Z Force 1: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Infection Chronicles Book 2)

by Tripp Ellis

  “Earl, wait for my signal to start up. Then circle us around so we have a clear shot at that main door.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Steele peeled the camouflage netting off and climbed up to the turret. Then he dropped down through the hatch. Duke and Delroy followed. Inside they took their stations.

  “Holy shit, this is just like Armored Aggressor,” Delroy said in awe.

  “I’ll tell you one thing that’s different,” Steele said. “We don’t get to re-spawn.”

  Delroy and Duke exchanged a grim look.

  “Duke, load the round with your fist and punch it in, or you’re going to lose fingers,” Steele said. “Throw the arming handle into the up position and yell up. And be sure to stay clear of that breach after you load, or you’re going to have a really bad day.”

  Duke nodded. His face went from grim to scared shitless.

  The 120mm gun would recoil more than a foot into the turret after each shot. The turret was tiny, and the loader had to cram himself against the bulkhead to avoid the recoil. The breach would pulverize anything in its path.

  Tank school was 9 weeks. These guys had less than a minute. Hopefully they had all learned something from playing Armored Aggressor, Steele thought.

  The tank’s turbine engine wound up. It sounded like a jet engine, which is exactly what it was. The turret filled with the whirr of the 10,000 horsepower engine. The M9 had come a long way in terms of sound dampening. For all its speed and power, it was relatively quiet compared to the previous generation of M1 Abrams tanks—even though it almost had ten times the power. It was nicknamed Silent Death.

  But it didn’t matter how quiet it was. Steele knew the moment they cranked the engine up, someone would notice.

  Earl lurched the tank forward and angled around toward the blast doors.

  Duke loaded the massive round into the breach and crammed himself against the hull. “Up!”

  Delroy took aim. The ballistic fire control computer, and laser targeting system, made it impossible to miss. The firing solution generated by the computer had a 99.987% accuracy rating at nominal ranges.

  The targeting computer could identify potential targets. The tank commander could select and transfer them to the gunner—so there was no lag time between target acquisitions. It made the M9 Thunderbolt exceedingly fast. And a good loader could have a new round in the breach in less than six seconds.

  “Fire,” Steele commanded.

  KABOOM!

  It was like Zeus himself had unleashed a thunderbolt—the M9 earned its moniker. The 120 mm gun blasted. The armor piercing round rocketed through the air. It slammed into the blast doors in a fiery explosion. Bits of metal and debris showered out. A haze of smoke wafted into the air.

  Duke and Delroy hollered with excitement.

  “Reload,” Steele said, chastising them.

  Duke grabbed another round and plunged it into the breach. He lifted the arming handle. “Up.”

  When the smoke cleared, only a gaping hole remained where the blast doors once were. A few moments later, Red Viper soldiers spilled out like angry ants. It was like Steele had kicked the mound.

  “Fire,” Steele commanded.

  KABOOM!

  Another round rocketed from the 120mm gun, blasting a dozen men to pieces. Flesh and bone sprayed into the air.

  But apparently, there were multiple entrances to the bunker. Two squads emerged from the brush to flank the tank on either side.

  Within seconds, two incoming threats were detected. RPG-37-V, rocket propelled HEAT grenades with a tandem charge. The first charge is designed to destroy reactive armor, while the secondary, and larger, shaped charge projects a high speed jet of metal into the armor.

  Tank killers.

  The two rockets streaked toward the M9 Thunderbolt. A trail of white smoke billowed behind them.

  Steele began to think this tank assault was a bad idea. He wished it was only a video game.

  28

  “Incoming,” Steele yelled. He braced for impact.

  The rockets smacked into the composite armor. Duel explosions rocked the M9 tank. The concussive force slammed the occupants against the bulkhead.

  Steele felt like he had been hit in the head with a sledgehammer. But that was a good sign. It meant he was still alive. It meant the Thunderbolt had held up to the anti-tank grenades.

  Duke hadn’t been so lucky. The impact had knocked him unconscious. He was slumped on the ground in the turret.

