Operation Sea Mink (7 page)

After everything Gray had gone through to get that far? Why would he walk away now? It didn’t make sense.

No, until he heard otherwise, Miller was proceeding as ordered. Besides which, if Harris was indeed in charge, did he really think Miller would simply relinquish control of a nuclear warhead because his lackey told him to? Harris was smarter than that.

Or, perhaps that had been Harris’s plan all along—to set Miller up for a gunfight and eliminate Cobalt? That was a real possibility. Either way, they couldn’t stay aboard the freighter, and they couldn’t outgun a boatful of soldiers, not with their diminished supply of ammo. Flight was their only course of action.

Miller hopped from the chopper and inspected du Trieux and Smitty’s progress. There was still a film of fungus on the fuel intake, but there wasn’t much fuel to begin with. It would have to be enough.

“Start the engines,” he said, ignoring Smitty’s look.

Miller tapped his earpiece. “Dump the greens, light the slick again and get aboard the chopper asap,” he ordered Morland and Hsiung.

“Roger,” Hsiung answered.

From the helipad, Miller watched as Morland and Hsiung tipped the remains of the crate overboard. Meanwhile, du Trieux, sprinting to the edge of the freighter, dropped a lit flare onto the oil slick and bolted back.

All three reached the chopper simultaneously, hopping into the bird just as the rotors picked up speed. The engines struggled to ignite the fuel not consumed by fungus in the gas tank, but fired up, giving them lift off.

“And we’re off!” Smitty yelped, yanking back on the stick and gunning the twin turbo-shaft engines.

As they rose above the freighter, Miller gazed at the action below. The animals, kept at bay by the oil fire around the freighter, attacked the greenery aboard Kimball’s boat—one of the first brutes aboard knocked a solider into the water.

Bullets pierced the sky. The chopper lurched to the side and alarms blared—they’d been hit on the right side but had managed to get some distance between them and the freighter. They flew over open ocean, away from Kimball and the jump boat.

“What the...” Smitty cussed, swinging the bird hard to the left. More bullets zipped in their direction.

“They’re firing at a fucking nuclear missile!” Morland gaped, rushing to attach his safety restraints.

Out his window, Miller could just make out the action aboard Kimball’s boat. Soldiers hacked back a trio of goliath brutes as Kimball aimed his assault rifle at them. It wasn’t until Miller saw the outline of a soldier on the boat’s pilothouse hoist a long tube up onto his shoulder that he felt a rush of panic. “Smitty!” he bellowed. “Anti-aircraft missile incoming!”

The chopper banked harshly to the left again, tipping sideways over the wretched ocean, nearly twisting in a full circle.

Smitty howled as he twisted the stick. The engines sputtered and fought, losing thrust as chunks of fungus clogged the tubing.

On the right, coming in hot, was a trail of smoke straight at them.

“Miller!” du Trieux shouted.

In a rush of heat and smoke, the helicopter was struck.

Miller braced his body for impact as the chopper spun wildly, whirling out of control. With a crash, the chopper dove headlong into the rancid ocean below.

6

T
HE SMELL OF
putrid salt water and smoke filled Miller’s nostrils as he choked.

Opening his eyes, he blinked away the darkness clouding his vision and forced himself to focus. He was up to his hips in sea water. As his sight and hearing cleared, the picture came into view. The helicopter alarms were blaring and it was sinking fast.

To his left, Hsiung lay slumped in the jump seat. Past her, Morland was conscious but struggling as he sawed through his restraints with a utility knife, his elbow rapping the cracked glass of his door as he worked.

Miller reached up with shaking fingers and detached his safety belts. Then, twisting in his chair, he unlatched Hsiung and caught her as she pitched away from him.

Morland, finally free, rotated in his seat and slung one of Hsiung’s arms over his shoulders. “Go!” he barked at Miller, jerking his head toward the door behind him. “Go up!”

Miller pushed off his feet and shoved his shoulder into the chopper door. It opened with a snap, rushing more water, smoke and stench into the cabin.

Climbing out of the doorway, Miller jumped into the tainted seawater.

