The Flood (15 page)

But his tactical skills as a small-unit ground commander just might.

Jameson moaned and put his head down in both hands. He had almost convinced himself there for a minute. But now he doubted again – terribly. The fate of the world couldn’t hinge on what a single junior officer
felt more comfortable doing
. It couldn’t be about his inadequacies. Those weren’t good enough reasons to abandon his post. He was an officer in the British Forces. He didn’t have to like the jobs he was given – he just had to do them.

But then he also remembered that woman, Rebecca, sitting steadfastly downstairs, not complaining, doing her bit in taking care of those children. And he remembered Josie’s mum, Amarie, out there in the disintegrating public-order vortex of London somewhere, fighting for survival – and no doubt fighting to be reunited with her little girl.

And he thought of those senior government ministers – running the hell out of Britain entirely, to their no doubt lavishly appointed island safe haven.

And now he knew – he knew he would be
damned
if he was going to let London fall. He’d do whatever it took to save it. And he’d do it all himself if he had to. There were ten million people within these walls, all of whom were depending on him – depending on him personally now. And, further, he
believed
that Britain could still be saved. He knew it could be. With the vaccine, and with the zombie-killing pathogen, it could be done.

And if he could make those two things happen…

His duty as an officer required him to stay here on station. But he had a higher duty – to humanity. And if this was London’s, and Britain’s, and humanity’s last best chance… then that was what
had
to be done.

Not my duty. Not my assignment. But the THING THAT HAS TO BE DONE.

And maybe he was the only one who could do it. He could potentially gather up a bunch of RMPs and send them off on this mission. But they’d never been part of any kind of expeditionary force, and few of them had done any serious zombie-fighting, or been anywhere near the front. He could try to muster up a suitable team from somewhere else in theater, some other part of the military. But the forces were already in total disarray, and Jameson’s ability to command them – or even contact them – badly degraded.

Hell, he could send One Troop without himself, Sergeant Eli commanding.

But he’d be damned if he was going to do that.

One Troop was already the perfect rescue force, and they were
right here
and ready to deploy. And Jameson was their commander – he’d led them through hell and back, and he wasn’t sending them back into hell again on their own.

He had basically already decided when Miller knocked on the frame of the door, stirring him from his deep mental dungeon. “Major, sir. Three officers from the Coldstream Guards for you.” Sure enough, standing behind him were three serious-looking men in No. 8 combat dress uniform with berets and side arms, but no body armor or other combat kit. Barracks dress.

Jameson just looked up and nodded.

The older and most senior of the three took a step forward. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Ryder, and these are Captains Hill and Sweeney.”

Jameson, slightly belatedly, stood and saluted. “Sir. What can I do for you?”

“No, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick,” Lt Col Ryder said, looking slightly apologetic. “It’s what we can do for you. We were monitoring your radio traffic, and it sounded like you were a bit short-handed here… to say the least.”

“Yes, sir, that’s about right.”

“So we just popped over from Wellington Barracks, to see if we could pitch in.”

“Sir?”

“Well, you see, in a past life we were all operations officers – TOC jocks. Worked the TOC at Lashkar Gah in Helmand for four tours, Ops Herrick Nine through Twelve. Coordination of ground forces for sweep-and-clear missions, air support, drone coverage, artillery fire missions, medevacs. That kind of thing. Now we’ve got rather plum postings with the Household Cavalry. But we’re frankly a bit bored camped out in the barracks beside Bucks House, if we’re honest.”

A smile bloomed across Jameson’s face.

Out behind the three Guardsmen, he could see Group Commander Guy Gibson, his very senior – and miraculously surviving – small fixed-wing pilot.

And now he knew.

God clearly wanted him to go on this mission.

Maybe He even wanted him to succeed.

* * *

Less than sixty minutes later, Jameson, Eli, and ten hand-picked Marines were trundling up the fold-down steps at the rear of the Beechcraft King Air on the tarmac at the end of the CentCom main airstrip. The plane had been pre-flight checked by Gibson and some air maintenance guys – and had its tanks topped with some of the last fuel stores that hadn’t been blown to kingdom come.

