ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising

by O'Brien, John

  “How much longer?” Calhoun asks one of the crew chiefs, already knowing the answer.

  “A little under two hours,” the chief answers.

  At the moment, an hour might as well be the life span of a newly created star.

  “But, we should be out of this mess before long,” the crew chief adds.

  As if the crew chief uttered a magical incantation, the bounces suddenly halt and the aircraft flies into open skies.

  “See, told ya,” the chief says, smiling.

  Two hours later, giving the crates a wide berth, Calhoun steps down the ramp. The warm sunny day is a direct contrast to the frigid gray skies they left a few hours ago. He and Gold Team assemble, stretching their cramped legs and working the kinks out of their backs. They take several deep breaths of clean air, as they’ve been instructed they can remove their protective gear while within the sanctuary. The airfield is a hive of activity with helicopters and fighter jets filling both the skies and ramps. A sedan, van, and several cargo trucks cross the ramp and pull up behind the aircraft. The SEAL team comes to attention as a Navy captain exits and walks up to them.

  “Chief. Captain Destaine,” the captain introduces herself. “I’m here to brief you and your team. We’ll be joined by other teams that are en route.”

  “The infected are following two main routes of travel,” Captain Destaine states once the two teams are all seated and brought up to speed. “Here along the coast on Interstate 5, and down this valley along Interstate 15. Calhoun, you and your two teams will be inserted and work the I-5 corridor while Blakely will take his teams into the valley. The Ospreys will drop ahead of the leading edges. In order to conserve time, you will fire from the lowered ramp. Wait until the infected are within the one hundred yard effective range of the tranquilizer guns, then fire. We estimate that you’ll only be able to get off two shots before the infected can close the distance. You’ll then reposition and engage again. Each team has a thousand ampules, so you can see that it’s going to be an all-day effort.

  “This operation needs to be finished today, as any near contact with the infected will be off-limits indefinitely once the twenty-four hour window is reached. Twilight begins at 0622 and ends at 1717. That gives us an eleven-hour window. For those of you mathematically challenged, that’s one shot for each of you every four minutes. We’d send more, but we’re limited by the available hardware. With two teams each, you’ll be able to spell each other. I’ll leave you to work out the scheduling. Pre-brief at 0500, wheels up at 0545. Medications will be issued at the briefing.

  “I don’t need to remind any of you of what you’re carrying. You’ll be briefed on the safe handling following this one. I know caution and speed don’t go well together, but we’re asking that of you this time. One last note, MOPP four levels of protection will be required. Now, Lieutenant Commander Roskins will brief you on how not to die a horrible, painful death.”

  * * * * * * *

  South of Los Angeles, California

  November 28

  Calhoun glances out of the window, the darkened ocean merging with the land. The only visible boundary is the vague outline of white waves as they roll toward the coastline. A lighter shade of sky brightens the eastern horizon, giving a dim shape to the terrain below. To the north, light glimmers across an impossible distance from Los Angeles and the cities surrounding the vast metropolis. In normal times, the millions occupying the area would be waking, groaning at the thought of yet another commute through the impossible tangle of vehicles crowding the highways.

  Now, those same millions are heading south in a different traffic jam. Even in the dim light, Calhoun is able to make out the dark swarm of infected in a massive gathering lined up outside of San Clemente. The aircraft circles over the water, waiting for another few minutes. The sky grows a touch lighter, the land taking on more definition.

  They could use their NVGs, but the tranq guns aren’t able to mount any compatible scopes. So, they’ll have to deliver their thousand packages by the light of day. According to their briefers, they can’t afford to waste many shots, and at night they wouldn’t be able to tell if their shots were connecting. Although, looking at the mass gathered below, stretching beyond sight, Calhoun doesn’t see how they could miss, even if they shot blindfolded. Even throwing them from a hovering Osprey would hit something. For a moment, he wonders exactly what is driving such a mass. It looks like a bunch of rats leaving a sinking ship.