Morland, climbing out of the chopper just behind him, quickly activated the flotation device in his combat vest. The collar of his vest bloomed up and around his neck, giving him instant buoyancy in the thick, steaming water. Morland then reached around and pulled the release on Hsiung’s vest. Grabbing the unconscious soldier into his arms, Morland pulled her tiny frame into his massive chest, then rotated onto his back, kicking and floating both of them to safety, a few feet from the sinking chopper.

Miller rotated his arms, barely keeping afloat as water gushed over his head. Two safe, two to go.

Swimming back toward the sinking helicopter, Miller reached into the filling cabin, searched with his hands under his seat and found an air canister. Shoving the device into his mouth, he activated the airflow, then sucked in a breath of oxygen, before diving deeper into the muck toward the sunken tail.

His eyes burned in the putrid salt water. Ignoring the sting, he kicked his legs and arms. When he reached the chopper, the door was closed. Inside the fogged glass he could just make out the sight of du Trieux as she struggled to free an unconscious Smitty from his restraints.

Miller pounded on the window. Du Trieux turned to him and mouthed something, but Miller couldn’t make it out. Finally, he pounded again and the door opened from the inside.

Reaching in, Miller yanked du Trieux out. She’d already activated her flotation vest, so she popped out of his hands and rose toward the water’s surface immediately.

Sucking in another breath from the air canister, Miller dove into the submerged cockpit to free Smitty. The pilot’s eyes were wide open, and unblinking. His mouth was agape and slack.

Pulling another breath from the canister, Miller sliced through Smitty’s safety restraints with his knife, unlatched the buckles of the pilot’s vest, and removed it from his slack body. Leaving Smitty to his watery grave, Miller climbed out and around the helicopter’s shell in search of the crate.

By the landing gear, strapped in with three restraint buckles, the nuke was still attached to the chopper.

Miller cut the buckles loose and tugged on the crate—but he was unable to move the heavy box from the sinking chopper.

The whole contraption, Miller included, was getting sucked deeper into the ocean. All he could do was hold on until they struck bottom.

Finally they touched the ocean floor. Finally able to move without fear of losing the crate, Miller pulled another breath from the canister and wrapped Smitty’s vest around the edge of the box, pulling the tab. The vest’s flotation device expanded, partially raising the crate on one side—but it wasn’t enough.

Thinking better, Miller unlatched the buckles on his own vest, wrapped it around the other end of the crate, then pulled the tab. With this added buoyancy, Miller was finally able to lift the crate free of the chopper, but it still wasn’t enough to float the heavy container to the surface, no matter how hard he kicked.

Holding his breath, Miller released the crate and swam to the surface. Breaching the water, he spotted Morland, du Trieux and Hsiung, floating just a few meters away.

Swimming arm over arm, he clutched the air canister in his fist and shouted at the trio. “Give me Hsiung’s vest!”

Without question, Morland held tight as du Trieux unlatched Hsiung’s straps and chucked the vest at Miller.

Miller swam toward the vest, snatched it, then swam back. Re-inserting the air canister into his mouth, he dove again, kicking toward the sunken chopper.

On reaching the bird, he lashed the additional vest to the center of the crate. The extra lift was just enough for him to raise the box from the chopper. He strained and pulled, hauling it upward, struggling toward the surface.

Du Trieux dove down, meeting him halfway, and helped lug the crate toward the light. They broke surface—panting and kicking to keep afloat—du Trieux gasping to catch her breath.

Using the floating crate like a buoy, they met up with Morland and the unconscious Hsiung. They pumped their legs and swam toward land for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, when Miller thought he couldn’t kick one more time, they reached a rocky beach.

Morland swam onto shore first, and left Hsiung’s unconscious—but breathing—body a safe distance from the water. He then returned to the water, and assisted du Trieux and Miller in dragging the crate up past the breakers and onto the rocks.

Every inch of Miller’s body ached. His head pounded, his chest pulled tight with each breath, and his eyes, swollen from the foul salt water, burned. He flopped down on the rocks beside the crate with a grunt, and coughed with gut-wrenching hacks.

Du Trieux, lying on the rocks beside him, gasped for air and spit out phlegm from her throat. She turned toward Miller and whispered, “Smitty?”

