HOT ZONE: A Post-Apocalyptic Pandemic Thriller (The Zulu Virus Chronicles Book 1)

by Steven Konkoly

  The loadmaster stopped the ramp when it was flush with the deck, creating a level walk for the parachutists. Beyond the edge of the ramp, clusters of lights dotted the distant, murky darkness. It still wasn’t too late for them to call this off. If the ramp closed right now, he wouldn’t be surprised.

  The light turned green, the loadmaster immediately giving Ochoa the hand signal to jump, and Vampire team walked slowly forward—vanishing into the night. The light turned red again, and the aircraft gently rolled to port, the heading in his HUD changing from 340 degrees to 260—almost due west. Less than two minutes later, Specter joined the night.

  This wasn’t a drill, or they would have dropped both teams in the same location. Maybe. This could be the most elaborate drill yet. He wouldn’t know for sure until they hit the ground and secured Chang. Possibly not even then. That was the bizarre thing about these missions. Information was kept to a bare minimum, almost to the point where they could execute an entirely real mission and still think it was a drill, especially if the disaster or national crisis triggering the CHASE team deployment was a distant terrorist attack. Unless there was some nearby sign of trouble, how would they know? Once again, it didn’t matter. They’d do the job regardless of the bigger picture. That was the deal.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Larsen watched the DIST and ALT numbers in his Jump HUD, making minor adjustments to his body posture to get as close to the drop zone as possible at one thousand feet AGL (above ground level). That would give him more than enough time to locate the clearing in the middle of the trees and steer his parachute for a precise landing. Since the sky was clear and the moon was close to full, he should have no problem identifying the drop zone without the aid of night-vision devices. If planners had predicted a problem, his helmet would have been pre-fitted with the night-vision goggles that sat in a hardened case within his drop bag.

  At an altitude of two thousand feet, he’d closed the horizontal distance to the DZ to a little over a thousand feet. With more than two hundred free-fall parachute drops under his belt, he could track through the air at a one-to-one glide ratio, which meant he’d reach the parachute deployment point directly over his objective.

  As the numbers rapidly decreased, Larsen was certain that he could see the drop zone below. It was hard to miss. A lightened square patch in the middle of a sea of dark treetops. He’d overshoot it a little, but that wouldn’t matter. When his altitude read one thousand feet, he deployed the parachute, the MC-4 harness yanking him unforgivingly when the parachute filled with air.

  Instantly going from one hundred and thirty feet per second to fourteen felt like a simultaneous gut punch and wedgie, the violent shock of it one of the most welcome thrashings of your life. It meant your parachute worked, which was especially important at one thousand feet above the ground, where you didn’t have much time to deploy the reserve chute if something went wrong.

  He grabbed the toggles above him and took control of the parachute, turning in the direction of the drop zone, which was a few hundred feet behind him. The parachute responded immediately, setting him on a course to intercept the forest clearing. He’d likely have to spiral lazily around the DZ several times once he was directly overhead so he didn’t stray too far from the clearing and find himself in an undesirable situation. Wind changes. Thermal rises. All kinds of unpredictable last minute nonsense would thwart a careless approach. The wind was predicted to be light, but he’d spent enough time in the Midwest to know that the wind rarely cooperated.

  Larsen glanced upward, relieved to find three dark, square shapes above him, headed in the same direction. As far as he was concerned, the hard part was over. The drop zone was wide enough to accommodate a simultaneous landing, which was the default plan he’d discussed on the aircraft. A minute and a half later, he skimmed the treetops along the southern edge of the clearing and toggled the brakes, slowing his rate of forward and downward motion. He released his parachute drop bag and drifted steadily toward the northern side of the field. The drop bag grazed the field, tugging gently on his harness and letting him know he was moments from hitting the ground. He flared his parachute moments later and landed smoothly on his feet, jogging forward to avoid the deflated parachute.

