ARISEN, Book Twelve - Carnage (2 page)

MICHAEL STEPHEN FUCHS
, in addition to co-authoring the first eight books of the bestselling ARISEN series with Glynn James, wrote the bestselling prequels
ARISEN : GENESIS
and
ARISEN : NEMESIS
(an Amazon #1 bestseller in Post-Apocalyptic Science Fiction and #1 in Dystopian), as well as Book Nine (#1 bestseller in War, #1 in Military Science Fiction) and Book Ten (an Amazon overall Top 100 bestseller). The series as a whole has sold over a quarter million copies. The audiobook editions, performed by R.C. Bray, have generated nearly a million dollars in revenue. He is also author of the D-BOYS series of high-tech special-operations military adventure novels, which include
D-BOYS
,
COUNTER-ASSAULT
, and CLOSE QUARTERS BATTLE (coming in 2017); as well as the existential cyberthrillers
THE MANUSCRIPT
and
PANDORA’S SISTERS
, both published worldwide by Macmillan in hardback, paperback and all e-book formats (and in translation). He lives in London and at
www.michaelstephenfuchs.com
, and blogs at
www.michaelfuchs.org/razorsedge
. You can follow him on
Facebook
,
Twitter
(@michaelstephenf), or by
e-mail
.

ARISEN

BOOK TWELVE

CARNAGE

MICHAEL STEPHEN FUCHS

For all the ARISEN readers who have served as first responders – firefighters, paramedics, and law enforcement (the thin blue line). You know who you are.

“Love is an abstract noun, something nebulous. And yet love turns out to be the only part of us that is solid, as the whole world turns upside down and the screen goes black. We can’t tell if it will survive us. But we can be sure that it’s the last thing to go.”
– Martin Amis,
The Second Plane

“But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God’s wrath on the wrongdoer.”
– Romans 13:4

The End is the Beginning is the End

Djibouti-Ambouli International Airport

The de Havilland Bombardier Dash 8 rattles and crashes down a rutted third-world runway as it accelerates madly toward take-off. Inside the plane’s open main cabin, two rival groups are fighting to the death – and individual life-and-death struggles, mainly fought with melee weapons, are going on all up and down the plane’s length.

In the very back, watching all the lethal violence with barely restrained horror, the crouching form of Dr. Simon Park stands hunched over a black body bag, which is visibly wiggling – and behind a photocopier-sized electronic device, which is plugged into the plane’s onboard power supply.

He clutches a crowbar in one hand – and, in the other, a full syringe with the plunger pulled back. He looks from the syringe, to the body bag, to the crowbar – and then to the slow-motion homicide taking place practically in his lap.

And he tries to decide where his duty lies.

* * *

On the other side of the boxy device, Predator and Spetsnaz warlord Misha are hurling each other around like dinosaurs, giving and receiving blows that would kill mortal men. When Pred hauls Misha up from the deck and hurls him into the opposite bulkhead…

The entire cabin shakes from the impact.

Bouncing off the wall and recovering, Misha manages to get a knife clear. But Pred slaps the outside of his hand so hard it flies halfway to the cockpit. He then steps in and punches Misha in the side of his head with such force that his whole body bounces off the bulkhead again.

But Misha lowers his head and comes straight back.

This time Pred plants his feet, draws himself up to his full height, and punches straight down into the top of the Russian’s skull with his full weight and force, driving him down into the deck like a hydraulic piledriver. But Misha gets up again, smiling, each time rising up from under blows that would put lesser men in the hospital – possibly never to come out again. And it is starting to look as if he is neither going to lose consciousness nor give up – ever.

Pred is going to have to beat him to death with his bare hands.

And he realizes he’s okay with that.

* * *

Just ahead of this rampaging deathmatch, two more Spetsnaz hardmen climb in through the open rear hatch, and advance up the aisle toward the flight deck. The older one wields a sharpened entrenching tool, the younger one a pair of commando knives, which he twirls theatrically over the tops of his hands.

Opposing them are only two men – Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant Fick and Lieutenant (junior grade) Andrew Wesley. Drawing his K-Bar knife, Fick looks sidelong at the Marine Corps Officer’s sword hanging from Wesley’s belt. And he says:

“So – you here to film a recruiting commercial? Or actually use that thing?”

