The Invasion Trilogy Box Set [#1-#3]

by Lundy, W. J.

  James shoveled in the last of his eggs and reached for one of the small Ruger pistols. He drew back the slide, showing an empty chamber. Grinning his approval, he shoved the weapon into a pocket on his tactical vest. “Thanks, Chief. I’ll make sure I nail one right between the eyes for you.”

  Bud nodded. “Just keep your ass alive for me; that’ll be thanks enough—”

  A radio on Bud’s shoulder squelched, interrupting him. He reached up and pressed the transmitter button. “Go ahead.”

  “All ready, standing by,” came a metallic response.

  “Ten-four, I’ll let them know,” Bud said. He looked back at Marks. “The RHIB is ready to launch when you are.”

  Marks slapped his hands together. He ordered the team to finish their chow and to get to the top deck in ten. Jacob gulped down the last of his eggs and coffee and scrambled to his gear. He stuffed in the remnants of his belongings, pulling straps tight on the pack to crush its size and make it more manageable. Rogers moved to his side and snatched away his M4, using a wrench to remove his flash suppressor and install the new silencer. He then handed Jacob two magazines with a strip of black tape at the bottom of each. “These are if we go quiet; make sure you have the right mag in, or the suppressor won’t do us much good.”

  Before Jacob could ask a question, Rogers had already moved on to set up Jesse’s rifle. Jacob waited for him to finish then hoisted his rucksack and moved to Jesse’s side for the walk up to the top decks.

  The others passed them moving fast. Jacob picked up his pace climbing to the top and out onto the deck. The air was cold and damp. Still dark out, the stars shone bright over a clear sky, reflecting over the calm Saginaw Bay. It was impossible to tell which direction the shore was in, as there were no coastal navigation lights to be seen. Water calmly slapped at the sides. A number of sailors were standing around, having come on deck to witness their departure.

  The team followed a sailor along the decks and to the fantail, where a large ramp had been deployed. They were offered a set of orange flotation devices, which Marks waved off. A man tossed them aside before moving to the business end of a winch control station. Following the cable down was a black RHIB, similar to the one they’d used to get there but far larger with a wood deck and a machine gun mounted in the bow.

  Jacob walked close and Rogers took his pack, loading it into the boat with the other gear. Two sailors moved in close, both carrying blue five-gallon jugs of fresh water and other supplies. They set them on the deck and Jacob handed them off to Rogers. When all the gear was loaded, Stephens gathered them all off to one side.

  “Easy day today. We’re gonna egress to a marina at the mouth of the river. The sailors say that the marina is nearly empty—”

  “What does that mean, nearly?” James interrupted.

  “Nearly,” Stephens said. “The marina is isolated north of the city. They’ve spotted Deltas on the main roads, but nothing concentrated. We have a couple of hours of UAV support. Right now they're coming up empty. We will have eyes while shelter. After that, we are on our own. If everyone is ready, let’s mount up.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Memories of his first amphibious assault against Museum Park raced through Jacob’s mind as he rode in—flashbacks of the Darkness holding the shorelines and brave men being thrown against the breakwaters like cattle being led to slaughter. They charged the beaches under heavy fire with nowhere else to go. Jacob looked across the boat at Stephens, thinking of Murphy and wishing he were here with them, knowing it wasn’t possible.

  This time, the ride was different. Instead of shaking with adrenaline, waiting for the boat to slam against a breakwater while explosive violence filled the air, Jacob sat near the center of the boat, trying to stay hidden. He tried to control his breathing, sure that everyone around him could hear his heart thumping in his chest.

  They motored into the center of the Saginaw River then cut the gas engine, switching to a small electric trolling motor to slide them quietly against the current. Cold water sloshed over the bow, splashing against his face and soaking his uniform top. Jacob stretched, trying to ignore the sudden chill, fighting off the shivers aching at his arms. He let his hands slip over the rifle, taking comfort in its weight as he worked his fingers over the selector switch. His eyes looked ahead, and slowly he could make out the black-grays of the distant shoreline emerging from the fog.

