The Tunnelers, who were still among them and already terrified, miserable, and soaking wet, had neither NVGs nor lights – so were pretty much fucked now. The best they could do was shoot in the lights of the others, or shoot blind. They could also no longer see everything that was out there coming for them, all the way out to the horizon. But this didn’t have the effect of steadying their nerves. Instead it had the opposite effect – unnerving them even more than before. Not being able to see what was coming for you was always scarier than knowing, however bad that knowledge was.
And, even worse, the Tunnelers all knew, or could sense, that when the dead got over the walls, which they inevitably would, and the fighting turned hand-to-hand and nose-to-nose, it was going to be much, much worse for them. Then, whether or not you had NVGs was probably going to become a matter of life and death. Those without them wouldn’t last long.
And, finally, there was the CentCom SHQ building itself, technically outside the prison walls but backed flush up against them, so effectively an annex or extension. And up on its top level, inside the JOC, still maintaining her lonely vigil, Corporal Jones sat in what was now perfect pitch blackness. No monitor glow from the wall-mounted display, nothing from her own screens, or anyone else’s, all of the tactical stations cold and dead. No satellite imagery of the two missions came in now. No radio transmissions, even crackling with unintelligible static. Nothing – nothing but the sounds of fighting and moaning raging on all sides, but strangely and peacefully muted by the walls. Nothing to see, nothing to hear, and nothing to do.
Jones stayed on station anyway.
She took her pistol out and placed it in her lap.
* * *
Command Sergeant Major Handon, awake and ambulatory for the first time in a long time, stepped out the doors of the prison complex into the north yard just in time to see the Wrigley-Field-like effect of the front-facing spotlights on the north walls wink out into blackness. He looked around to verify that nothing else was lit, then just stood there for a few seconds, letting his full night vision spin up, feeling the rain on his skin…
And listening to the sounds of the battle.
It was those sounds that had led him here in the first place.
Everything already seemed pretty damned dream-like, not least since he was still wandering around a seemingly deserted prison all on his own, and still walking off the effects of whatever sedatives had been keeping him under this long. On the upside, he was getting more feeling and control of his leg the more he walked on it. On the downside, whatever painkillers had been in that drip were also wearing off. The burning pain in his lower back, both deep and sharp, reminded him that he was still only a few hours out of surgery.
But pain he knew how to shake off, and how to bull through.
When he got as much night vision as he was going to get, he moved forward toward the sounds of the fight. He could make out the stone walls ahead, and what looked like a dirt ramp leading up to the back of them. A little to his left, by what he thought was the front gate, he could also see a parked vehicle – moving closer, he found it was a British Panther, a light armored vehicle, and abandoned. Pleasingly, there was a 7.62mm minigun mounted in the turret ring, but climbing up on top, then sticking his head down inside, he found the weapon empty, with no ammo cans to be found.
And as he climbed down again, this gave him cause to remember that he himself was armed only with a knife. Given that, he probably wasn’t ready to throw himself back into the fight just yet. Then again, he had no idea how much time they all had. Looking over the hood of the Panther, he saw two figures running up the ramp – carrying what looked like ammo cans. That was promising.
He limped around the front of the vehicle, then put his hand down on the hood to steady himself. But it didn’t land on steel – it landed on pistol. When he picked it up in the dark to examine it, he saw it was a .45 – an original Colt 1911.
Hmm. REALLY promising. Bizarre, but promising…
He could already tell it was loaded from the weight, and knew without having to check that it would fit in the drop-leg holster on his belt – and, not only that, but also that the mags in the pouch on the back of his belt would fit it. Those were currently all empty, but they’d fit. He slipped the handgun into the holster, and looked up to see two figures racing down the dirt ramp – presumably the two he’d just seen race up it, but empty-handed this time.
“Hey,” he croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again.
One of the two angled over toward him.
“You going to the armory?” he asked.
“Affirmative.”
“Take me there.”
* * *
Fick looked across at Wesley in the glare of their weapons lights, after they’d both gotten them on. Both rifles were slung and pointed at the floor of the tiny security room, so the illumination wasn’t great, but there wasn’t that much to look at. The two of them were still shoving back against the heaving, unlockable, outside door to the Common, shoulder to shoulder. Behind them was the door to the inner prison complex – the one that would only lock from the inside.
Finally, Wesley said, “Get out of here, Master Guns. I’ll stay, and lock the door behind you.”
Fick just snorted in amusement.
Wesley’s voice grew serious – and he actually sounded an awful lot like a goddamned officer when next he spoke. “Master Gunnery Sergeant Fick. You are to move to the rear and take command of the men. That is a damned order.”
Fick shook his head. Jesus Christ. He really couldn’t believe it. He was somehow living through a perfect replay of Darwin, Australia all over again – when the MARSOC commander, the LT, had ordered Fick to lead the men out, while he held the chokepoint so they could escape. And, in a shameful decision that had haunted him every minute since, Fick had done as he was ordered. And left the young officer to die there in his place.
It was beyond hilarious that the situation was repeating.
Only it was going to play out very differently this time.