Wesley swallows and draws the blade.

The two Russians come at them, the older one wearing a blank but lethal expression, and the younger one – who looks like he might plausibly be half Fick’s age – a leering smile that says:

I’m really going to enjoy this
.

Fick spits off to the side.
Oh, no you’re not
.

But to Wesley he says: “Whatever happens, we cannot let these fuckheads get past us to the cockpit. You understand?”

Wesley nods frantically.

Fick hopes he does. Because if Spetsnaz take the cockpit, they take the plane – and they stop it.

And then they are all done.

* * *

On the outside of the hurtling aircraft, First Sergeant Aaliyah Khamsi clings to the edge of the wing, hanging down between the fuselage and the right-side engine. She’s doing this in order to not get shot.

Ali settles her mind, clearing out all the distractions – such as having her ass hanging off an aircraft that is picking up speed, and being responsible for keeping everyone aboard, which is also almost everyone she loves, from dying in the next minute.

And then everyone everywhere dying soon after that.

She clears out all that garbage because she needs her full faculties, and every last iota of her considerable skills, experience, and abilities. And what she knows now is:

Vasily has to die.

This time, she has to kill that slippery, tattooed, annoyingly unkillable sonofabitching Spetsnaz sniper. She can’t lose to him again. She can’t afford to.

This time, simply, he has to go down.

Even if it means her own death.

Her mind clear, Ali hits her radio. “Hey, blondie.”

“Send it.”

“Get ready to pop and shoot – in three, two, one—”

Ali hauls herself up on the wing, rolls toward the fuselage, bounces to her feet – and takes off running down the length of the plane.

She can already feel the air around her filling with lead.

* * *

Up on the flight deck, Hailey “Thunderchild” Wells is still increasing power and rocketing the plane straight into the teeth of the fearsome Kamov Ka-50 Black Shark helicopter hovering directly in their path. She hauls on the yoke for everything she’s worth, the entire aircraft trembling, straining, and screaming around her. She squints straight ahead into the setting sun – in front of which, that fucking attack helo shows absolutely no intention of moving.

But there’s no stopping this time.

They are either going to take off, or crash into it in midair. Even if Hailey tries to stop now, they will only slam into the buildings at the end of the runway, killing everyone on board. This is a game of chicken with a blindfold on.

They couldn’t stop now even if they had to.

Victory

On Board Jesus Two Zero, 100ft Over Central Somalia
[Six Hours Earlier]

The cool air streaming in and whipping around the shot-up Seahawk felt like redemption… or maybe even salvation. The aircraft was so shot to shit at this point that, as its rotors cut through the gray and sodden sky, air was leaking in all over the place.

Handon had only put this bird up out of desperation. It was the only one they had left, and it was their only way to get themselves the hell out of the Nugal River Valley – and away from whatever survivors or reinforcements Spetsnaz might be mustering.

After victory in the riverbank battle, no one ever saw the body of Misha, the oversized warlord who commanded the Spetsnaz forces like Genghis Khan at the head of his Mongol hordes. Nor Vasily, the tattooed sniper who had almost made an end of Ali over the Atlantic – and with whom she still felt pretty sure she was going to have some kind of a reckoning. No one in Alpha imagined they had finished those two off. Nor could they be sure there weren’t more of the spooky hard-bitten Spetsnaz bastards lurking elsewhere on this giant lethal continent.

With both their fighter aircraft down, and no communications with the carrier – which, for all they knew, was already in the hands of the Russians – the shore team’s situational and tactical awareness was limited to the single UCAV drone flown by Juice, and looking out of their own skulls. All Handon, Fick, and their people knew for sure was that there weren’t any Spetsnaz where they were right now – which was safely up above Somalia and moving fast toward Djibouti.

And that was enough – for the moment.

Everyone left on the helo from the recombined but badly degraded team – Handon, Henno, and Ali from Alpha; Fick and Reyes from MARSOC – finally had a few moments just to breathe, and to reflect. It was a rare and precious break from running for their lives, or fighting desperately for them. And, most stunningly of all, it was a moment when, after long ages of chasing the object of their epic and globe-spanning mission, they actually had it – Patient Zero, the last piece of the puzzle, which should allow them to end the ZA for good.