  “Showtime,” the crew chief calls, the interior becoming a little chilled and noisy as the back ramp is lowered to its level position.

  Checking the weapon and nervous about being separated by mere glass from something so terrifying as Ebola, Calhoun shuffles to the ramp as the aircraft arcs slowly downward toward the interstate. One shot every four minutes over the span of eleven hours seems impossible and likely to cause trouble. Even with two teams sharing the load, he can’t begin to imagine what the tenth and eleventh hours will be like.

  The aircraft vibrates more as the engine nacelles are rotated, the Osprey rolling ahead of the infected and settling on the Interstate. Taking a knee, Calhoun sights down the gun, looking at the dark mass of infected approaching at a run. In the dim light, it's difficult to make out distinctive characteristics, but bodies are visible. Even through the vibrations of the aircraft, he can feel those of millions of legs pounding on the ground. It’s a rumble and roar similar to that of stampeding buffalo. Millions of screams shake the air as if warping the fabric of existence. One of the second team members holds a range finder, reading off distances. Gold Team vocalizes separate targets, making sure they’re diversifying their fire.

  “One hundred yards,” a voice calls in the darkness of the cargo hold.

  Calhoun adjusts his aim picture and fires, the sound little more than a suppressed subsonic round being fired. The compressed air launches the round filled with Ebola outward, hitting the targeted infected. Rather than stumble and drop, the infected merely staggers as it’s hit. The first round of many has been fired.

  The infected are quickly closing the distance. Carefully reloading, Calhoun lines up a second target and sends another virus-loaded round of painful death.

  “We’re moving,” the crew chief calls.

  The roar of the engines increases as the Osprey lifts off the ground and moves forward a couple hundred yards down the road where the process is repeated.

  “How is our timing?” Calhoun asks several leap frogs later.

  “We’re averaging two minutes between shots at the moment.”

  That seems like they’re ahead of schedule, but Calhoun knows that it will catch up with them in those precious moments when they have to reposition themselves to get different angles on the infected. They can’t just keep shooting at the leading edge for the entire time or they’ll end up delivering their loads to the same infected. They need a thousand distinct targets, which will require repositioning.

  After hitting the leading edge multiple times, the landscape takes on more definition as the sun clears the hills next to the coastline. For as far north as he can see, there is nothing but a mass of infected covering every square foot of ground. The Osprey swings out over the water, coming into a low hover over the gently rolling waves. With the vibrations and slight movements of the aircraft, the shots from here will be more difficult. The infected line the shore, each with their arms stretched out in attempt to reach the aircraft. The weight behind the forward lines push some into the waves, the leading infected bowled over in the surf.

  “Hit those behind the leading edge. It probably won’t do us any good to infect them as they drown. Besides, if we miss our intended targets, then we’ll still be sure to hit something,” Calhoun orders.

  Infected continue to stumble as the virus-filled darts hit them, the injection forced into their systems by the impact. With so many packed tightly together, very few of the projectiles miss a target. The nice aspect is that they don’t have to hit anywhere in particular, as lo
ng as the finned dart penetrates the flesh. The sun rises, crosses over the apex, and heads over toward the western horizon. Even with the teams alternating positions, Calhoun sees that they’re all exhausted. However, they’re able to keep within the four minute per shot window, even with all of the maneuvering.

  They move up and down the horde, attempting to spread the Ebola virus across a greater range of infected. This manner, according to those who understand these things better, will result in a faster rate of infection. The planned epidemic will begin and spread quicker. As it is, it will be a close call as to whether Ebola can kill off the infected faster than their current rate of migration.

