, satisfied smile then spread across his face. "Captain Campion, you are no longer in command of this task force. I believe the general wants to speak to you, too."
Thom put the call on speaker.
"General, sir, this is Major Gant with Captain Campion."
Friez did not express gratitude that Gant had been found alive, he did not congratulate the men on stopping whatever foul plot was afoot, and he did not ask for the answer to the riddle that was Tioga Island.
Instead he berated them.
"Captain Campion, who the hell ordered you to launch an all-out assault?"
"Sir, General, sir, you empowered me with the authority and imperative to contain and/or destroy all threats, sir. Based on information I received, I felt this action was necessary to deal with a clear danger."
Gant felt sorry for Richard. He had not knowingly pissed off Friez, and doing anything that could be construed as inappropriate might break the soldier's heart.
Friez's voice boomed over the microphone, "What threat, Captain? I understand your people had been extracted and the problem was contained to one small island. You should have contacted me before taking any additional action. By what authority did you attempt to eradicate the hostile complex and force?"
Major Gant interceded, "General, sir, I instructed the captain to order the strikes. I took this action based on Task Force Archangel's rules of engagement and the parameters under which we operate on a regular basis. I believe the threat posed by the facility required a response of this size and scope."
"Bullshit, Major. You're either really stupid or trying to be too clever. I hold you accountable for any valuable intel or materials lost on account of these strikes. You and Dr. Stacy are to pack your gear and return to Fort Irwin immediately for debriefing. Captain Campion …"
Campion stepped closer to the speaker as Gant backed off.
"… you are instructed to take the Archangel detachment ashore and gather any remaining specimens and intel that can be found in the debris. I want whatever it was that was unleashed on Tioga Island. Any attempts to destroy materials or data will be viewed as insubordination. Am I clear, Captain?"
The Cannibal Virus Page 27