  The marina was ahead on their right. A sign identified it as a private yacht club. High-end boats were scattered along the shoreline of a main boathouse that was burnt to the ground. Looking into the marina, Jacob could see that many of the docks’ fingers were twisted and broken with sailboats pushed up against them. Summer storms and lack of maintenance had done damage to the place. There were a number of docks branching out like a tree, each branch filled with slips of its own. They skipped the first marina entrance, finding it too congested to maneuver in easily. They passed the destroyed boathouse, motoring into a smaller harbor shelter with a wide entrance that allowed for faster access back into the river.

  Once inside the harbor and out of the river’s current, the electric motor was cut to allow the RHIB to drift freely with the occasional correction by a paddle. James lay far in the bow of the boat with his night vision goggles dropped low over his eyes. Rogers perched over the fifty-caliber machine gun, searching for threats just behind him. Quietly stroking at the water, they guided the RHIB in close to a large cabin cruiser—the Great Lakes’ version of a yacht. The boat quietly thumped against the dive deck of the larger luxury watercraft. Marks, walking on the tips of his toes, leapt aboard the second vessel and tied the boats together with a nylon rope.

  Marks stealthily slipped across the deck and dropped to his knees, peering out at the dock access. He let his rifle hang from its sling as he quietly removed the gangplank connecting them to the dock then allowed the board to slip into the water. Keeping his rifle up, Marks shifted his position and watched James bound up with Rogers just behind him. The two men boarded the boat and patrolled forward below deck. Jacob could faintly hear the men moving about the cabin cruiser; speaking low muffled commands to each other, doors being opened, a glass bottle kicked, a curse at the noise. Silently, the two men reappeared on the deck of the cruiser, turning out in opposite directions.

  “It’s clear,” Rogers whispered.

  Marks moved back to the edge of the boat, leaned over the RHIB, and whispered a command to Stephens, who touched his helmet. He lurched, crouched low, and looked down at Jacob and Jesse. “Okay, let’s get the gear transferred. This is our home now for a while.”

  Jacob navigated to the far side of the RHIB and stepped onto the boat’s deck, leaving Jesse alone. Slowly, Jesse handed over the large rucksacks as Jacob stacked them on the cruiser’s deck. After everything had been moved, Rogers walked past them and secured the M2 machine gun on the RHIB by covering it with a large canvas case. Jacob crept to a corner of the boat and looked out over the surrounding docks.

  The marina was arranged in a large horseshoe pattern with boats tied all along the sides in individual slips. Their boat was located at the top of the center arc, facing the river. They had a clear route back into open water if they needed to egress quickly, and a straight run down the dock to reach dry land. Like the marina in Canada, several of the boats here were sitting low in the water, flooded, with their mooring lines stretched and putting stress on the docks. A large sailboat next to them showed obvious signs of a battle. Bullet holes riddled the sides, the sail was ripped and shredded, and a pile of luggage sat on the dock, just next to its gangway.

  Jacob picked up a thump behind him and turned as James dropped a woman’s body onto the deck. Without speaking, he went back below and returned with the body of an elderly man, which he placed on top of the woman. He stopped and pointed at Jacob. “Get these over the side, but be quiet about it.”

  Jacob looked at him, disgusted, but nodded his acknowledgement, knowing it had to be done. He grabbed at t
he old man’s corpse. The stench permeated through the man’s clothing and overwhelmed him; Jacob’s eyes watered and he had to turn away before he retched. He backed away, pulled his T-shirt over his face and returned to the task. Jesse came up beside him and helped by grabbing the body under a shoulder, gripping its heavy shirt. Together, they moved it to the rail and slowly lowered the man over the side, watching as the corpse slipped below the surface of the water then bobbed back to the top before drifting away.

  They moved to the woman next and did the same. Again, the body slipped below the surface, returned to the top, and then floated into an unseen current, following the old man. They watched in macabre fascination as the couple floated off and into the stronger currents of the Saginaw River.

  “I feel like we should say something,” Jesse whispered.

