by Dave Lund
With each thirty-round magazine torn from Bexar’s body, one by one Cliff shot the approaching dead, his rifle reaching further and further out, slowly building another buffer between him and the dead, room to move. He only needed a few more minutes then he could pull Chivo to his shoulders and walk away from the ambushing swarm.
Flies buzzed into his mouth as he panted each breath, the exertion extreme; sweat-drenched, Cliff fired until the bolt locked back on an empty rifle once again, a pile of M4 and pistol magazines at his feet. The rifle fell to the sling as he reached down to pull Chivo’s body up to his shoulders before he was pulled backwards off his feet.
Pain shot through his body, reverberating from his shoulder and back again. The rotted face came into focus as he fell, trying to reach a knife with his right hand, but his arm refused to work. Now on his back, pain burned through his right calf and another corpse came in view, pieces of his flesh and pants hanging out of its mouth. No lips left to hold his flesh, it ground its rotted jaws together. Pain washed over his body, white spots flashed before his eyes; all he felt was anger for failing the mission. The dark curtains of consciousness fell away, bringing peace before death. Cliff thought he heard firecrackers. They sounded very far away and then he saw a man on a horse, the sun glowing around him like a halo.
CHAPTER 11
Coronado, CA
March 15, Year 1
The sun blazed overhead in the early afternoon. The Marines continued to sleep and rest in shifts, only after having cleaned their weapons, readied the Zodiac, and made sure that all of their gear was ready to go at a moment’s notice. For each of them, except for Simmons and Jones, it was like one of their tours in Afghanistan. As for the motor pool corporals, they had both spent a year in Iraq, but their mission profile during deployment was different than the special operations Marines living and fighting in the remote provinces of tribal Afghanistan. When not on watch or not taking care of an assigned duty, the members of the MSOT slept easily, ready to jump up and fight. Button-down pajamas and fluffy slippers were not the uniform of the day; the Marines slept in their uniforms, combat gear at the ready.
Simmons and Jones attempted to sleep and eventually gave up to sit in the dark lounge on one of the sofas where they chatted quietly, each holding his breath when a helicopter roared past overhead. Since the previous afternoon’s attack in the harbor and the subsequent raid that destroyed the runways at Halsey Field, the PLA’s patrols seemed to have increased significantly. Far beyond what anyone had seen so far.
The daylight hours were too dangerous for any of the Marines to take a position on the roof as an observation post; it was also far too dangerous to venture outside of the building. The number of the odd-looking Chinese-made Jeeps speeding by just yards away from the front of the building was too great. They saw fewer and fewer of the armored APCs, mainly only the odd-looking Jeeps driving by now. The constant overflights by helicopters made any sort of activity in the enclosed courtyard too dangerous as well. Luckily the M-ATVs were under the large covered parking areas, which were like oversized military car ports. The fire watch—Marines awake in shifts to observe and alert the rest of any security issues or attacks—took station in dark rooms on the top floor, window blinds turned just enough to give them a vantage point to see the outside world, but not enough to be seen or noticed. Each of them kept a log of what they saw: the number of men, types of weapons, direction of travel and other details in notebooks so that the team could compile an accurate count for what they faced.
Aymond sat at the large cherry-wood-finished desk in one of the larger offices. The previous occupant had been a high-ranking officer, but that man was gone and Aymond enjoyed the sunlight streaming in through the partially open window blinds. Across the desk was a map of Coronado and San Diego.
“We have to disable and deny access to any other deep water cargo craft to the bay. They could still use the facilities at Halsey Field to off-load. So we can start with the cranes or we can start with the ships. Which do you two think?”
Happy looked at the map closely. “The ships would be easier to disable or sink; hit them with charges on the screws or a few charges below the waterline.”
Gonzo frowned at the map, putting his finger on the northern end of Halsey Field. “All we have to do is disable two cranes along the northern dock side, maybe go as far as destroy the sections of track near the cranes so they can’t be moved either. It would take less time and less C4. We have a lot right now, but that’s all we’ve got, Chief; we should try to conserve it as much as possible.”
Aymond nodded and sat quietly, looking at the map. Finally he said, “We’re going to do both, starting with the cranes.”
“Chief, if the response is anything like it has been today, I don’t think we’ll get but one shot at this.”
“I agree, Gonzo. We do both in one night, but this time we do it right; we go as a full team. Shake everyone loose to meet at 1500 in the conference room. Simmons and Jones can hold the watch while we meet, then I’ll brief them as well. We’re going to need them.”
“Aye, Chief,” was said in unison before they walked out of the office.
