O’Reilly nodded and barked into his throat mic. “Indigo team, move up and secure the prisoners.”
From out of the woods came six more men in camouflage, each taking one of the prisoners. They ordered the prisoners to strip down to their skivvies, and then they put the uniforms into the back of the Humvee.
“Square the prisoners away, Commander,” Graves said.
“Yes, sir. Indigo team, get ‘em out of here!” O’Reilly walked off to coordinate the transfer of the prisoners to the improvised holding cells that had been setup in town. Juliet team would drop them with the guards there until the bunker was secure. Darnell and some other volunteers had offered to guard the prisoners as long as needed.
The soldiers disappeared into the trees with their charges. Graves inspected the Humvee and wasn’t at all surprised to see it was in deplorable condition. Rusted in more than a few spots, with trash and spent shell casings in the floorboards, it was certainly not up to spec for his team. “Trane, get over here and take a look at this thing. Make sure it’s not going to break down on us.”
One of his team—their resident engineer—began a quick inspection of the vehicle.
O’Reilly walked back up. “All prisoners accounted for, sir. We’re ready when you are.”
“Good, let’s get back to town and see if they’ve found a good enough truck for us.” He looked over at the engineer. “How we looking?”
“She’s a mess but serviceable, sir. I wouldn’t be responsible for something with this lack of maintenance, but it’ll get us where we need to go. Probably.”
“Good enough.” It was his turn to whistle, and he shouted, “Mount up!” As the others climbed into the Humvee, he checked his watch. Another few hours before they would make their move. It was going to be a long day. He hated waiting.
Near Bunker Five
New Salisbury, Pennsylvania
Back in town, the Fleet’s personnel had scattered to their various assignments. O’Reilly and Graves were in the lobby of the town hall to await the ‘magic hour’ of 1530—their calculated departure time for the trip to the bunker.
Indigo had put on the bunker’s soldier’s uniforms, with more than a little grumbling about having to wear such nasty gear.
“You’ll get over it,” Graves said as he looked at his XO, who now wore Price’s uniform. “Why, Sergeant, how you’ve changed!”
“Yes, sir,” O’Reilly said without a smile. “I noticed that the admiral has yet to change, sir.”
Graves couldn’t help but grin. “Rank hath its privileges, Commander.”
“With respect, sir, that’s bullshit.”
“You’re damn right.”
The biggest surprise for Graves hadn’t been the shoddy state of the soldiers or their equipment, but the lack of communication from the bunker. It was like they had all grown so complacent that any wandering guy with a pistol could’ve taken them over. Either this was the best scam he’d ever seen or this was going to be a lot easier than he’d thought.
They’d tied Hodges in a chair in the corner and added a gag when he wouldn’t stop whining. He was a poor excuse for a soldier and a man, to say nothing of a sergeant, and Graves wanted nothing more than to turn him loose in the woods and see how well he did. Maybe that was a little dark of him, but he hated seeing the reputation of his own men tarnished by crap like that.
O’Reilly spoke up from his seat nearby. “It’s almost time, sir. I’m assuming you want Hodges there driving?”
Graves nodded. “And you beside him making sure to provide suitable incentive.”
O’Reilly grinned. “You bet, sir.” The commander stood and walked over to the trussed man. He released Hodges from his bounds and ripped the tape and gag from his mouth without the slightest hint of pain management. He motioned to the enemy soldier. “Let’s go, crybaby.”
Hodges sighed and stood. He flexed his legs as he wobbled, then they walked out the front door. Graves watched as Hodges got in the truck with O’Reilly climbing in after him.
“Kilo team, report,” Graves said into his mic.
The answer came back fast. “Kilo Six, we are five by five, sir.”
“Roger that. We’re loading up here. ETA 20 mikes.”
“Acknowledged. Kilo Six out.”
