by Lundy, W. J.
A man in digital-blue camouflage, wearing a black ball cap entered the galley. He stopped at the front and sifted through items on a counter before grabbing the entire tray and walking toward the seated men. As the man approached, he dropped the tray and slid it across the table’s surface. “Wish there was more I could offer you. We're running low on everything… haven’t been resupplied in weeks,” the man said.
James reached across the table, snatching a packet of saltine crackers from the tray. “Thanks, Chief. We’ll take anything we can get.”
The man shook his head and sighed. “How many times I gotta tell you to call me Bud.”
“Just one more, I promise,” James laughed.
“We had reports of gunfire and explosions on shore. Did you run into trouble?” Bud asked.
Marks slurped at his coffee and set the cup in front of him. “Just helping out some friendlies; nothing worth reporting on.”
Bud shook his head. “Yeah, I’m sure you’d like to avoid a report. You know, with that contact, you’ve shut down this entry spot for a week. The Deltas will be all over this place. Now we’ll have to burn fuel looking for something else.”
Marks ignored the admonishment. “So, what’s the deal? I know the Navy is still flying drones stateside; how does it look over there? Any signs of them thinning out?”
“No, quite the opposite, really; it’s bad. Seeing less and less of the living every day. We can’t even approach the shoreline in daylight anymore without taking fire. We haven’t made a survivor pickup in over a week.”
“Concentrations?” Marks asked.
Bud took a cup of coffee from the table and found a seat. With his free hand, he reached into a pocket on his left leg and removed a long manila envelope. “Heavy around the big cities and, of course, bodies of water. Most of them are scattered along the coastlines. The real danger lately is how fast they gather, and no place seems to be void of them.” The chief took a sip and looked across the table at Marks. “You sure about going across? I can push these orders back; I have no problem doing it. Delay you some; maybe get you a week’s rest on board.”
“What about the captain?” Marks asked.
Bud shook his head. “He still ain’t a hundred percent, and shit is getting to him, losing so many of the crew. He’ll stick with me if I refuse to deliver you. Shit, I doubt he would even know.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Chief, but we didn’t get all dressed for nothing,” Marks said.
“I figured as much. Do you know what’s in here?” Bud slid the sealed envelope across the table, leaving his hand on it.
Marks pursed his lip and nodded his head. “I’ve seen the intel.”
Jacob looked at the faces around him, trying to see if they were in on the conversation or as lost as he was. He saw no looks of recollection or concern, only committed stares.
“Do you believe it? Do you think it’s what they say it is?” He held the envelope, waiting for Marks to take it from him.
“The French and Germans say it works. I think we have to take a chance. Either way, it’s above my pay grade.”
Bud nodded his head and let go of the envelope. “If you’re still getting paid then I need to make some phone calls. I’ll leave you to brief your team. We’ve already set a course for north of Bay City. With any luck, we'll have you there unseen in the darkest part of the night.” Bud paused to look at his watch. “Looking at oh three hundred. You can rest in here and use the heads on the second deck. Use the showers while you have the chance; hot water is the only thing we have plenty of.”
Bud got to his feet before lumbering to the galley door, stopping just inside the hatch. He turned and looked back. “Marks, seriously, if you or your men need anything or change your mind, come find me.”
“Thank you, Chief—er, Bud.”
The men sat silent until Bud left the room and closed the hatch. James was the first to speak. “Damn, sir, you’ve been holding out on us. Sounds like they got something extra shitty in mind for the Assassins. I can’t wait to see it.”
Marks didn’t answer; instead, he passed the sealed envelope off to James. Marks pushed away from the table and found his rucksack. He flipped it over and removed his sleeping bag from the carrier. James drew his KA-BAR from a hard leather scabbard on his hip and used the blade to slice open the envelope in one smooth stroke. He peeled open the cut edge and removed the contents onto the table: a section of map, a strip of white paper with radio call signs and grid coordinates, along with a smaller, tape-sealed envelope with a yellow tag labeled with a list of names.
