ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising

by O'Brien, John

  “Aye, sir. We’re secure in place.”

  “Okay, Lieutenant. Know that we’re doing what we can out here.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Sir, that sounds an awful lot like ‘you’re on your own,’” Jennings comments.

  “Yeah, but we’re not dead yet. If we could clear those doors, we might be able to force a way through. As it is, I doubt that we’d even be able to push them open,” the lieutenant responds.

  “We couldn’t hold them in the halls. How could we possibly push through the mass?” Jennings queries.

  “I was thinking more, gain a little room to make a break for the side entrance,” the lieutenant replies.

  “What if we put a little force behind pushing the doors?” Jennings questions.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Well, I know some have a few claymores. We could take the C-4 out and add it to what we already have.”

  “With the mass on the other side, the explosion would just blow inward,” the lieutenant states.

  “Not if the charges were shaped. The second squad leader is a bit of a pyro, but she’s a genius with explosives.”

  “And, if it doesn’t work? We would weaken those doors and allow the infected a free entrance.”

  “There is that. However, we can’t blow through the walls, we can’t get to the roof, and I’m pretty sure teleportation is out of the question,” Jennings quips.

  “Okay, Jennings, see what you can do. But, nothing happens unless I approve it first.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  While the technicians are finishing their portion of the mission, claymores are pulled apart and their explosives removed. Jennings watches as the second platoon sergeant works the malleable plastic explosive against the doors, shaping each charge so that the explosive force is propelled outward. As she works, she explains to those watching what she’s doing, but Jennings can almost see her explanations flying over the heads of those around. With a sigh of exasperation, she begins to merely hum while she manipulates the charges.

  With the blocks of C-4 in place and the fuses wired in so that they’ll go off simultaneously, heavy items within the room are stacked against the doors to add weight to the shaped charges. With weight behind, the impetus for the explosion will be more directed outward, hopefully overcoming the mass on the other side. With everything in place, Jennings looks over to the lieutenant.

  After radioing the company commander, they’re informed that the side entrance is clear on the outside.

  “Okay, here’s the skinny. The rest of the company has tried everything they can to draw the infected away,” the lieutenant shouts to be heard over the shrieks. “However, nothing they’ve tried has worked. So, it’s either stay here and amuse ourselves, hoping the infected get bored and go away—or attempt a breakout. The side entrance is clear, so we’re going to clear the lobby and make a break for it. Transports are hovering outside the perimeter, ready to swoop in and pick us up.

  “We’re going to blast the doors open, hopefully creating a little room. Once those doors go, each of first squad is going to toss a hand grenade into the lobby. This will blow a bigger hole in the infected, through which we’re going to make a break. The door to the perimeter hall and subsequent side entrance is to the left. Third squad leads, then the techs, and then second, followed by first squad. First squad will each toss a grenade behind them before passing through the hallway door to create room behind us.

  “I’m not going to give some heroic speech that spurs us to do heroic things. We’re Marines, that means we do hero shit on a daily basis. Move quickly and orderly. If we get trapped, we’ll show them what Marines can do,” the lieutenant briefs.

  “Oorah,” the platoon responds.

  “Sergeants, get your Marines ready.”

  The platoon forms into its squads away from the blast area, but close to the doors. With a nod from the lieutenant, the cords holding the doors are cut as the second platoon commander rapidly squeezes the clacker in her hands. The explosion is immense, the shock wave catapulting the stacked items at the door into the room. Smoke roils away, hiding the entrance doors.

  What the waiting Marines don’t see is the heavy metal security doors rocket away from their jambs and tear through the massed infected on the other side. Those nearest are immediately crushed as the doors plow into the lobby, obliterating everything their path. Blood gushes from every orifice, coating the exterior of the metal surface.

  Before the smoke clears, first squad rounds the side and tosses grenades into the lobby, quickly ducking back out of the way. Twelve grenades sail into the space cleared by the doors, bounding across the tile now stained with blood and emptied bowels. Seconds later, the near simultaneous explosions rock the lobby, shaking the very walls. Smoke pours in through the entrance, propelled by the thunderous blasts.

  “Go, go, go,” the lieutenant yells, but is barely heard by the Marines, their ears ringing.

  However, his arm wave and the end of the explosions is all they need. Third squad races through the doors, turning immediately to the left. The techs and second squad follows. Jennings rises, his heart wildly beating and thumping against his ribs. He races into the lobby, his carbine in one hand, his other clutching a grenade.

  The explosions destroyed the lobby lighting, casting the room in a deep gloom. Several infected stagger in the smoke-filled room, looking bewildered. Bodies and parts of infected lie on the floor, entrails hanging from torn torsos. Turning left, Jennings’s boot loses its grip on the slippery tile, nearly sending him to the floor. Knowing that the infected will recover, he gains his balance and charges onward. At the hallway entrance, the squad halts, pulls the pins, and tosses their grenades into the room, quickly continuing onward to get out of the blast zone.