Graves stood as well, walked outside, and looked over the two vehicles. They’d managed to find a decrepit Toyota that would work to bring in some supplies, and one of their men was behind the wheel in a borrowed uniform. The Humvee was as bad off. Still, it was only twenty minutes to the bunker.
The New Atlantic Fleet men who were going—Hotel and Indigo teams—were ready for their orders and chatted in disciplined groups. Kilo team was already deployed, and Juliet would remain behind to secure the town and the prisoners, just in case.
Graves waited for the team leaders to notice him standing there and then spoke to both his men and the civilians that had crowded around. He hadn’t intended to give a speech, but here he was anyway.
“It’s a big day for us. The beginning of the end is here, and we’re going to be taking back our country. This is just the first step, but it’s also the most important. If we don’t get in there, there’s no telling what Marnes and his cronies could do, especially if Dagger’s already got spies in the bunker. We have one shot at this. Now load up!”
He climbed into the covered back of the Humvee, hoping that the bunker’s guards wouldn’t bother investigating the rear of the vehicle. He spread a tarp over himself and tried to look as much like some provisions as possible, leaving only his head clear for the moment. He glanced up front at Hodges and Price. “Set and ready, Commander?”
“Aye, Skipper. Ready here.” Graves could just see the gentle reminder that O’Reilly gave Hodges, a poke in the ribs from his sidearm. The broken Bunker Five sergeant just sighed and nodded, starting the engine.
“Then let’s do it. And tell Kilo to send the go code to the Council.”
“Aye, Admiral.” O’Reilly spoke into his mic as he sent word to the team at the temporary HQ in the town hall.
Graves could only hope that the forces arrayed against Bunker Four in Iowa were ready to go as well. Timing was crucial. Without the old intelligence and command-and-control options they’d had before Z-Day, they couldn’t replicate the precision of those missions.
As the Humvee started rolling, he glanced out the scratched and dirty plastic rear window at the truck that followed them. He hoped that the guards were as lackadaisical as he expected. If they were at all the same as the ones in the Humvee, this mission might be the cakewalk he was hoping for. He didn’t want to kill anyone, after all. They were just misguided—at least, most of them.
Maybe, just maybe, they could still be saved.
Safehouse for Church of the Divine Judgement
New Salisbury, Pennsylvania
The camp was dirty, as it had been here for some time, but otherwise it held to the precepts of the order. Brother Azariah was well pleased with the work of his Children. The trill of a songbird came from one of the trailheads, and he knew there was a runner on the trail. “The red-breasted nuthatch, if I’m not mistaken,” he muttered, and his manservant looked up.
“Brother?”
“Never mind, Joseph. Never mind.”
“Yes, Brother.”
Soon enough, a dusty and tired young man came to a stop just outside his tent and bowed low. “Brother, I come with news.”
“Take your ease, child. What news?”
The young man stood, and though he breathed deep and fast, he spoke clear. “The infidels from the East move on the sinner’s lair, Brother.”
Azaraiah translated the Churchspeak into English. The new Fleet had launched their attack on the bunker. He needed to warn the others.
“Bring me the device,” he said to Joseph over his shoulder. To the runner, he made the sign of the cross. “Go in peace, my child. You have done well this day.”
“Thank you, Brother,” the runner said as he
bowed low again. He walked off in the direction of the main camp, likely to get some food or some drink, or a woman.
Azariah neither knew nor cared what the runners did while not in his sight, and for few others, truth be told. He remembered back before Z-Day, when he’d gone by another name, Damian Wright. He wondered if the man he’d been then would even recognize the person he was now. Or if his half-brother “the archbishop” would either.
He didn’t buy into the zealotry of the Church, but he’d always been able to pick the winning side. And from what he’d seen in the mess the world was now, the Church was it. The fact that his half-brother was running it only made it even more clear that this was where he should be.
Joseph tapped him on the arm, and he turned to receive the satellite phone from his manservant. “Thank you, child,” he said. Joseph’s exit made no impact on Brother Azariah as he dialed a number from memory. As always, he thought it a minor miracle not only that the satellite still functioned but also that AEGIS had yet to discover their tap on it.
