Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse

by Nicholas Ryan

  “Negative, sir,” the radar operator replied. “The target has just been confirmed by a Hawkeye.”

  Slattery grunted. “Course?”

  “Course is one-seven-five at a speed of fifteen knots, and steady.”

  “Very well.”

  Slattery put down the handset and took a moment before making his decision. The contact could be a fishing boat, or any one of a dozen other innocent explanations. If he investigated by sending his helicopter, he might be launching the bird after nothing. Their station was not across one of the regular Pacific Ocean shipping lanes…

  “OOD, alert the helicopter crew,” Slattery set logic aside and acted on instinct. “I want our bird in the air and prosecuting the contact within fifteen minutes.”

  “Aye aye, Sir,” the OOD replied. “Bos’n pass the word to set flight quarters.”

  ZAMIIN-UUD BORDER CROSSING POINT

  MONGOLIA-CHINA BORDER

  “This is the only transport I have for you, American. Consider yourself lucky.”

  General Apalkov’s hard, proud face had crumbled, eroded by the shock of his army’s crushing defeat. He seemed a dazed and disillusioned shadow of the blustering man who had arrogantly refused Power’s advice before the undead attack.

  The aircraft was an old L-410 Turbolet transport, painted shades of camouflage green. Both its propellers were turning at high speed, the engines whining. A billowing cloud of orange dust rose into the sky, smothering the makeshift airstrip that lay just a few kilometers beyond the army’s shattered lines.

  Behind where the two men stood, the sky was black with a thick haze of smoke that still hung over the battlefield. Carrion birds circled low in the sky.

  “You will be flown back to Moscow. Someone will meet you at the airport. From there, you are on your own,” Apalkov gruffed.

  “What about you, General?”

  The Russian grunted. He looked suddenly afraid. “The news of this defeat will not be well received in the capital,” the General understated. “The Motherland does not like to lose her armies on the battlefield. If I return with you, I will be put to death,” he said simply. “So I must flee, and hope that I can find sanctuary far, far away.” His command helicopter stood three hundred yards away, the pilot waiting anxiously by the open cockpit door. Apalkov thrust out his hand. “I should have listened to you, American.”

  Engulfed in swirling clouds of dirt, the two men parted.

  Nathan Power ran to the Turbolet. Two TOS-1 Buratinos emerged through the veil of haze. The ungainly vehicles had been ordered forward to cover the army’s calamitous retreat.

  The TOS-1 was a Russian self-propelled multiple rocket launcher system built onto the hull of a T-72 tank that had been designed for obliterating heavily fortified defenses. The TOS ‘heavy flamethrower’ launched multiple rockets carrying fuel-air explosives.

  The US had first employed the technology in Vietnam as an alternative to napalm. Fuel-air explosives detonated the very air itself, causing massive explosions and gruesome deaths from an overpressure wave so powerful it could crush victims to death. The thirty rocket tubes on each TOS-1 could be fired individually or ripple-fired in a ten-second salvo. The vehicles were part of a Russian NBC battalion attached to the army. Now they were the rearguard.

  The vehicles trundled to the top of a gentle rise and launched their weapons in salvos. The battlefield lay concealed beyond the crest. Power saw the distant sky seem to erupt in a solid inferno of orange roiling flame, like a nightmare vision of Hades. Two seconds later the ground beneath his feet shook. A heat wave washed over the valley. Power stood on the plane’s open cabin door and gaped in awe.

  “Move your stupid arse!” a snarling Russian Army pilot shook him alert in thickly accented English. He came stomping from the cockpit. He shouldered Power into a nearby seat and slammed the door shut. Through the cabin windows, Power saw routing Russian troops suddenly appear over the rise, running, screaming, their faces wrenched in attitudes of sheer blind terror.

  The plane’s twin props reached maximum speed and the aircraft turned away, jouncing over the baked flat earth until it picked up enough momentum to escape into the air.

  THE KREMLIN

  MOSCOW

  The President’s Chief of Staff knocked nervously on the ornate doors and then stood waiting, trembling, until he was bidden to enter.

  “Come!”