  Jennings runs wildly, his mind numb to any thought except keeping upright and getting the fuck out of there. The infected weren’t the only ones whose minds were addled by the gigantic confined blasts. However, the Marines expected them, and their training guides them through the experience. Behind, another series of explosions rocks the building, the lights in the corridor flickering. Through the ringing, all Jennings hears is his own breathing, the pulse of his heartbeat in his ears, and the sound of boots pounding on the hard floor.

  Halfway down the hall, Marines turn down an intersecting hall. Rounding the corner, Jennings sees the bright light of sunshine through glass doors, through which a stream of Marines exits. Behind, screams from the infected indicate that they are recovering and have begun their chase.

  Shit, shit, shit, Jennings thinks, the infected behind and a logjam of Marines ahead.

  “With me,” Jennings shouts, addressing the squad around him.

  Backtracking down the short hall, Jennings and three others go line abreast, firing into the infected pouring after them. The corridor is packed with them, the fierceness in their eyes blazing as if on fire. Jennings is struck by how nothing seems to faze them as a group; they have a single purpose in mind and nothing seems to break that mentality. They may become stunned, but then they’re right back at it. Lifting his carbine to his shoulder, he begins firing, attempting to waylay the infected to give the rest of the platoon time to escape.

  Leap-frogging, the squad backpedals down the short hall, their fire unable to keep the infected at a distance. But, they’re buying time for the others, and they don’t need to buy much. Jennings’s mind is operating on instinct. There isn’t a single thought to saving his own hide. His brothers and sisters need his help and he’s going to give what he can. Exchanging mags, he glances to the rear to see the last of the Marines exit.

  “Let’s go,” he yells.

  They turn and bolt, hoping the distance isn’t too much to make it out of the doors and to the hovering chopper before they’re overrun. Just outside the doors, seeing the infected closing quickly, Jennings grabs a squad mate. Together, they toss a grenade inside and begin pushing on the doors to close them, hoping to buy some ti
me for the remaining squad member rushing for the lowered ramp.

  The hydraulic arm on each door fights the two of them as they struggle to close the doors. The explosion from the grenades launches the doors open, hurling Jennings and his teammate backward through the air. Landing hard, Jennings is shaken. It’s not only his ears that are ringing, but his entire skull. One thought remains, pushing through the fog of his mind.

  Get to the chopper, he thinks in his best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice.

  Checking that his mask is still in place, he rolls to the side and struggles to his feet, helping the other Marine to his. Together, they stumble toward the waiting helicopter and the other Marines gathered near the rear. Seeing where their carbines are aimed, Jennings arcs away, hearing the infected as they pour out of the doors. Gunfire penetrates his muddled mind, and he doesn’t even register his feet on the metal ramp. Before he finds his seat, he feels the helicopter lift off, sending Marines stumbling throughout the interior. One by one, they recover and find places to sit.

  “What the fuck was that about?” the lieutenant screams in his ear.

  “Just trying to buy us time,” Jennings replies.

  “You damn near bought that with your life, Sergeant.”

  “Did we lose anyone, sir?” Jennings asks, ignoring the comment.

  “No. Good call in the hall, but why in the fuck did you stop at the doors? All you had to do was run,” the lieutenant says.

  “I honestly don’t know. I thought to toss a grenade and close the doors, but the fucking hydraulic arms…”

  “Well, thanks. All of our minds were messed up by those explosions, but don’t let that shit happen again.”

  “Aye, sir. Frankly, I’d rather not get into that kind of situation again.”

  “Well, our job is done. We’re going back to the silos for the next few days.”

  “Dibs on the hot water…I mean all of it,” Jennings quips.

  “You did well, but not that well. And seeing as I’ll be the ranking officer…”

  “Seriously?!” Jennings says.

  “Rank has its privileges.”

  “What happened to looking out for your troops? Didn’t the academy teach that?”

  “I think I missed those classes. But, I tell you what, you can have my share.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  USS Mount Whitney

  October 28

  Admiral Gettins leans on the bridge wing railing, looking out across the waters to the gray hulls of the fleet as they plow through the southern Atlantic Ocean. The warmth of the southern hemisphere in the throes of springtime is in direct contrast to the reports of the cold sweeping across the North American continent. Any operations they may require in the near future will be curtailed by the inclement weather. They have all-weather aircraft and gear, but setting up forward deployment locations in the middle of nowhere will be difficult for any push inland. Once the neutron weapons operation is complete, they’ll pull out of the interior, with the exception of Colonel Koenig heading to the lab in Montana.

  The fleet is still two or more weeks from reaching the west coast and joining up with the ships of the Seventh Fleet. In the seas behind, several vessels from the remaining NATO forces are racing to catch up, having failed to find anywhere near their homelands to set ashore. The satellites show the Russian ships still in their ports, but with nothing moving except infected in the nearby communities.

  Radiation leaking from the numerous power plants is slowly marching across the European and Asian continents. Australia and New Zealand remain free of contamination, but with very few signs of survivors. Antarctica and Africa are the only inhabited landmasses left in the southern hemisphere. Gettins plans to dispatch ships to the small research communities on Antarctica to gather the survivors stationed there. They’re lucky this happened in the summer. The cold weather with its frequent storms might have hampered the ability to reach them. As it is, without further supplies, they won’t make it for more than a couple more months. The admiral is also toying with the idea of sending vessels to the New Zealand and Australian shores to rescue the survivors there. Those in the hills of New Zealand seem pretty well set up and may not want to come, but he feels obligated to try. However, he doesn’t want to spread themselves too thin, at least until they can get a firm grip on their own shores.

