ARISEN, Book Twelve - Carnage (32 page)

Pred looked away from the plane, then over at Juice, who had led them all here. “Who did this thing?”

Juice said, “Handon and I scouted the hangar. At the very beginning, when we first inserted.”

Predator shook his head. “How the hell did he know?”

Juice shrugged, but it was Fick who answered. “He couldn’t have known what was going to happen. But he damn well knew we needed to have a contingency. That having only one way to get Patient Zero and the vaccine back to Britain wasn’t enough.”

“Two is one,” Pred grumbled. “One is none.” But then he looked at Chief Davis, and glanced over at Pete. “Wait – how the hell did you two guys get here?”

Wesley spoke in answer, his voice steady. “Handon again. He radioed the carrier and tasked us with getting this thing ready to fly.”

“Holy shit,” Pred said. “Handon’s leading us out of here…”

He trailed off, and no one finished the thought. But everyone was thinking it:
…when he’s not even here anymore.

Even in death he was completing the mission.

And leading them all home.

* * *

Fick put two fingers to his earpiece and stepped away, just as Jake stepped up. He and Kate had been wrapping up their minor wounds, then helping with the worse injured. But now he clearly wanted to know what was going on. He gestured behind him at the plane and spoke to the group in his team-sergeant voice.

“Okay – someone going to tell me where the hell we’re going?”

“London,” Ali said. “Non-stop.”

Jake’s eyebrows went north. “What about the carrier?”

Wesley said, “The carrier is not a happy place right now. When we left, it had been boarded by a shedload of Spetsnaz. It was a giant set-piece battle, room-to-room fighting…”

“Is it lost?” Jake said, squinting severely.

“Dunno, honestly. It looked like it could go either way. And the plane from Britain, the one that was supposed to take Dr. Park back… it was destroyed.” He looked distraught, and Juice clapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, you did good getting out in time – and prepping this plane.”

Wesley nodded. “But I also failed to save the other one. When I could have done.”

Homer said, “It doesn’t matter, LT. With the
Kennedy
in play, we couldn’t have gone back there anyway.”

“Hey, wait a second,” Pred said, glowering. “What about Doc Park – and his research? Aside from Patient Zero, he’s kind of the point.”

But with this, Fick stepped back up. “Stand by – Doctor Park is inbound. ETA ten mikes.”

“Seriously?” Pred boggled. “Who the hell arranged that?”

Fick took a breath. “It was one of my Marines who got him off the boat. But the one who made the call, who got him moving here…

“That was Handon again.”

* * *

Ali let two beats of silence pass, then said, “Okay. If we’re static here waiting for Park, we need to set security and Alamo up.” When no one moved, she looked around. “Chop, chop. Ten minutes is a long time.”

She grabbed Noise as he passed by, and pointed him toward the back left corner of the hangar – and the only door other than the big roll-up ones in front. “Rear sentry. Stand post.” He nodded and moved off. She checked the roll-up doors, which were basically the whole front of the building. They were locked and seemed reasonably secure. But, mainly, if anyone started to open them from the outside, everyone inside would notice pretty quickly.

There were also grimy windows on the left and right sides of the structure. Ali assigned Wesley and his man Burns to cover those.

Jake said, “Wouldn’t kill us to do an ammo manifest.”

Ali knew he was right. But she also didn’t want it to be a clusterfuck, and didn’t want to waste a shooter doing it. She hailed the diminutive engine mechanic. “What’s your name?”

“Pete.”

“Pete, I need you to do an ammo count for me.” She produced a small pad and pen and pressed them into his hand. “Go around to every armed individual in this hangar. Find out how many rifle mags each has, and how many pistol mags. If someone’s too busy to answer, feel them up and count ’em yourself.”

“Grenades, too?”

Ali could see she’d chosen well. The kid was enthusiastic, and seemed efficient. “If it’s easy. But do it fast, and get this back to me.”

He moved off and got to it.

* * *

Misha squinted happily into the wind. He’d loaded his eighteen remaining shooters into all six of Team 3’s vehicles, which now blasted across the open tarmac toward the row of aircraft hangars. Team 2 only had eighteen shooters left, because eight were still lying back at the river, the price those two last-standers, the American commander and the Brit, had extracted for passage across the river.