  “Let’s go, we need to be set up below before the sun comes up,” Stephens whispered to them.

  Jacob swallowed, still watching the couple drift away, wondering who they were, how they died, and why they didn’t sail away when they were so close to entering the big lake and making their way to Canada. Maybe they passed early on or were ambushed back when people were hiding and sheltering in place trying to wait things out like he had done. Jacob hoped they passed peacefully, maybe an overdose of pills, or carbon monoxide poisoning. He blinked his eyes hard, pushing the thoughts away; he’d seen enough death that these things shouldn’t bother him anymore.

  Stephens called out to them again to get below deck. Jacob shook off the dark thoughts and grabbed his gear, making his way to the large cabin. As soon as he entered the hatch, the stench hit him. The rot and decay of death was in the air, so thick it seemed to cling to his skin. He hesitated in the door, not wanting to enter. He wondered if he could negotiate a way to stay outside. James barreled out, carrying a folded up mattress. He pushed Jacob aside, making his way through the cabin entrance and dumping the soiled blankets and linens over the side. When James returned, he pushed Jacob ahead of him. He moved forward, closed the master cabin door at the end of the galley, and sealed it with duct tape. It helped cut down on the smell.

  Rogers was moving around, opening hatches to circulate air and powering off all the main electrical breakers. Marks moved in behind him. “How’s it looking?”

  Before answering his leader, Rogers opened another panel and flipped down a long set of breakers. “Solar and wind chargers seem to be up—but the radios and navigation lights bled the system dry. We should have something tomorrow once the sun comes up, assuming the battery can hold a charge.”

  “Radio?”

  Rogers nodded. “We have comms open with the ship. They're pulling back the UAV and will anchor up in forty mikes. I can get the big antenna up once we get some daylight. I don’t want to stumble around up there in the dark. Cables and lines are twisted everywhere.”

  Marks slapped the man on the shoulder. “Nice work. Let’s button up and wait for the sun then.”

  The team settled in below deck, leaving only James on the top to stand watch with the night vision. Jacob moved into the small galley and sat at a booth-shaped dining table. Scooting himself along a bench so that he was against a wall, he lifted a foot to the seat and placed his rifle on the table in front of him. The smell of death was still prevalent, but with the master cabin door closed and sealed, it was tolerable. Stephens pushed buttons and spun dials on the galley stove. He was rewarded with the hiss of a small, blue flame. Smiling, he found a small coffee pot and a can of grounds. Pouring water from a bottle in his pack, he quickly went to work brewing.

  Jacob sat without speaking as the boat gently rocked. He felt the air pick up with the breeze that cut through the porthole windows. The boats in the marina shifted with the wind, their skeleton framework creaking and cracking as the boats crunched together. The sailboat in the slip next to the cabin cruiser rubbed against the dock, wailing and screeching as the water lifted it up and down, the hull protesting as it scraped against the docks. Jacob cringed with every impact of the neighboring vessel.

  Looking up from the brewing coffee, Stephens noticed the new man’s discomfort. “It’s good, the noise; it covers our sound,” he whispered. “Anything in this area would have grown accustomed to it.”

  Jacob nodded. “So why are we here? Why us? If this is real, shouldn’t they send everything they got after it? Don’t they have Special Forces guys for stuff like this?”

  Marks nodded and moved across the cramped galley. He pushed into the bench across from Jacob. Stephens poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of the officer. “There aren’t enough of us left to make a big push for it… not anymore. Doesn’t matter, anyway; whenever we show up in force outside the wire, they crush us. Two months ago, every team that went out was fifteen to twenty men strong. We found it’s too hard to move without getting caught in those numbers. If they see us, they swarm and bog us down, forcing an evacuation… or worse.”

  “That leaves all the snoop and poop work to small teams like this now,” Stephens added.

  “Really, though? We're the best they can do?” Jacob said.

  Marks sipped at the coffee and quickly pulled away, blowing on the liquid before taking another sip. “Do you really think they’d augment my team with you and your buddy if there were plenty of experienced operators left? Most of us are gone, all used up. Yeah, this really is the best they can do.”