  The gunner’s position was forward and below that of the tank commander’s. Steele climbed across the turret and pulled Duke into the loader’s seat. Then he spun around to the ammo stowage unit and opened the door. He grabbed another round and punched it into the breach. Then lifted the arming lever. “Up.”

  Delroy had lined up the squad to the right.

  Steele mashed him self against the bulkhead, trying to clear the breach. It would be close. The loader’s station wasn’t designed for two people.

  “Fire,” Steele yelled.

  KABOOM!

  Delroy fired.

  Fragments of the viper squad scattered as the round exploded.

  The breach cleared Steele with millimeters to spare. He could feel the gust of hot air as it recoiled past his skin.

  The proximity alarm sounded—another RPG was rocketing toward them. The explosion knocked Steele across the crew compartment.

  He staggered to his feet, opened the ammo door, and reloaded the breach.

  Delroy spun the turret toward the second target.

  “Up!” Steele yelled.

  KABOOM!

  The ground shook like an earthquake as the round exploded. The Viper squad was puréed. Body parts launched into the sky. Arms, legs, feet, heads. Anyone nearby was gutted with shrapnel. The agonizing cry of wounded soldiers bled through the air.

  Steele loaded another round. Then he climbed back to the commander’s station and poked his head up through the hatch. He manned the 50 caliber machine gun. He squeezed the trigger and staccato bursts of gunfire hammered anything that moved. Shell casings bounced off the turret and rolled down to the hull.

  The Viper CAV powered up and lifted from the ground. Apparently a Viper crew had reached the vehicle. It rose into the air and took aim at the tank. In a few moments, it would fire tank busting X-27 rockets at the Thunderbolt. But Steele remotely detonated the mag grenades he had placed earlier. The CAV’s thrusters exploded. The nose blasted into bits. Chunks of metal rained down. The CAV dropped like a stone, smashing against the ground.

  Steele kept on the 50 caliber machine gun, peppering viper soldiers. The barrel was smoking hot. After a few moments, Steele eased off the trigger. Nothing was left alive. Clouds of white smoke wafted across the battlefield. It went from chaos to quiet. There was an eerie stillness about the scene. It seemed almost surreal, as all battlefields do.

  The sides of the tank were scored with black carbon from the RPG hits. But there wasn’t so much as a dent in the composite armor.

  “Cover me,” Steele said. Then he grabbed his rifle and climbed out of the turret.

  As gunner, Delroy also controlled a 7.62 mm machine gun affixed to the turret.

  Steele jumped to the ground and advanced toward the entrance to the bunker.

  Earl slid open the driver’s hatch and poked his head out. “Hey, I’m coming with you.”

  Steele hesitated, then waved him on.

  Earl grabbed his assault rifle. It barely fit in the driver’s compartment with him. Then he caught up with Steele. The two dashed to the entrance, flanking either side of the opening.

  The only thing that remained were crumbling chunks of concrete that previously framed the blast door. Steele pressed up against what was left of the wall, and angled his gun down the entryway.

  The dark hallway lit up with muzzle flash from Red Viper soldiers.

  Steele ducked back out of the way. Bits of concrete exploded as bullets peppered the doorframe. Steele gave a signal to D
elroy to fire the main gun deep into the bunker.

  Steele and Earl ran aside and crouched down, covering their ears. A few seconds later, a giant muzzle flash erupted from the 120mm cannon. The earth shook. Dirt around the tank rose from the ground in plumes of thick dust. The outer casing of the sabot round peeled away, leaving the dart-like M997-A4 projectile. It pierced through the air at 6000 feet per second, exploding inside the bunker.

  The blast was ear-splitting. Steele could feel it reverberate through his spine. He felt the ground shake beneath his boots.

  Steele nosed his rifle around the corner—the entryway was thick with smoke. He pushed in through the haze. Debris scattered the entryway. He stepped over shredded body parts and chunks of concrete. Blood painted the walls.

  Steele and Earl leapfrogged their way down the corridor—one advancing while the other provided cover. Earl moved with textbook precision. Steele was surprised—did he learn this from a video game too?

  This facility was old. Paint was peeling from the walls. Metal was rusted and corroded. Steele recognized it as an old Penetrator II-F Missile base, decommissioned shortly after the turn of the century. The last site was shut down in 2019 as part of an arms reduction treaty.

