Up From the Depths (12 page)

Chapter 23

Brooks Mountain Range, Alaska

The storm lessened enough for visibility to increase to more than a few feet. O’Toole figured they were in the eye of the storm much like a hurricane. It was either that or some pressure system was affecting the arctic front. He was too tired to really care as he pushed through the snow and ice covered trees and into Tyson’s Meadow. Stopping as soon as he stepped into the clear area, he saw the pristine snow covered mounds that might be the air pallets with the rest of their equipment. The crunching of snow and brushing of cloth against frozen trees brought him out of his fixation on the cargo and he stepped to one side to let the rest of the column into the clearing.

Sands headed straight for one of the mounds and started digging followed by the rest of ODA-141 and Shark Platoon while Harris directed the Rangers to secure a perimeter. O’Toole was confident that there wouldn’t be anyone dumb enough to be out in this weather except their little group but was glad to see that Harris wasn’t taking any chances. Weatherstone stepped into the clearing and stopped, lifting up his goggles to watch as the special operations soldiers cleared snow off the equipment.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “Someone dropped toys for you guys.”

Tarps were pulled off and cargo straps loosened as the snowmobiles were pushed off the pallets. Two of the fuel bladders were located by following the path of damage they had made when they smashed through the trees at the end of the drop zone. The third bladder had come loose from its pallet and rolled down a small gully. Upon inspecting it, there was no damage but the fuel port was underneath it making it impossible to access. With the other two bladders, they would have enough fuel to get to the target and back to the extraction area. The third bladder was back-up and therefore redundant so its loss wasn’t a big concern. The assault and support units quickly broke up into their elements.

The support team would carry the assault teams on the snowmobiles and sleds to their drop off points then head back, load up the cargo sleds and return. By the time they returned, the assault teams should have already secured their objectives and started to move inside. This was a contingency plan that had been worked out. None of them were overjoyed to be forced to split up the groups as it stretched their areas of responsibility but, it was the only way.

Weatherstone watched the efficiency of the military personnel as they worked in silence, using hand gestures and speaking only when necessary. It was as if they were so attuned to each other that they knew what the other person wanted before they even needed it.

To get everything loaded and ready to go took two hours. O’Toole called a break once all the gear sleds had been loaded and the empty sleds attached to the rear of the vehicles. The men broke out MREs, warmed them up and ate what they could in silence. O’Toole, Harris and Willis stood off to one side, sipping MRE coffee and studying the map and satellite photos of the facility. They elected not to waste time erecting anything more than rudimentary shelters unless the weather changed. The plan wasn’t to linger here for long.

“I know we didn’t have time to do a run through so we don’t know the distances between the buildings or the layout but we can adapt to that once we get there,” O’Toole said. “Harris, your boys need to drop us off then haul ass back here and get the rest of the ammo. Timing is critical. If we get bogged down we’re going to need that ammo.”

Harris nodded silently. He knew how vital it was to get supplies to units when they were under fire. His grandfather had been a Ranger and had told him about the Battle of the Black Sea that took place somewhere in East Africa. A combat operation where getting resupplied had been almost impossible yet his grandfather’s Ranger unit had held out against a numerically superior hostile force for almost 24 hours before a relief column punched through and reached them. Harris had no doubt that the coming encounter was going to be one that would require rapid and steady resupply.

“Let’s get some rest and move out in a couple of hours,” O’Toole said before swallowing the last of the bitter, strong coffee.

Harris walked away to gather his men when Willis pulled O’Toole aside.

“Noticed you didn’t have a CQB weapon,” he said as he motioned to one of his men who brought over padded rifle case and handed it to O’Toole.

“Picked that up at Nellis some time back when we were gearing up for another op. Never used it but it’s been checked out,” Willis said. “Thought it might come in handy once we got inside.”

O’Toole partially unzipped the case and looked inside. His eyes widened in surprise then his face broke into a grin.

