Part 24 (1/2)

”Okay, you all heard the radio. We're in for some serious s.h.i.+t. Commie, no matter what happens, you stay in the center of the triangle that we will form on the way to the beach. Don't get outside, got it?” Commie nodded quickly. ”Huck, you take the rear. Me and Rico will be up front. We're gonna move fast when it makes sense and slow when it don't. Everybody just stay alert and we might just get out of this one in one piece, and not pieces. We're not dead yet.”

45.

The COG transmitted a message to the carrier ordering Task Force Phoenix to their next target-a crash site co-located with an undisturbed equipment dead drop. Because of the newly found motorcycles, the mission was shortened to only two days as compared to two weeks on foot.

A Warthog patrol sighted burning wreckage on the ground near a parachute two days ago. The COG's plan was to send the team farther north to an airfield near a known aircraft crash site, but the carrier's admiral pushed back, citing that a round trip in excess of four hundred miles would result in the loss of Task Force Phoenix and likely compromise the Hourgla.s.s mission. The COG accepted this reasoning and retracted the order shortly before issuing the new one.

Doc, Billy, and Disco had now been riding for two days, under the cover of night, edging closer to their goal.

”Billy Boy, how far your beads say we got?” Doc asked.

”Over the next finger of terrain, we'll see it. Can't see the smoke because it's dark, but the Hog pilot said it was still burning during their last patrol at five thousand feet last night.”

”All right, let's get ready. The sun is coming up in a few. Disco, stop moping because Hawse isn't here. I knew y'all would get too attached if I sent you on too many trips together. My fault.”

In a rare display of a sense of humor, Billy laughed.

The men crested the hill and dropped to the p.r.o.ne position as Billy looked through his carbine optic.

”I see the drop. There are . . . I count . . . wait a sec . . . I count about thirty, I think. I can't use my NODs with the binos so I'm not sure.”

Light teased the horizon, casting a faint orange glow into the valley. The tendrils of smoke from the wreckage blew in their direction, indicating that the team was luckily downwind. Pieces of wreckage were strewn about the aircraft's meteoric crash path, indicated by a gouge in the earth ending where most of the aircraft now sat forever.

”How far is Houston?” Doc asked rhetorically, pulling his maps from his leg pocket. His finger followed their path of travel and stopped. He double-checked the terrain landmarks, fixing their position. ”We're maybe twenty-five miles north. I didn't realize we'd get this close. Those things down there might be from Houston-suppressed guns only, I mean it. If you think you might need to pull your sidearm, use a G.o.dd.a.m.ned knife or sharp stick, or your fist. We can't take a risk this far from home base.”

They knew the stakes at play if they were detected; they could inadvertently bring a mega-swarm on top of them.

”We'll move slow, ten meters apart. Low-crawl slide down the hill. Billy will take a peek down his optics every few meters. At the bottom we'll regroup and decide how to advance.”

The team did exactly as ordered. At the bottom, they regrouped and discovered that Billy's numbers were accurate-only about thirty of the undead moved around near the smoldering wreckage and nearby drop. Billy was on point and moved in with carbine at the high ready. Doc gave the order to engage at two hundred meters. The predawn light was enough to conceal them while the men shopped for heads. They remained low, under concealment, and picked off the dead slowly and methodically, turning the lights out forever on thirty miserable walking sh.e.l.ls of flesh. The creatures were not fast, but did show signs of radiation exposure. They were well preserved and moved with intent-likely migrants from San Antonio or New Orleans.

Advancing on the crash site, they observed the hulk of a once-airworthy C-130. It was torn in half, but still smoldering. The back half of the aircraft sat a few dozen meters away on its side with its cargo doors locked ajar from impact.

Hanging halfway out the aircraft door was something they had not expected to see-a Project Hurricane javelin weapon. The bottom half of the device was identical to the damaged stinger still embedded deep in the ground back at Hotel 23.

”Let's take pictures and haul a.s.s before it gets too bright out. We need to bivvy high and dry and far from here,” Doc suggested quietly, reaching for the digital camera. ”I'm going to get shots of the avionics and payload. Leave the place as is, don't want any visual indicator that might tip Remote Six that we've been here.”

Doc was methodical in doc.u.menting everything. He used an M-4 magazine so that the COG and others could mensurate the pictures by including a known size quant.i.ty in every photo. With this intel, Doc a.s.sumed that the big brains that remained might be able to figure out the origins of the fiberoptic autopilot and Project Hurricane equipment and other strange modifications to the airframe that Doc didn't understand-and Doc had spent a lot of time in C-130s.

