Zombie Killers: AMBUSH: Irregular Scout Team One Book Six (Zombie Killer Blues 6) (8 page)

PART 2

Chapter 229

“You look great, honey,” said Brit, adjusting my tie for me, making it too tight and choking me.

“I feel like a monkey,” I replied, loosening the tie and looking at myself in the mirror. The President’s invitation to the new White House in Albany had come as no surprise, since Brit’s intelligence network had told her I was receiving the Medal of Honor long before official notice had come. Still, though, my uniform hung a little slack after my ordeal earlier that summer.

              “If you looked like a money, I would have shot you all those years ago. Get a load of those medals, stud muffin. Chicks dig it!”  

My ribbon rack stretched all the way up my shoulder, starting with some National Guard Medals, progressing through my Iraq and Afghanistan medals, through some achievement and commendation medals, up to the ones that meant something. A Purple Heart which in no way replaced my missing leg. The Bronze Star with V device, for a firefight in Afghanistan. Two Silver Stars for actions during the New York and Colorado offensives after the Apocalypse. A Distinguished Service Cross for (CLASSIFIED) stood on top. Oh bullshit on the classification. It was for taking out Dr. Morano, the evil bitch who caused the apocalypse. The world still didn’t know that whole story, and wouldn’t until I published these books, twenty years from now. Over the ribbons stood my Combat Action Badge. Though I had been in more actions than most infantry, I wasn’t qualified to wear a CIB, since my “branch” so to speak, was with the Scouts, and I had been an Artilleryman prior to the Apocalypse. There had been talk of getting the Scouts the right to wear the Combat Infantry Badge, but like the teams said, if we were getting in a fight, we were doing something wrong. Likewise, we had eschewed the Cavalry branch, because none of us wanted to be associated with the My Little Pony gang. Even if they DID ride horses again, as often as not.

The thing on my uniform that I was most proud of was a pair of crossed tomahawks on my collar, with the number “1” above them. The symbols of the Irregular Scout Teams, with the number being for the team. Brit, though a civilian, wore a similar set pinned to her dress. Only members of the teams could wear it, whether military or civilian.

“Come on, it’s time to go,” urged Brit, and I took her hand in mine as we stepped out the door. I had mostly recovered from my ordeal at the slaver town, and Brit wore her hair long to cover her mutilated ear. Her diamond studded patch just accentuated the blue blaze of her good eye. We stepped out of the hotel, into the humid air of an upstate New York September, where a long black limo was waiting for us.

I held the door for her and nodded a greeting to the Air Force driver, who was wearing multicam and sported Sergeants stripes. Brit scooted in and joined Sergeant First Class Angelo Redshirt, who had been staying at a different motel. He also was receiving the Medal, and Brit was getting the Presidential Medal Of Freedom, the country’s highest civilian award. Angelo’s wife, Staff Sergeant Kelly Hart, would be receiving a posthumous Silver Star for her actions in Seattle.

The normally quiet Redshirt, who had come to the team as a nineteen year old replacement five years ago, and was now a widower with a young son, was sweating bullets, and nervously fingering the collar of his dress uniform. Brit couldn’t resist the opportunity to bust his balls.

“What’s the matter, Red? Too many white people around?”

“No, I just don’t like crowds.”

“Crowds of white people, you mean.”

“Yeah, that too. If they whip out a treaty, I’m leaving.” We all laughed, and it helped break the tension.

My gaze was drawn out the window to see the Fuller Road exit go by. Instead, the car took the ramp onto the Northway, away from the new government complex at the old SUNY campus. Our suspicions were immediately on edge, but before I said anything, the other occupant of the front seat, an Air Force Captain in dress uniform, turned and spoke.

“Security measure, Colonel. We’ve had some threats against the President from separatists down south, so the ceremony is being moved to Albany Air Force Base.” We all looked at each other, but I just shrugged my shoulders and sat back. To be honest, I don’t think any of us were comfortable being in clutches of the “Big Army”, and all of us would rather be back home with our kids. We spent the next twenty minutes in comfortable silence.

Chapter 230

The guards at the gate, more Air Force, this time heavily armed Security Police, waved us through, and we took a left towards a large hangar. I had been on the base several times before, and figured a hangar made a great place for a ceremony.  Maybe they would have a tank or something parked in the open door to the runway, for photo ops.

Inside, instead of the expected podium and rows of chairs, there was parked a Stryker AFV, with a remotely operated .50 caliber on top, and a complete squad of armed Security Police.

“Oh, Shit,” I said. “I knew that bastard Epson would pay me back for punching the shit out of him.”

