Storm of Ghosts (Surviving the Dead Book 8)

by James Cook

  During the ops briefings, Jacobs had stated unequivocally he was not looking for a surrender. The North Koreans had been given ample opportunity to do so, and had steadfastly refused. The time for diplomacy was over. His intention now was to destroy the ROC, root and branch.

  Initially, I’d had my doubts. The Army’s history since Vietnam did not really bear that philosophy out. I could only imagine the political repercussions if the KPA surrendered and we killed them anyway. But it was clear to me now Jacobs had not been fucking around—he’d meant every word of it.

  Behind me, I heard the rest of the squad make it safely into the compound. I looked northward toward our destination: the command building.

  “Break off by fire teams,” Mike said. “Miller, Chavez, hang back and-”

  An explosion interrupted him. The light dampers in my NVGs kept the sudden illumination from blinding me, but it still hurt my eyes. I looked toward the explosion and felt my stomach sink.

  “Shit,” I said. “They’re hitting the slave quarters.”

  In an instant, I dropped the M-4 and switched back to my SCAR. A pair of KPA troops were loading a shell into a mortar that was obviously zeroed where the prisoners slept. I flipped up my NVGs, took aim, and fired a shot at each man center of mass. Two more shots rang out to my left as Gabe opened fire on them as well. They were dead in seconds.

  “All stations, Delta One, clear the net.” Mike radioed. I wasn’t on the all stations net, but I assumed the radio chatter stopped immediately. “All stations, Delta One. They’re hitting the prisoners with mortars. All delta squads break off and search for heavy weapons. You see anybody come near ‘em, you drop the fuckers. All EOD personnel get your asses to the prisoner’s quarters and start searching for explosives.”

  Mike switched back to the squad channel and waved a hand over his shoulder. “Let’s go. Our mission hasn’t changed.”

  I gave one last look toward the prisoner’s longhouses. People were half crawling and carrying each other outside away from the fire. They made it just far enough to get clear of the blaze and then collapsed to the ground. I wondered how many had died in the initial blast, and how many more were too weak to escape.

  Can’t think about that now. Get moving.

  We set a hard pace toward the command building. It was a simple two-story structure, eighty feet by sixty feet, and constructed of cinder blocks, mortar, and other scavenged construction materials. Someone inside must have seen us coming because a window opened and a dim figure brought a rifle up to its shoulder. I stopped, aimed, and fired. The shot was rushed, and I only managed to catch him in the arm. But it was enough to get him to drop his weapon and retreat inside.

  No one else tried to shoot at us as we approached. When we were within seventy-five yards, Mike ordered a halt.

  “Smith, take out the front door.”

  “Yes sir.” Smith unslung his LAW rocket. The rest of us put our earplugs in and went prone. Smith went down to one knee.

  “Back blast area clear?” Smith called out.

  “Clear,” Chavez responded.

  “Rocket out!”

  The LAW made the deafening crack-BANG I’d heard so many times since joining the Army. Ahead of us, the front entrance to the command building disappeared in a cloud of smoke and flying debris.

  “On your feet!” Mike commanded. “Let’s go!”

  Gabe, Tyrel, and I comprised one of the fire teams. Mike, Lowell, and Smith broke off together, as did Chavez and Gellar. Grabovsky and Miller were the last to pair up. Our original plan was to have Chavez and Miller work together, put Grabovsky in Mike’s place, and Gellar and Hemingway would be their own fire team. But Hemingway was not with us anymore.

  Not now. Plenty of time for that later.

  We stacked up outside what was left of the entrance. The steel double doors were twisted scraps of metal strewn around the small reception area. I stacked up first on my side with Mike standing across from me. Most of the squad stacked up behind him as they arrived. Only Gabe and Tyrel stood on my side. Mike pointed at his eyes, then at me, and with his left hand, counted down three, two, one, go.