Those two were like the fucking Ferryman…

Misha himself had a half-dozen new slash wounds, as well as a minor gunshot wound, all of them hastily wrapped up. It had been a hell of a bloody last stand for those two. But not nearly as bloody as the one Misha was about to impose on the rest of their team.

One way or another, it ended here.

As they neared the hangars, Misha could make out bodies on the ground, mostly between the third- and second-to-last structures. He veered left, screeched to a halt, lumbered out with his rifle, and regarded the carnage on the ground.

It was the rest of Team 3.
Motherfuckers.

He turned around to face the men, who were un-assing the other trucks. “Search the hangars. Recon in force.”

Kuznetsov stepped up and pointed off to the right. Beyond the last hangar was a big gap, about fifty meters, with an aircraft pushback tractor parked there, and a few piles of crates and random crap. But beyond that was a series of small outbuildings, which also backed up against the outside wire, and which looked like maybe tractor or equipment sheds.

Misha grunted. “I don’t think they have a fucking aircraft in there.”

Kuznetsov said, “Nonetheless.”

Misha didn’t want to spread his remaining shooters too thin. He was done underestimating the enemy. “Runt!” he shouted, simply pointing toward the row of sheds. “And you’d better fucking kill anyone you find back there.” Then he turned back toward the hangars.

His men were already pouring into the nearest one.

Mercy

Gulf of Aden – 200M from Djibouti Coast

Sergeant Lovell didn’t have to work very hard to locate the stretch of coastline closest to the airport. What remained of the
Kennedy
’s shore launch was beached there – with what looked like a giant bite taken out of its stern. He shook his head, then traded a look with Park, who looked even more confused than he felt.

“Nope,” Lovell said. “Not even asking.”

He ran their CRRC right up on the beach beside the bigger boat, then jumped out and dragged it further up onto the sand. Park didn’t need helping out, so Lovell just grabbed the DNA sequencer in its big ruck and managed to struggle back under it. After the downtime of their short ocean journey, he figured he could hump it again for a while. He could even get his rifle to his shoulder.

“Ready?” he said to Park, who nodded, eyes bright. Lovell had already briefed him, after making radio contact with Fick. They both knew where they were going, and knew they were close. But they both also knew this was still the ZA – a damned dangerous place at the best of times. And now there seemed to be Russian Spetsnaz – the equal of the American operators in skill, and much superior in ferocity – lurking around every corner.

They couldn’t let their guard down for a second.

Lovell knew this op wasn’t over. His job right now was keeping Doctor Park alive and getting him the hell out of Africa. And with Park still the most important man in the world – that made Lovell’s job the most important he’d ever had.

The pair moved out – Lovell and his rifle leading the way.

* * *

The vicious fight Hailey had seen happening out on the tarmac was over by the time she got anywhere near it. And she’d descended a nearby hill just in time to see men in American uniform disappear into the last in a row of aircraft hangars. So that was where she was going now. She moved toward it, keeping the outside wire on her right elbow and moving carefully.

But when she heard the screeching of tires from somewhere out in front, she figured she’d better pick up the pace. She ducked into what was effectively an alley, behind a row of sheds, which led to the back of the hangars, moving as quietly as she could, scanning the ground for obstructions.

But she’d only covered half the distance to the end when she realized she should have been looking up, and not down at her feet. She also realized she should have had her M9 out in her hand, rather than nestled in its shoulder holster. After all those missions with it chafing her armpit, now she finally needed the damned thing – and was never going to get to use it. Because suddenly there was someone else in the alley with her. He was right in front of her, blocking her way. He definitely wasn’t American.

And he was pointing a rifle at her face.

He had her dead to rights.

* * *

Lovell and Park moved fast but stealthily along the fence that bordered the north edge of the runway. Lovell had quickly found the spot where Team Cadaver cut into the outside wire of the airport, down by the end of the single runway.

He stole another glance behind him, to make sure Park was still in his back pocket. He actually found Park to be a good protectee – smart, alert, switched on, and not prone to doing anything stupid. Like he’d been around the block a few times.