Brit turned and looked at me, while reaching under her skirt. I put my hand on her wrist in an iron grip and made no move to touch the 9mm holstered under my jacket. Likewise, Red sat stone still. “Be cool, honey. The President has no issue with you or Red. I’m pretty sure he just wants to throw me in jail.”

The Air Force Captain in the front seat turned around, while the Sergeant leveled a wicked looking machine pistol across the partition, an old school style MAC -10 with a suppressor.  “Now, Colonel, no one has to get hurt here. We need to talk to you, your wife, and Sergeant Redshirt. Things are changing, and you all can play a very important role.”

“Let me guess,” I said, a light going off in my head. I remembered Burns’ shouted words just before we hung him earlier this summer. “President Epson is cancelling the Emergency Orders and calling elections for Congress, and some people in the military aren’t happy about giving up Martial Law.”

The look on his face told me that I had guessed right, the very first time. “It’s not a coup, if that’s what you’re thinking. We just need to convince the President to not lift Martial Law. This country needs military rule to be effective, and as soon as a new Congress is called, they are going to hamstring us.”

“And what happens if he doesn’t?”

“Then,” he said “someone who understands the situation better can lead. But we don’t have to talk about this right now. Come on outside with no trouble, and no one gets hurt.”

Behind me I heard the slight CLICK of the hammer being drawn back on the .45 derringer Brit wore strapped to her leg under her dress, and I turned to look her in the eye. “Let’s talk to them, honey. You know I’m no fan of Epson. Maybe what they say has some value.” Even as I said this, I relaxed my grip on her wrist, feeling her tuck the small pistol away. 

The Captain smiled, a shit eating, devious grin, and said “We thought, based on your history with him, that you might be reasonable. Now, if you can just hand over your sidearms, Colonel and Sergeant, we can go outside and talk.”

I did as he asked, pulling out my 9mm by the butt and handing it, not to him, but to the driver. He lowered the MAC 10 and reached his hand for it, and Brit shot him in the face. The round punched into his forehead, making his body flop backwards and the horn blare.

The second shot was slower in coming. Brit held the gun up the Captains’ face, and the car suddenly smelled like, in addition to gun smoke, piss. He gaped, wide eyed. I bet he had never seen real gun play in his life, and was some kind of staff officer, playing games that had no risk to him. Wrong deal, you piece of shit. “TRAITOR!” she hissed and pulled the trigger, shooting him through the bridge of his nose.

A split second later, the windshield shattered and the front hood leapt upwards, as half inch wide slugs devoured the front end of the limo. The Stryker had only fired a short burst, but it had instantly put the limo out of action. The side door was yanked open and a small cylindrical object flew inside. I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and covered my ears, but the flashbang, inside the confines of the limo, was devastating on our senses. 

Through I couldn’t see anything, and my ears were ringing, I felt rough hands grab me and pull me from the car, slamming me to the concrete floor. I was quickly zip tied and blindfolded, then lifted by my arms and legs and carried over to another vehicle, my ears still ringing. I was roughly thrown inside, and I heard a grunt as Brit landed beside me, followed by Red landing on my legs. The back ramp of the Stryker whined upwards and cut out what little light I could see through the blindfold. The engine started up and we rolled out of the hanger.

Chapter 231

“See!” said Red. “I told you!”

“We’re up shit’s creek and you’re making jokes,” he replied.

Truth was, we were up shit’s creek. Our captors had flown us by helo about an hour or so, unloaded us into a room, and slammed the door shut behind them, leaving us blindfolded and zip tied. And I had to piss. Really bad.

“So what do we do now, oh fearless leader?” asked Brit.

“Well, for one, maybe not shoot anyone right away, play along until we’re in a better position.”

She actually laughed. “That shithead had it coming. Did you see the look on his face? And he pissed his pants. Besides, you would have done the same thing, but even faster. You hate people shitting on your beloved Constitution.”

“That’s true,” I answered, and honestly, it was. “But never mind that, I gotta piss.”

“You’re gonna have to hold it, or you’ll ruin your dress uniform.”

“Well,” I answered her “seeing as how you like the D so much, maybe you could crawl over here and pull down my zipper and whip it out for me so I can piss.”

Red chimed in with “Get a room, you two.”

The truth is, we were talking smack to cover the tension. In a coup like this, the first thing they do is shoot the old regime, and call it what they wanted, it was an old fashioned, third world military take over. It had been more than two years since the second Apocalypse, and President Epson had let it be known that he wanted the civilian government to start handling things within the temporary borders of the US. Which consisted, primarily, of New York,, Vermont, parts of Massachusetts, Providence Naval Base, northern Pennsylvania, some of Ohio and parts of New Jersey. Not much, but we were holding on and even advancing. Obviously, some people in the military weren’t happy about it.

The door opened, a body was thrown in, and then slammed closed again. I heard someone cursing, and recognized the gravelly voice.

