Part 24 (2/2)
Rico ran dry and dropped his carbine, letting it hang slack at his side. Another obese creature advanced on him, not as big as the sumo one, but close. Rico reached for his personal backup, his sawed-off pump. Positioning the shotgun almost vertically under the creature's jowls, he depressed the trigger, blowing brains up into the sky, decayed chunks raining down all around them.
”f.u.c.k Rico, I'm not wearing a mask!” Huck said, wiping gray matter from his hair and face.
”Sorry, brother, no choice. Dry gun.”
The radio cracked and beeped, signaling USS Virginia's incoming transmission.
”Hourgla.s.s, adjust three four zero degrees, you are three hundred yards out. You should hear the surf now,” Kil's voice relayed over the radio.
”We can't hear the surf because Rico's shotgun deafened the whole team, but we'll take your word for it, Kil,” Rex said, checking his wrist compa.s.s and adjusting their magnetic course over ground. ”Make sure you put hands on your frags so you know where they are,” he said to his team.
All four of them checked their vest and pockets to make sure they knew where to get their grenades if the need should arise.
Rico prayed as they fought for the coast that he wouldn't need his like Griff did.
They could smell a hint of the surf through their mask filters. Looking up, the team noticed simultaneously that they were much closer to the water than they had suspected; they were just too busy to look beyond the red-dot optics of their carbines. The IR strobe was pulsating-the boat was only a hundred yards or so down the beach.
Who says you need GPS to navigate over ground? Rex thought as he mentally thanked his low-tech wet compa.s.s for getting them to the boat.
Huck was having trouble breathing, his throat raspy from the fallout dust mixed with the lead and barrel blast he'd inhaled. He lagged behind the rest, stuck in the goon squad. This ain't Coronado Beach, he mumbled quietly through his shemagh. The others ran ahead for their lives. Huck lagged behind; the full moonlight reflected off the water and beach sand, revealing the team to the undead. Nearly out of breath, Huck pressed on. A creature in swim trunks gained to within a meter of him when its head exploded.
There was no instantaneous gunshot report.
Dazed by his condition, Huck was about to curse at Rico for the latest dose of brain chunks on the back of his head when the shot's sound caught up with the bullet.
Saien lay p.r.o.ne, just forward of the sail, on the deck of the USS Virginia, with a 7.62 LaRue battle rifle he'd borrowed from the SOF armory. He took shots at the creatures through the sensor-fusion night-vision scope. He could clearly see the white thermal signature of the team moving through the crowds of darker-shaded undead; Huck lagged behind.
Captain La.r.s.en risked running the Virginia aground in bringing her closer to the beach, allowing Saien to provide sniper support. With seventeen rounds left in his magazine, Saien drew and held his breath in time with his shots. The pitch of the deck was a problem, but not enough to sway Saien's. .h.i.t count too far from 50 percent or so.
The RHIB was prepped and shoved off into the surf. The team onboard fought off the advancing hordes in knee-deep water; they waited for Huck.
”What the f.u.c.k is he doing?” Commie asked. ”Is he playing around? I don't get it.”
”Shut the f.u.c.k up-didn't you notice his mask? He's probably dead already,” Rico snapped, still in shock brought on by Griff's selfless heroism back at the cave entrance.
Huck kept moving to the RHIB with an undead army in tow. Rex nearly jumped out of the boat, but Rico restrained him. To leave would prove more than foolish.
Saien's sniper shots rang true, leaving a trail of pieces and piles of radiated corpses parallel to the waterline behind Huck. Saien was careful to shoot around Huck, the lone white figure inside his thermal/IR hybrid optic.
Rex and Rico took their shots. Using their lasers, they knew that the submarine sniper would pick other targets, maximizing efficiency. Rex ordered Commie not to shoot; he didn't trust Commie's marksmans.h.i.+p with Huck mingled among the mob of undead. As far as Rex knew, Huck hadn't been bitten. Yet.
”I'm out!” Rico yelled, again grabbing for his pump shotgun.
Commie tossed a full mag at Rico. ”Take mine, it's full.”
Rico slapped the mag in the mag well of his M-4 and released the bolt, driving the 5.56mm round into the carbon-caked chamber. Huck reached the water line when his legs failed, causing a perfect face plant into the water.
”Grab him, Rico!” Rex ordered, engaging the undead that chased just behind Huck.
Despite thruster control inside the conn, the Virginia's deck angle s.h.i.+fted with the current, making additional shots from the deck too dangerous. The risk of friendly fire was severe. Saien watched through his fusion optic in horror as Rico jumped overboard after Huck.
Feeling sunken bodies in the surf beneath his boots, Rico moved quickly, hoping that none of them was still animated enough to bite through the leg of his exposure suit. Reaching Huck, he slung him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and slogged back to the rocking RHIB.
With all four onboard, they raced back to the Virginia. The beach behind them boiled over with the walking dead, seeming somehow outraged that they had allowed the last living humans on the island of Oahu to escape their unholy grasp.
Huck was dead when they boarded the submarine. After Rex reluctantly ensured Huck wouldn't come back, the boat's chaplain administered a prayer on the bow of the s.h.i.+p as they wrapped Huck in a clean sheet, sewing it shut with a sharpened marlinspike and some paracord.
The team gathered around Huck's burial shroud to pay their last respects to both Huck and Griff.
The boat s.h.i.+fted positions away from the sh.o.r.eline so that the team could discard their exposure suits in the ocean. They stood naked on the bow as the s.h.i.+p's decontamination crew scrubbed them down with large nylon brushes, soap, and cold potable water. The team was administered radiation medication and monitored closely for signs of sickness.
A short, modest announcement was made on the 1MC before getting underway: ”All hands not on watch, muster abovedecks for burial at sea.”
One of the enlisted men-a high school bra.s.s player-played ”Taps” as they lowered Huck into the deep. They all said nice things, plat.i.tudes like His death will not be wasted and He served his country heroically.
Rico didn't care for the words. He'd lost two friends in twenty-four hours and wished he could trade places with either of them right now.
As dawn kissed the once beautiful Oahu horizon, USS Virginia was underway. At a depth of one hundred meters and a speed of thirty knots, her bow now pointed to China, minus two Hourgla.s.s Operators.
Remote Six Today ”Sir, I'm sure you've heard, but the checklist says I need to inform you anyway,” the technician said.
”Go ahead.”
”We observed a team at our crash site. There is a possibility that-”
”Yes, I'm aware. Get on with it.”
”Yes, sir.”
G.o.d sat in his chair in the middle of the operations center, staring at the center screen that streamed a realtime feed of Hotel 23. Hours before, he'd monitored the team as they moved about the C-130 crash site, where one of his Project Hurricane weapons now resided. They were smart in remaining in emissions control status, as G.o.d had no idea what their intent might be.
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