  A rapid tapping at the cabin roof shifted their eyes to the porthole windows. Jacob’s hand touched his rifle as he spotted movement on the nearby docks. Two individuals, barely silhouetted in the dark by the backlighting of the stars. “Deltas?” Marks whispered.

  Stephens held a pair of lowlight binoculars already to his eyes, searching. “Two of ‘em, both with weapons, moving this way.”

  “They on to us?”

  Stephens eased away from the porthole, into cover. “I don’t think so,” he whispered.

  Jacob flexed his arm to pull his rifle close. Stephens dropped his palm to the table, covering the hand-guard and waving him off, shaking his head no. The two individuals continued along the dock across the water from them, stopping when they were in line with the cabin cruiser. They held up, appearing to stare at the RHIB tied tightly to the side. One of them continued on, passing the other. After tense moments, the remaining Delta lifted its head and followed before stopping again just yards away. It stood silent, looking back before continuing on and disappearing in the direction of the burnt-out boathouse.

  “Were they Delta?” Marks asked again.

  Stephens shook his head. “Too hard to confirm, but by their movements, I’d say so. Anything human would be scared shitless out there in the dark. These things had swagger.”

  Marks put out his hand, reaching for the binoculars. He searched the horizon then placed them on the table. “If they come back, we’ll need to move. Can’t take chances this far from help.”

  Stephens nodded then looked at Jacob. “Get some rest. You’ll be on the first patrol out with Rogers and me. We need to find us a ride.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The cabin door creaked open. Jacob opened his eyes and watched the bearded man creep through the small opening. The sun was out, shining bright rays of light over the boat, illuminating the mess that had been hidden in the shadows earlier. There was evidence the couple lived here for some time. White, overstuffed trash bags covered the floor and empty cans and bottles filled a large cardboard box. A .38 special revolver sat on a shelf. Marks lifted it and opened the cylinder, removing six empty shell casings.

  He lined up the small brass shells side by side on the shelf, everyone watching him, not needing to voice how the rounds must have been spent. “My old man used to have wheel guns just one like this. He loved the things; never got used to semi autos,” Marks said, holding the pistol in his hands. He flicked his wrist, closing the cylinder. “He was an Air Force man, a master sergeant. Heck, Dad is the reason I went to the academy and became a combat rescue officer. He said the on
ly way he would allow me join up is if I got an education and became an officer. He didn’t want me on the ground getting shot at.” Marks shook his head and laughed softly to himself, taking the small pistol and tucking it into a pocket on his pack. “If he only knew…”

  James crept across the cabin and shook Jesse awake. “You got the next watch; let me show you the ropes,” he whispered.

  Jesse shook his head, closing his eyes tight then opening them wide again before taking a long sip of water. “What time is it?” he asked, fumbling to his feet.

  “It’s time for your watch.” James smiled and led the big man back out onto the deck.

  Stephens opened his rucksack, digging out a map and laying it across the galley table. Several items and locations were already circled. Grease markers of different colors marked routes and objects of interest. Marks moved close and pointed to an area to their south.

  “Just follow the road, look for a ride here at the marina parking lot, and then patrol back up this way. The UAV showed several vehicles that matched our needs. Stay out of trouble, okay? We aren’t here to fight,” Marks said, using his finger to trace the path he wanted them to follow.

  “Got it, boss,” Stephens said. He looked at Jacob and shot thumbs up. “You good to go?”

  Jacob lifted his rifle to his chest and pivoted out of the dining booth. He leaned over for his pack, grabbing the straps. “Leave it; you won’t need it,” Stephens said.

  Rogers was already up, checking his rounds. Jacob saw that he had loaded one of the black-taped magazines, so he did the same, dropping his standard mag and reloading one with the sub-sonic rounds then charging his weapon. Stephens took the map from the table and folded it so that the patrol area was at the top then placed it into his chest pocket. He looked at Rogers and nodded. The barrel-chested soldier led them out of the hatch and up to the main deck.