James held up the tagged envelope, staring at it. “Tertra… chlora something or other?”
“TCDDMX4,” Marks said. He laid his sleeping bag out flat and moved back to the table, taking a seat over the map. He unfolded it then turned it so everyone could see it.
“What’s a TCDDMX4?” Jacob asked, moving closer and seeming to recognize the word from his college days.
Marks stopped and looked at him, then grinned. “It’s what gives Agent Orange its bite. Seems the same shit that kills us slowly stops the Deltas in their tracks. At least that’s what the Frogs and Germans are saying.”
“No way… Agent Orange kills ’em?” Stephens said as he reached across the table for the sealed envelope.
“No, not Agent Orange; the toxin found in it—the cancer causing part—when super concentrated and weaponized.”
Stephens paused, examining the word on the yellow tag before holding up the sealed envelope. “So what’s inside?”
Marks nodded. “Instructions on how to test and verify it… if we can find it.”
James laughed as he got up from the table and moved across the room to refill his cup. “And where do we find this elusive black magic that stops the Deltas cold?”
Marks opened the map and pointed at a city near the center of it. “Middleville, Michigan, twenty-five miles inland from our drop-off point. According to sources, they were working on the stuff before the government pulled the plug on the project. Apparently, they still have tanks full of it 'cause Uncle Sam never paid the expense of destroying it.”
Rogers leaned over the map, using his finger to scale the distance. “That’s a lot of uphill sledding, sir; better hope we can secure a vehicle.”
The lieutenant nodded. “It gets worse; they aren’t even sure that it’s there. The chemical plant may or may not be intact. Satellite and drone imagery shows the holding tanks intact, but we don’t know if they’ve been drained or damaged.”
Stephens put his hands up. “Now hold up. How do we even know this stuff works or what it’s supposed to do?”
“The French assure us it works,” Marks said.
Jacob shook his head. “And they have a history of reliability,” he said, causing the others to laugh.
“Well, look at that, the cherry’s got jokes,” James said.
Marks raised both his hands, silencing the group. “It’s good intelligence, and like I said before, the Germans confirmed it.” He lifted his cup and took a sip before taking the envelope back from Stephens. “There is a small village in Italy, Seveso. In the seventies, there was some sort of chemical spill. Loads of this shit got dumped into the ground there.”
“And?” Stephens asked.
Marks beamed. “And there ain’t no Deltas in Seveso. And that wasn’t even the concentrated batch.”
Stephens shook his head and prepared to speak. Marks put up a hand, stopping him. “No, the Germans didn’t believe it either, so they got their hands on some of it and sprayed it over an occupied village in the Alps. After twenty-four hours, every Delta in the neighborhood was dead or severely FUBAR and not a single one has moved back.”
“But sir,” Jacob said, “if this stuff is toxic, and say we use it, won’t we just be turning the world into a no man’s land? We might as well just hit them with sarin gas or anthrax.”
James chuckled mirthlessly. “Cherry, we already tried all of that shit; nothing worked. Hel
l, India even tried nuking the bastards. It incinerated some of them but didn’t even slow the rest of ’em down. If you’re afraid of hurting Mother Earth, you might as well punch out and sign the deed over to the Deltas. Because I don’t know if you looked outside lately, but it’s already no man’s land.”
Marks again put his hands up, silencing them. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Jacob; there isn’t enough to spray the globe, even if we wanted to. This stuff is pretty hard to come by in the concentrations we need. But if this chemical plant in Middleville has it, we can use what’s available to create a real buffer zone, a border to protect our people while we fight them. All we have to do is verify it’s there and get the hell out. If we can deliver a sample, that’s even better.
“If we can secure enough, it puts us back into the fight. Now let’s get some sleep. We can finalize our plans when we hit the Michigan coastline.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Graceful as a herd of stampeding buffalo, the ship’s crew was back in the galley, making coffee and preparing breakfast. Pots slammed together, waking Jacob. He rolled in his sleeping bag and pushed against the wall, checking his watch: Just past two a.m. Looking across the dark galley, he could see a small seam of light escaping from a door leading into the kitchen area. “Damn, nobody sleeps anymore,” he grunted.
