“I don’t care where you sleep at this point,” said Emma. “As long as it’s not between me and that couch.”
Jack stepped out of the way and held the door open, making room for Emma, who dropped her pack and plopped onto the closest section of the couch. He shut the screen door gently, lowering his own pack to the concrete floor.
“That’s it?” he said.
“Yep. Too tired for all of the formalities. Love you. Good night,” said Emma before turning on her side.
“Sure you don’t want to slip into your bivy bag?” he said.
“I’m good,” she said, raising her head. “Give me a kiss.”
He pressed his lips against her cheek. “Sleep tight. Do you want me to set an alarm?”
“Not really,” she said. “We’ll wake up with the sun.”
“Or to one of the neighbors,” said Jack. “Hopefully not the cop next door.”
“We’ll be fine,” mumbled Emma.
Jack locked the screen door, for what it was worth, and took a seat on the other side of the sectional couch. He dug through his pack, removing a fleece jacket that he unzipped and placed on top of Emma. She always woke up cold. Leaning against the cushions, he took a long sip from his nearly empty three-liter CamelBak. They’d need to spend some time at one of the neighborhood retention ponds in the morning, filtering water and refilling their hydration bladders. It wouldn’t take too long, since their Katadyn filter could treat close to two liters per minute.
He swung his feet up onto the couch and moved one of the outdoor pillows under his head, immediately starting to fade away. Jack twitched a few times, waking himself from the inevitable slumber, each time sinking a little deeper into sleep. He jarred awake again, this time from something else. A noise somewhere close by in the neighborhood.
Jack nudged Emma’s foot, trying to rouse her from what he hoped was a shallow sleep. She murmured something before going quiet again. He raised his head to a point where he could see out of the room, catching some movement in the police officer’s backyard. Two figures walked off the deck and stopped on the grass, adjusting oversized backpacks. Both men. One looked distinctly younger than the other. He guessed that was the police officer’s son.
Both of them carried rifles, their shapes unmistakable. These weren’t broom handles. He was sure of that. After a few moments, they set off for the woods, disappearing into the dark mass of trees behind the row of houses. Why the hell would they do that? Maybe he was too tired to think it through, but he could only come up with one reason right now, and it didn’t bode well for anyone.
“Emma,” he whispered, shaking her arm.
Her eyes fluttered open, focusing on him for a second before closing.
“Emma,” he said, putting a hand gently over her mouth and pinching her.
“Owww,” she said, her voice muffled by his hand. “What the hell?”
“Sorry,” said Jack. “The cop next door just left. He had someone with him. Looked like an older teenager. They walked into the woods with huge backpacks—and rifles.”
“So?” she said, trying to keep her eyes open.
“Why would they be leaving on foot?” said Jack.
“How do you know it was the cop if you couldn’t really see them?”
“Who else would it be?” said Jack. “That’s the house Travis pointed to. I think he knows something nobody else knows.”
“Who? Travis?” she said, still out of it.
“No. The cop,” said Jack. “He just got back from his shift, and now he’s hiking out of town? He knows something nobody else knows.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, but I think we should follow him,” said Jack.
“Two guys armed with rifles?” said Emma, sounding a little more lucid. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“We’ll follow them from a distance. A long distance,” said Jack. “They’re walking for a reason. What if there’s another quarantine line out there? A police officer would know about it. They could guide us through it.”
Emma rubbed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“I’d lie back down and go to sleep if I didn’t think this was an important opportunity,” said Jack.
“I hate you right now,” said Emma, cracking a thin smile. “But I still love you.”
Jack kissed her forehead. “Trust me. Those two know what they’re doing. We just keep our distance and everything will be fine.”
He hoped.
Chapter Thirty
Eric Larsen scanned the aircraft’s cargo hold, making his best assessment of the other teams. Specter, led by Ragan, and Banshee, led by Webb, were outfitted the same as his team. Standard MultiCam pattern, which was typically used in non-arid, forested or “green” climates. This meant they would stay out of urban areas, more than likely operating on the peripheries of the suburbs, making a onetime foray into housing areas to secure their objective.