“Brother Azariah,” the voice of the archbishop’s staffer on the line said, perfunctory and somewhat annoyed. “What word from the east?”
He translated once more in his mind, then spoke. “The infidels approach the fifth Lair of Sin. I believe they intend to breach it somehow and bring their battle to the forces within. Does the archbishop wish me to assist, to delay, or to avoid these infidels?”
“Exodus 14:14, Brother. You shall stand aside, letting infidel fall upon infidel, and anoint the holy Cleansed that arise. Should you encounter any of the Seraphim, you will contact the archbishop right now so that he may send the proper greeting for them via the Heavenly Transports.”
Be patient. Let them kill each other. If I find any of the super zombies, let them know, and they’ll fly out.
“So let it be ordered, so let it be done, Brother,” the voice on the phone said. “Have you more to report?”
“No.”
“Then prepare yourself for the coming battle and let these infidels destroy each other. You and your brethren will need all your concentration when you fall upon the unbelievers, days hence. Peace be unto you, my brother, and may the blood of the righteous wash away the sins of the unclean.” The phone went silent, and Azariah handed it to Joseph without looking as the servant reentered the tent.
“I wonder if they realize what that means, ‘May the blood of the righteous wash away the sins of the unclean,’” he muttered. “Cannon fodder will take the fall for most armies, I guess.”
“Brother?” Joseph asked, and Azariah shook his head.
“Nothing, child. Never mind.” He strode to the edge of the hilltop and looked out through the trees over the valley spread below. Mount Davis, on his left where the bunker lay, was visible, if not well defined. The unbroken swath of trees from there to the small town of New Salisbury was primitive—primeval almost—and in another time, it would’ve brought him peace.
Now it just brought him what he thought was developing into an ulcer.
“Leave me now, Joseph. I must pray.”
Joseph bowed and exited the tent, closing the flaps behind him. Azariah had no intention of engaging in the corporal punishment that some of his fellow brothers insisted upon, but he did need the occasional moment to himself. He checked that he was unobserved and pulled a hoarded bottle of antacids from a hidden inner pocket.
“What they don’t know won’t hurt me…” He chewed and swallowed the pills. He knew exactly how true that statement was, brother to Archbishop Wright or not. The insane leader of the Church had no tolerance for hypocrisy in his men, and his brother was no exception.
His camp had much to do to prepare for their battle with the soldiers to the west. The infidels would fall upon each other to the west as they were here, and then the Church would see to the rest of them. There were far more infidels in that group, however, and the battle was likely to be much more fierce. As one of his favorite country music singers from years and years ago had once sung, they had a long way to go and a short time to get there.
He folded his legs underneath him and sought the peace of meditation. If it looked like prayer, so much the better. But for now, he just wanted to forget that he was about to sit by as men went to kill themselves and others, fighting for what they believed to be the best cause in the world: freedom.
Freedom, Azariah knew, was just another word for nothing left to lose.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bunker Five
Mount Davis, Pennsylvania
The drive back to the bunker was uneventful. The tension O’Reilly was under—holding a gun on someone who was driving—kept him lucid and awake. A few of the guys in the back were even snoring. O’Reilly would’ve woken them up, but it was probably good for their cover, as lazy as these soldiers had been.
The late afternoon sunshine made the vehicle warm, and the lack of maintenance had long ago taken out the AC. O’Reilly wondered how any of their equipment was still working after all these years of neglect. That was a story for another time, he figured. Right now, they were coming up on the gates of the bunker, and it was time to put up or shut up.
“Just do things like you normally do, Hodges, and everyone will come out of this fine. Don’t forget, Juliet team has you covered from the tree line, and our snipers are a damn sight better than yours. One false move and you and everyone at the gates is dead.”
Hodges nodded in acceptance and sat up a little straighter.