“Hell, no. These guys don’t mess around,” he heard Jesse whisper. “Not gonna complain; I’m starving.”
Jacob sat up in the bag and looked back. Jesse was curled up next to one of the galley tables, the other soldiers farther behind them, still snoring away. The ship’s engines hummed, but very quietly now. Jacob could hear the calm slapping of the water against the sides of the ship instead of the breaking of waves he’d heard earlier, letting him know that the forward momentum had halted.
“When did we stop?” he whispered.
Jesse pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned close. “It got quiet about an hour ago. I think we’ve dropped anchor.”
Jacob nodded, letting the bag fall from around his shoulders, the cold night air slowly waking him. He sat drearily; without realizing it, the anticipation was building in his stomach and prepping his body for the day’s activities. As jitters grew in his legs, he found he couldn’t sit still any longer.
Working by feel in the dark room, he dragged himself out of the sleeping bag and removed his meager hygiene kit from his pack. He slunk across the galley, avoiding the other sleeping bags on the floor, and then dropped to a bench while he wrestled on his trousers and boots. Jacob got to his feet, passed through the galley, and stepped into the well-lit passageway.
He found his way down the long p-way, stopping to ask directions twice before he found the second deck head and showers. The other men on the team had taken to growing long “tactical” beards; or at the very least, a solid two days’ worth of scruff. Jacob looked at his own grown whiskers in the mirror, running his hand over the dark scruff. He decided this would be his last shave as he stepped into the hot shower.
The water was hot and the steam did wonders clearing his head. He stepped out into the cold air, dug through his bag, and retrieved a nearly empty can of shaving cream and a clean razor from his hygiene kit. Once he used it, he would discard the remains here. He wasn’t planning to take more than a bar of soap and a towel with him downrange, and this would be less weight he had to carry. No reason to waste his last opportunity for a clean shave.
As he finished wiping his face with a clean towel, a young sailor wearing blue shorts with a well-worn Pearl Jam T-shirt, moved into the room behind him. The young man stopped to look at Jacob’s multicam trousers hanging on a hook over his roughed-out boots. “You with the ground team?” the sailor asked.
Jacob hesitated, still not feeling like a member of the Assassins yet. He took a deep breath as he wiped the rest of the shaving foam from his chin. “Yeah, I guess you could say so. Just recently joined them.”
The sailor nodded then squeezed past Jacob to one of the benches. The man stripped down and entered the shower. “Hey, you know anything about Virginia?” he shouted over the spraying water.
Jacob stuffed his things back into his kit, tossing the shaving gear into a trashcan before draping the damp towel over his shoulders. “Virginia? What about it?” he asked.
“Yeah, you know, Norfolk, Virginia Beach, Little Creek? Anything… how they are doing, any news? Since we moved up here, nobody has heard from home.”
Jacob paused, moving against a bench to dress into his uniform. “Sorry, kid, can’t say that I have. I’ve been up in Canada. I’m from Chicago originally, but I’ve been pretty cut off from the world myself. How long have you been here?”
The man turned off the shower and exited, drying his face with a towel. He stopped and looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. “Hell, a month, I guess. No, that ain’t right… hell, maybe even three. I’m not sure; times and dates don’t have the same meaning that they used to. We stopped counting when they told us we were never going back. Has to have been a while because we’re damn near out of everything on board.
“This patrol ship isn’t set up for long periods between replenishment, out here operating alone like this. We do what we can, taking from other boats or salvaging when we find a friendly port, but it’s still hard. Too hard even, for some of us.”