  The Chinese are a bit more of a mystery. Several of their warships are scuttled in place where they directed forces into Taiwan and the manmade islands. Four vessels seem to be missing and the satellites haven’t been able to find them anywhere. They could be underwater or sailing for unknown locations. That doesn’t make Gettins feel at ease. Plus, there hasn’t been any sign of their sub fleet. And that worries him.

  “Sir, Admiral Stevens is on the line,” a sailor announces.

  “Thank you,” Gettins replies, gazing once more at the sun lowering toward the western horizon.

  “We managed to get the coordinates uploaded after a spot of trouble getting into the system and breaking through a lock that was preventing us from inputting CONUS-based coordinates,” Stevens briefs. “We nearly lost an entire platoon after they were cut off in the control room.”

  “We’re good to go, though, right?” Gettins inquires.

  “Aye, sir. We’re good. The companies are back at the silos and the crews there are waiting for our launch order. We’ve already begun launching sorties to gather the infected at the designated locations. I think we’ll need a full two days of around-the-clock operations if we’re going to get most of the infected into the zones. It won’t be easy operating on that kind of schedule, but we can’t have the infected just meandering off on their own after we’ve gathered them for the party,” Stevens says.

  “So, we’re looking at launching on the 31st? On Halloween?” Gettins queries.

  “I didn’t even think of that, but it’s kind of fitting. And aye, we’ll see how the next two days go. We may need another day or two, but as of now, it’s looking like the end of the month. After the strike, we’ll have a forty-eight hour wait before we can do more with follow-up operations. The hope is that we can take care of any leftovers with the firepower we have on hand,” Stevens answers.

  “We should be rounding the Cape about that time. I’ll be sending a couple of ships to the research stations to pick up survivors there,” Gettins says.

  “And New Zealand? Australia?”

  “Let’s see how the neutron strikes go before splitting forces. I don’t like the Chinese suddenly vanishing like that. I’d like to focus our satellites on MAD detection, starting in the mid and south Pacific, working eastward toward your location. And spread the anti-sub forces further out. I don’t want any surprises,” Gettings states.

  “We’ve already pushed them out once we noticed those ships missing. I’ll have the satellites repurposed toward detecting the subs. We won’t need the satellites much over the CONUS after we finish up with the silos. Do we want to keep the crews on site? We won’t be using all of the warheads and we may want to use them later…perhaps even on a moment’s notice. The techs were able to push the missile programming capability to our side,” Stevens says.

  “I think we should keep them there as long as it’s viable. However, keeping the forward deployment bases necessary to sustain them will be a hassle, if not outright impossible over the long run. Perhaps we can stock the crews up well enough to last for a while, and then leave the fuel depots in place for them to pull back when we’re ready,” Gettins suggests.

  “That might work. I’ll arrange a large supply to each of the three launch sites, and then pull the personnel at the forward bases back. They have generators on site; I’ll transfer enough fuel and supplies to keep them going. The fuel bladders should hold up for some time. I’ll pull all but one of the companies, which will be split among the three launch control centers, with enough transports to get them back when we’re done there,” Stevens says. “Once we finish, we’ll use the forty-eight-hour window for maintenance. We�
�ve been pushing our equipment pretty hard.”

  “OK. Keep in mind that we can delay for a couple days if you think you’re pushing it too hard. For once, we’re not really under the clock. However, the sooner we can conclude this, the sooner we can begin the long road to carving out a place for ourselves. And, there’s always the weather to think about,” Gettins states.

  “I think we’re fine for the moment, but we’ll definitely need that downtime.”

  “Fine. Don’t forget about supplying the colonel and SEAL teams heading to the lab. We’ll touch base before the launch.”

  “Talk to you soon, then. Enjoy your pleasure cruise, sir.”

  * * * * * * *

  Whidbey Naval Air Station, Whidbey Island, Washington

  October 28

  Chief Petty Officer Calhoun stands beside the rear ramp, the twin rotors of the Osprey creating small water funnels on the tarmac. The rain shower passed a few minutes ago, but the skies hold the promise of more to come. A second Osprey idles nearby, crates of supplies being loaded aboard. With an operational range of over eleven hundred miles, they’ll be able to make the round trip journey to Hamilton, Montana without refueling. Of course, his orders didn’t mention when they’d be making the return, only that they were to provide security for a doctor and several others.

  The lab facility is adjacent to a small town nestled in a long valley along the Bitterroot River. The pre-virus population, estimated at nearly five thousand, is enough to create trouble for the twelve team members plus the carry-on baggage…meaning passengers. According to the recent satellite photos, they should be able to create a diversion with the supply Osprey, land close, and make a quick dash inside. The transports will then hover in the distance while the teams clear the research building, allowing them to land once all is clear. Landing on the roof would be easier, but there doesn’t appear to be any kind of topside access on the buildings they need. Plus, there isn’t any surety that the roof will take the weight of the aircraft.