ARISEN, Book Eleven - Deathmatch (6 page)

This time, at least, they were ready to do some damage.

At the last second, being thoroughly paranoid by now, Jameson had also put more ammo and explosives in the Fat Cow refueling helo that was trailing behind them at its lower airspeed. He’d put in all it would hold in addition to its giant internal fuel bladders. Jameson shook his head again to think of it. Because if that helicopter didn’t make it to Moscow and rendezvous with them, nothing they did there would matter.

Because they would never get home again.

The Beechcraft they were in had the range to stretch from London to Moscow – but not back again. The refueling helo was their only way out. One helo and one pilot – zero redundancy. Then again, that pilot was Charlotte Maidstone, the Apache pilot who had singlehandedly blasted Jameson out of overrun Dusseldorf, and rescued him from the water, then personally flown him home. If he couldn’t depend on her, well, he’d be dead already.

And if they did make their rendezvous, and the Royal Marines completed their mission, and got out alive with the Kazakh and his designer pathogen, and they all, or even some of them, made it back home one last time… well, maybe there was a chance for Britain and for the world.

When they had left, the defense of the south lay in chaos and ruins, and the vaunted 100-foot Zulu-Proof Wall around London lay in pieces on the ground at its northernmost section, defended only by what was left of a single battalion of the Parachute Regiment. The black tide of dead surrounded the capital, flooding unopposed around it toward the rest of Britain. It had truly looked like the beginning of the end. Or maybe the end of the end. But One Troop’s last mission, if successful, could perhaps turn it around.

Turn it into the beginning of a new beginning.

Jameson felt the plane tilt forward and begin to descend, so he returned to his seat. As he passed his men two by two, still no one spoke, and neither did Eli when he took his seat beside him. They all knew what they had to do, and what was on the line.

And the resolute looks on their faces said it all.

Red Square loomed.

Children’s Crusade

Camp Davis - Team Tent

As Alpha and Triple Nickel all crammed into the larger tent that now served as their downsized team room, Handon heard Dr. Simon Park’s last words to him repeating in his head:

“If we’ve got a shot at the original carrier, the Typhoid Mary of this whole thing, that is absolute gold. We should go for it. Like I said, every additional transmission past that decreases the likely or statistical effectiveness of the vaccine – starting at one hundred percent, and going down from there. How low are we willing to go?”

And now it appeared the Typhoid Mary of the ZA, Patient Zero, was their only option – and it was just like Predator had said back in the MRAP at Lemonnier: “All or nothing. Do or die. I like it.” Handon figured he had better learn to like it – or at least develop a plan that stood some chance of success. As the others sat around the folding table, or stood around the periphery, he started throwing out options for getting P-Zero out of the Islamist Stronghold.

“Air assault by helo,” he said, his voice clear and strong.

“Out of the question,” Jake said. “Too loud – and way too insane. Both the living and the dead would hear us coming five miles away. And the second we touched down inside the walls, we’d be subject to plunging fire from 360 degrees. Hell, we’d be shot down as soon as we flared in. And even if we survived the insertion, we’d never get out again.”

“
Black Hawk Down
in the post-Apocalypse,” Juice said.

“Yeah,” Homer agreed, “But with no Gordon or Shughart to defend the crash site.”

“And no survivors, anyway,” Jake added. “At least not for long.”

“Moving on,” Handon said. “Okay – no helos. A fixed-wing combat jump. We parachute in, from altitude.”

Jake nodded. “Quieter, stealthier, less obviously crazy. But with the same problem in the end: getting out again. Last I checked, parachuting only works in one direction.”

“There’s another issue with a combat jump,” Homer said. “We don’t have any fixed-wing aircraft. Nothing that would hold an assault team of any size.”

“We could try to scavenge one,” Juice said.

Handon shook his head. “No time. And I’m not even sure we have the parachutes, after our last two combat jumps.” They’d left a lot of canopies in Chicago, and then in the Atlantic off the Virginia coast. He could already see where this was leading. He just didn’t like it. “It’s going to be a ground assault, isn’t it?”