Jacob laced his boots, happy to have found someone who wasn’t afraid to speak. Most of the men in his team weren’t talkers, or when they did, it was like getting juice from a peanut. They were always abrupt or directly to the point, intimidating and making him uncomfortable to ask questions. Maybe once he got to know them better, he thought. Jacob put on his T-shirt and left his towel wrapped over his shoulders. He leaned back against the wall. “What’s that mean—‘too hard’?”
“Well, you know, like the skipper. He just shut down on us… don’t even leave his berthing anymore. And a couple of the guys jumped ship one night; said they’d had enough and were going home. I’m sure you’ve seen some of the same where you come from.”
Jacob nodded in understanding. “So how did you end up in the Great Lakes?”
“We got rapid deployed right after the first attacks. We traveled fast, came up the seaway… you know; back when it was still open. Sailed on through… right up to Detroit. They tasked us to help in the fight to save the city. No luck… we got here too late to make a difference. Spent most of our time ferrying survivors across the lake.
“Been stuck in these waters ever since. Once the seaway was lost, we got trapped. It’s been pretty busy running teams like yours back and forth, supporting missions inland with our UAV, even helping escort some of the larger civilian ships. Things have slowed down lately; most people that want out have left, and we are close to being the last vessel out here now.
“Most of the civilian freighter crews beached themselves on the Canadian side and disappeared. I’m sure we will do the same eventually. Hell, Chief says if we don’t get a real resupply soon, we may have to go into port for good. We got some firepower on board, but this low on ammo and supplies, we aren’t much good to anyone. Hardly got enough on board to even defend ourselves, if it comes down to it.”
Jacob sat listening, not wanting to interrupt. He watched as the young man finished shaving and gathered his belongings. He stepped to the door then paused to look back at Jacob. “Hey, good luck, man. We take a lot of you all to the States; not many of you come back.”
“Really, is it that bad?” Jacob asked.
The sailor furled his brow. “I know about the dioxin. Let’s just say you ain’t the first team that’s been tasked with this same mission.” The sailor dipped his chin then turned and left the room, leaving Jacob alone.
He gathered his things and moved back to the galley, returning the way he came. The rest of the team was up now, feasting on plates of powdered eggs and toast with plenty of black coffee. Jacob walked past them and stuffed his things back into his rucksack. Jesse called him to a galley table and slid a large p
late of powdered eggs and burnt toast across to him.
“These guys must like us; they fixed up the last of their eggs and fresh baked bread just for us,” Jesse said, grinning.
“More like a gallows meal. I think it’s more pity than like,” Jacob said.
James grunted. “Hold your tongue, boy. It’s respect; they know where we are headed.”
Jacob took in a heaping forkful of eggs and washed it down with the hot coffee. “I heard about the one-way missions…”
“If you’re looking for a one-way trip, it can be arranged for you. If not, then shut your damn mouth. It’s bad juju to talk shit like that before an op,” James spat.
Marks passed across the room, with the chief of the boat, Bud, close behind him. The chief was holding a black canvas bag in his hands.
“That’s enough, fellas; let’s save it for the Deltas. Bud was able to give up these toys for us. Could be a difference maker,” Marks said.
The chief set the bag on the table and opened it, revealing six M4 suppressors and MK III silenced pistols with a number of boxes of subsonic rounds. Bud reached into the bag and stacked them on the table. “The SEALs left some gear in the weapons locker. It ain’t much, but I know what you’re up against, and I thought you could use it,” Bud said. “There’s more shit they left behind in the corner over there; take what you need.
“And fellas, be careful with this gear. Don’t go filling it up with bullet holes and bleeding all over it. Bring it back to me in one piece, okay? I’m sure when we get back to port they’ll be asking for it and wanting to take it out of my paycheck.”
“You’re not staying?” Stephens asked.
“Afraid not. We’ve been recalled back to Meaford. Leaving as soon as we drop you off, hopefully for a refitting and resupply, but I have my fears that it’s not in the cards for us.” Bud used his hand to pull at his overgrown mustache. “Listen, if you get into trouble, get a message to me and we’ll come running, orders or not.”
