by W. J. Lundy
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot
Something to Fight For
By W. J. Lundy
12.05.2014
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot
Something to Fight For
© 2014 W. J. Lundy
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
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Cover Art by
André Vazquez Jr.
CHAPTER 1
The South Carolina Dead Lands
The riverboat glided heavy on the currents of the muddy river. Shane stood with his back to the pilothouse and compulsively checked his rifle. Dropping the magazine and pushing his finger against the weak tension of the rounds, he knew he was down to his last twelve bullets. He sighed and reinserted the magazine before moving toward the stern of the craft. Close to the rail, he saw the girl sleeping with his worn wool army blanket still covering her. Shane dropped to the deck, slid closer to the girl, and nestled in beside her. He looked around to ensure no one was watching before he pulled back the blanket and lifted the girl’s sleeve to check the bandage on her arm.
The swelling was gone, but the bite marks and scabbed over scratches were still visible. How the girl was still alive only God knew, but he had taken on the task of keeping her that way, and as long as she lived, Shane had a mission. With a mission, Shane had an excuse to push on rather than give in to the temptations of a peaceful death. If the other passengers saw the girl’s wounds though, he knew they would throw her over the side… or worse. He pulled the bandage back over the wounds, wrapped her tightly in the blanket, and slid his pack in front of her to shield the girl from the others milling around nearby. Shane apprehensively put his trust in the band of survivors for the sake of the girl when normally he would be wary of strangers and keep his distance. So, although he knew they were not his friends, he had partnered with this motley group out of necessity; the girl deserved at least that much.
Shane looked to the bow of the old boat as they drifted slowly down the river toward the coast. He wasn’t a nautical man, so he wasn’t sure what type of craft it was. Wide and flat bottomed with a large open front deck, it had a small white pilothouse set in the center of its length. Sometimes he would see an armed man on the roof of the house. Most of the crew stayed inside when they weren’t working though; he presumed they were avoiding the passengers that were gathered on the deck and scattered against the rails, or any open space they could lay claim to. Some of his fellow passengers were armed, but most weren’t—or they were good at hiding their weapons. Either way, Shane avoided eye contact; he didn’t want to look friendly or present himself as a victim to any of them.
He saw the captain—Shane still didn’t know what to call the white-bearded old man in dingy yellow slickers—working an oar while another sailor was on the opposite side with a long pole, trying to control the direction of the craft. The boat had been without fuel since he’d boarded it with the girl. Finding this boat was the only thing that had gone well for him in a long time. Even before the fall, he’d never managed to catch a real break, even with the best of luck. “Unemployable” is what the VA called him—try finding a job, or a decent girlfriend, with that label. Outside of the army, Shane had never been good at anything; maybe that’s why he went to the military installation at the edge of town when things began to fall apart.
He’d witnessed the violence from his fourth floor apartment, mostly on the TV, sometimes the radio, and after a few days, he just watched it from his window. It started overseas and had quickly spread to the Border States. They blamed it on terrorists using some new bio-weapon. Shane went through a month of PTSD pills in a week just trying to keep his anxiety in check as he watched the world fall apart around him. When the riots started and the city began to burn, he made a personal choice to die on the streets fighting, not hiding in his apartment like a coward. He dug through his hall closet until he found the small canvas bag.
Shane left most of his old uniforms in a dumpster when he was discharged from the Army, but he’d kept one. It was worn and battered but still bore all of his patches. It was definitely not the typical clean and pressed uniform that soldiers wore when on garrison duty state side. It was the uniform he’d worn on his last deployment, the one that sent him home with pins in his back and a headache that never went away. He put on the uniform and stood in front of his bathroom mirror, frowning. His hair was shoulder length; his beard long and unkempt. He barely looked the twenty-eight year old man that he knew he still was.
“Damn,” he said, laughing and shaking his head as he undressed, “the Sergeant Major would have my ass.”
Shane opened a drawer and removed a pair of clippers. He shaved his head and then his face. When enough of the matted hair had been removed, he lathered up and used a razor. When he was dressed again and looked in the mirror, he could almost see a bit of the soldier he had once been. He reached into a drawer, snatched up a bottle of pain pills, and dry swallowed several of them before he paused momentarily to look at the bottle in his hand. He grinned and then poured the remaining pills into the sink.
Still smiling to himself, he walked through his tiny apartment to stop in front of a small bookshelf that held a single framed image; he carried one just like it in his wallet. Even though he knew his old friends would laugh at him if they witnessed it, he put on his patrol cap and stood at attention. As the sound of gunfire and screaming began making its way into the hallways of his apartment, he looked at the photo of the confident young men in uniform gathered around an armored Humvee. He gave the framed photo a scolding face and saluted. “I’ll be with you soon, brothers,” he vowed. He then snapped his arm back to his side and walked out of his apartment into the smoke-filled hallway.
