McFarlane himself had only been a Staff Sergeant on the day the outbreak hit. Between combat experience, and the wisdom he’d soaked up from Gunny Johnson before the old man had bought it during the operation to retake Guam, his rise had been more meteoric than most.
The ‘Hansen Brothers,’ as they’d dubbed themselves, were the exception to that rule. They’d been busted down so many times that command had finally made the call to stop promoting them. It wasn’t an issue of ability or insubordination. Both men were hard-core, fearless zulu killers. And they followed orders, for the most part.
The real problem was that they were pranksters. They straddled the line between harmless and fatal with mastery, but the more likely a prank was to leave a bruise, the better they liked it.
Their last outburst had involved a flashbang rigged with fishing line in Sergeant Del Arroz’s footlocker at Camp Perry. The Bravo Team Sergeant might have laughed it off, save for the fact that the Hansen Brothers had set the device between a pair of salvaged paperback books. Some science fiction tales, McFarlane recalled, with people who rode dragons, or some such. The prank had destroyed the books, and the easygoing senior NCO was ready to kill over it.
Hansen and Olsen lost a stripe each, taking them all the way down to PFC on top of given thirty days of latrine duty. Before the outbreak, McFarlane might have pushed to boot them right out of the Corps, but they needed all the trigger fingers they could get.
In any event, the Hansen Brothers had a particular set of skills that made them invaluable for the mission.
Olsen glanced out the window as though to reassure himself that the DPV was still hanging from the lift sling of the second Sea Hawk. “We’re five by five, Top. Like old times.”
“Good to go, Top,” Hansen agreed.
Both of the former Pendleton Marines had spent most of their off-duty hours racing Baja bugs in the desert outside the base. The DPV might handle differently due to the armor, but in this case, their experience did make them the best men for the job.
“No screwing around,” McFarlane said. “It’s time to grow up.” Past time, in all honesty, but it went without saying. They weren’t stupid—just immature.
Hansen opened his mouth as if to launch into a self-defensive tirade, but Olsen elbowed him in the side. “Aye-aye, Master Sergeant.”
“Two minutes!” McFarlane could barely make out the copilot’s shout, but the roads and buildings below the helicopter gave him more than enough context.
He checked his mag pouches one more time, then leaned forward a bit in his seat. “You know the drill, Marines. We hit the deck, we need to unload this beast on the fly. Second Hawk is going to drop the DPV in the parking lot, then be ready for us to unload. Silence is the name of the game until we’re on the roof in full force. Zulu’s going to get wise to our presence sooner or later. The later the better, oorah?”
They chorused their responses as loudly as they could, even overwhelming the cabin noise for a moment. McFarlane leaned to the side to check their position as the copilot turned back and signaled.
“Here we go!”
The pilot kept the chopper light on the wheels as they hauled open the doors and hit the roof. The SEALs and scouts were there waiting, and with quick hand motions, McFarlane got his Marines in position to haul cases out of the Sea Hawk and pass them out of the landing zone, bucket-brigade style. If the SEAL lieutenant had a problem taking direction from a Marine NCO, he didn’t let it show—and Ainsley didn’t particularly care. He had a mission to complete and the officer was ancillary to it and out of his direct chain of command.
Clear, they hauled the crew doors shut on either side and hustled away. McFarlane slapped his hand on the side of the chopper and moved away himself as the pilot goosed the engine and lifted away from the roof.
As the first Sea Hawk dipped its nose and headed back to the coast, the second slid into position over the roof and adopted the same wheels light hover. Carrying no Marines, the second chopper was packed tight with cases and took a bit longer to unload. When it was empty, he repeated his slap on the side. The second helicopter pulled away right as the first disappeared into the horizon.
Not bad, he judged, and he gave his Marines a silent nod of approval as the area around the warehouse faded into silence. “Let’s get these crates moved and sorted. Get `em into the center so it’s an equal distance for runners to get to the edges.”
