Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  The intercom buzzed.

  He hesitated, watching the scientists on the screen.

  "Yes?"

  “My lord, you asked me to inform you the moment we were fully mobilized and ready to depart.”

  “Thank you, Stefan. I shall be at the main entrance momentarily. Please load my things.”

  “At once, my lord.”

  “Oh, make sure we have a decent meal on the flight. I’m famished.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Reginald looked back to the monitor showing the underground lab, buried deep under the Swiss Alps. He tried to imagine the tons of rock and earth separating the main compound and the lab. You’re somewhere down there…poor bastards, he thought, staring at the floor. Ah, well…business is business.

  Reginald pushed the button. The screen flickered with static and the scientists paused in their work, looking at each. Reginald watched tools and vials tumble from shelves, then watched the shelves tumble from walls as people fell to the floor. The lights flickered and the transmission died.

  He stood as he felt the faintest echo of a tremble through the floor. “And that is that." He picked up the two silver suitcases full of serum and strolled from his lavish office.

  A guard waiting just outside his door took the proffered suitcases. “Stay with me, I don’t want those cases out of my sight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s go,” Reginald said as he strode down the hallway, adjusting his tie. “I’ve a plane to catch.”

  “Business trip, my lord?” asked the guard.

  “Not quite,” Reginald smirked. “I’m going home.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The Swiss Alps.

  LIEUTENANT COOPER BRAATEN, UNITED States Navy, commanding what remained of SEAL Team 9, stepped up to the open ramp on the modified V-22 Osprey. Cruising at an altitude of close to 23,000 feet, the twin-engine special ops variant soared high above the Alps. Safely ensconced in his HAHO suit, Cooper heard only a muffled silence as the Osprey sliced through the thin air. He checked his wrist screen one more time, depicting a drone's-eye view of their drop zone.

  Somewhere down there on one of the snow-covered, moonlit slopes, Reginald waited. The man who’d orchestrated the biological weapon attack on the United States, the nuclear assault on Atlanta—the man who’d had Brenda killed.

  Cooper switched modes on his heads-up-display so he saw what the drone saw through his visor. He would bring justice to Reginald tonight.

  He scanned the readouts and switched from optical to thermal displays on the drone’s control pad. There. An isolated chalet high in the mountains, protected from ground based assault by a sheer cliff on the northern slope. The boulder fields to the south and east limited access and provided strong defensive choke points. The only way in was up a rugged one-lane road—exactly the kind of situation a high altitude combat jump was designed to overcome.

  Thermal imaging from the drone showed somebody was inside. A lot of somebodies, in fact.

  "Looks pretty hot for a building that’s supposed to have been empty for the last decade…” said Charlie's voice.

  Cooper grunted. He zoomed in and watched the landscape crawl beneath the drone's unblinking electronic eyes. Several white pinpricks reflected off the gray snow—they moved in a slow, regular pattern.

  "Guards, just like we expected. She was right on the money."

  "I count seventeen,” observed Charlie.

  Cooper grunted again. "Tough odds—almost seems unfair."

  "Poor bastards," agreed Charlie.

  Cooper had seen enough. He knew from 13’s briefings the fortress-like chalet bristled with state-of-the-art defense systems. Reginald's private army—comprised of some of the most ruthless mercenaries and ex-special forces soldiers on the planet—would not be an easy target.

  “All right, listen up ladies," he said, “remember the mission: we're here for one man. You all know what he looks like. You've all been to the same briefings I have, the Brass wants him alive. When we get down there, we’re not taking any other prisoners."

  "Sweep and reap," said Charlie.

  “Hooyah!" replied the rest of the SEALs.

  Cooper looked over his squad. Sparky, Jax, Swede, and Charlie were the only survivors of the original Team. Clutch, Juice, and Maughan rounded out the surviving new guys left over from their raid on San Diego. Added to their team were seven newly-arrived veterans from overseas, led by Switchplate.