A violent thud rattled the boat, causing Shane to pull the rifle closer to his chest and snap out of his reverie. At the same time, his left arm instinctively dropped down to shield the sleeping girl. His sudden movement caught the eye of the captain, who shot him a sadistic grin. “Take it easy, soldier, just a submerged log hitting up against the bottom.”
Shane pulled his arm back to his side and let the rifle rest in his lap. He looked off into the night over the rail and glanced at the far bank of the river. He saw a pack of them, their shadows cast long by the bright moon and stretching across the water toward him. The things walked slowly and followed the drifting boat, waiting for an opportunity to lunge at them and get on board. They were always hunting them, always ready to strike. He could raise his rifle and kill them until he was out of ammo, but more would come. It was useless—they were always there and he was always running from them.
Shane had been on the run with the girl since the fort fell. He was on tower watch when they breached the gate. They made him a team leader when he checked in and put him in charge of a number of junior soldiers.
Shane laughed to himself when he thought back to the moment he walked past the large crowd and to the small armory’s gate. The other civilians barely noticed him, even with his uniform jacket coated in dried blood, the sleeves ripped. The civilians were too preoccupied with entering the small fort and escaping the terror that was moving toward them.
Not Shane though; he didn’t care what was behind. He had already placed his fate in God’s hands. What was behind him wasn’t his concern. He
moved stoically, like on a mission, and it was his job to be there. Not that he cared if the fort would accept him or not. He just knew if he didn’t have a purpose, he would quit, and he didn’t want to go out like that—with nothing to fight for. When the military police on duty saw him approach the gate, they pushed back the mass and dragged him forward through the crowds.
“Sergeant, what the hell are you doing out here?” one of them yelled as they grabbed his arms and pulled him through the barriers to behind the safety of the gates. Shane took a moment to look at the armed men around him but before he could speak, they looked suspiciously at the uniform he was wearing.
“Who are you with, sergeant? Why are you wearing that IR flag patch? Are you deployed? You on R&R leave?” one of them asked in rapid fire as he looked at the patches normally worn by soldiers on deployment.
Shane looked at the soldier with a dazed expression, still surprised to be taken in so easily. “Yeah… I was on leave. I’m just trying to make it back to my unit,” he bluffed.
“Shit, sergeant, haven’t you heard? All of the deployed units have been recalled. Your unit’s probably on their way back to D.C. or Bragg. You better check in with the LT, maybe he can help you hook up with your command.”
Shane nodded and looked back at the screaming civilians still fighting to get close to the gates.
“Sergeant!” the soldier in charge shouted, trying to regain his attention.
“Looks like you been through a lot,” he said, indicating the blood on Shane’s jacket.
“Yeah, it’s bad out there; worse than anything I’ve ever seen.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Huh? Oh, down on 32nd street,” Shane said barely above a whisper.
“What the… 32nd? That’s out behind the roadblocks in the containment zone! How the hell’d you make it out of there?” the soldier said with disbelief in his voice.
“Walked mostly,” Shane said.
The soldier laughed. “Well shit… we got us a Rambo, fellas. Private Nichols, get the truck and run the sergeant here back to the operations tent. I’m sure the LT will have work for him.”
CHAPTER 2
Atlantic Coast Line
Brad watched men dressed in yellow and orange jackets walk the decks of the black submarine. Sailors appeared to be deploying an inflatable boat while more men stood atop the sail looking back at him with binoculars of their own. It’d been over two hours since they encountered the vessel. Two silent hours, with little to no contact other than a flashed Morse code message requesting they silence their radios, kill their engines, and cease the ping.
“They’re prepping a boarding party,” Gunner said casually as he watched the foreign team through his binoculars ready their craft. The men in orange lowered it into the water and attached it with lines and a flimsy netted ladder.
“What do we do?” Parker asked excitedly. “Who are they?”
“Doesn’t matter who they are, let’s get ready to meet our new friends,” Gunner answered.
Joey Vilegas pushed his way toward the front of the group so he could see over the rail. Brad noticed that Vilegas had used the down time to put on his tactical vest and attach his weapon to the front with a clip. The rest of them were still casually dressed in their uniform trousers and t-shirts; only a few of them even carried side arms.
“How do we know they’re friends?” Joey asked accusingly.
Sean put his hand on Vilegas’ shoulder and gently directed him back to the wheel house. “Get that weapon inside and out of sight!”
Vilegas planted his feet and pushed back. “Why? Don’t we want them to know we ain’t defenseless, that we aren’t a soft target?”
Sean grunted. “If they wanted us dead, we would be on the bottom already,” he said as he walked back to look Vilegas face-to-face. He put his hand on his shoulder, with less aggression this time.
“So, let’s just throttle back a notch and see what they have to say.”
Vilegas looked down at the deck then glanced over his shoulder at the submarine. “Yeah, you’re probably right; I’ll be inside. If you need me, I’ll be ready,” he said as he turned and moved back to join Kelli on the bridge.