  A metal placard had been blasted from the wall, and was lying on the floor amidst the rubble. It read: Welcome to USAF Global Strike Command, Site #24765-A3. Restricted access. Authorized personnel only. It is unlawful to enter this facility without written permission from the installation commander (Internal Security Act 50, U.S.C. 797).

  The Penetrator II-F missiles were, at the time, the lightest, fastest, and stealthiest ICBMs. 12 feet long, and 2 feet in diameter. A W698 warhead gave the Penetrator a 50 megaton yield. Almost 50 times more powerful than all the bombs dropped in WWII. A single ground burst in New York City would cause an estimated 6,230,983 deaths. Lethal fallout would stretch to Maine, depending on wind currents. There were 24, Penetrator missiles at each site, when it was operational.

  The facility was vastly different than its Cold War brethren. It was designed to be completely self-sufficient. NBC filtration systems (nuclear, biologic, chemical). 24,000 gallon water storage tank and filtration. Waste treatment facility, seed bank and indoor garden. Primary power was supplied by an extended use fuel cell, augmented by two backup diesel generators. There were quarters to house a hundred staff, a kitchen and mess hall, and even a medical trauma facility. Theoretically, each facility could remain operational for years without needing to be resupplied.

  Each facility had a construction cost of $19 billion. Now, most of them were collecting dust, or had been turned into residential living spaces. After the disarmament, you could pick these things up for a song. The downside was that some of the sites had been contaminated with industrial chemicals. Solvents like trichloroethylene. A known human carcinogen.

  Odds were that Turnbull didn’t sell his farm to Red Viper—they likely killed him for it.

  Steele made it to the switchback staircase at the end of the entryway. It spiraled down several floors. The top of the staircase had taken heavy damage from the tank’s 120mm gun. Steele edged over the mangled railing for a look below. Gunfire erupted, sparking off the rusted metal railing. Steele arched back, taking cover.

  It was impossible to determine how many Red Viper soldiers were left alive in the building. Steele put a conservative estimate at fifty. Two against fifty—those were fair odds, Steele thought, sarcastically.

  Steele snatched a thermal grenade from his tactical vest. He armed the device, then tossed it down the stairwell. The grenade clanked against the metal steps as it bounced down.

  Thermal grenades were laced with S9—an incendiary gel that when mixed with a nano-activator, and oxidized, burned at variable temperatures, up to 4000 degrees. It was nasty stuff, and the Army had found numerous applications for it. With thermal grenades, not only did you have chunks of shrapnel ripping through your flesh, you got sprayed with searing hot S9 gel. The stuff was in proximity mines, artillery rounds, bombs, and you could even get S9 tipped bullets. It had the consistency of hot glue and had programable and variable temperature settings—depending on the application. With a special applicator gun, it could be used to either cut through, or weld, metal. It wasn’t called Liquid Satan for nothing.

  The grenade tumbled down.

  Ping.

  Clink.

  BANG!

  The ground shook beneath Steele’s feet. Bits of concrete and dust rifled through the air. The echo was deafening. White-hot metal fragments, and blistering S9 thermal gel, showered out from the epicenter of the blast. Viper soldiers screamed in agony. Their flesh punctured. Their skin seared.

  Steele plummeted down the twisted staircase. Earl followed behind him. They spiraled down through the haze of smoke and dust, stepping over bodies filleted by bits of shrapnel.

  Steele’s blue eyes were focused like lasers through the sights of his weapon. He saw sudden movement at the base of the stairs. Two Viper soldiers were trying to recover from the blast. Their weapons swung around, and the barrels lit up with muzzle flash.

  A round zipped by Steele’s ear, exploding into the concrete behind him. It was a glowing streak, like a tracer round. But this wasn’t a tracer. It was so close, he could feel the heat as it passed.

  Chips of concrete debris pelted the back of his neck. He felt another round impact his torso. The impact knocked him off balance, spinning him around. Smoke wafted from the bullet hole in the fabric of Steele’s tactical vest. This was a blistering, S9 tipped round.