“Oh yeah,” he said zipping the case back up and shaking Willis’ hand. “This will definitely come in handy.” Willis nodded then gave O’Toole a mock salute before he walked away to rally Shark Platoon.

Even with the lull in the weather, they knew that to continue on in their physical state of exhaustion was not something they could do and arrive at the objective in any shape to be functional. Shelters had popped up around the clearing using the minimal trees for a portion of their covering. The smell of warm food and hot coffee surrounded the small cook stoves that fought against the bitter cold to heat the contents on their coils.

The group would rest here for a few hours then continue with their mission.

***

Chapter 24

Star Valley Ranch, Wyoming

Master Sergeant Alan Hathaway awoke in the dark and listened. Pressing against him was a body. A warm body. His left arm was numb as that body was lying on top of it. He wiggled the fingers on his left hand then slowly began to slide his arm out from under the slight form. Mumbling from Brandon caused him to stop his extraction and look over. Angelina Brandon was facing the wall; her butt was pressed against Hathaway’s hip. He brought his right arm under the sheets and touched her. He felt the texture of her thermal bottoms and the heat radiating off of her body. He slowly rolled onto his left side and slid his arm out from under her. Sliding backwards on the bed until he reached the edge and was able to set one foot on the floor, then the other and finally climb out all the way without disturbing her.

Hathaway didn’t remember falling asleep but he did remember holding Brandon until she did. He also remembered how much like a child she looked. He quietly gathered up his boots and rifle and stealthily left the room. Closing the door behind him, he glanced at the main section of the house and realized it was early morning. Sunlight was breaking through the cloud cover and filtering through the shutters. The smell of coffee led him to kitchen after he stopped to slip on his boots but left them untied.

“Morning, Top,” Valdez said from the kitchen sink. Hathaway nodded as he headed for the coffee. Pouring a cup, bringing it up to his nose and sniffing in the rich aroma, he sipped at it then looked at the corporal.

“Anything happen last night?” he asked.

“Snow. Cold. The usual,” Valdez said. “Anything happen with you?”

Hathaway looked at him, wondering if Valdez was insinuating that something had happened between him and Brandon.

“No,” Hathaway finally said before sipping his coffee.

“Top, just so you know, me and Ax got no problem with you and the Captain, you know...” Valdez said.

Hathaway nodded as he sipped.

“I appreciate that, Corporal,” Hathaway said, emphasizing Valdez’s rank. “What happens or does not happen between me and Captain Brandon is not your concern. Nor is it any kind of an issue that will affect this unit.” Hathaway looked hard at Valdez. “Hoo-ah?”

Valdez grinned and nodded.

“Hoo-ah, Top.”

The two former Idaho National Guard soldiers drank their coffee in silence until they heard movement coming from the hallway. Brandon, now clad in her uniform, but no boots, her hair in disarray, padded in on stocking feet, rubbing her eyes.

“Coffee,” she said as she breathed in the aroma, grabbed a mug and poured a cup. She drank quickly then sighed with her eyes closed and a smile on her lips.

“Truly the nectar of the gods,” she said as she opened her eyes and looked at the two men that made up three fourths of her command. Her gaze lingered on Hathaway who returned it with no inflection.

“Morning, Captain,” Valdez said and Hathaway echoed.

“What’s the plan for the day, Top?” Brandon asked.

“Ma’am, we’re going to inventory our stores, clean our weapons, inspect our ammunition and generally have a field day and square away our area. That includes personal hygiene and equipment. When that’s finished, we’re going to boot up that laptop and see if we can contact anyone,” Hathaway said.

“Sounds like a plan, Top,” Brandon said with a slight smile before she drank more coffee, her eyes watching him over the rim of her mug.

Hathaway watched Brandon finish her coffee and head back towards her room. He was aware of Valdez watching him as he watched her. Turning to look at the corporal who had a smile on his face, he quirked an eyebrow at him then put his own empty mug in the sink.

“You see something funny, Corporal?” Hathaway asked.