SSC, Ennis, TX
Amanda wiped the sweat from her face, her gloved hands tingling from the heat and vibration. The massive armored backhoe loader was called something that consisted of a bunch of random letters, or so it seemed to Amanda, but it was quite the piece of equipment. Clint gave her a crash course in how it was operated while still belowground in the tunnel, and it had taken most of the morning to really start to get comfortable with how it operated, although trying to be precise with the limited visibility out of the armored plated cab was hard. So far Amanda had caused considerable damage to a house near the park’s fence, but the loader wasn’t damaged. According to Clint the armor would protect her from small arms fire or an IED, which in turn would protect her from the undead, which was great, except that the air conditioner wasn’t working as well as it should be and she couldn’t exactly roll down a window. The best she was able to do while driving back to the farmer’s field across from the main gate was crack the door open to get some fresh air in the cab. If Clint saw her with the door open he would be really upset, but he was around the corner setting and erecting HESCO barriers for her to fill with dirt and rock. Although the work was monotonous—driving the big armored backhoe loader back and forth, getting the dirt poured into the barriers one load at a time—it sure beat being stuck belowground. Finally Amanda was working in a direction she knew would be productive.
At least we’re not having to fill those things by hand with shovels, that would take forever and be impossibly hard work.
A lone shambling corpse made its way down Bozek Lane towards Amanda as she was about to push the loader into the dirt for another load for the HESCOs. Amanda saw him limping towards the tractor, probably attracted by the noise of the engine and the movement. Turning, she drove slowly towards the corpse, raising the loader front bucket, the jagged teeth of the digging edge hovering in the air about head height for the corpse. Oblivious to his impending doom, the corpse kept limping towards the charging military grade construction tractor before being ripped off his feet by the bucket. Amanda slowed and lowered the bucket to the ground, crushing the man’s head and chest against the roadway.
With an annoyed grunt, she backed the loader away from the corpse squished into the road like roadkill, turned and drove back to the edge of the field for another large scoop of dirt into the bucket.
Groom Lake, NV
Erin answered Sarah’s question with only a noncommittal shrug. “Sure, whatever, Mom.”
Sarah looked at her daughter and let the attitude slide, more concerned about the reason the attitude was there in the first place. The new world, trying to be born out of the death of the old, was destroying her daughter and there was nothing she could do about it.
Jessie, who sat on the end of the bed, stood. “Erin, we love you and it would be a chance to get abovegr
ound for a while. Maybe during the classes you’ll meet someone you might like, maybe a new friend.”
Erin shrugged again.
“Well, Jessie and I want to do it, so we’re going to tell Jake that we’re on board. I have a feeling that if you don’t come along with us that Brit will try to have you doing dishes or vacuuming floors or doing something else mindless just as a way for her to try to get you back. Instead of that, come and teach others your awesome skill.”
“OK Mom, but next time that bitch tries to talk to one of you that way I’m going to kick her ass.”
Sarah gave a half-hearted smile before walking away from their bunks in the open area dorm, Jessie and Erin following her. They had to tell Jake they were on board and then they had to come up with a lesson plan before doing anything else.
CHAPTER 12
Coronado, CA
March 16, Year 1
The Zodiac ripped through the choppy waters of the Pacific, the eight remaining members of the MSOT each in their position on the gunwales. The cloudy night was a blessing, the cloak of inky darkness bleeding across the shadows around them. In the distance loomed the remaining large PANAMAX container ships stacked high with shipping containers. They had no way to know what was actually on those ships, packed in the containers, but all of them were quite sure that it wasn’t counterfeit Air Jordan’s.
They took a long arc out into the Pacific to approach the ships from a quartering direction towards the stern. The teams had two objectives and only six hours to pull it off before sunrise. Happy and Ski wore wetsuits and rebreathers, their task for the operation both harder and easier than the others; it really depended on whether the ships were holding position with their screws turning. The consensus was that the ships were simply holding anchor, but without sonar intelligence it would be impossible to tell until they were there. If the screws were turning then their secondary task would become their primary. As usual, they must adapt and overcome.
Aymond looked at his teammates, his family, around him and knew that they wouldn’t fail. They might die but they would never fail. It was a proud moment. Every single time he had gone outside the wire while in Afghanistan he’d had the same feeling when looking at his teammates, his brothers. This was what he was born to do and, seeing how there wasn’t much else to do in their brave new world, this was what he would be doing until the end.
Gonzo pointed to Happy and Ski and held up his fist giving the sign: Two minutes! Circling his hand at the rest of the group, he held up five fingers: Five minutes!
It wasn’t that Gonzo wouldn’t have been able to say that out loud and be heard; the sounds caused by the wind, water, and their movement wasn’t that bad, and the ultra-quiet engine on the Zodiac, specially made for SOCOM, wasn’t louder than a mouse fart. They were in full mission profile, which meant no talking until the shooting started. Stealth above all, until there was no more stealth to be had, then firepower would win the day.
Happy and Ski pulled their masks on followed by each piece of gear they needed for the rebreathers; each went through their pre-launch check of the wrist-mounted gauges, verifying their gear was in place and secure, touching each piece like a pilot inspecting his airplane before taking flight.