Jameson had already handed over operational control of both the JOC and the war, to the three Coldstream Guards officers, put the RMPs back under their own command, and hand-picked and mustered the ten Marines he most wanted with him on this mission – probably their last – from across One Troop’s three squads. And, finally, he had issued orders to the remaining Marines for their duties here at CentCom, under the command of Sergeant Travis, leader of third squad.

Now, these twelve extremely grizzled Royal Marines had kitted up, topped up ammo, water, radio batteries, and other combat load – and piled a shitload of extra crap into the small amount of remaining space on the twin-prop plane.

Barely thirty yards away, Charlotte was having her Fat Cow Chinook towed out onto the tarmac – and shortly after, started the process of topping both its main tank and the gigantic fuel bladders that took up most of the interior of the ungainly twin-bladed heavy-lift helo. The fuel was coming from the same tanker truck that had topped the Beechcraft – and which had the good fortune to have been both full, and far away, at the time of the underground fuel tank explosion at the main hangar.

One thing Charlotte didn’t have was a co-pilot. Neither did Gibson. They were all flying on a wing and a prayer anyway, so they just had to get on with it.

The sun was nearly down and night approaching when the stairs of the Beechcraft winched back up and the aircraft began to rumblingly accelerate down the pitted airstrip. Jameson and Eli sat together in the two front seats of the passenger area, unable to enjoy the leather or cushioning due to being in full combat gear. With a little luck, if that was the word for it, in four hours and change they’d once again be very far from home or help – and right back in the mix. Back in the fight. And once again on their own.

They both knew that this was going to be one more huge roll of the dice.

With every last one of their chips on the table.

As the two turboprop engines wound up to a piercing whine, and the dimness blurred by out the circular windows that stretched down both sides of the narrow cabin, Staff Sergeant Eli leaned in toward his boss’s ear and shouted:

“So – how many times you figure we can insert into that filthy overrun continent, until we finally don’t come back?”

Jameson paused to marvel as, weightless, they lifted off into the forbidding twilight. Finally, he snorted in mordant amusement and replied.

“One more, I expect. Because if this doesn’t work… there won’t be anything left to come back to.”

Red Shirt

Twenty Feet Above the Red Sea, Five Miles From the Saudi Coast

Wesley clung like a terrified child to the perilously twisting rope ladder, feeling as if he was going to lose his grip and plummet from it at any second – or, at best, if he made it down, capsize the little raft on the water below trying to get into it. While he twisted, the Seahawk’s giant rotors lashed wind across his face and pounded the sea below into surf and spray, high enough to soak him to the knees.

He was first down the ladder – but wouldn’t be the last, and had to clear out and make way for the others, fast. Glancing up, he could see one pair of boot soles above him already. But all he could think about was that with all of their armor, weapons, and gear… anyone who fell was definitely going straight to the bottom of the Red Sea.

There’d be no treading water for them.

Not a zombie in sight
, Wesley thought.
And already we’re all about to die…

The flight there from the
JFK
had been totally uneventful by comparison – though Wesley had only ever ridden in a helicopter once before, back at the start of this crazy adventure. On this one, wind had blasted through the cabin, and he’d occasionally looked down to see their little boat twisting where it had been sling-loaded beneath them. He’d also thanked whatever gods there be – because an early version of the plan had them actually piling into the boat itself and riding
under
the helo, dangling by that rope, the whole way. He wanted to vomit just thinking about it.

With the new plan, it had been only them in the back of the helo – because both the crew chief and door gunner had to bow out to make room for Wesley’s six-man team – but it was too loud to talk. For a while, Wesley got into his own head and agonized about the coming mission, and what would be expected of him leading it.

But eventually the drone of the rotors and the pleasant breeze, not to mention fatigue caused by the unrelenting stress of the last days and hours, actually put him to sleep – him and Judy both. In the end, he’d napped halfway there, slumped on the cabin floor, with Judy’s furry head in his lap.

But now Wesley’s heart was galloping and stampeding, and adrenaline flooded his system, as he tried to negotiate the rope ladder. This kind of thing, climbing down from a hovering helicopter to a boat on the ocean surface, always looked so easy in the movies. But the reality was very different.