  The ocean glimmers under the late evening rays, blinding any who look directly at it. Far to the rear of the horde, Calhoun lines up another shot. The projectile sails out of the barrel, guided by fins meant to keep it stable as it travels across the short distance. It slams into the chest of an infected, the needle penetrating the grimy T-shirt and into the skin. Ebola is injected, the virus immediately going to work to attack the immune system messengers and preventing a system defense warning from going out. Instead of giving orders to activate the immune system cells, the virus orders them to end their own lives. In addition, the virus uses the messengers to create factories that replicate Ebola by the thousands. These replications continue the destruction process through the entire body.

  At the same time, the virus tricks the body into releasing fluids as a means of spread. As the virus proceeds, the host begins to bleed both internally and externally, leaving the body without enough blood to supply the cells with oxygen. The cells begin to die and organs fail, causing more internal bleeding. In all, it’s a virus meant to wreak havoc on one’s systems. It’s a miniature death machine, its only purpose to destroy any host it finds a home in. The external fluid is meant to spread itself to others, and it can remain for days on end in any fluid…waiting.

  “That’s it, chief,” one of the team states.

  Calhoun sets down his weapon, exhausted. Up and down the line, a thousand infected are being attacked invisibly. To the east, the second teams are wrapping up operations, infecting another thousand. As those fall, the ones left will hopefully eat their remains, infecting many more. Then, they too will fall and the process will multiply exponentially. The Osprey picks up speed, banking over the deep blue of the ocean. Backlit by a sun sitting on the horizon, the aircraft arcs to the south, the drone of its engines leaving behind the screams of millions.

  * * * * * * *

  Woodland, Washington

  November 29

  The infected crowd together, packing more tightly together due to the terrain and the forested slopes pushing closer to the interstate. Woodland is the last open area before the tall hills create a very thin corridor. Stevens looks at the live footage from the satellite poised some twenty-two thousand miles overhead. With the route narrowing, the hills on one side and the Columbia River on the other, the infected pushing north out of the Willamette Valley have come to a near standstill as they begin filing through the narrow gap.

  From the town south, over three million infected are massing, in some places so tightly that it’s a wonder they can even breath. Stevens can’t imagine what it must sound like with so many in one area. A stadium filled with sixty thousand screaming fans following a touchdown from the home team wouldn’t even compare. Multiply that number six-fold and it might come close. That much energy from the sound waves might even affect overflying aircraft.

  “Signal the control facility to launch,” Stevens orders.

  Far to the east, two men turn their keys simultaneously, lights on a control board changing from red to green. In the middle of a snow-covered field, thick concrete slabs edge back, revealing the rounded cone of a missile. A rumbling roar echoes across the empty plain, the ground shaking. The top of the snowfield quivers. Smoke and steam shoot out from the relatively narrow opening. A shadowy object appears, slowly rising through the mist like a monster. A dark bulbous nose emerges from the cloud, clawing its way from the subterranean plot where it has been entombed for years.

  A blast of superheated air billows outward as the missile fully emerges, the snow around the silo vaporizing in an instant. Trailing a long line of fire, the Minuteman III climbs into the air, the roar of its engine heard and felt for miles around. As it vanishes into the overcast skies, the glow of the flames lingers, burning a hole through the cloud layer. The deep roar rumbles across the landscape for a minute longer, then fades, the plain returning once again to a still silence, the only evidence of the interruption a charred patch of clear ground. A rabbit, blending with the snow, takes a tentative hop forward.

  Having shed its main engines, the capsule races at incredible speeds in its orbit. Reaching a predetermined point in space, the sides separate and release three conic objects, which immediately begin descending. Burning a path, they reenter the atmosphere, sensors determining any course corrections. Uncaring, doing only what they are programmed to, they rapidly descend toward the earth, not registering the millions packed below.

  Three dark bands streak across the screen, quickly followed by three sudden flashes.

  “We have detonation,” states one of the crew.