Gonzo pointed at them and pumped his fist up and down. Happy and Ski gave each other a quick fist bump and rolled off the gunwale backwards into the choppy dark abyss. Hammer, manning the outboard engine and thus the direction the rubber boat was headed, began steering their craft right, bringing to an end the arc through the ocean to approach the lumbering container ships that seemed to blossom and grown in size through the darkness as they approached. From the middle of the rubber boat, sections of poles were being interlocked together. It looked like a long handle for a pool-cleaning brush, but on either side of the pole were alternating footholds, the end of the pole section having a heavy duty aluminum hook. As they approached the ship, Chuck took a heavy plate with felt padding on one side and a handle tied to a rope on the other. The felt side went against the ship’s steel hull and was held strongly in place by the strong magnetic plate, the felt used to keep the heavy duty magnet from making a loud thud against the ship’s hull when it was placed. The rope was tied to the Zodiac, anchoring them in place.
The water below them was calm, which meant the screws were not turning; that was a good thing for the team since if this ship was sitting idle in anchor, then the two others next to it probably were too. If that was the case then Happy and Ski would have an easy swim.
The pole sections snapped together and quickly the hook was over the edge of the transom and the team quickly ascended onto the ship, the superstructure looming overhead, just barely visible from the towering containers. If they were going to fully take the ship, the search would take hours, systematically moving from section to section. Every nook and cranny would have to be searched. They didn’t have hours though, and they really weren’t concerned with finding anyone on the ship as long as the team could account for the people they encountered while reaching the bridge.
A waterborne ship take-down was something they had trained for before, but it wasn’t a part of the normal training cycle for the team; terrorists in the Middle East weren’t really big on operating large shipping vessels. This was traditionally more of a Navy SEAL job. Aymond looked around, scanning the shadows for any threats while maintaining a secure perimeter for the two more team members who weren’t on board yet. Adapt and overcome, that is what we’re good at.
PANAMAX Ships
Once on deck, the metal decking rolled gently under Aymond’s feet. Rifle up and more quiet than a shadow, he led the other five men him up the gangway and towards the bridge high on the superstructure. Although fat suppressors were attached to the ends of the M4s they carried, the rifles would not sound like those one heard in the movies. There would be no quiet whisper with a rifle and regular ammo; no, the suppressors helped with the noise but there would still be a lot of it. The moment they fired a shot would be the moment they lost the element of surprise, then they would need to lay down overwhelming firepower. With only six of them trying to take a ship this size, surprise was all they had.
Slowly, one by one, the team ascended the metal steps, the soft rubber-soled boots they wore making no sound from their practiced steps. The ship rumbled softly, the generators in the engine room running to provide electrical power while the massive main engines sat dormant to conserve fuel.
The black balaclava Aymond wore steamed in the cool air, the black wrap soaked with sweat, a mixture of exertion and extreme concentration. They stopped at the metal door, the reinforced glass pane spilling light into the darkened passageway from the bridge. A small telescoping mirror was passed up to Aymond, who used it to assess what they faced in the bright room.
A quick series of small hand gestures explained the situation and the plan to the team. Aymond stood slowly, just on the outside of the door frame, as far as the passageway would allow. One by one each man squeezed the shoulder of the man in front of him, until finally Chuck squeezed Aymond’s shoulder. All ready.
Aymond nodded then stood perfectly still, Chuck’s right hand grasping the latch, ready to open the hatch on command. Aymond moved his head out, in, out. Ready, set, GO!” The hatch ripped open to his right by Chuck’s powerful arm, Aymond stepped over the hatchway and into the room, sweeping right, Chuck behind him sweeping left, each successive teammate through the hatch taking a slice of the pie out of the middle until Snow stepped in and shut the latch behind him.
After dogging the hatch and clipping a snap link through the external lock, Snow turned to see their six captives. They didn’t look Chinese.
Underwater, PANAMAX Ships
Happy and Ski swam under the deep keel of the ship adjacent to the one their teammates were assaulting at the moment. Lacking limpet mines, the proper equipment for the task, the pair had come ready to adapt and overcome to make their portion of the operation a success. The enormous screw shaft had a specially s
haped donut of explosives wrapped around it and against the edge of the hull. Luckily for both of them the screws were motionless, the large ships sitting in anchorage, tugging against the heavy chains in the flowing tide.
The inky black water held secrets of the deep, but the secrets were not theirs to be found this evening. After the first ship’s screws were rigged, a series of charges were placed on the stern side of the ship just below the waterline, held in place by waterproof vinyl tape that was typically used for quick repair jobs while on mission. The tape reminded Happy of a super form of duct tape; it wouldn’t survive a voyage, but it should hold underwater for an hour, and an hour was all they needed.
The second ship in the row had the same explosive treatment applied to its massive screw shaft, but they didn’t bother with the charges along the hull. If their plan worked right then they wouldn’t have to.
On Board The PANAMAX
“Uh, Chief, I don’t think these guys are Chinese.”
The half-dozen prisoners taken on the bridge sat against the rear bulkhead, their hands zip-tied behind their backs, their ankles zip-tied together.