“Nothing, Top,” Valdez said, shaking his head and removing his smile.

Damn
, Hathaway thought. He would have to stay on top of this before some kind of rumor started up.

“Keep it that way,” Hathaway said as he headed back down the hall to recover the laptop. His thoughts wandered to how long they could survive without grocery stores, the Internet and electricity. Pioneers survived for centuries without those necessities of modern life. He was sure they could do the same.

***

Chapter 25

Museum of Natural History, New York City

“We have a way to get out of here if you’ll all just remain quiet and listen,” Ski said as he faced the crowd of survivors in the Great Hall. The acoustics were great in this part of the building and he was able to stand on the second floor balcony and talk to the people gathered below him

“The problem we have is that we can’t move along the surface streets. The streets are clogged with abandoned cars. If we were to go that route, we’d be all jammed up and fair game for the infected,” Ski said. He saw the looks on the faces below him. There was a large majority that nodded agreement mixed in with those that had gone pale at the thought of venturing outside.

“I’ve been assured that there is a way out. But, that way is not easy. Warrant Officer Doyle will explain,” Ski said, stepping aside as Doyle stepped up to the railing.

“The only route available to us is through the sub-basement where we can access the utility tunnels,” Doyle said. There was a murmur of conversation that swept through the crowd. “The route is easy to follow and will allow us to get where we need to be without compromising safety.” She paused and looked down at the faces looking at her.

“We have four hours to get to the south end of Manhattan Island. We will be leaving within the hour. That will provide us a margin of two hours,” Doyle said. “Barring any unforeseen events, we should all be out of here and somewhere safer by the end of the day.”

“Why do we have to leave?” a voice called out from below. Doyle scanned the crowd until she saw the person that asked the question.

“Reverend, if we’re not out of here by then, we’re never going to be leaving this place.” Doyle said addressing the minister and leaving out that anyone left on Manhattan Island that somehow survived the initial wave of Fuel Air Explosives would be vaporized by the low yield, tactical nukes.

“That means we have to start moving right now,” Doyle said. The murmur from the crowd grew louder as more voiced their opinions on whether to leave or stay.

“Those of you, who are leaving, meet in the lower level archive section in twenty minutes. Take only what you can carry in one bag,” Doyle said. “The rest of you, if you aren’t coming with us, that’s your choice. I wish you luck.” She stepped back from the railing and nodded to Winchester who grabbed two of the soldiers in Doyle’s combat engineer unit and started giving them instructions.

Luzetski looked over at Wiener. The colonel hadn’t said anything since his visit to the roof. He just stood off to one side, listening and watching. It wasn’t Ski’s problem if the man had received a hard dose of reality. Ski glanced over the rail and down at the crowd.

The faces of the people gathered in the Great Hall looked at them with a mix of emotions. Fear being the strongest. They were safe inside the museum. At least that’s what they told themselves. They had been safe since they had taken shelter inside the huge monolith of stone and marble. Now, they would have to venture outside and face the terror of a city full of flesh craving maniacs.

Ski had listened to what Doyle had said. True, they were in a world of shit but they were secure for the time being. That lulled a lot of people into a form of complacency. He toyed with the idea that they could Alamo up where they were. There was plenty of food and water. Ammunition for about a month if they didn’t get into heavy contact. But, if they stayed here, even with those limited amenities, the roof would come crashing down on them in a more than a metaphorical way. The only option open was to escape and evade. He watched as the civilians started moving. Those that were eager to leave grabbed what was theirs and headed for the archive section. Those that were undecided milled about talking amongst themselves. He was glad to see that the ESU officers and the two paramedics grab their gear and headed down. His observations were interrupted as Doyle touched his arm to get his attention.

“That went well,” Ski said.

“As well as could be expected,” Doyle said.

“What now?” Ski asked.

“Now, I need you and your boys to get up on the roof and spot for what’s going to happen next,” Doyle said. “Make sure you have all your gear and you’re ready to roll as soon as the main event is over.”