  Along six miles of corridor, lethal doses of radiation roll across the infected. In the aftermath, three distinct circles form amid the compressed infected, smoke from fires drifting upward from several places. Those infected within the blast area have simply disappeared as those closest to the epicenter vaporized. Further outward, a ring of fallen lie stacked on the ground, felled instantly by the radiation levels. Slowly, the holes in the infected close as those remaining continue their northward migration. Many will stumble and fall along the interstate corridor within a day; others will take longer. After the forty-eight-hour window expires, Stevens will send gunships and attack fighters against those that remain, hoping to bring them all down before they reach the outskirts of Seattle.

  * * * * * * *

  Middle of Montana

  November 29

  “Splash down,” the major calls. “I believe that’s a wrap for us here.”

  Most of the platoon is gathered in the control room, packed in tightly to watch the last missile launch. While there wasn’t much to see, it is kind of a historic event, even if it may not be written into any history books. For Jennings, it marks an end to life on the road. Their orders are to return as soon as the strike is confirmed so they can get the facility shut down. Although the return trip promises to be a cold two days, there’s food that doesn’t come in a plastic bag waiting on the other end. It’s not that it’s been bad, with decent beds and amateur chefs creating gourmet meals from the MRE contents…or at least attempting to. And there have been warm showers along with not having to wear the protective gear constantly for the past few days. But, he’s more than ready to return.

  The company remains op-conned to the Seventh Fleet operating in the northern waters. The return to San Diego would be a much longer journey. With the cold howling outside, the thought of unwinding on warm sunny beaches is one he has to push away. Perhaps once things settle, they’ll return to their battalion and wander around, sticking umbrellas into drinks and relishing the feel of warm sand under bare toes.

  “Everyone topside. Let these gentlemen do their jobs. Get your bags packed and gear ready. We’ll be one hundred percent MOPP four for the ride home,” the lieutenant orders.

  A resounding moan erupts upon hearing the news that they’ll have to once again don the uncomfortable gear.

  “Quit your bellyaching, you wimps. You’re Marines, not children hiding behind your momma’s skirt. Now, get moving before I ground you all.”

  It takes a while to shut down the facility systems and get everything ready. With another winter storm forecast, they want to put in as many miles as they can before darkness settles across the land. Jennings steps outside, the wind nearly whipping the door off its hinges as he opens it. The howl of the wind is immedia
te and is filled with ice crystals blowing from the neighboring hills. Dark shapes sit just outside of the wire, partially obscured by the blowing snow and ice racing across the landscape. The rotors are turning in a blur, the choppers being readied. Marching through the snow, the entire world is white and varying shades of gray. The windblown snow hides most of the low lying cloud cover, but what he can see of their leaden color seems foreboding. He can’t believe that people were meant to fly in such weather—the clouds seem to be issuing a warning that monsters lurk within their depths.

  Shaking the snow from his gear, Jennings settles into a seat, the closing ramp sealing off the howl outside. The helicopter shakes as a strong gust strikes its side. The engines rev, the vibrations through the floor increasing. Looking up the aisle through the cockpit windshield, driven snow races past, making it seem like the land is in motion.

  The chopper swings almost violently to the side as they lift off, the wind fighting the aircraft as if angry at the intrusion into its domain. White blends with white as they climb, the other helicopters ferrying the rest of the platoon taking off in sequence. As they lift higher, clouds envelop the helicopter, the engines constantly changing pitch as the pilots fight the turbulent air.

  The strong winds racing across the eastern mountains buffet the helicopter, the aircraft plowing through them like a ship being tossed about in a storm. The windows turn opaque as they ice over in the frigid air. Fifteen minutes later, feeling like his insides are mush from the continual shaking, Jennings feels a different kind of vibration that comes and goes. The chopper slowly begins to shake more and more, then all of a sudden, it's back to just the normal jolting, only to begin again. He sees the crew chief work his way carefully to the lieutenant and lean forward to yell in his ear.

  “Sir, we’re turning around. The precipitation is just too much for the deicing systems.”

  And, just like that, the dream of eating something different is shattered. The helicopter turns around and plops the platoon back into the frigid temperatures and icy winds. The generators are started back up and systems brought back online.