  He immediately turned and saw that the rest of the team had landed, each of them on their feet and moving to get away from their parachutes. It had been a textbook drop and an excellent start to the mission.

  “Zombie, status report,” he said into his headset, immediately getting a positive reply from everyone.

  “Copy. Secure parachutes and gear up. Looks like we didn’t wake anyone up.”

  The house in the middle of the clearing was completely dark, inside and out. Examining it for a few seconds, he seriously doubted anyone was home. He would have expected to see something inside, like an oven light or bathroom light. The outside wasn’t promising either. He didn’t detect any exterior uplighting or a porch light.

  “Looks like nobody’s home,” said Dixon over the radio net.

  “It does look pretty dark,” said Larsen. “We’ll know in a few minutes.”

  Larsen detached his parachute from the MC-4 shoulder harness points and gathered the billowing material into a pile. He then removed the entire harness system and crudely stuffed as much of the parachute as he could into the now empty main parachute compartment. Satisfied that the parachute wasn’t going anywhere immediately, he retrieved his drop bag and pulled his rifle out of its sleeve, checking it over for any obvious damage. He didn’t expect any, but it was better safe than sorry when it came to your primary weapon.

  Night vision was next. He unsnapped the hardened case and removed a pair of AN/PVS-14 monocular night-vision goggles. Within seconds, he’d attached the night-vision device to the mounting bracket on his helmet and activated its green-scale, light-intensified image. A quick sweep of the house showed no light sources beyond moonlight reflecting off the solar panels and windows. He jogged to Dixon, who had just snapped his night-vision goggles into place.

  “Looks completely dead,” whispered Larsen.

  “That’s a bummer,” said Dixon.

  “Depends on how you look at it,” said Larsen. “If this is a drill, then the world isn’t coming to an end.”

  “Or it’s coming to an end,” said Dixon. “And you were sent to the wrong place.”

  “Good point,” said Larsen before raising his night-vision goggles. “Gather the team on me. I’m going to report our status.”

  Dixon patted him on the shoulder and took off, heading for Brennan, who appeared to be struggling with her night-vision mount. While his second in command squared away the rest of the team, Larsen took the CTAB out of his hip pouch and pressed his thumb to the biometric reader. The device automatically calibrated to the available light, giving him just enough illumination to read the screen without shining a light on his face that could be seen by the enemy. Of course, anyone using night vision could see the screen from a mile away, which was why he would never use it in the open under hostile conditions.

  When the screen activated, he immediately saw a high-priority flag, which meant something had changed. He shook his head, guessing CHASE HQ had just received new intelligence verifying that Chang was not here. Even more likely, it was a message confirming that this had been a drill and providing RTB (return to base) instructions.

  Before chasing down the new information, he opened the PROGRESS tab and pressed TEAM LANDED, followed by PRIMARYDZ and NOCASREP. Team landed at primary DZ with no casualties to report. He wasn’t a big fan of the CTAB’s push-button mission-reporting system, but had to admit that it kept things simple, and with hundreds of CHASE teams deployed simultaneously around the country—he assumed—it was probably the only reasonable way to keep track of it all. And he could always call via satellite phone if he encountered something the software planners hadn’t programmed into one of the screens.

  The reply to his status update arrived instantly.

 
ZOMBIEXC33 STATUS UPDATE RCVD

  IMMEDIATELY ACKNOWLEDGE MISSION UPDATE

  “Okay. Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s see what’s so important.”

  He read the message twice, thinking he had misread it the first time. What the fuck was this?

  MISSION TYPE CHANGED

  MISSION TYPE: CAPTURE/KILL

  -CAPTURE ONLY IF SITUATION PRESENTS NO RISK TO TEAM

  -HVI LIKELY ARMED

  -HVI LIKELY AWARE OF MISSION

  CAPTURE/KILL? Did he miss part of their training? At no point during his year tenure in the CHASE program had he heard of CAPTURE/KILL being a mission type. This was beyond bizarre. He was familiar enough with the designation from his SEAL days. It was the kind of label slapped on a high-value enemy target in the general area of operations when headquarters didn’t want to come right out and say “kill this motherfucker if you see him.”