Doc saw something that looked somewhat out of place among the wreckage, a piece of equipment exposed to the elements from the impact-bright orange, rectangular. He quickly reached for his multi-tool, slinging open the pliers.

With pictures done and written intel taken, Doc rejoined Billy Boy and Disco.

”Well, man, what do you think?” Disco asked nervously.

”I don't know, but worst-case scenario?” Doc replied. ”This big stinger was meant for us. Best case, there's another manned nuclear missile silo with full up systems they were going after. We should take the most conservative response and get the f.u.c.k out of Dodge and sleep the day for the trip back. Let's get to the motorcycles and set up bivvy somewhere high.”

”What's that?” Billy asked in his typical monotone, pointing at the large orange steel box that Doc lugged on his shoulder.

”This is my luggage. It's coming back with us, and trust me, it's worth the extra baggage fee of humping it to the bikes. This here is the little black box for that C-130 over there. Looks like whoever modified that plane didn't want to take it out and have to account for bad weight and balance. We get this plugged into the right system and it'll be able to find out where that bird came from.”

The fear from discovering the noise weapon was slightly diminished by the black box that Doc now had in his possession. They had something real, quantifiable. The unknown enemy no longer appeared so ominous and invincible. The bread crumbs had been dropped and would be followed, Doc thought, lugging the heavy steel and composite box up the hill to the motorcycles.

46.

Oahu Rex and Rico formed the front of the security triangle with Huck taking up the back end and Commie in the center. They inched forward into the active zone. To anyone watching, the island's threat pattern looked like a typhoon; radioactive undead circled the outside and the only semblance of peace was the interior. They had the benefit of darkness to s.h.i.+eld them from the night-blind dead, but they feared that it might not be enough now-there were too many. Rico had repaired his suit once already with a liberal dose of duct tape, a sober reminder to everyone that whatever radiation remained here was enough to kill them quickly if precautions were not immediately taken.

”Commie, don't shoot unless they get inside the triangle. You'll end up hitting one of us if you do,” Rex ordered.

”Roger that.”

They pressed forward, checking their wrist compa.s.ses every few seconds, staying on course. The creatures were faster than the mainland ones by far. The undead reacted to every footstep.

A ma.s.sive creature approached the formation from the rear. Huck slammed it with the b.u.t.t of his rifle as it turned to embrace him in a radiation-filled bear hug. The thing must have weighed three hundred pounds and looked like a sumo wrestler. The ghoul reacted to the b.u.t.t stroke, yanking the gun from Huck's grip. The weapon was slung across Huck's chest. Huck fumbled frantically for the sling release to ditch the gun and then reached for his sidearm. It all happened so fast that Rex and Rico had no time to a.s.sist or warn him not to shoot his pistol.

Huck's unsuppressed pistol discharged with a loud bang as the creature ripped the radiation mask and NODs from his face. The ma.s.sive ghoul fell to the dirt, its clenching jaws chewing Huck's radiation mask.

”G.o.dd.a.m.n it!” Huck screamed, wrapping his shemagh around his face and head.

The rest of the undead reacted instantly to the pistol noise, converging from hundreds of yards all around. Huck tore his goggles from the fat thing's clutch, giving them a cursory wipe before putting them back on his head. The others covered him. The semi-auto M-4 shots sounded like automatic bursts as the vast numbers of undead came for their late dinner.

”That fat f.u.c.k ripped my hood!”

”Adapt and compartmentalize, brother; we gotta keep moving. Bite that rag in your teeth and spit on it. It might filter the fallout particles better,” Rex suggested calmly between carbine bursts as they moved on, bearing to the objective.

Rex knew the truth, but blocked it out.

For now.

Huck was clearly a goner. Rex had paid attention during the briefings on the submarine given by the reactor officers and even read the Hiros.h.i.+ma after-action report archived on the sub's LAN. The radiation dose this island received had devastated the local environment, indicated by the absence of most of the wildlife that once flourished here.

Rex knew, by his observations, that the Kunia tunnel had had no rats, that the situation was bad, and that Huck was likely overexposed. It was now an exposure race for all of them to get off the island and away from the dead-each one a walking f.u.kus.h.i.+ma.

Huck's eyes burned and watered as the team sprinted to the sh.o.r.e. Their weapons were searing hot from the ejection ports all the way to the suppressor tips. They handled the guns like red-hot branding irons, avoiding negligent gun contact with one another. They dodged the undead, crawling under arms and behind backs, playing London Bridge with the creatures. They dove under radiated cars to escape the dead that chased them from all directions.