  Earl squeezed the trigger, taking out the two soldiers with precision accuracy. Heads exploded, and their bodies fell limp.

  Steele glanced to his chest, partially expecting to see a blossom of blood staining his uniform. But you don’t bleed much when you get shot with S9 bullets. The heat cauterizes the wound as the bullet passes through. They’re not the most effective antipersonnel weapons. And you certainly shouldn’t be using them in confined spaces like a stairwell. Ricochets can be problematic in close combat.

  Steele hunched over, clutching at his chest with his titanium fist. He gripped the fabric of his uniform. The Special Forces Combat Uniform was a marvel of modern technology. It was a high strength weave of microfibers that contained non-newtonian liquid. Soft and pliable under regular use—but upon high-impact, it had the strength of carbon steel. But an S9 round could melt its way through.

  The bullet had pierced through his tactical vest and scorched a tiny hole in his bullet resistant shirt. But the bullet had ricocheted off Steele’s titanium composite ribs. It was one of the few times that he was glad to be a little synthetic. But he had a 4000 degree slug in his shirt.

  He clutched his fist around the fabric, gripping the slug. It didn’t take long to melt through the fire resistant fabric, ending up in his titanium palm. He tossed the glowing slug aside. It clinked down the staircase, finally resting atop one of the fallen Viper soldiers. Within seconds, the soldier’s uniform burst into flames—obviously not fire resistant. The bullet melted through the soldier’s skin. The acrid smell of burnt human flesh filled the stairwell.

  Earl scrunched up his nose as he caught a whiff. “You alright?”

  Steele nodded, but he didn’t look happy about the incident.

  “Damn, I want metal parts.”

  “No, you don’t” Steele said as he continued down the steps to the landing below.

  There was another blast door that led into the facility. It was a 2000 pound barrier to the complex. Steele wasn’t going to be able to blast his way through with a thermal grenade. He didn’t have any S9 gel, or an applicator, to cut through it. It looked like this was as far as they were going to get.

  29

  Steele grabbed the body of a fallen Viper soldier and dragged him to the door. He lifted the man’s head up to the retinal scanner on the side of the blast door.

  “Peel open his eye,” Steele said.

  “That’s kinda gross.” Earl reached his finger
s out and peeled back the soldier’s eyelids.

  Steele aligned the soldier’s retina with the scanner. After a moment, the display read: access granted. The locking mechanism released with a metallic clink. Heavy security pins within the door retracted from the frame. Steele readied his weapon and pushed the massive door open. For as heavy as it was, it glided on its hinges with relative ease. Steele took cover behind the door frame.

  Every Penetrator II-F missile site was exactly the same. The main chamber of the compound was a huge oval structure with a domed ceiling. It was subdivided into four main areas—the command & control center, the communication center, the barracks, and the kitchen and mess hall. A hallway encircled the entire circumference of the chamber—a street sign affixed to the wall read: Fallout Circle. It was an odd bit of humor in a facility whose original purpose was mass destruction.

  Two other hallways crossed in the center, each spanning the diameter. Fat Man Avenue ran north to south. Little Boy Lane ran east to west. They were a reference to the first two atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Side tunnels led to the medical center on the east wing, and the power room on the west wing. The tunnels were named after early bomb tests. Trinity Way, and Ivy Mike Road, respectively. A tunnel on the north side of the chamber, Castle Bravo Boulevard, led to the launch complex. Twenty-four penetrator rockets had stood upright in silos, like bullets in a chamber. They were empty now. But back at the turn-of-the-century, this facility could have decimated an entire continent.

  Steele peered around the corner—the hallways were empty. The building had an eerie silence to it. Deep below ground, with several feet of reinforced concrete, no sounds from the surface would make it down this far. The fuel-cell power station was whisper quiet. And there wasn’t so much as a hum from the overhead lighting, or equipment in the complex.

  Steele crossed Fallout Circle and took cover at the corner of Fat Man Avenue. Earl followed and took cover on the other side.

  Sweat was beading on Earl’s face. He was jittery and nervous. The silence was almost worse than the gunfire. When people are shooting at you, at least you know what to expect. When you can’t see the enemy, your mind wanders with the infinite possibilities of the unexpected.