They fielded what he considered a light combat load consisting of plate-carrier vests fitted with a reduced number of rifle magazines and equipment pouches. It was a streamlined kit that sacrificed a significant degree of ballistic protection for unhindered movement and agility.
Their weapons load-out reflected the same. HK416A5s with eleven-inch barrels—fitted with EOTech holographic sights and AN/PEQ-15 Advanced Target Pointer/Illuminator/Aiming Laser (ATPIAL). Compact enough to use in close-quarters combat and street situations, but not suited for longer-range battlefield engagements. Not that they expected any.
Unless society broke down en masse, he couldn’t envision a scenario in which any of the teams would ever need to use firearms to accomplish their missions. Better safe than sorry, he supposed, and from what he’d seen during dozens of “full dress” drills with the unit, this was the heaviest load-out provided to the teams.
Their job was to protect high-value individuals (HVI) critical to the nation’s continuity of operations plan in the event of a widespread attack or disaster. Essentially, it was an expensive and dramatic form of high-value babysitting dreamed up by someone in Washington, D.C.—with way too much time on their hands.
Vampire team, Ochoa’s band of misfits, was the anomaly on board the aircraft. They were dressed in street clothes, carrying nondescript, medium-sized backpacks containing nearly all of their mission gear. They’d been a bit secretive about their load-out for some reason. Larsen mostly attributed it to Ochoa being a defective asshole, but maybe there was more to it. He’d seen a few Vampire team members pull MP7 submachine guns from the preloaded packs, along with long suppressors. By his best guess, Vampire was headed into either an urban or densely packed suburban environment.
Nobody knew, of course. None of the teams had received their final orders. The customized kits were their only indication of what the mission might entail—if this was even a real mission. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d geared up and stood at the aircraft’s ramp, ready to jump into the night. Hell, they’d even jumped before—their navigation system directing them to a drop zone back on Grissom Reserve Air Base. Tonight felt different to Larsen. He couldn’t say why, but he had the distinct feeling that this was the real deal.
“Any updates?” said Randy Dixon, his head pressed to the nylon jump-seat strap next to him.
“Nothing,” said Larsen. “As usual. The kit is our only hint.”
“Kind of overkill on the weapons,” said Dixon.
“A little,” said Larsen. “But who knows what we’re jumping into. We’re the last resort—when the situation on the ground has deteriorated beyond a certain point.”
“And what point is that?” said Dixon.
“No idea,” said Larsen. “I assume we’ll find out shortly.”
“Or we’ll turn around and head back to Grissom. Like always.”
“I can think of harder ways to make six figures,” said Larsen.
“Good point,” said Dixon.
Larsen nudged Jennifer Brennan with his
foot. She lay on the metal deck in front of them, her head propped on her backpack.
“What?” she snapped.
“Just making sure you’re awake,” said Larsen.
“It’s three in the morning,” she said, her eyes still closed.
He smiled and shook his head. “Fucking rogue’s gallery is what I got.”
Dixon laughed. “All but Pecker-head.”
Larsen looked over at James Peck, who had taken a seat on the deck with Ochoa’s team. Peck was a problem. Not a mission-failure kind of problem, but a thorn-in-the-side type. Something none of them needed, especially in a critical position on a high-stress mission. He’d tried to get Peck reassigned, but the process of removing or reassigning a member of the Critical High-value Asset Security (CHASE) program required documentation. Lots of documentation. The kind he wasn’t used to dealing with.
As a SEAL platoon commander, Larsen had nearly complete authority over the composition of his team. He didn’t handpick them from scratch, but if he didn’t think one of the officers or enlisted men was a good fit with the rest of the platoon—end of discussion.
Unfortunately, few of those safeguards seemed to be in place here. Ochoa was a prime example. He could think of others. That said, most of the members he’d gotten to know were pretty squared away. Former cops, Marines, soldiers and federal agent types—all willing to abide by the most restrictive set of security rules he’d ever come across. He had to remember that. There were only a few rotten eggs in the bunch.