Jake shrugged, locking eyes with Handon. “I don’t see any alternative. But, like I said – our own assault of that place took out most of my team, and was only half-successful. And the defenders actually opened the gates and invited us in that time.” He paused. “And there was no singularity.”

Homer said, “We could try overwhelming them – both the defenders and the Zulus. Arm everyone on the carrier and get them out here marching to war. Just bash straight in.”

“How?” Henno said. “Ferry them out here on the one air-worthy Seahawk? Eight men at a time?”

“Good point,” Juice said. “We also slightly destroyed the ship’s launch.”

“It would take a month,” Henno said.

Jake shook his head. “And even then I don’t like our odds. You said there’s, what, barely 2,500 crewing the carrier? There are at least 10,000 dead at the walls.”

“There’s always a way through zombies,” Henno said. “And it usually takes the form of a distraction.”

“True,” Jake said. “But a singularity that size won’t be lured off by simple noise or light. Or it wouldn’t have hung around this long.”

“No,” Henno said. “It’ll need live bodies to lure them off.”

“A diversionary force,” Juice said.

“Aye,” said Henno. “Get the herd away from the walls so we can assault in.”

“I don’t much like the diversionary force’s chances,” Handon said. “Heading out in the bush alone, pulling a herd that size.”

Henno shrugged. He very clearly didn’t give a shit about the diversionary force’s chances – didn’t even think they were worth mentioning. Everyone was expendable. And spending a few lives to save fifty million was, by far, the best deal they were going to get in the remainder of this mission.

“Who do we send?” Handon asked. “There arguably aren’t enough of us here to even conduct the assault – we’ve still got to take on two hundred Islamist fighters once we get inside.” He also didn’t consider this group expendable – if only because the mission wasn’t over yet. And they were the only ones left to see it through.

Juice spoke up. “I hate to say it. But there are the Marines. The ones left alive.” He hated to say it because they had bled side by side, and were his brothers now.

Homer looked around, his eyes bright in the dim tent. “There’s also what remains of the Naval Security Forces on the carrier.”

Handon nodded. “There are also the survivors of the militia from the flight deck battle.” He paused. “But how much time are we going to burn trying to get them all out here – and get them briefed, armed, staged, and deployed? And can we even do without those personnel? This thing isn’t over. And that ship has got to float.”

Henno grunted. “This is the penalty shootout, after extra time. The match is ending, one way or the other. If we have to spend lives, we spend them.”

Handon didn’t think Henno was wrong – even if he intended to be more careful about spending the lives of the tiny handful of Tier-1 operators left on this dying planet. “Maybe this is the endgame. Or maybe it’s only the beginning of the end.”

Juice exhaled. “If only living people weren’t such an endangered species. All we need is some closer, and more obviously expendable force we could deploy for the diversion.”

Jake looked up. “There might be one.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, he and Handon were moving together through the forest, both partially kitted up with tactical vests and assault rifles. The rain had slackened but not stopped, and rivulets streamed down both senior NCOs’ faces. As they patrolled forward, Jake briefed Handon in hushed tones.

“I used to do long-range patrols with Kwan, our junior Bravo. We discovered them on one of those, long past the fall at that point.”

Handon nodded, scanning ahead through tree trunks and thick foliage. “And you didn’t tell the rest of your team. Why?”

Jake nodded, head on a swivel, peering around them in the forest. They were moving fast to make good time – which meant they had to be twice as observant to stay safe. “Mainly because of Elijah – our only surviving medical sergeant. If he knew they were there, he would have abandoned us to go take care of them. And I couldn’t afford to lose him.”

Handon mentally shrugged. He’d been through too much himself to judge the decisions other guys made to stay alive.

Soon they began to parallel a trail, one that looked like it had been worn by humans, though whether living or dead was hard to tell. And Handon sensed they were approaching a clearing, possibly an inhabited area. Jake stopped and took a knee, then made some kind of a bird call. Within a few seconds, something approached through the forest – something small, and moving stealthily.