“They’re in the water, Chief!” Brooks called out from the bow, causing all of them to turn their attention back to the visitors.
Sean moved back to the bow and watched the small boat pull away from the larger vessel. “Okay, fellas, they have the bigger bank and all the good cards, so let’s just play this hand out before we go getting silly.”
“Understood, Chief,” Brad said as he stepped back and joined the rest of the crew near the wheelhouse. Gunner and Sean moved aft and descended the ladder toward the lower dive deck.
The ribbed inflatable moved in the direction of the Coast Guard vessel. There were six men on board; all appeared to be armed and in uniform. The boat made a straight line directly toward them, then cut an arc fifty feet off of their port side. The small boat moved past them, turned sharply, and came back up to within thirty feet of the Coast Guard vessel’s dive deck before cutting their speed and stopping hard in the water. A man stood, looked at the ship, and then lifted a bull horn to his mouth. “Good evening, I am Chief Marcus Richardson. Request permission to come aboard,” he shouted over the horn.
“Parker, Nelson, would you join us below and prepare to catch a line?” Gunner shouted in a voice loud enough to be heard by the approaching craft.
The small craft idled closer to the landing ladder. A line was tossed and caught by Corporal Parker who quickly pulled the small boat in and tied it to a cleat bolted to the deck. Extending a hand, Nelson reached over the rail and assisted with pulling the crew members aboard.
The sailors filed off the small boat and moved back to stand against the rail while holding their weapons casually. They wore plain blue utility uniforms and all were armed with SA80s that hung casually from their slings. The man that identified himself as the Chief stepped forward and again introduced himself. “Excuse me for the awkwardness of this introduction. As you are well aware, formalities have grown tiresome in recent days. As I said before, I am Chief Petty Officer Richardson of the HMS Attack and this is a portion of our crew.”
Sean moved forward with his hand extended. “I am Chief Sean Rogers; you could say I am the current chief of the boat. Welcome aboard,” Sean said, stepping ahead of Gunner. “Might I ask what brings you into our waters?”
Richardson smiled and returned Sean’s handshake. He turned his head making an obvious display of looking over the ship and its crew. “You seem to be a bit out of place here. Your vessel has Canadian markings; Coast Guard even. Yet your uniforms— “
“Yes, we are a bit of a motley crew. It’s a long story,” Sean replied.
“One that my captain would love to hear. We were expecting Canadians, but I guess that explains the radio calls. My captain has asked that I extend an invitation to your captain and first officer… or perhaps your leadership element, as I seem to recognize an absence of officers on the deck.”
Sean chuckled. “Yes, this is a bit of an ad hoc crew. Put together more out of necessity than by military protocol. Before I can accept an invitation, I need to know who we are dealing with.”
Gunner, having held his tongue long enough, finally spoke. “Richardson, we have been out of contact with the States for quite some time. We really don’t know what you are doing here. Or even where the United Kingdom stands as a nation.”
“You really are unaware?” Richardson asked with a puzzled expression.
“Unaware of what?” Sean asked.
“There are no more nations, gentlemen; at least not in the sense that they existed months ago. And as to the question of us being in your waters… we haven’t spotted a US flagged vessel in weeks. Most of your standing fleet has fled or is resting on the bottom.”
Sean looked at Richardson with his best poker face. “I think you may be wrong about that; the fleet is out there—a carrier and her supp
ort vessels—I have seen it personally.”
Richardson smiled. “Oh yes, the fleet. We know all about them. Anchored off the Horn of Africa is it? I assume from your current location, you know as much about the fleet as we do.”
Gunner once again interjected, “Okay, okay, Chief Richardson, what is it we’re all doing out here? What do you want from us?”
“Like I said before, sir, my captain would like to invite you aboard. He has much to discuss.”
Gunner smiled back at the confident man. “Chief, I’ll send three of my men, but I must insist that you and two of your own remain here and keep me company in their absence. I’m sure you understand.”
Richardson looked at Gunner with a cold stare, slowly letting the corners of him mouth curl up into a grin. He turned and looked back at his own men before looking back at Gunner. “Sir, I don’t understand… are you, or are you not, in charge?”
Gunner held his smile. “I would say we have ourselves a bit of leadership by committee. I may be the senior, or maybe not. You know how us Yanks tend to embrace our democracies. However, if I were in charge, I wouldn’t abandon my ship.”
Richardson shook his head and let out an exaggerated laugh. “I have no idea what in the hell you just said, mate, but I guess it all makes sense somehow. “
Richardson unclipped a radio handset that was attached just below his right collar. He turned away from Gunner, faced the rail, and spoke into the handset in a low voice. He nodded and clipped the handset back to his collar as he looked back at Gunner. “Select your party, it appears we will be spending some time together.”
“Very well… Chief Rodgers, would you kindly pick two of your finest to join you for a friendly visit to our neighbors?” Gunner said without looking away from Richardson.
CHAPTER 3