Lovell stole a look at his mapping GPS, just to reassure himself they were still going the right way. Up ahead, the fence bent to the left – and beyond that was a series of small outbuildings. The hangars were beyond that. He moved to the side of the last shed in the row, traded a look with Park, then raised his rifle and rolled around the corner into the alley.

And he instantly found himself looking at the back of someone in a flight suit – someone with a nice hourglass shape, he couldn’t help noticing. But she was standing stock still – and around her, Lovell could just make out another figure. He was mostly blocked by the first one, but Lovell could see enough – the dark gray of his fatigues, which after the fighting on the
JFK
he definitely recognized. And he was pointing a rifle at the female aviator.

Lovell pushed Park back around the corner. If the Russian had spotted them, he wasn’t letting on. Lovell thought they were probably okay – they’d mostly been blocked by the girl, and if the Russian was pointing a gun at her, he probably had that target-lock tunnel vision.

Now they just had to figure out a way around.

* * *

The Runt disengaged his safety. This was not his rifle – it was one he’d taken from one of the men killed in the drone strike in the desert. He’d needed a replacement after losing his in the nearly fatal attempt to cross that raging river. But, as he was trained to do, he had carefully checked to make sure it was in good working order – cleaned, lubed, loaded, and ready to go.

Now, unexpectedly, he had the red dot of his sight on the chin point of a young woman in a pilot’s flight suit. And he could both see and recognize the gold-wing patch on her chest – the insignia of a U.S. naval aviator. Yep, it was definitely a girl, and a cute one.

He remembered his order from Misha, which was simplicity itself.

But still he hesitated, looking into the pretty brown eyes of this young woman – they were wide from the adrenaline, but not pleading, not really scared. As he held her gaze, a lock of chin-length brown hair came loose from behind her ear and swung in front of her face. Her eyes rotated up in her sockets – she was both checking out the hair situation, and rolling her eyes.

And it was all the Runt could do not to crack a smile.

He thought of Misha back behind him – and how the commander would squash him like a bug, and with no more thought or compassion, just for hesitating two seconds before killing this enemy before him.

But then he flashed back to the big, dark-haired American, who had found him half-drowned on that blood-splashed riverbank. He had been totally helpless, and this man also had a weapon trained on his face. But he had spared him. The Runt hadn’t understood it then, and didn’t really now. But it seemed somehow to be connected to this moment, this woman, this encounter in the alley.

He lowered his rifle an inch. And he tossed his head to the side.

The woman nodded and took off, disappearing between the sheds.

* * *

“Come on,” Lovell whispered to Park.

“Wait,” Park said. “Where are we going?”

“We’re gonna backtrack and find a way around.”

“What about the girl – the pilot? She’s one of ours.”

Uh, oh
, Lovell thought. Park had seen her. “We can’t risk a gunfight right now. She’s going to have to take care of herself.”

Park didn’t move. “I thought you guys never left anyone behind. We have to help her.”

Lovell ground his teeth. They didn’t have time for this – not for a rescue mission, and definitely not for a humanitarian discussion. It was costing them precious seconds. Finally Lovell realized it was taking more time arguing than it would to just take out the one damned Russian. “Fuck,” he said. “Okay. Don’t move.”

But when he swung back into the alley, rifle up… it was empty. Both the Russian and the pilot were gone. Lovell reached back, grabbed Park by his shirt, got them both moving again, fast.

And hoped like hell that delay wasn’t going to cost them.

* * *

Ali was huddled up with Homer over a regional map when Pete trotted up – much faster than she’d expected. Wordlessly, he held out the pad with his ammo manifest on it. Ali took it and held it where she and Homer could read it.

“Well, shit,” she said after a few seconds.

“Yeah,” Homer said. “It ain’t good.”

Ali realized they shouldn’t have been surprised. It wasn’t twenty minutes ago that they were all going cyclic trying to stay alive in a desperate ambush. And all of them had been in fights before that – but after their last access to spare ammo in helos or trucks. Now they were pretty much all scraping the bottom of the barrel.