Unfortunately, one of them was assigned to his team. Actually, he wasn’t a shit bag. James Peck had deployed twice with 1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment to Afghanistan and had been awarded a Bronze Star with valor during a two-day-long operation in the Korengal Valley. Larsen had initially been thrilled with Peck’s assignment, but the honeymoon didn’t last long. He’d have to keep a very close eye on Peck.
“He’s the literal definition of rogue,” said Larsen. “What is Ochoa shit-talking about now? How he got booted from the Dallas PD?”
“Suspended,” said Dixon. “Unfairly from what I heard.”
“You mean from what he’s said?”
“Of course,” said Dixon, shaking his head. “That’s why he quit. They kept suspending him for no reason.”
Brennan started laughing. “Yeah. That’s pretty normal. Three suspensions in five years.”
They all laughed at that, drawing looks from Ochoa’s team and Peck. Ochoa cocked his head, something stupid about to pass through his lips.
“Telling more fag jokes, Larsen?” said Ochoa.
Peck laughed with Ochoa’s crew, and even some of Ragan’s team joined in. He knew he should let it go. Nothing good would come of responding—but he just couldn’t pass up another opportunity to shut this asshole down. Yelling over the aircraft’s engine noise, Larsen delivered his retort.
“No. We were just trying to figure out how you got suspended from the Dallas PD,” said Larsen, Ochoa’s smile vanishing, “three times in five years. That’s gotta be a fucking record!”
Ochoa hesitated before opening his mouth again. “And what’s so funny about that?”
“Nothing at all. Pretty fucking disturbing, actually,” said Larsen.
The cargo bay lights shifted to a monochromatic red before Ochoa could respond. Showtime. Or fake showtime. Didn’t matter either way. They’d treat it the same until the moment the drill was stopped. Larsen was about to call Peck over, but the former Ranger was already on his way. He might be a surly asshole, but it never got in the way of getting things done. He was thankful for that. When Peck arrived, Larsen got them working on the second part of their kit.
“Suit up for the drop,” said Larsen. “I’ll synch DZ data when everyone is ready.”
The aircraft’s loadmaster, a wiry guy draped in a flight suit, walked down the center of the cargo hold with a handheld scanner. He stopped next to Larsen’s team and ran the scanner over the electronic lock attached to each of the remaining unopened Pelican cases. The locks clicked open, allowing them access to the rest of their gear, which would consist of the parachutes.
“No oxygen. Regular altitude jump. Square rigs,” said Dixon.
Larsen gave Dixon a thumbs-up while he activated the team’s CTAB (command tablet). The rugged military device had a built-in satellite antennae for receiving mission updates and connecting to the MILSTAR battlefield information network. He could download local maps, access real-time satellite imagery and conduct mission-related research using the tablet. Most of that would be included in his mission download anyway, but planners couldn’t think of everything.
The main screen told him ZOMBIE MISSION PROFILE UPDATED. He glanced around, seeing the other team leaders doing the same thing. At this point, none of the team leaders were allowed to communicate with each other. Their missions were considered separately classified operations. TOP SECRET. In fact, the team leaders weren’t allowed to brief their own teams regarding the objective until they hit the ground. The only information he could share was the drop zone location, which he would upload to the heads-up displays (HUD) integrated into their helmets.
Larsen pressed the screen, activating the mission packet. The first thing he did was click the OBJECTIVE tab, checking out the drop zone (DZ). Interesting. The primary DZ was located twenty miles north of the center of Indianapolis, in Westfield. He zoomed the satellite image in on the DZ, seeing that it was located in the middle of a forest—in a small clearing that contained a single house. Precision landing. An alternate DZ had been designated a quarter of a mile southeast of the clearing, on the edge of what appeared to be a sprawling farm. He noticed a small regional airport two and a half miles northwest of the primary drop zone, wondering if that would be the extraction point.
He clicked on the High Value Individual (HVI) tab within the OBJECTIVE screen, where he was shown a name, several identifying pictures and a few lines of information pertinent to the mission.
MISSION TYPE: LOCATE/SECURE/PROTECT/TRANSPORT.
HVI: EUGENE CHANG. PICTURES PROVIDED CURRENT.
-NO PRIOR MILITARY SERVICE OR SIMILAR DOCUMENTED TRAINING.