“General Scarletti, is that you?” I asked.

“Who the hell do you THINK it is, Agostine, you knucklehead. Is the rest of your band of merry killers in here with you?” I guess he was blindfolded too.

“Just Brit and Red. Jimmy Bognaski is back home in Stillwater and Cappochi is out west on a scout.”

“Good” he muttered “I can’t stand that smartass Pollack anyway.”

He was silent for a minute, then said “I guess you know what’s going on, then?”

“Military coup,” I answered. “I’m surprised they got you, though not surprised you’re not involved.”

“My J-2 had a hint of it, but the bastards moved up their timetable. A certain faction in the Air Force has been hiring freelancers from out in the Dead Zones and flying them in for the last week. We thought they were going to hit us next week, and I’ve been moving units around to compensate. Even though they jumped the gun, I’ve got heavy armor out at Seneca that should be on its way here now, and a QRF of Rangers staged out of Fort Drum. Unfortunately, I think they have the President.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Brit.

“Because” the general said “I was with him when our convoy got hit. RPG through the front vehicle, Explosive Force Penetrator through our engine block. I was knocked out by the concussion; I just came too on the way here.”

“That’s not good,” said Brit.

“I can see you keep her around for her brains, Agostine,” he said, and Red snickered.  “So, Colonel, what’s your plan for getting us out of here?”

“Honestly, General, I have no idea. Like you, I have a blindfold on, I’m zip tied, and I have to piss really bad.”

Any further conversation was cut short by the door opening again, and some lights coming on. I was hauled to my feet, none to gently, and someone used a knife to cut the zip ties holding my legs together. Then I was sat roughly down in a chair, and the blindfold ripped from my face.

In front of me sat an Air Force Brigadier General. He was one of the those guys who looked like he was pissed off that he hadn’t been good enough to be a fighter pilot, and it left a sour mark on his life. He stared at me steadily, even offered me a cigarette. I shook my head and looked around.

There were three armed men in the room all wearing motley camouflage from ten different types of uniforms. Each carried an AK-74 and had a black ski mask hiding their features. The hired help, I guessed. Brit, Red and Scarletti each sat in a chair up against the wall, hands and feet zip tied to their chairs.

“Colonel Agostine” said the officer in front of me.

“I prefer Sergeant Major. Colonel is only a brevet rank anyway.”

He sighed, as if this was just too much trouble for him. “Sergeant Major, then. I’m sure you’ve figured out what’s going on here.”

“Yeah, your flunky told us just before Brit popped him. A coup. Military takeover.”

“Hardly,” he said “since the military is already in charge of the country. We just want to keep it that way. The President is, shall we say, being too hasty?”

“Listen,” he continued “you’ve been out there, You know how fragile the country is right now. We’re down to, what, three million people now?”

“About that,” I answered.

“And Epson thinks that he can just call elections and hand things back to Congress, who you and I know BOTH know will fuck it up?”

“Well, that IS his job. You know, under the Constitution. Civilian rule was to be restored as soon as possible.”

The General grunted, almost in agreement. “That’s true. But not right now.”

“Well, what the hell do you want from us then? I’m just a grunt.”

He laughed and said “Hardly. You’re famous. The men and women of Irregular Scout Team One, blazing the path to retake America. What I want is a video of you exhorting people to stay calm and calling for the elections to be postponed, based on your experience on the ground.”

I pretended to think about it for a minute, then said “And what’s in it for me? For us?”

He sat back down and made a steeple out of his fingers. “Well, for starters, you can have whatever land you want. Hell, you can be governor of New York. Shit, we’ll give you a deserted tropical island to build a resort home on. I bet Ms. O’Neil there looks pretty good in a bikini.”

“Or?” I asked.

“Or one of my men splatters Ms. O’Neil’s’ pretty red head all over the wall.” At that one, of the men closest to us stepped forward and ripped off Brit’s blindfold, then aimed the barrel of his assault rifle at her. He bright blue eye contrasted sharply to the milky grey one that Doctor Morano had damaged all those years ago.

“Nick, just give the man what he wants. What the hell do we care about this crap?”

“I think you should listen to your wife, Sergeant Major. One video statement, and the three of you will be free to go.”

“Three?” I asked. “What about Scarletti?”

“He gets a trial, after which I’m sure he’ll be shot.”

Brit had been looking around the room, and her gaze fell on one of the mercenaries who I had ignored. I saw her looking at him and looked myself, then looked back, uninterested, and continued to speak to the Brigadier, trying to buy us some more time to thinking of something. I stopped when I heard Brit speak behind me. Her words made me instantly freeze in place.

“Te glup svinja, biti te pravedan lijeganje stajanje onde?”