  After President Harris had reactivated the National Command Authority, secure, instant comms returned. It was only a matter of hours before the special forces community came back online. Cooper was now in command of 15 combat effective SEALs—the last of the Teams.

  It felt good to be back in the saddle.

  He frowned. If his CO hadn’t died in Los Angeles, Cooper would already be a few weeks into his new job with Oakrock.

  Reginald would be his final mission. Once they eliminated the threat posed by the Council, Cooper could retire with a clear conscience and start his new life.

  Without Brenda.

  Cooper clenched his jaw as he finished going through the final pre-jump checklists and inspecting the oxygen pack on Charlie's back. He slapped Charlie on the shoulder and turned around to let him reciprocate.

  Watching the SEALs work, Cooper remembered the way the docs had looked in their bio-hazard suits as they discussed patients back at the Underground. He never seemed to stray very far from a reminder that Brenda was no longer waiting for him back in Denver. Thanks to a botched kidnapping attempt by Reginald's forces, Dr. Boatner had been injured, Chad Huntley’s blood had been stolen, and Brenda had been killed. The only positive outcome of the whole messy situation had been the capture of 13, a double agent.

  After a rough start at their first meeting, 13 had decided to provide him enough information about Reginald and the Council to launch an effective counter-attack. She’d been fairly high up in his covert organization and had seemed to have commanded more than a little respect. He knew she was an effective operator—Cooper still had a few bruises to prove her worth as a fighter. Their subsequent sparring matches had gone on for what seemed like hours, drawn crowds of soldiers to the gym, and had proven she was virtually his equal in hand-to-hand fighting. Her speed balanced out his strength giving neither a competitive advantage. Not that he didn't try—they'd fought to a draw more times than he'd cared to admit. He was glad she was on their side. Whether or not he could fully trust her was still a question.

  "Good to go," said Charlie with a slap on Cooper's shoulder.

  Cooper blinked. Back to reality. "Good to go," replied Cooper as he slapped Charlie’s shoulder. He looked out over the open ramp onto the glowing mountaintops thousands of feet below.

  He knew the Pentagon had dispatched flights of bombers, soldiers, and Marines around the world to seek out and destroy Council forces wherever they could be found. The European powers—even Russia and China—had all banded together to stamp out the evil that had spawned the Korean Flu. 13's intelligence had proven to be the key to the global plan.

  It was the largest counter-terror coalition in history. Cooper and his SEALs were tasked with decapitating Reginald's operation. At the same time, British SAS were preparing to assault other known Council strongholds across northern Europe in coordination with the German and French Special Forces. Over the next 24 hours, a coordinated assault with conventional forces would eliminate most of the Council’s influence across the globe.

  It promised to be a long, bloody conflict, and his mission was the opening act. Cooper knew that the fight would go on, but he would not be part of it. Not after this mission. Once Reginald was in custody or dead, Cooper would retire. He wasn’t sure how much more his knee could take. The last thing he wanted was to become a liability to his Team. He couldn’t even think about what would happen, how he would feel, should his weakened knee cause one of them to be injured or worse.

  With those heavy thoughts pressing down on hi
s mind, Cooper stepped forward to the edge of the ramp and snugged his gear on his shoulders. The red jump light turned green, reflecting the sickly light all around the open cavity.

  Showtime. Cooper turned and received the signal from the loadmaster: he pumped his fist in the air and and pointed out the open hatch. "We’re over the drop zone, you’re cleared to jump!"

  "Payback is waiting, ladies. Let’s get some." Cooper stepped into the air and tumbled free of the Osprey.

  His body slammed into the wind and he struggled to maintain control as he spread his arms and felt his wing-suit grip the air and cut it like a knife. He switched his heads-up display to the loadmaster's viewpoint, and watched as one after another his SEALs departed the plane in perfect formation. He’d expected nothing less.