Even with a dozen hands, it took a few minutes of concerted effort. They could have moved more quickly in a haphazard fashion, but McFarlane wanted everything sorted by type—spare rifles separate from spare squad automatic weapons, parts for each segregated, as well as the ammo. When the task was complete they had a pretty tidy pile, but he reminded himself that this was it, for now. The next two inboard chopper runs were carrying the rest of the Marine fire teams along with an engineering crew to get the previous cargo ready to move.
“Take a knee, Marines,” he murmured. He took a drink out of his Camelbak and fished his binoculars out of their pouch. To his judgment, the noise of their exertions hadn’t been much, particularly in comparison to the helicopters, and it was still quiet. He scanned the open area around the warehouse and tried not to grimace. It was cliché to say it, but it was too quiet. Zulu was out there somewhere. Maybe they were chasing down the noise trails of the helicopters, but he still felt as though they should be seeing something.
“I could use some eyes out there,” McFarlane muttered. At a sudden movement, he glanced out of the corner of his eye, then turned to stare at Agent Guglik. Her backpack was already on her shoulders. She adopted an expression of innocence after she caught his look.
“Aw, heck, Top, you caught me,” she winked. “I was heading that way before you even said anything.”
He gave her the look he reserved for wayward corporals and muttered, “I’m gonna miss you when you’re gone, girl.”
“Been trying to die for eight years, Top. The universe must think I’m too cute to kill.”
Charlie cleared his throat. “I’ll go with you. You need somebody to watch your back.”
McFarlane hid his smile as annoyance flashed across her face. She turned and jabbed her finger into the civilian’s chest. “Still don’t trust me? I got this, Chuckles. You stay up here and keep an eye on my buddies.”
“Go get `em, Spork,” McFarlane interjected. “You got your radio?”
Guglik patted the side of her pack. “Talk to you shortly.” She turned and headed for the southeastern corner of the building and the roof access ladder. They’d brought an oxy-acetylene rig to cut off the bottom half, but it could wait for the moment. He was honestly more interested to see how she was going to get over the fence.
He glanced over at the civilian scout. He wore an expression containing a mixture of confusion and annoyance. “You get used to it, sir,” McFarlane informed him. “Woman’s a force of nature.”
April 3, 2026
Aboard the USS Jack Lucas
Z-Day + 3,089
The Little Bird flared in and touched down on the aft deck. There was plenty of room now that the boxes of cargo and Sea Hawks were out of the way. That changed quickly as personnel hauled racks of equipment out of the hangar and began servicing the small gunship.
Pete had the urge to rub his hands together as the Navy guys rolled carts underneath the helicopter’s stub wings and began the process of attaching a seven-shot Hydra rocket pod and a 7.62mm minigun to each side. They’d gotten a bit of close-air support last month back home. If anything, that sort of firepower was even more crucial for today’s mission. The converted King Stallion gunship that had almost single-handedly won the Battle of Hope—retrofitted with enough ammo storage to make a quartermaster cry—was too big and too valuable to try and move to the opposite side of the country. The AH-6 paled in comparison but would have to do. Pete had to admit, though, that the additional fire support offered by the drones and the Lucas’ rail guns was nothing to sneeze at, and could make up the di
fference.
The AN/PED1 laser designator system Master Sergeant McFarlane and his men were hauling to the roof would help in that regard, as it would allow them to could mark targets for the drones to hit with their miniature smart bombs. Additionally, while GPS had become unusable, the telemetry from the two drones would allow accurate fire calls for Naval artillery.
Or so Captain Wilhite assured. Pete still couldn’t shake the infantryman’s inherent dislike of artillery. If it hit where you wanted it to, great. If not, well…
If that sucker hits as hard as promised, any blue on blue is going to be over quick.
The pilot of the AH-6 hustled out of the cockpit, avoiding the dance of the maintenance crew. As the figure came closer, Pete realized that the gunship pilot was the Marine aviator with the Texas accent, Brumley.
He called out, flagging her down. “Decide against delivering the mail, Lieutenant?”
She flipped the visor of her helmet open. “CO privilege, Major. I’m sure you can relate.” She gave Pete’s battle rattle a significant look.