He shook his head. “Gone by the time I got to him.”

“
Merde
.”

After a few moments of rest, Hsiung stirred and awakened, mumbling in Chinese. She coughed violently a few times, then sucked down a jagged breath; her eyes opened and focused on the orange sky above. “Oh, fuck,” she muttered.

Morland, lying beside her, pushed himself to sitting and helped her do the same.

The four of them climbed to their feet and stood on shore, dripping like wet dogs. In the distance, the freighter sat, floating crooked and diagonal across the Atlantic. What they couldn’t see was the Shank jump boat, which undoubtedly was still on the far side of the freighter.

South from them, resting on the beach in the remains of the day’s sunshine, lay three goliath brutes. They gave massive, honking cries, echoing across the ocean waves.

“That’s our cue to leave,” Miller said.

Not willing to waste any more time, or risk an encounter with the brutes, they dragged themselves and the soaked crate up shore, inland.

Just above the beach, a stone wall edged the remains of a greenway. The area, which had probably once been a manicured lawn, was now covered in overgrown trees and weeds, looking wild and desolate. Beyond that was what looked to be a residential area running up and down the shoreline, followed by a two-lane highway and more beach on the other side.

Morland crawled over the wall first, balancing the crate on top, while the others pushed it from the other side.

With Morland in front, du Trieux and Hsiung on either side and Miller at the end, they walked the crate north, up the highway toward—Miller wasn’t sure.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

He needed a plan, fast, but his head was still swimming and he swayed as if he were still on board the freighter.

His M27, slung over his shoulder by the strap, continually rapped against his hip and dripped water on the ground as he struggled to keep hold of the crate. A shiver ran up his back as he pressed his lips together.

He took a long hard look at the remnants of Cobalt—they didn’t look any better than he felt, and he was genuinely surprised Hsiung was on her feet at all—and a sense of foreboding stirred his gut.

This isn’t going to end well.

“The sun’s setting,” du Trieux said. “We can’t walk all the way to New York City like this.”

“Why bother going back at all, if Harris runs the compound?” Morland asked.

“What if he doesn’t?” Hsiung snapped, rubbing her palm across her forehead. “We can’t trust what those assholes said.”

“Let’s see if we can’t find a deserted house and camp for the night,” Miller suggested.

The neighborhood was a risk, but Miller saw no other option. If they were lucky, they would find a house they could pillage for food, water, and shelter. The temperature had dipped dramatically. If they were unlucky, they’d find an Infected commune and be ripped to pieces, unable to fight back a horde in their weakened condition. Either way, walking in the cold, wet of night, with wild creatures abounding, while drenched in stinking seawater, was not a viable option.

After crossing the highway and entering the neighborhood, they soon learned that it was infested with rat-things and a handful of terror-jaws—but the larger predators, the titan-birds and the thug behemoths, seemed to prefer elsewhere.

Du Trieux released hold of the crate, and took point, leading the team through the quiet streets and clearing a path free of varmints—kicking and slapping them out of the way, since her ammunition was still wet.

There had, at some point, been some sort of an anti-Infected resistance in this community. There was evidence everywhere—old banners across garage doors and balconies that read
No Infected
, and graffiti like
Parasite-Free Only
. Ammunition casings littered the sidewalks and roads, and a handful of houses had been shot up or burned. A skirmish had happened here. The only question was, how had it ended?

Given their own experience, Miller knew none of Cobalt were expecting to find a community of non-Infected humans welcoming them with open arms. If anything, they lugged the crate holding the missile with looser fingers, ready to drop and draw their weapons at the first sign of a mob—or run for their lives.

Not wishing to delve too deeply into the neighborhood, they found a tiny two-bedroom cottage close to the shore and not far off the road. From the outside, it didn’t look too damaged. Once they secured the residence, they placed the crate near the front door, barricading it closed, and then scavenged the pantry, coming up with a few cans of condensed soup and canned vegetables.

Mercifully, the gas was still operational, although the water and electricity were not. Miller placed the cans on the gas stove and heated them while Hsiung raided the closets and found dry clothes and blankets. Meanwhile, du Trieux unearthed two large five-gallon bottles of water hidden behind the ironing board in the mud room.