When it appeared out of the bush, Handon lowered his rifle. It was a child. He was no more than ten years old.

“
Is ka warran
,” Jake said, standing. “
Ii warran, Dalmar?
”

The young Somali boy checked out Handon, then smiled up at Jake. “
Waa Nabad waaye
,” he said, his smile beaming bigger.

Handon, bemused, followed these two through the forest to a small village.

* * *

Within seconds of entering it, Handon had the sensation of having stepped into Neverland. The two burly and veteran warriors were swarmed by children, ranging in age from not much more than two, up to one boy of seventeen, by far the oldest. Jake introduced the seventeen-year-old to Handon as Absimil. He was evidently in charge of this group of Lost Boys, and girls.

After exchanging greetings with him and a few others in Somali, Jake explained to Handon what he was looking at. “These are Warsangali, from the Darod clan. Their villages used to dot the Cal Madow Forest up here. They were a big part of our mission – our guerrillas, our Gs, and our responsibility. Also our best hope for defeating the Islamist insurgency raging across the country.”

Jake went on narrating as the two of them, feeling like full-size people in Lilliput, got ushered toward the largest structure in the clearing. “This was the village closest to us,” Jake said. “And these were the Gs we had the closest relationship with. They also survived longest.”

Handon figured that was due to proximity to the Special Forces guys. As he took it all in, he saw that this was a very primitive settlement: huts of hand-chopped juniper wood, topped with hand-woven thatch-and-mud roofs. The ground, including in the big hut they now entered, was nothing but dirt – but dirt that had been raked or smoothed over, pleasant and orderly and bordered by smooth stones. Handon knew this was the point at which poverty and pride diverged. You could always tell people who cared about where they lived, however little they had.

The two soldiers took a seat on piles of long grass at the center of what felt to Handon like a wigwam. He took a cup of water from a smiling girl, but turned down a hunk of bread. However these kids were getting food, Handon wasn’t going to take it from them. He’d seen the humbling generosity of poor but proud people all over the globe, across many deployments. And he knew to honor it, while never taking advantage of it.

While a few other children filed in, Jake finished his story. “Like I said, these guys survived longest. But eventually, a small herd wandered up here, headed right in their direction. All the adults in the village went out to fight them. None came back. But they did somehow divert the dead before they went down. So their children survived. And they lived on – but now on their own. We didn’t learn this until later.”

Handon said, “And did you keep looking after them?”

“Some. I gave them what we could spare, and helped where I could. But, like I said, Kwan and I decided not to tell the others. They probably would have insisted we share everything, which would have been a huge drain on resources. And we almost certainly would have lost our medic, which would have seriously dinged our life expectancy.” Jake smiled at the young boy who had guided them in. “That’s Dalmar. He was Elijah’s favorite.” His voice trailed off.

Handon got it. The world was a very harsh place now. However, as he looked around at the smiling faces of the kids who crowded in around them, he also thought:

But it’s still of place of miracles
.

* * *

Handon sat silently while Jake spoke to Absimil, Dalmar, and a few others, in Somali Handon couldn’t follow, explaining what might be asked of them – namely going out to draw off ten thousand dead from around the Stronghold.

The children nodded as they listened. About five minutes later, when Jake finished, the kids asked a couple of questions, then had a short discussion among themselves. Finally, when Absimil gave his answer, he gave it simply – and in English: "Yes," he said. “We will do it. Anything for the Triple Nickels. Anything."

But even had he spoken in Somali, no translation would have been necessary. The young man’s face said it all. They obviously loved Jake and his ODA. The only Warsangali left were children – but they were all in.

Though, as Handon looked around at the other faces in the room, some excited, some scared – and all of them younger than the adolescent who led them – he knew the question remained:

Was he in? Could he do something like this?

He had only the walk back to camp to agonize over it.

Deathmatch I

Camp Davis – Team Tent

“It’s sorted, then,” Henno said, after Handon explained what they were considering – namely sending a bunch of children, the only survivors of their clan, out to die, clearing the way for their mission.