Fick just kept his eye on the door, which had momentarily settled in its heaving, while he calmly said: “Due respect, LT. But go fuck yourself.”
Wes sighed and shook his head. And he said, “Okay, then. I guess this is where we finish.”
“Guess so,” Fick said. Then he looked over Wes’s shoulder, squinted, and said, “Hey, look – the Queen.”
Wesley actually looked.
Fick sucker-punched him in the kidney, locked his arm behind his back, spun him around, frog-marched him out the other door, gave him a sharp shove out into the prison yard, then slammed the door and slid the locking bar across it.
“Go, LT,” he shouted through the heavy timber. “Lead the men. And don’t wait up for me.”
Then he turned and put his body weight into the outside doors. He was alone, in darkness and heaving, no one in there now but him – just him and his demons.
Fick settled down to wait.
For the end.
Coin For the Ferryman
South London – Parking Deck, Top Level
“CentCom, this is Rabid Two-Two, how copy?”
Homer didn’t even wait for the tumbling helo or ambulance to hit the ground below before he started calmly transmitting. When Plan B went to hell, you moved on to Plan C. Guys who packed it in when things went wrong didn’t make it far, either in Naval Special Warfare or in the ZA.
“What are we doing?” Rob shouted, the two of them huddled up around the side of the stairwell access structure. Living and dead were still thronging the open top level of the parking deck, more running out of the stairwell and up the ramp every minute, but they all seemed to be ignoring these two, at least for the moment.
“We’re elevated and in the open,” Homer said. “There’s a chance I might get through on the radio, and get another helo.” He tried twice more, while taking a couple of shots on dead that got too close or interested, but nothing came back. Finally, he said, “CentC
om, this is Rabid Two transmitting in the blind” – and he sent both a grid reference, as well as a verbal and visual description of their location, relative to their target location, repeating everything twice.
“Can you try mine?” Rob asked, handing over his own radio.
“Doubt it,” Homer said, taking the little Motorola Airwave handset. But he flipped through menus and checked the network settings anyway to verify this. It was as he thought – it was on a closed civil emergency-service network. Maybe a dispatcher somewhere could patch them through, but they’d likely be dead by then. Probably better to hope God had patched through his original message.
Homer knew He would be out here.
Then, as he reached around his helmet to turn on the little IR beacon mounted on back, so any rescuers who did turn up would see him – Homer did receive a transmission. From close.
“Nice idea with the air ambulance. Pity about the execution.”
On instinct, Homer went over to the railing where the helo and ambulance had gone over and looked down. The two big vehicles made a particularly ugly crash site below. And standing just far enough away from it in the darkness, lit by the flames, was a black-clad figure looking up at him.
Homer wondered if she’d had to dodge the falling wrecks.
“You coming down,” Ali asked, “or am I moving to you?”
Homer didn’t waste any time being amazed. This was hardly the first time his ghost-like teammate and best friend had come back from the dead. Nor the first time one of them had come back for the other when they weren’t supposed to, or really just shouldn’t have.
“Wait one,” Homer said.
When he turned again to check the situation around them, the top deck was in total chaos. There was only a trickle of bodies coming out of the stairwell behind him and when he swung around to check it, he could see why: it was another meat locker, filled with limbs and heads and torsos, eating and being eaten, as far as his light would shine in or down. There was another stairwell on the opposite corner of the deck, but he could see from here it was the same – impassable. That left the vehicle ramp they had come up on.
But even as he checked that out, a huge wave of runners – both living and dead – rounded the first bend below and came tear-assing up toward them. In the three seconds he watched, he didn’t see the end of it. He couldn’t know how bad the rest of the deck and the other ramps were, and they almost certainly weren’t as bad as the stairwells, but they were bad – and it was a lot of ground to cover to fight their way down. Maybe they could manage it, maybe not. But definitely no way to guess how long it would take.
Basically, he and Rob were trapped up here.
Homer moved back to the edge and looked down again. It was relatively clear on the ground around Ali. Nothing like safe, but you could move. She could get out. He touched his radio to answer her. “Negative – I’m not coming down, and you’re not moving to me.” He unslung the small backpack of HRIG, their invaluable mission objective.
And he dropped it over the edge.
Ali caught it, and just looked up at him.
“Go,” Homer said. “Bring it home.” When she didn’t move, he said, “You know you’ve got to leave me.” His eyes crinkled at the corners and there was a smile he knew she’d hear in his voice when he added, “Come on. I did it for you.”
Then he turned around, and clapped Rob on the shoulder.
And got ready for their last stand.
* * *
Take the bag, get on the bird, and get the hell out of here.
Predator’s last transmission to Juice played in his head, as he stood frozen in the darkened Armoury House courtyard, helo hovering fifty feet above, crowds looming at the periphery, both robots knocked out of commission, and hundreds of runners coming their way fast – with only Predator back there to hold the line. Like the dude thought he was Leonidas, and had just told the 300 to knock off early. Because he had this.