-HOME LOCATED AT PRIMARY DZ OWNED BY EUGENE CHANG.
-HOME STRONGLY SUSPECTED TO BE SECURED BY ALARM SYSTEM.
-EXTERNAL MOTION DETECTORS SUSPECTED.
-NO KNOWN FIREARMS ASSOCIATED WITH EUGENE CHANG.
-TEAM WILL REMAIN ON-SITE WITH HVI AND AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.
-HVI MAY NOT BE AT RESIDENCE.
-IF HVI NOT PRESENT, TEAM WILL REMAIN IN PLACE AND AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.
The intelligence package didn’t include any information betraying why the HVI was considered important enough to be secured by a CHASE team, and it didn’t matter. They treated each mission the same.
Larsen cleared the tablet screen, sliding it into one of his reinforced cargo pockets. He’d secure it in a specially designed compartment on his parachute equipment rig just before the jump. With the tablet and its data secure from prying eyes, he joined the team, helping them don their MC-4 Ram Air Parachute Systems. When every member of the team, including himself, was secure in an MC-4 rig, they attached their custom drop bags.
Each drop bag contained a preloaded backpack based on the wearer’s specialty, case-protected night-vision gear and a padded sleeve for a rifle. The bag was worn in front of the parachutist, attached to the MC-4 rig, and would be manually released shortly before landing. Ideally, the bag would come to the end of its line several feet above the ground and gently lower to the earth with the parachutist.
With the drop bags attached and their rifles stowed inside, he pulled his Jump HUD goggles over his face and toggled a rubber button under the center of the goggles. A green display appeared at the bottom of his right eye, flashing the words NO INPUT.
“Let’s get the goggles synched,” said Larsen before removing the CTAB from his pocket.
While the team adjusted their goggles, he pressed his thumb to the biometric reader on the bot
tom right corner of the device and activated the screen. He was the only member of the team that could activate the tablet while he was still alive. If he was killed or permanently incapacitated, the tablet could be unlocked if all three remaining members pressed their thumbs to the reader in a predetermined sequence only known to Dixon, at which point only Dixon’s thumbprint could unlock the device from that moment forward. There was no contingency procedure to transfer command if Larsen and another member of the team were killed at the same time. He presumed the people that came up with this system had a reason for that.
He pressed the COMMS tab and selected HUDSYNCH, finding four devices designated zombieHUD. A few seconds later, the tablet indicated that the dzdata-zombie had been synched to the small navigation units attached to the Jump HUD goggles. The data in his own display changed, in addition to the appearance of a small green arrow, which pointed to the DZ.
ALT8200 : HDG340 : DIST40.3 : DIR355
Altitude eight thousand and two hundred feet. Heading 340 or sharply northwest. Distance to DZ was forty point three miles. Direction to DZ 355, or almost due north. Based on a quick calculation, they were nearly twenty miles south of Indianapolis, heading north. Three to four minutes away. If any of this was real.
“Everyone got the feed?” he said, getting a positive response from everyone.
“Helmets on,” said Larsen before fastening his own into place.
He looked around the cargo bay for the loadmaster, who was headed in his direction.
“Is Zombie all synched up?” said the loadmaster when he reached him.
“System says we’re a go,” said Larsen. “Team reports positive feed.”
“All right,” he said. “Secure your CTAB and stack up behind Specter. First jump is in two minutes.”
Larsen nodded and turned to his team, who all acknowledged what the loadmaster had said. After stuffing the CTAB in a hip pouch attached to his tactical vest, underneath the parachute harness, he triggered his communications headset. “Final radio check.”
After everyone responded using their headsets, he led them to the ramp. They waddled with the drop bags banging into the front of their legs, and formed a two by two column behind Ragan’s team. When all teams were in place on the nonskid deck, the lighting shifted to a deep blue and a single red light appeared on the jump-status panel next to the loadmaster station. A moment later, the ramp started to lower, the smell of fresh air rushing through the cargo hold.
HOT ZONE: A Post-Apocalyptic Pandemic Thriller (The Zulu Virus Chronicles Book 1) Page 22