  I entered the room, weapon raised, and broke right, sweeping as much territory as I could. Mike was right behind me covering the left side. The rest of the squad entered quickly. Someone stood up from behind the reception desk on my left and shouted something in Korean. I put the green laser on his forehead and pulled the trigger twice, but not before he squeezed off a short burst from an AK. The weapon had been pointed at Chavez, who had fallen straight to his back, aimed his carbine at the gunman, and let off four shots. The rounds fired from the AK flew harmlessly over Chavez’s prone body and pelted the wall behind him. The gunman himself fell down dead.

  “Well that was stupid,” Gabe said behind me.

  I agreed. He would have had better luck if he’d simply fired through the flimsy wood of the desk where he’d hidden.

  “Thank God for idiots,” I said. “It’s a miracle he survived that blast. Fucker must have been stone deaf.”

  “Don’t count on all of ‘em being stupid,” Mike said. “Or deaf. Let’s clear the room.”

  We did, finding no further attackers waiting. It was not a difficult sweep. The only things occupying the room were the desk, a few ugly couches, soiled chairs, and debris from where the rocket hit the front door.

  “Smith, Miller, you two stay here and watch our six. Everybody else, drop your gear behind the reception desk. We go in with guns, grenades, and breaching charges only. Miller, keep that M3 handy in case someone tries to ruin our party.”

  “Yes sir,” Miller replied.

  “Smith, it probably wouldn’t hurt to have a LAW ready to go. Just don’t shoot it in here.”

  Smith looked insulted. “I know better than that, sir.”

  “I know. Just makes me feel better to say it. Gellar, Chavez, you two are with me. Grabovsky, you’re with Gabe’s team.”

  “Yes sir.”

  We dropped our gear behind the desk as ordered. It made quite a pile, and I was glad to be shed of it for the moment. Moving through buildings is delicate work. Doing it while carrying a full rucksack, a sniper rifle, and a LAW rocket is just shy of suicidal. When I was done letting things fall to the ground, I was down to my M-4 rifle, Beretta sidearm, two frag grenades, four flashbangs, spare ammo, Ka-bar fighting dagger, and a Spyderco folding knife. I felt light as a ballerina compared to a few moments ago.

  “We’ll take this side,” Mike said, pointing to the right side of the room. “You take the other door. Keep ‘em on a swivel, you hear?”

  “We hear,” Gabe said.

  I met Mike’s eyes before he turned to leave. “Be careful.”

  “Same to you, son.”

  I turned and followed my team to the door. It was close to the wall on the right side, so we all stacked up to the left. Gabe searched the edges of the door, looking for signs of booby traps.

  “You know what? Fuck this.”

  We all carried a breaching charge in a bag hanging from the back of our web belts. Gabe took his out, stuck it to the door, and activated it.

  “Ten seconds,” he said.

  We all backed off and covered our ears. The charge went off and sent the door crashing into the wall opposite the lock. Gabe waited for the dust to clear, then peeked around the corner.

  “Clear. Let’s move.”

  Gabe took point, and the rest of us followed.

  FORTY-THREE

  We made fast progress down the hallway.

  The doors to the rooms we passed were scavenged from surrounding houses, most of them nothing more than flimsy panels of thin wood and two-by-two struts. The firm application of boot to handle was all it took to open them. We found offices and storage rooms similar to those at any Army administrative building. After we cleared the last door, Mike radioed they were almost finished with their side. Gabe turned to look at us.

  “Okay. If there’s anyone in the building, they’re upstair
s. Shoot if you have to, but don’t forget why we’re here. If the people we’re looking for are in this building, we take them alive. Understood?”

  The rest of us nodded. If Grabovsky had any objections to Gabe taking control of the team, he did not voice them. The two had worked together in the past, so he probably knew as well as I did what Gabe was capable of.

  The big man led the way up the stairs with Tyrel close behind, Grabovsky following, and me watching our six. Halfway up, Gabe raised a fist to signal a halt. He turned, pointed at his eyes, and then pointed downward. The hallway was dark, even through NVGs. Somehow, though, Gabe had spotted a tripwire. My father used to tell me there was no substitute for experience, and as usual, he was right.

  “Delta One, Wolfman,” Gabe said, using his prearranged radio handle. “We’re in the south stairwell. Just found a grenade on a tripwire.”