  Switching back to his own view—darkness and glowing snowcapped mountains many thousands of feet below reflecting the night sky—Cooper concentrated on following the flight path programmed into his helmet's computer. Angling his arms and legs against the strong currents, the wings that stretched like a duck's webbed feet from his wrists to his ankles captured the wind enough for him to control his direction and speed. Pulling his legs closer to his chest created more of a parachute shape, slowing his descent. Straightening his legs and pulling his hands back towards his waist created a pencil profile which sent him slicing forward toward earth.

  13 had informed the Brass that Reginald had nearly unlimited funds. It had to be assumed he had radar installations set up to protect the chalet, which could detect the heat signature from the dropship. Any advisers Reginald had down there were surely ex-military—they would be familiar with HAHO and HALO jumps.

  So Cooper had invented something different. The Osprey flew in a normal civilian aviation flightpath. Cooper and his SEALs would exit the aircraft near the chalet, then loop around upwind to the north of Reginald's complex. Once they dropped into a middle altitude, they would be detectable by radar installations in theory. They'd only deploy parachutes and land just below the chalet on the side of the mountain when they were right on top of the target.

  The landing site had recently suffered a landslide—all the more reason for Cooper to select it. Reginald's guards would hopefully never think an enemy would be crazy enough to parachute down in a landslide zone. At night.

  Fresh snow covered large, sharp boulders and made for dangerous terrain. Most people would not choose to hike through it, let alone land a parachute there.

  Cooper watched his altimeter bleed numbers. He continued to close range to target and felt the tug of the wind. A particularly strong gust threatened to knock him off course. Behind him, his SEALs were still in formation, according to the glowing blue dots on his heads-up display.

  Cruising through 10,000 feet at breakneck speed, Cooper rapidly approached the terminal stage of their winged descent. The blip on his helmet turned red—go time. He stretched his arms, pulled his legs toward his chest, and twisted his torso, letting the wind do the work and sweep him into a large, wide circle. He rotated his shoulders to make the turn into an S-shaped maneuver, sweeping him north around the mountain.

  The countdown timer on his HUD dropped under 30 seconds and blinked in red numbers. Cooper spied the glowing outcrop on the north face of the mountain behind Reginald’s chalet. That was the target landing zone. Once he swooped around behind it, he’d be out of visual range of the chalet itself.

  13 said Reginald had security outposts all along the base of the mountain, in the towns and villages below. No one could reach the base of the mountain without being seen. And if no one could get to the base, they couldn't scale the side of it.

  Cooper grinned as he pulled the ring on his chest rig and felt the parachute explode behind him. His descent slowed with a clean jerk and the howling wind died down to a whistle. Pulling on the two cords above each shoulder, Cooper guided his parachute to bleed off the last bit of speed until he was directly over the LZ.

  He looked into the magnified image in his helmet and grimaced. Jesus, that’s rough. He spotted several jagged boulders sticking up through the fresh powder, waiting to impale his Team. He’d count himself lucky if everyone walked away from this one.

  Unwilling to break radio silence even to call out a warning to those behind him, Cooper relied on his training and faith in the men who followed that they'd land without breaking any body parts vital to mission success. It was all he could do.

  The tallest of the snow-kissed boulders raced up to meet him and Cooper bent his knees, preparing for impact.

  Too fast…too fast…

  CHAPTER 4

  Skye, Scotland.

  Dunkeith Castle.

  REGINALD PAUSED IN HIS evening walk to admire the last rays of light glinting off the western slopes of the Cuillin. He breathed deep of the sea breeze and focused on the gulls wheeling in the sky above him.

  “You've no idea how hard it is to run things, do you?"

  He sighed and sat on the crumbling crenelation of his family’s castle, which gave the earldom its name: Dunkeith. On the southern and hotly disputed border of MacLeod lands, the castle ruins had been a pet project of his, passed down from his father, the 6th Earl. Reginald’s father had spent obscene amounts of money to restore the family seat to its rightful place among the western clans, but there was still plenty of work to be done.