  From inside the room, two soldiers of the 154th Preobrazhensky Independent Commandant’s Regiment opened the doors. They were dressed in the uniform of the Kremlin honor guard; stern-faced and imposing young men with cold ruthless eyes.

  The Chief of Staff came across the threshold meek and wary. He was the bearer of bad news, and in President Nikolay Fokin’s Kremlin, that was a perilous, life-endangering task.

  The President’s office was ornately decorated, the furniture and trimmings gilded, the heavy blue curtains gathered and tied back so that weak watery light filtered through the armored glass windows. At the far end of the room was the President’s desk with two straight-backed chairs set before it. The only other piece of furniture was a long conference table encircled by a dozen chairs set against a wall.

  The President’s desk was a status symbol; an object that projected power. It was a ten feet wide antique, topped with dark green leather. On the desk stood a pitcher of water and a single glass.

  “You have news?” President Nikolay Fokin’s tone sounded an ominous challenge. It made the Chief of Staff quail.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” the man lowered his head like a criminal destined for the executioner’s axe. His breathing felt tight in his chest.

  “About?”

  “It’s about our Army that you sent to the Mongolian border to confront the undead hordes surging out of China, Mr. President.”

  Fokin sat back and clasped his hands together on the edge of the desk. The only sound in the high-ceilinged room was the creak of his leather chair. The President’s eyes became menacing and the pallor of his skin turned pale.

  “Report!” the President demanded. The sudden harsh snap of his voice seemed to crack like a whip. The Chief of Staff felt himself flinch, cowered by the intimidating and implied threat.

  “The Army was defeated, Mr. President,” the man blurted.

  “They were forced to withdraw?”

  “No, Mr. President. They were routed. They have fled the field and been overrun by the infected. The entire Army has disintegrated. We have also lost a great deal of heavy equipment that was abandoned in the retreat.”

  For a long moment the room was eerily silent. The air crackled with tension. Then suddenly President Fokin erupted in a tirade of temper and abuse. He punched his clenched fist on the tabletop. Dark patches of color bloomed on his cheeks.

  “Who?” he roared. “Who was the General?”

  “General Lieutenant Mikhail Apalkov, Commander of the Eastern Military District.”

  “Is the bastard dead?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. President,” the Chief of Staff stood wringing his hands. “There have been no reports from him. He may have survived the disaster.”

  Fokin shook his head. He was quivering with terrible rage. His eyes were wide and wild. He turned his gaze on the Chief of Staff like he was swinging the double barrels of a shotgun.

  “Who knows about this defeat? Can it be kept secret? Can it be covered up?”

  The Chief of Staff looked crestfallen and apologetic. “Mr. President, we can perhaps keep word from reaching the Moscow public and thus forestall any panic on the streets of the capital… but the Americans and many other countries have their satellites. They will know what happened at Zamiin-Uud. By now their analysts will be pouring over images…”

  For Nikolay Fokin, the humiliation of such a crushing defeat was intolerable. He cared not about the General, nor for the thousands of young soldiers who had died or become infected. But such a humiliating defeat might be seen by the west as a sign of weak leadership, or, even worse, a
sign that Russia’s vaunted military might was, in reality, little more than a paper tiger.

  In recent years, Russia’s military interventions in places such as Ukraine and Syria had been small-scale conflicts. Zamiin-Uud had been a chance for Russia to flex the full force of its might – and it had failed miserably.

  Fokin bounced out of his chair and prowled around the room, his fists clenched, his steps made jerky by his temper. He circled his Chief of Staff like a stalking lion then finally lashed out with his foot at one of the chairs in front of his desk. It went skittering across the floor and toppled over with a crash.

  “Get out!” President Fokin fumed. “And find out what happened to Apalkov. I want to know the bastard’s fate within four hours. If he is dead, I want to see his body. If he survived, I want him brought to me… so I can kill him myself!”

  USS HALEY (DDG 137)

  NORTHERN MARIANA ISLANDS

  PHILLIPINE SEA

  Captain Slattery entered the CIC to meet with the commander of Haley’s air detachment. The pilot’s name was Sam Williams. He was a big barrel-chested man who walked and talked like a Texas cowboy. He had a loud voice and the cocky arrogant swagger of a fighter jock.