He gave her a half-shrug. “Can’t ask my men to do something I’m not willing to do myself.”
“Oorah, Major. If you don’t mind, sir, I’m going to hit the head while I’m waiting on load-out. Next circuit, I’m staying in high orbit.”
“Roger that.” She returned his salute and trotted toward open helicopter bay.
A fresh-faced Navy officer passed her on the way in and flagged Pete down. “Major Matthews! Captain wanted you to know that the Sea Hawks are ten minutes out.”
“Understood, Ensign. Any mention of ground conditions?”
“The screens in CIC are clear in the immediate area around the objective, Major.”
Interesting. Pete worked his mouth around for a moment, then nodded to the junior officer. “Convey my thanks to the captain, son.”
The young man saluted crisply, and Pete did his best to return it with the same precision. The kid wasn’t old enough to be a holdover. He had to be a civilian recruit of some sort. The fact that he was on his own feet and not a gibbering mess in a psych ward somewhere was a testament to his tenacity. The folks back home generally broke down in thirds. The top tier kept keeping on in the face of the horrors of Z-Day. The middle ones did as little as was necessary to survive, particularly once they raised the walls. The rest couldn’t deal and broke. He respected the first and pitied the last. The others were worthy only of disdain.
Which, honestly, was one of the reasons why he’d been such a hermit back home. He’d grown tired of dealing with self-entitled survivors who whined and cried when asked to do even the smallest amount of work.
None of which matters right now, he reminded himself. He turned and looked at his men. They’d clustered out of the way, waiting for their ride into the heart of the mission. Pete composed his face and dropped his voice into an old, familiar mode. “Staff Sergeant Del Arroz! Birds are inbound, get those Marines in gear!”
Chapter 28
April 3, 2026
Lockheed Skunkworks
Z-Day + 3,089
Without electricity, the automatic gate wouldn’t open, but there was enough flex at the bottom corner for Anne to squeeze through without her backpack. She eyed the gap, then dug a length of paracord out of her bag. She looped the cord around the bottom corners of the gate frame and double-knotted it. It wouldn’t hold up to any long-term force, but it should keep any singletons outside.
Need to let Ross and the others know. They can move some of the cars in the parking lot, brace it a bit.
For now, her focus was on movement. She jogged at a slow, even pace fast enough to evade any zulus while not sapping her stamina too much. Sometimes it seemed as if she’d spent most of the last eight years running. Maybe when it was all over she’d have time for a rest. Anne smirked at the thought. Thinking about the future was a luxury she didn’t have at the moment.
The drone recon had given them a good picture of the area in terms of traffic jams, collapsed buildings, and the like, but it had given them little information on the human element. It had been early in the day here when the outbreak hit, which explained the traffic jams, but Guglik had also noticed a large cluster of vehicles in the parking lot of the Antelope Valley Mall, about three miles to the west of Skunkworks. She’d never been much of a mall shopper, but even she knew that things didn’t get hopping until late in the morning. Maybe there’d been a grand opening or some other special occasion, but she didn’t like known unknowns. The area immediately around them seemed clear, but there was a massive commercial hub on the other side of State Route 37. Target, Sam’s Club, Home Depot—all the stores that used to make civilians perk up and say, “Ahh.”
Even if the stores weren’t packed when everything went down, she expected any survivors lucky enough to make it through the first wave would have descended on the area in search of weapons, food, and other supplies. Most of them, given your average civilian, without stopping to think that everyone else in the surrounding area would be doing pretty much the same thing.
Idiots.
Her family had been stuck in Manhattan, surrounded by tens of millions of people. As best as Anne had been able to figure, it had been over quickly. In some sense, that was a mercy, but the thought of people blessed with the chance her husband and kids never got, and blowing it, infuriated her to no end.
She pushed down the simmering anger and slowed her trot as she approached the main complex of Lockheed buildings. She’d eyeballed a three-story block building from the roof of the warehouse before she’d made her move. It was at the northern side of the cluster, but more important, was open to the north and east. If she had to make a run for it, she’d have options.