  “Copy, Wolfman,” Mike responded. “We’ll keep our eyes peeled.”

  Gabe looked at Tyrel. “You’re pretty good with booby traps, right?”

  “That I am.”

  Tyrel crouched, followed the wire to where it connected to a grenade with the pin barely held in place, and disarmed the trap. When he was finished, he pushed the pin back into the grenade and bent it down to secure it.

  “Just in case,” he muttered to himself.

  We moved slowly up the stairs, not wanting to risk hitting another trap. Finally we reached the door. Gabe tried it and found it locked. After carefully searching for signs of tampering, he motioned me upward.

  “You got your lock picks?”

  “Always.”

  I squatted down in front of the lock. It was a heavy steel security door held shut with a standard lock on the handle and a dead bolt above. Neither one was difficult to defeat. In less than a minute, I had them both unlocked.

  “Back off a second,” Gabe said.

  I took a few steps down the stairs, as did Grabovsky and Tyrel. Gabe slowly opened the door, being wary of traps. After a few moments, he opened it fully and motioned us through. We walked the corridor, looking for traps or alarms. No one found anything. There were eight doors in the hall, most of them made of the same insubstantial material as those downstairs. One, however, was heavier and made of steel.

  “So what now?” I asked.

  Gabe peered down the hallway. “We let Mike get his team into position.”

  A minute or so passed. We stood quietly, minds and bodies on high alert, and waited. Finally the door opened at the far end of the hallway and Mike’s team came through. Mike was looking through a monocular IR device. He gave his team the same instructions Gabe had given ours. When his people were in place, the two men met in the middle of the hall and had a brief, quiet discussion. Then both of them nodded and Gabe came back toward us.

  “We’ll do a tandem breach,” he said. “Everybody pick a door.”

  “What about that one?” Tyrel asked, nodding his head toward the steel reinforced entrance.

  Gabe hooked a thumb over his shoulder. Chavez was headed our way with a shotgun in his hands. The weapon had a jagged breaching muzzle on the end.

  “Heard you need a locksmith,” Chavez said.

  “That we do,” Gabe said. “Get your charges in place.”

  Both teams moved through the hallway sticking breaching charges to doors. When they were all in place, Gabe raised a hand.

  “Set timers to ten seconds and stand by.”

  The squad complied. I put mine on the steel door’s handle while Chavez chambered a breaching round and hooked the muzzle onto the top hinge.

  “You good, Chavez?” Gabe asked.

  “Ready when you are.”

  Gabe waited until everyone signaled they were ready.

  “Chavez, when the timer hits five, blow the hinges.”

  “Roger that.”

  Gabe looked around, made sure he had everyone’s attention, and dropped his hand. The squad activated the charges simultaneously and backed off. I stood behind Chavez, sidearm in hand. Chavez counted down in a whisper.

  “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, hit it.”

  The shotgun roared loudly in the enclosed space. The first hinge shattered, pieces of metal pinging to the floor. Chavez racked another round into the chamber and hit the lower hinge. It disintegrated as well. Shortly after the second shot, the breaching charges made a series of tremendous thumps, and the doors flew open. Chavez backed off to switch weapons. The rest of us took a knee by our respective doors, led with our sidearms, and looked inside. Behind me, I heard Gabe, Grabovsky, and Tyrel enter their rooms. I stayed where I was. Chavez started to enter, but I grabbed him by the pants leg and dragged him back.

  “Stay here,” I said. My tone brooked no argument.

  I stayed kneeling by the door and looked around the room. It was big for an office, about twenty-five feet square. There was a bed to my left covered in rumbled sheets. A small wood-burning stove stood nearby, its metal chimney extending up through the ceiling, and a pile of firewood dumped haphazardly beside it. A dingy sofa took up the wall next to the door, and across the room, there was a highboy complete with water pitcher and bowl, a desk, bookshelves, and several file cabinets. There were no windows. A single chair stood behind the desk.

  The chair was unoccupied, but the room was not.