  Larsen opened the MISSION tab, still seeing the original profile, with the change next to it. He clicked through the photographs, shaking his head. Something was really off with this. How did the mission change that quickly? No more than fifteen minutes had elapsed since he’d first received the mission data synchronization. Now this Chang guy was suddenly armed and aware of his team? That was one hell of an intelligence shift, and he didn’t buy it.

  A hand patted his shoulder, startling him. Brennan settled in next to him, cradling her rifle.

  “Shit. Am I not supposed to see that?” said Brennan.

  “It’s fine. I need to give everyone a good look at the HVI,” said Larsen. “Meet Eugene Chang.”

  Brennan raised her NVGs. “I don’t think he’s home.”

  “Neither do I,” said Larsen.

  “Do you think it’s a drill?”

  “My gut says no. It would be the most elaborate drill to date,” said Larsen. “And I’m not getting any orders to stand down. We’re going in.”

  Dixon and Peck arrived, ready to proceed. Larsen paused for a second, carefully considering what to say. Since he had no intention of killing Eugene Chang, he’d omit the new information. They’d proceed like nothing had changed and “secure” Chang. Locate. Secure. Capture. Same result. Different word. If at any point things got dicey, he’d order the team to stand down and take up positions to observe and protect. That was standard procedure if an HVI refused to comply with a CHASE team’s orders. Nobody would suspect he’d modified the orders. Since he controlled the mission data, he controlled the mission.

  “Take a quick look at Eugene Chang,” said Larsen. “Shouldn’t be too hard to identify. Mission is to locate, secure, protect and escort. No firearms on record. Possible alarm system and external motion sensors. Not sure if the sensors are linked to the alarm or just external lights. I see some floodlights mounted under the roof overhangs. I suspect the front is the same.”

  “We could use the suppressors and shoot out the lights,” said Peck.

  Not wanting to immediately slap down the ridiculous idea and piss off Peck even more, Larsen went with a more diplomatic response.

  “I thought of that when I first saw the house,” said Larsen. “But we’re looking at a half-dozen light fixtures. Each with two lights. That’s twelve bullets passing through the house. I don’t think we can risk the outside chance one of those bullets hits Chang or convinces him he’s under attack. We’re gonna scare the shit out of him as it is.”

  Peck nodded. “I hadn’t thought of that. Though I doubt it would matter. The house looks empty. Even for three thirty in the morning.”

  “That’s why I’m thinking it doesn’t matter,” said Larsen. “I’ll range ahead and see what’s up with the lights. If Chang is there, I’ll make contact with him and explain the situation. If he doesn’t answer, we’ll enter the house.”

  “I’ll move the team into the high grasses while you investigate,” said Dixon. “Just in case.”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Soaked through his clothes with sweat and swatting bugs continuously, Chang started to seriously regret his decision to hike to the airport. The backpack he’d previously assembled as a bug-out bag, based on the combined input of several prepper websites, had seemed like a good idea riding shotgun in his Toyota 4Runner. On his back, the straps digging into his shoulders and the weight pulling him off balance with every uneven step, the pack felt like a horrible idea. He only had himself to blame, of course. He’d never walked more than twenty feet with the pack before, and that was after heaving it onto one shoulder and setting it in the corner of his safe room.

  Less than two hundred yards into his journey, not even five percent of the way to the airport, according to his GPS unit, all Chang could think about was discarding items from his backpack that had taken him weeks to decide belonged in it! On top of that, it didn’t help that he was out of shape. Not horribly unfit, but enough to make hauling fifty pounds of survival gear through a thick forest difficult.