  “Where are we, Sam?”

  “Romeo-1 is being pre-flighted on the flight deck, skip,” Williams said. “Five more minutes and we’ll be in the air.”

  The destroyer had two MH-60R Seahawks on board; a multi-mission helicopter that could perform anti-submarine warfare, anti-surface warfare, search-and-rescue operations, logistic support and surveillance work. The variant of the venerable Sikorsky line of choppers was often referred to as a ‘Romeo’.

  As if by unwritten agreement, both men turned and looked at the radar display. The suspicious contact was still holding an unchanged course and speed.

  “What do your instincts tell you?” Slattery asked.

  Williams made a face like he was chewing on the problem. “I think it’s the real deal, skip,” the pilot said. “I know the odds are against that. Common sense says we’re going to find a fishing boat out there, but I got a feeling, y’know?”

  “Yeah,” Slattery said. “I’ve got the same feeling. That’s why I want you to exercise absolute caution. Don’t get too close to the ship – if it turns out to be a ship. If there are pirates onboard, they might have handheld rocket launchers.”

  Piracy on the open seas had become a growing problem for international shipping around the world in recent years. The Gulf of Aden, off the coasts of Somalia and Yemen, and into the wider Indian Ocean were the most dangerous hotspots for merchant vessels… but that didn’t mean a ship couldn’t have been hijacked on its way through the busy Asian shipping lanes.

  Williams smiled wryly. “I am a cautious soul, skip, always erring on the side of safety.”

  “Yeah?” Slattery’s smile was cynical. “That’s not what I’ve heard…”

  The two men parted ways. Williams left the CIC and headed aft. Slattery climbed three ladders and returned topside to the pilothouse. He went through to the chart room.

  The Haley’s navigator stood hunched over the chart table studying a map of the Marianas under the harsh glare of overhead lighting. She was plotting a course that would take the ship to the leeward of the approaching island. She stood back from her work and Slattery traced the pencil lines of the course with his fingertip. Slattery nodded and stepped into the bridge.

  “The Captain is on the bridge,” called out the Boatswain’s Mate of the Watch.

  “This is the Captain, I have the CONN,” Commander Slattery completed the formal announcement. “Come left fifteen degrees.”

  “Left fifteen degrees rudder, aye, sir,” the man at the helm repeated.

  Haley was barely making steerage. She put her bow across the distant island, like a sailing ship changing tack in a gentle breeze.

  “My rudder is left fifteen degrees, sir.”

  “Very well. Steady on course one-six-five,” Slattery said.

  “Steady on course one-six-five, aye, sir,” the helmsman’s voice was an immediate echo.

  The new course put the island on the ship’s starboard beam and placed the sultry wind across her deck to aid the helicopter’s launch.

  “Make your speed five knots for flight operations,” Slattery instructed.

  “All engines ahead, speed five knots. Aye, sir.”

  “All engines ahead, speed five knots, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  As soon as the helicopter was off the deck, Slattery planned to cautiously increase speed. He felt claustrophobic in the Mariana’s tight waterways. He longed for deep blue ocean where there was space and safety to maneuver.

  “I’m going aft OOD,” Slattery said. “I’ll be in the LSO station to observe flight ops if you need me.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” replied the OOD.

  “This is the Captain. Ensign Lewis has the CONN.”

  “This is Ensign Lewis. I have the CONN.”

  *

  The Landing Signals Officer station aboard Haley was a small cramped box with windows, perched at the stern of the superstructure overlooking the ship’s fantail. Slattery stood quietly, watching over the shoulder of a Lieutenant Junior Grade. Through the thick glass of the windows he could see Williams and his co-pilot in the cockpit of Romeo-1 going through their final pre-flight checks. The chopper’s spinning rotors had whipped up a storm of wind that lashed the deck.

  Finally the pilot got the ‘all clear’ signal. Williams gave a jaunty ‘thumbs up’ response and lifted the MH-60R Seahawk into the air. She hung suspended for a few seconds on the glittering disc of her rotors, then tilted on her side and raced away towards the horizon.