  A man in the uniform of a KPA officer stood behind a squat, pudgy, sweaty little man with a bald head and a thin, wispy combover. The desk and chair stood between us. The officer had his back to the wall and held the pudgy guy in place with an arm around his throat and a gun to his head. Both were obviously Korean.

  “Either of you speak English?” I asked, keeping my gun aimed at the officer’s head and my body as concealed as possible.

  “I do,” the pudgy man answered.

  The KPA officer yelled something at him and drove the gun hard against his temple. The pudgy little guy replied in Korean. The officer seemed to think about it, then motioned in our direction with the gun.

  “You know who I am?” the pudgy guy asked. I did, but studied his face a few seconds just to be sure.

  “Park Heon-Woo, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You here to find me, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You not here to kill me?”

  “Not as it stands, no. But the other guy is kind of pissing me off.”

  The KPA officer asked another harshly spoken question. Park answered as calmly as he could.

  “What’s he saying?” I asked.

  “He say tell you to back off. He use me as hostage so he escape.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “What you going to do?”

  “I need you to stand very, very still, Park Heon-Woo. Your life depends on it, do you understand? No matter what you see, do not move.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell him we’re backing off. Tell him we’re willing to make a deal. Tell him we don’t want to kill him, we’d rather he cooperate.”

  “You no understand what he told about you. He think you torture him to death.”

  “Okay, fine. Just tell him we’re backing off then.”

  “Okay.”

  Park said something else in Korean. The officer yelled at me as if volume would increase my comprehension of a language I did not speak, then motioned again with his gun. Clearly he wanted me to stand back from the door. I lowered my weapon.

  In my peripheral vision, I could see the others stacking up for a dynamic entry. Gabe was immediately to my right, Grabovsky and Tyrel behind him. Chavez stayed on my side, out of sight. I put my free hand back where the KPA officer couldn’t see it and signaled for them to stay put.

  “Remember Park. Do. Not. Move.”

  “Okay.”

  I began to ease away from the doorframe until I was out of sight. Then I stood up, leaned quickly back in, raised my Beretta, and fired once.

  Park jerked as if slapped. The right side of his face was splattered with blood, but it wasn’t his. The KPA
officer went limp and slumped to the floor, the backside of his skull a shattered, bleeding mess. My shot had taken him in the forehead just right of center. I let out a slow breath and entered the room.

  “You okay?” I asked Park.

  He said something in Korean. The rest of the team entered the room. The little guy looked downright terrified.

  “Hey,” I said, grabbing him gently by the shoulders and giving him a little shake. “I wasn’t lying. We’re not here to kill you. But we do need access to your research. Do you have it here?”

  “Y…yes. All here.”

  “Where?”

  “There.” He pointed at the row of file cabinets.

  I gave him a hard glare. “Seriously? You’re concocting a vaccine that could save the world from the infected, and you keep your research in a bunch of fucking file cabinets?”

  Park shrugged. “Is People’s Army. They always cheap bastards.”

  I stared at him a few seconds, and then shook my head. “Unbelievable.”

  “Kim Ji-Su,” Gabe said. “Where is she?”

  “You come for her too?”

  Gabe stepped closer, looming over the little man. He flipped up his goggles. His face was a sculpture of hard angles, thin slash of a mouth, and stony gray eyes colder than a Siberian winter. His lips peeled back from his teeth as he spoke.

  “Where. Is. She?”

  “Okay, okay. I take you. Okay?”

  Gabe grabbed him by the arms, iron fingers digging into soft flesh. “Don’t lie to me. Do you understand? You lie to me, and I will hurt you.”

  Park grimaced in pain. “Okay, okay. No lie. I take you.”

  Gabe released him. “Lead the way.”

  As we exited the room, Mike and his team came over. Gabe gave them a quick rundown.

  “So you’re the miserable little shit that started all this,” Mike said.

  His face was drawn tight and there was a look of barely contained rage in his eyes. The pronouncement startled me, as did Mike’s boiling anger. I’d known the man most of my life, and I had never seen him this enraged.