”Main event?” Ski asked, looking at her questionably.

“Little Big Horn. Remember?” Doyle said. Shaking his head, Ski looked at her.

“With a name like that, it had better be good,” he said.

“Don’t worry, it will be,” Doyle said as she looked at her watch. “Be up there in thirty.”

“On it,” Ski said as he looked for Pruitt, caught his eye and nodded. Pruitt led him to where the rest of Sierra-3 was waiting. They had commandeered an anteroom and were checking their weapons. Ski nodded to them as he entered and took back his rifle that he had left with them for safe-keeping. Ejecting the magazine, checking the action then slapping the mag back in place and chambering the first round, he looked at his team.

“You heard what was said. We have a way out but before we can evac, Warrant Doyle wants us on the roof,” Ski said.

“What for?” Jiminez asked as he shouldered his patrol pack that still contained the team radio.

“She said it was for something she’s calling Little Big Horn,” Ski said.

“Don’t like the sound of that,” Graham said.

“What’s Little Big Horn?” Jiminez asked.

“1870s massacre of US Army forces facing a numerically superior hostile force,” Pruitt said.

“Shit,” Jiminez said.

“Exactly right,” Ski said. “Let’s hope this one turns out better.” He slung his rifle, adjusted it to hang across his chest, butt high, barrel low then grabbed his own pack and began stuffing loaded magazines into it.

“Grab everything that goes bang and then head on up to the roof,” Ski said as he closed the flap on his pack, shouldered it and left the room. The rest of Sierra-3 lingered just long enough to finish stuffing their tactical vests with magazines and slipping grenades into any open space left before they followed their team sergeant.

Ski stood on the roof of the Museum of Natural History and looked at the streets below him. He brought up his binoculars and scanned the perimeter of the park. What he could see was swarming with infected. It looked like army ants in a nature film. The diseased minions of the Reset Virus filled every single inch of pavement with more pouring into Central Park. They were packed tight against the fence that surrounded the largest metropolitan park in the nation and wandered among the vehicles on the street. The Hesco barriers around Fort Ti contained a few hundred who seemed to be aimlessly wandering around not knowing how get out of where they were. More of the afflicted were now present, shuffling and shambling through the park, across the baseball diamonds, the jogging and walking paths. There had to be millions of them, disappearing into the man-made canyons of buildings that covered Manhattan Island. All of them seemed to have one purpose in what was left of their rotted brains; get to the humans who were barricaded inside the museum.
How long could life go on like this?
He understood that the world had changed but, for how long could the human race be expected to hold out against something like this?

“Dear Lord, For what we are about to receive, I pray I live the next five minutes well,” Ski muttered as he lowered the binoculars and tucked them into a pouch on his vest. He ejected the magazine from his rifle, and began reciting a prayer known among soldiers.

“Lord, make me fast and accurate. Let my aim be true and my hand faster than those who seek to destroy me.”

He inspected the rounds in the magazine, tapped the mag against his leg then slapped in back into the receiver. He worked the action, ejecting the live round he had previously chambered and watched it fall to the roof.

“Grant me victory over my foes and those that wish to harm me and mine.”

He looked over at his men, there were taking up positions and aiming into the mass of infected. Ski bent and picked up the live round and tucked it into a pocket on his vest.

“Stand by to engage!” Doyle called out, readying the command detonation board that was leaning against the low wall that enclosed the roof.

Beside him, the men of Sierra-3 joined Luzetski in his prayer.

“Lord, if today is truly the day that you call me home,” Their voices grew louder until they were shouting. “Let me die in a pile of empty brass!”

“Light ‘em up!” Doyle yelled out.

The weapons fire from the roof concentrated on the front leading edge of the horde, dropping scores of infected. Ski felt himself go into the zone as he called it. His movements fluid and precise as he dropped out his empty magazine, registering it hit his right boot as he slapped a full magazine into the receiver and dropped an infected that had wandered into his area of responsibility. There was another behind that one and another and another and he was ejecting the now empty mag, inserting a loaded one to keep his hungry rifle fed while he continued to service targets.