In the end, Juice needed about two seconds to think about all of that and make his decision. On the one hand, Pred had a point – the mission objective was a hell of a lot more important than either of them, and having Pred hold the line to protect both it and the helo as it touched down gave the mission the best chance of succeeding.
On the other hand… the helo didn’t have to touch down.
And Pred didn’t have to hold the line alone.
Juice touched his radio. “Nah, man. Not happening.”
He switched channels. “Charlotte, bring your altitude down to two-zero feet. That’ll be high enough to keep the civvies off you. But low enough for me to chuck the mission objective up into your rear hatch. Then you get it out of here.”
Brief pause. “Wilco.”
As the big helo started to descend, Juice got the bag of simulations unslung. With the Chinook’s wide rear ramp already down, this should be a slam dunk. And he was happy about the decision he’d just made. It guaranteed mission success. And it let him do what he needed to do – not leave Predator behind. The one thing he was never going to do.
Live or die, rise or fall, he’d make his stand here.
Side-by-side with his brother.
* * *
Homer huddled up with Rob to do what was necessarily a very quick assessment of their options. The goal was to come up with some way of getting them off that parking deck, other than going down the stairs, which was impossible, or fighting their way down the ramps, which would be fatal.
“Don’t suppose we’d survive a six-story drop,” Rob said.
“No, not likely,” Homer said, leaning back out over the edge, verifying there was also no way to climb down the outside of the structure. American parking decks were typically open-air. “Why is this thing completely enclosed?” he asked.
“Health and safety, probably. Keep people from falling.”
Homer looked down and over again. There were windows – but they were staggered, so if they managed to climb down and break into one without killing themselves, they’d just have to go inside again and fight down a level and over to the next one. If it was between that – fighting their way down plus risking a lethal fall – or just fighting their way down, Homer figured he’d take the simpler option.
It was looking like the ramp or bust.
He turned to Rob. “Ready?” The paramedic nodded, eyes bright. He still had Homer’s SIG, and had taken all of his pistol mags, of which Homer had started the day with eight. He couldn’t have many left, but then again Homer didn’t have too many rifle mags either. Then it would be down to boarding axe and knife. But there was always a Plan D.
God always provided something else.
With the courage of his faith, Homer raised his rifle and started moving and shooting, fast on both counts, leading them straight into the horde coming up the ramp.
The two men charged down into the mouth of hell.
The trouble with this plan became apparent quickly – the parking deck was designed such that it was one big ramp, basically a big spiral, meaning they were going to have to fight their way through every inch of it to get down. Of course, they’d seen that on the way up. It just seemed a lot quicker and safer in a hurtling ambulance. Now it was on foot, nose to nose, and if they weren’t going to have to fight for every inch, they were definitely going to have to fight for every level.
And Homer also realized pretty quickly that, if nothing changed, the odds of them surviving all six of those levels were slim to none. But they had to try. Homer slithered forward through the mob, weapon held in tight, dodging the worst concentrations, working around or knocking aside the living, ignoring the dead who ignored them, and shooting precisely to drop those who locked on. He was in ammo conservation mode now, as was Rob, who he could tell was doing a good job staying in his back pocket, from the sound of firing right behind him. He could also tell he was doing a good job watching Homer’s six – because he was still on his feet.
Either way, he couldn’t spare a glance back.
> The pair salmon-spawned down the first level this way, keeping moving, staying on their feet, somehow not getting jammed up or taken down. Even so, it was only Homer’s suit saving him from scratches, bites, or bad abrasions, and he hoped Rob’s spot in the number-two position was saving him, because he had neither a bite-proof suit nor immunity. At the end of the first level, they turned the sharp bend and straightened out again, Homer grabbing a breath.
Five more to go.
And then even as he pushed forward through a tough twenty meters, Homer realized the shooting behind him had stopped – for longer than it would take Rob to reload. That meant one of two things, and if it was that he was out of ammo, Homer needed to give him a melee weapon. He fired eight fast rounds to secure his front for a second, then spun.
Rob wasn’t visible.
There was only a pile of ravening dead grabbing and fighting their way through each other toward the deck. With no time to switch weapons, Homer just took headshots until all of them were destroyed, then reached in and started hauling them off. Rob was at the bottom of the pile. He must have gotten tackled, probably from his blind side, then body-piled – and he’d never made a sound as he went down. Now he was still alive, but he wasn’t going to stay that way long – he was going to bleed out, or turn, or both. Flat on his back, it didn’t look like he could speak – but he managed to raise his right hand, with Homer’s SIG in it, slide locked back. But with his right thumb, he dropped the slide forward on a full magazine.
Getting it loaded was the last thing he’d done.
Homer took the SIG and holstered it, even as Rob’s eyes went out of focus. Homer wished he had time even to reach down and close them. But he didn’t. Instead he came up spinning and shooting, first back down the ramp at the thick ranks coming up, then to the rear where a few had reversed course for the two of them, then to the front again, then used the time that bought, a couple of seconds at best, to get his boarding axe out. On his own, he wasn’t going to have time for reloads, and he was critically low on ammo anyway.
ARISEN_Book Fourteen_ENDGAME Page 39