  *

  Once the helicopter was outbound towards the suspicious contact, the Seahawk’s tactical navigation system copied the data needed from the ship’s computers in the CIC. Williams climbed to a thousand feet and watched the blue ocean slide by, content and comfortable at the controls. He was a ten year veteran; old enough to be an expert at his job, but young enough to still enjoy the thrill of flying.

  The Haley disappeared from view as the helicopter raced towards the smoke-hazed horizon.

  “Hotel, this is Romeo-1. Radio check. Over.”

  “Roger Romeo-1. Read you loud and clear,” the petty officer at the CIC’s Anti-Submarine/ Anti-Surface Warfare Tactical Air Controller console confirmed. Satisfied, Sam Williams narrowed his eyes and put his game face on.

  It was time to go to work.

  *

  The freighter first appeared as a dark blob on the ocean trailing a long white smear of foaming wake. Williams checked his on-board radar. The ship was right where he had expected it to be. He turned his head and made eye-contact with his co-pilot, then thumbed the switch to his headset microphone.

  “Hotel, this is Romeo-1. Freighter has been sighted. Repeat, freighter has been sighted. Bearing zero-three-three, course one-seven-five. I’m going in to take a look. Over.”

  Slattery had walked forward from the destroyer’s control tower to the CIC. He picked up the radiophone.

  “Romeo-1, this is Hotel actual. Exercise extreme caution.”

  “Roger, Hotel. Standby.”

  The Seahawk swung in a wide circle and approached the ship from astern, flying along the arrow-straight line of her wake and dropping out of the sky until it was just a hundred feet above the wave tops. Williams edged the bird forward gradually.

  “Hotel, Romeo-1. Something god-awful has happened here. There appears to be several dead bodies on the stern deck. The vessel is a seven-hundred footer. Looks like a coal-carrier. Hold on… she’s the Ebony Sunrise. Repeat. Ebony Sunrise. Over.”

  Slattery sent a petty officer scurrying topside to the chartroom. He came back carrying the ship’s copy of Lloyd’s Register. Slattery leafed quickly through the well-thumbed pages and stopped suddenly.

  The Ebony Sunrise was a Chinese-owned bulk carrier, seven hundred and thirty eight feet long, over thirty s
ix thousand tons dead weight, with a crew of twenty three. She had been built in 1993.

  “Roger Romeo-1,” Slattery felt a shiver of foreboding and apprehension. “Can you confirm dead bodies?”

  “Hotel, Romeo-1. Confirm. They’re dead.”

  Williams set the Seahawk hovering precariously over the ship’s stern rail, juggling the controls with delicate deft touches while his co-pilot took photographs of three bodies laying face-up near a steel bollard. The dead men were blackened by the sun, their corpses bloated with gases.

  “Romeo-1. Any signs of life?”

  “Negative, Hotel. I’m going to put us over the forward hatches and take a look. Standby.”

  Slattery glanced around the gloomily lit CIC while he waited with tense apprehension. The crew was studiously attending their consoles, but the Captain knew they listened to the radio exchange from the helicopter with acute interest.

  The TAO caught Slattery’s eye. “Sir, do you think the ship could be on Iron Mike?”

  “That’s my guess,” Slattery said. ‘Iron Mike’ was the Naval slang expression for a ship’s autopilot. It would explain the vessel’s line-straight course. It seemed likely to Slattery that everyone aboard the cargo ship was dead from the plague.

  Sam Williams’ voice suddenly boomed, breaking the pattern of Slattery’s thoughts.

  “Hotel, Romeo-1. We’ve flown a full circuit of the ship at low altitude. There appears to be no signs of life. Repeat no sign… wait a minute. Jesus! Who the fuck are they..?”

  Slattery felt his blood turn to ice. “Romeo-1, come back.”

  Williams’ voice was incredulous and appalled. “Hotel, I think the ship’s entire crew have been infected. I see several people running across the hatches towards us. They’re drenched in blood. They’re howling up at the helicopter. They don’t appear sane, Hotel.”