  He paused for a moment, leaning against a tree to take a sip from the CamelBak he’d never used before. The water had a rubbery taste, which was to be expected for a brand-new bladder. He hadn’t rinsed it prior to filling it from the sink tonight. All of his gear was brand new, unused and untested. Chang had no doubt all of it would work. It was top-of-the-line stuff, no expense spared, but even the best gear was borderline useless if you didn’t know how to use it. He shook his head at the thought and pressed on in the dark, wondering if that pair of night-vision goggles he’d considered purchasing for around four thousand dollars would have made any difference. Probably not.

  After several more minutes of trudging through the trees and thick forest growth, he stopped to check his GPS unit, encouraged that he’d travelled another hundred yards. Seven percent of the way there! Ha! At this rate he’d be there long after sunrise, with little hope of sneaking into his hangar and executing his plan. He assumed the airport was heavily guarded. It simply had to be. Technically, it sat inside the quarantine boundary, but every plane that took off represented an immediate quarantine breach. It would be guarded, and approaching it during the day would be risky.

  The cell phone in one of his vest pockets buzzed. Maybe cell service had been restored! Chang wasn’t sure how that helped him, but just the thought of it excited him. He retrieved the phone and opened the message center, finding an alert notification from his home security system. Had he forgotten to close a door? Maybe to the patio? He hoped not. There was no way he was backtracking at this point.

  He opened the home security center application on his phone and investigated the alert notification. The long-distance motion sensors covering the clearing behind his house had been triggered a few moments ago. How could something trigger the sensors in the clearing without being detected in the forest? Chang glanced in what he thought was the direction of his house, unable to make out anything through the dense trees and darkness.

  He waited for the system to analyze the data and give him a clearer picture of exactly what had set off the motion detectors. The system gave him a preliminary answer moments later. Four objects had “appeared” halfway between the house and the edge of the clearing behind his house, spread out evenly in the backyard. What the hell could this be? It was almost like someone had dug four tunnels and popped up out of the ground. No sense in guessing. It was time for a closer look.

  Chang navigated on his phone to the camera controls and selected one of the night-vision-capable units facing the backyard. The green image that appeared nearly caused him to topple over. Two of the “objects” were in view, and it was immediately clear how they had appeared without triggering the forest sensors. They had parachuted into the clearing.

  The figures gathered what looked to be some kind of square rig parachute used by Special Forces soldiers. He’d seen this type of precision-maneuvering parachute at the various military air shows he’d attended since starting his flying career. He took control of the camera and panned it to the left, seeing two more figures d
oing the same thing. Paralyzed by fear, he stared at the screen, barely able to comprehend what he was seeing. They had come for him, just like Greenberg had warned. He cupped a hand over the screen, cutting down on the light reflecting off his face. Couldn’t be too careful.

  A few minutes later, the four figures gathered together in a small group, appearing to dig through the squat rectangular bags they had hauled from their original drop locations. He zoomed in on the group, squinting at his phone. It was hard to tell in the grainy night-vision image, but it looked like a few of them had removed rifles from the bags. The others donned backpacks and attached night-vision goggles to their helmets. When they were finished with the bags, all four of them had rifles.

  The weapons were slung across their chests, like soldiers on patrol in the news clips from Iraq and Afghanistan. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but at least they weren’t pointing at the house. The soldier leading the group took out some kind of digital tablet, the screen illuminating his face green in the night-vision camera. The leader pressed the tablet several times, studying whatever it told him, before the rest of the team gathered around him.

  He considered his options. He could continue toward the airport, hoping that the team sent to kill or capture him didn’t come to the same conclusion. Chang hadn’t exactly concealed the fact that he’d just been in the house. Half-empty glasses. Food wrappers in the trash. The truck filled with survival gear. Both cars still in the garage. It wouldn’t take long for them to figure out he’d recently departed on foot. Then what? They call the 10th Mountain Division and tell them to secure the airport? His pilot’s license wasn’t a secret, either.