  These crenelations need to be repaired immediately. Should things go south, this rock won’t long survive a direct assault. He glanced out over the rugged landscape surrounding the castle proper. Half this island once belonged to us. When this flu business is concluded, it will be so again.

  Since his father’s death, Reginald had continued the dream of restoring Dunkeith Castle to glory from the inside out. He turned to glance at the already dark central keep. It had taken millions of pounds to ensure the structural stability of the massive Norman-style central structure. He supposed it would take millions more to finish.

  The inside—at least parts of it—looked like a luxury hotel: sumptuous carpeting and silk tapestries, the finest hand-carved furniture from Europe, Italian leather accents, priceless artwork and a world-class kitchen. The staff made his people at the chalet seem like amateurs. Of his Swiss staff, only Stefan, his steward, had made the trip to Skye.

  From the outside though, Dunkeith was a different animal all together.

  Reginald clicked his teeth in exasperation. “Bloody Urquhart looks better, and it’s nothing more than a crumbling tourist trap.” He spat over the side of the wall and stared over the well-maintained grounds thirty feet below. At least the landscaping was immaculate. He idly supposed artists might pay good money to paint the scene.

  Reginald pursed his lips as he stared at the keep. The gray stones, pitted and weathered by centuries of harsh coastal storms, looked positively ancient. They would pay good money to see you, wouldn’t they?

  Reginald laughed into the wind. What do I need more money for? The Chinese just doubled the family fortune in one transaction and what I shall take from the Council will make me a rival of the King himself.

  Reginald sighed. He was wasting time. A glance at his watch told him he’d spent more than ten minutes loafing about on the castle walk. He still hadn't inspected the new repairs on the south tower. He’d only taken three steps when a shout from the castle yard far below brought him up short.

  “My lord!”

  Reginald peered over the inner wall. Stefan stood waiting. “Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t to be disturbed?”

  “Yes, my lord, but I do believe this to be an emergency. You’ve a priority call from the chalet.”

  “Bollocks,” Reginald hissed. He glanced down the walkway toward the next guard post: a small, five foot opening carved out of the outer wall. Not much more than space for a short man to huddle by a brazier on a winter’s night, it offered crude shelter from the wind and nothing more.

  Four hundred years ago, that had certainly been the case—now, Reginald had equipped each post with state of the a
rt communications and surveillance equipment. The guard posts had been reborn as sensor nodes, part of the greater network of early-warning alarms that blanketed the entire estate in concentric rings.

  "Put it through,” he yelled, pointing toward the guard post. He walked quickly along the uneven walkway, ignoring the response from below.

  Out of the sea-breeze, Reginald let his eyes adjust to the darkness and activated the largest of the computer screens. He keyed the password and was rewarded with the image of his under-steward in Switzerland.

  “Rolf, what is it?” he demanded.

  “Possible intruders, my lord. We detected a plane with stealth characteristics as it disappeared to the west. I plotted its most likely flight path. Passed very close to us, sir.”

  Reginald looked at the map on his screen and the green dots that represented the plane's projected travel near the chalet.

  He’s right. That was close.

  “It appears to have stayed in the commercial flight path…”

  “It did, sir, but I still thought it warranted bringing to your attention.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Reginald said, fingers tapping his chin. “Have you discovered anything on the ground?”

  “Not as yet, my lord, but I put out extra patrols, per protocol.”

  “Good man.” Reginald thought for a moment. The silence from Jayne, Harris getting his codes back, now a stealth plane appears near his chalet? The circumstantial evidence made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “I want you to double the usual guard and bring the men close. Something is going on and until I get it sorted, we must prepare for the worst.”

  “Shall I go into lockdown?”

  Reginald paused. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. Not yet. If that plane offloaded anyone, we’d have seen them by now. You’re sure the radar detected nothing? No parachutes?”