Warrant Officer Dayna Doyle, the police officers, security guards and other soldiers and civilians that had been tasked for the shock and awe, an exercise that would allow the civilians more time to escape through the tunnels, joined in the lopsided engagement. Breckhov’s bodyguard, Arkady, had joined the group bringing with him a Heckler & Koch 21 light machine gun that had somehow manifested itself. The explanation given was it came from the United Nations building. Somehow, that weapon had been in the UN security forces arms room and was retrieved when the Russian delegation evacuated the building. Ski mentally wondered what else the Russians had retrieved and stashed away. Arkady rested the bipod legs on the roof edge, calmly inserted the box magazine, pulled back the bolt and began firing short bursts into the swarm below them. It was like a metronome, rhythmic, violent, and comforting all at once. The ranks of the gathered dead were dropped only to be replaced by more as the horde shuffled forward to fill in the empty spaces that once held their brethren. The air filled with the smell of hot brass and the sweat of determined men fighting against insurmountable odds.

Ski heard the Russian muttering a mixture of English and Russian but what stood out the most was when the large man distinctly said,

“Da, get some.” This chant was repeated as Arkady continued to fire into the infected.

“Double-D!” Ski yelled as he dropped out an empty magazine and reloaded. At his feet, the pile of empty magazines and spent brass was already boot top high. He could feel the heat emanating from the barrel of his rifle. He chanced a glance over to the corner of the roof. Three Marines had set up a M240B and were now changing barrels. Earlier during the firing, he was sure he had heard someone burn out a barrel. With this target rich environment, it was bound to happen. The sure way to tell when a barrel was being burned was to watch it glow red then turn white. He had seen a M2 go out that way. The barrel had turned red then white then translucent before finally failing. He figured it was just a matter of time before they all burned out their weapons. He hoped they ran out of ammunition and targets before then. If that wasn’t the case, it would turn to hand to hand.

Doyle looked over at her former lover with a wicked grin. Reaching down to the command detonation board by her feet, she flipped the safety cover off the power switch, took a look over the side of the building, and then flicked the first toggle.

“Fire in the hole!”

Doyle and her combat engineer unit had left a number of surprises scattered around the exterior of the building and throughout the park. They had mined the likely approaches but had kept the majority of their demolitions in reserve. Command detonated mines, a mixture of M18A1 Claymore anti-personnel mines and other similar devices added to the staccato of weapons fire. Propane canisters from the vending carts placed inside garbage cans and other enclosures, with the rest of the void packed with whatever they could find, gravel, belt links, tin cans, soda cans, and odd pieces of metal debris, received the signal for detonation and added to the carnage, tearing through the infected like a wheat thresher. Whole sections of the massive horde disappeared in spheres of destruction as each of these devices sequentially detonated.

Still the infected advanced.

The streets, lined with abandoned cars, concrete Jersey barriers, and razor wire funneled the infected into the choke points. Feet, some broken, some still clad in footwear, stumbled over sheets of plywood that lay on the grass, sidewalks and jogging paths of Central Park. These wood sheets hid more destruction that exploded upwards, shredding anything in its proximity.

Still the infected advanced.

The next wave, struggling to climb over the minced remains of their brethren, made it past all this carnage and to the entrance of the park that faced the Museum. They staggered under the onslaught of small arms fire and straddled a series of cables, the first in a series of barricades. The initial charge triggered the C-4 laying under the six foot lengths of half-inch steel cables. The cables, anchored at one end to the ground with eye-bolts, stood up vertically under the explosive charge before falling back down under their own weight. Anyone or anything directly over those cables dissolved into a fine red mist that hung in the air like a crimson fog. It was dead silence for several seconds as the defenders on the roof were so shocked by the devastation, they stopped firing and stared at the horrific carnage.