For starters, the helo was holding a fairly solid hover – but there was also a gusting breeze over the water, so it shifted from side to side, constantly correcting. Also there was very little solidity to the ladder itself – and now it was also totally soaked with sea spray. Never mind that Wesley weighed about 150% of what he normally did, and now had to lower all that weight, painstaking step by handhold. He was also a little unstable himself, with that rocket slung over his back and the Marine sword swinging free from his belt.

Eventually, an age later, his feet found the side, then the bottom, of the rubber boat – and he very fearfully and not at all gracefully dropped himself down into it. As soon as he did so, he grabbed the bottom of the ladder and tried to steady it as best he could, hoping the others would have an easier time of it than he had.

But when he looked up, the first thing he saw was that Jenson, barely out of the cabin and only a few feet down, had managed to get his rifle sling tangled up with the rope ladder. He was now struggling to get it free.

Wesley hit his radio button and shouted into the chin mic that curled around from his helmet. “Leave it, mate! We’ve gotta go!”

“No,”
Jenson replied.
“I can’t go in without a weapon! I don’t want to let the team down!”

As Wesley looked on, helpless and furious, the helo lurched into the wind and one of Jenson’s hands – and both feet – all came off the rungs at once, and he was slung around to the other side of it, his back to the twisting ladder.

And now holding onto it with just one hand.

Wesley looked up with his heart in his throat. Jenson was a strong kid – but nobody could hold all that weight with one hand, not for long. He visibly braced himself to try and spin back around, and presumably lunge at the ladder with his free hand. If he didn’t make it…

Fuck’s sake
, Wesley saw Melvin mouth as he appeared in the helo’s hatch. He was flat on his belly, bent at the waist with his torso sticking out and down. In short and efficient order, Melvin reached down and grabbed Jenson’s free hand, then personally spun him back around and placed his hand on a rung.

Then he reached out a little farther and untangled the young man’s rifle sling, causing the weapon to fall back into place across his torso. Melvin stood up into a squat and shouted, “Okay, now?”

Jenson gave him a thumbs-up and a big smile.

And then the helo lurched away, fighting a fast, fierce, sudden surge of wind.

And Melvin tumbled out the cabin, fell through the air headfirst with his limbs flailing, passed by Wesley’s horrified gaze two feet from the side of the boat – and went straight into the water with a tiny splash. Drenched in horror, Wesley threw himself up on the inflated side of the rubber craft and reached over and down.

For just one second he saw Melvin sinking like a stone.

And then he was gone.

* * *

“We’ve got to leave him!” Burns shouted, last down the ladder and into the boat.

“No we don’t!” Wesley shouted. “We can’t! And we’re not!”

The helo was still holding hover above them as Judy was winched down in a sling, the co-pilot having climbed in back to do the honors. Wesley continued peering frantically over the side and across the ocean surface. In a few seconds more Judy was down in the boat – her calm demeanor suggesting she’d done this before – and both the sling and the rope ladder were being reeled back in.

Melvin had simply vanished into the sea without a trace – not a bubble, not a ripple. Wesley couldn’t see anything. The helo was blowing sea spray into a not-so-fine mist, and the boat was rocking on the concentric circular swells of water being pushed out from it.

Burns grabbed his arm. “We’ve got no choice, man! This mission is for fifty million! It’s bad luck, but he’s only one dude!”

Wesley didn’t like this at all and looked to Browning, who appeared totally crushed. But he also nodded in sad agreement. Sarah kept her counsel. She was new in NSF, and didn’t seem to think she ought to have a vote in something like this.

Wesley shook his head and blinked rapidly. He couldn’t believe it. It was as if his horrible, guilt-ridden, unthinkable thought – that they were all already about to die – had instantly been conjured into being. He couldn’t get his head around it – after all Melvin had survived so far, to go down like that. To disappear in a second, drown without a trace. And he and Wesley were countrymen, even if Melvin the Scot occasionally referred to him as “that feckin’ English bastard.”