Anne tucked her shoulder into the wall, walking in a crouch to keep her head below the intermittent windows. No need to get any of the occupants riled up. She peeked around the corner. A broad alley ran between the south side of this building and the metal-sided structure on the opposite side. The path was empty save for a dusty pickup sitting on flat tires near the south building and a face-down, picked-over skeleton smack dab in the middle.
She eyed the distance and sped up a bit. Her target building had a roof access ladder much like the warehouse, though this one had a grated cover padlocked over the lower six feet or so. Whatever the building’s purpose, the Lockheed people obviously didn’t want anyone up on the roof who didn’t belong there.
Anne glanced around, ensuring she was still alone, then took hold of the heavy padlock securing the cover. After over eight years of exposure to the elements, streaks of rust coated the shackle. The body of the lock itself seemed in good condition, though, and the barrel had rested in a downward position. Any moisture should have drained out.
There was small spray can of WD-40 in her lockpick tools, and she sprayed a liberal amount into the lock cylinder. She then arranged the padlock to rest at an upward angle so the oil would have time soak in. The sound of the hiss sounded like thunder in the quiet, but it was unavoidable. Anne glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes had passed since the Sea Hawks left. Depending on how long it took to load up, they should be back in another thirty or so. She wanted to be on lookout when that happened.
She started counting down in her head as she crouched and waited for the oil to soak in. The alley remained clear, and all she could hear was the gentle, intermittent rush of the breeze.
After a few minutes, she pulled her lockpicks out and went to work. The WD-40 seemed to have done the trick, the internals moved smoothly. After a short moment of work, the lock clicked open. Anne slid the hasp out of the locking tab and laid the padlock on the ground. She flipped the latch open, took hold of the grate—and froze.
The hinges had been in the outdoors just as long. If they’d rusted, the racket was liable to be God-awful. Cursing her oversight, she sprayed the bottom and middle hinges. No matter how much she strained, she couldn’t get the nozzle of the can close enough to the top hinge.
Slow is
smooth, smooth is fast, girl. Take your time.
Anne checked either end of the alley again and forced herself to calm. Hell, at this point she almost wished she’d let Charlie tag along. He could have easily reached the upper hinge, and he could have watched her back so she didn’t have to bounce her head back and forth like someone watching a tennis match.
The seconds dragged on until she judged that she’d waited long enough. When she tugged on the grate, the upper hinge groaned a bit, but the noise wasn’t too bad. She squeezed between the cover and the ladder and got a few steps up in the air, then sprayed more WD-40 down onto the top hinge. The grate seemed solid enough to not rock in the wind, but she pulled it closed behind her nonetheless. The faster zulus could climb, and she didn’t want to make it too easy on them if they discovered her.
The reasoning for the secured ladder became apparent as she scaled it and stepped onto the top of the building. There was no roof access door. Whatever work Lockheed had done in here must have been sensitive enough that they wanted to limit points of access. That, at least, made things a bit safer for her to set up an observation post. Heat exchangers, ductwork, and other pipes that she couldn’t identify almost overflowed the surface of the roof. There were plenty of places to hide. Perfect.
She chose a bulky green electrical housing that offered her a good view of the highway and beyond while still being far enough back from the edge of the roof to make observation from the ground impossible.
An experimental push on the metal of the housing produced no buckling. Steel, rather than aluminum, then, which made sense given the massive heat sinks bolted to its sides. The top was already warm to the touch under the morning sun, though, so she unfolded a thin, cushioned mat and laid it across the top to lay upon. After Anne removed what she needed from the backpack, she left it at the base of the housing and climbed on top.
She arranged her supplies before her. Food pouch holding her canteen, jerky, and a couple of ancient protein bars. The Barska spotting scope went in the middle, and the most dangerous weapon of all sat at her right hand—her radio. Once she had everything lined up to her satisfaction, Anne threw a light mesh cover over herself.
A Place Called Hope (Z-Day Book 2) Page 30