Maybe he did have some backbone after all.
The gates to the bunker were wide open and rusted. Without a closer inspection, O’Reilly couldn’t be sure, but he was confident that they hadn’t closed in years. The rest of the facility that he could see wasn’t in much better shape. The paint from the AEGIS logo on the giant steel doors was almost gone, and the steel-and-concrete road barriers sat covered with years of dirt, grime, and who knew what.
There didn’t appear to be any mounted machine gun emplacements, which would make this easier. But it raised the question of how these people had survived Z-Day… unless Pennsylvania in general wasn’t hit as hard as the rest of the country. Plausible, but it didn’t explain where all the guards were.
O’Reilly didn’t see anyone until they were right up on the bunker’s vehicle doors. Even then, they waited a moment before a guard cracked open the personnel service door. Unshaven, yawning, bleary eyed, and with no uniform, he could have been a guard or a civilian. Either way, the man was drunk and stumbled across the doorway. He had to use the open door to keep himself upright. He yawned again and gave them a “go ahead” wave as he slammed the smaller door shut and the bigger doors began to roll open.
O’Reilly was amazed, even with all they had seen of this bunker so far. It took a second for him to realize they hadn’t moved, and he jabbed Hodges in the ribs to get them going once more. The vehicles moved forward side-by-side and stopped on the main vehicle elevator. The “guard” then set them in motion to the lower levels.
Grinding noises were never pleasant when you rode an elevator, and these were awful. They made O’Reilly wonder if they’d even reach the lower levels. Everyone was at the ready now and waited for the moment when they would have to fight their own people, no matter how incompetent they might be. O’Reilly grimaced, not wanting to think about AEGIS fighting AEGIS. He’d given orders to wound, not kill, whenever possible, but it was likely that they wouldn’t be able to avoid a few deaths.
After a long descent, the elevator ground to a halt and Hodges drove them into one of the vehicle bays on the lower level. They’d still hardly seen any people, and even now, there was just the one person waving them into a spot. No one had inspected the cargo or even so much as glanced at the truck from town. They might as well not have bothered changing into the appalling uniforms, and O’Reilly fumed a little over that.
Hodges cut the engine of the Humvee, and the driver of the Toyota followed suit after pulling in on the driver’s side of the Humvee. The
man who’d waved them in wandered over to O’Reilly’s side of the Humvee and put one foot on the siderail as he leaned toward the cab. O’Reilly tried hard not to gag on the stench of the man’s breath.
“They got you drivin’ now, Jeff? Movin’ up in the world, ain’t ya?” The man turned to say something to O’Reilly. “Hey, you ain’t—”
O’Reilly threw open the door, sending the man flying backward into the empty truck parked next to it. He stepped out and threw the man against the truck again as he started to slide down, then cracked him across the temple with a fist. The man dropped to the ground, unconscious.
“No, I ain’t,” he said, then spoke into his mic. “Everybody out.”
The men piled out of the truck and the Humvee and spread out to confirm no more guards or civilians were present. Soon enough, the word had come back that the bay was clear, and the men took up position near the entrance to the bay. O’Reilly turned to the admiral.
“Vehicle bay secured, sir.”
“Very good, Commander. See if you can send word topside to Juliet team and have them report in to the Council.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he stepped aside to make the call, O’Reilly saw the admiral have a quick whispered conversation with Hodges. Their driver went pale and held up his hands, wrists out. Graves nodded and produced some big zip-cuffs from a pocket on his uniform. They walked over to the Humvee, at which point Graves prodded the other man into the back of the Humvee.
The admiral zip-cuffed Hodges to one of the tie-downs on the deck of the Humvee and covered the back of the vehicle once more. Just before closing it, they had another whispered conversation, and Hodges shook his head fit to loosen it. Graves walked back toward O’Reilly, who sent word topside before the admiral returned.
The Dying of the Light (Book 3): Beginning Page 28
