Arisen : Genesis (16 page)

Dugan wrestled the wheel. “A little far out of town to jump in.”

Zack thought about it. “Marching in? Rendezvousing with ground transport, maybe?”

“We’ll find out either way,” Bob said, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a CIP, a combat identification panel, with a bright IR signature on the front. This one also had magnets sewn into the back. Bob leaned out the window of the bouncing vehicle and slapped it on the hood. This, he hoped, would keep the airborne guys from lighting them up.

In just a few more seconds they rumbled over the shoulder and back onto the road, turned, and accelerated north. Dugan and Bob spotted for the descending parachute canopies by sticking their heads out the windows. At this point, the turboprop engine noise could be heard passing almost directly overhead. The plane itself was blacked out and invisible. Dugan stopped the vehicle, and he and Bob piled out.

“Stay put,” Dugan said to the other two.

Bob grabbed the panel and draped it over his arm.

Zack rolled down his window and stuck his head out, just so he could get some sense of what was going on. He heard something approaching, closing with him and getting louder, couldn’t make ou—

BLAMMM!!!

Something big and heavy whumped into the ground not 15 meters from where he sat, and bounced once. Only after it hit did he hear and recognize the screaming that had preceded it.

“
What the fuck…?
” Dugan hissed, he and Bob fanning out and converging on the point of impact. Zack’s eyes bored holes in the darkness trying to make out what was on the ground.

“Oh, Jesus,” Bob said, turning away.

Another impact, fainter, sounded between the treeline and the highway, maybe 40 meters south of them. It was roughly along the flight vector of the plane. And it hit like it had been shot at the ground by some aerial gun firing beanbag chairs.

“Jesus Christ, they’re burning in…” Dugan said, turning again. He meant their chutes weren’t opening.

Then Zack looked up and behind them, and had to search for his voice. “Dugan… Bob…” The two turned to face him, and then followed his line of sight, which was up and to the south.

Now fire was falling out of the sky.

Zack had to watch it for a few seconds before he worked out what it was. They were burning and twisting parachute canopies, two of them, and then a third, and a fourth. They floated at first, like Chinese lanterns, then quickly picked up speed as the nylon burned away to ribbons. And then more screams reached them across the night air, accelerating as the screamers hurtled toward the earth.

Instinctively, Dugan turned to observe in the direction everyone else wasn’t, which was north up the road. He could see a handful of intact canopies and jumpers settling onto the ground, one after another, between 100 and 300 meters off. He made a tactical decision, dividing the team into survivable units.

“Bob. Stay with the truck and Baxter. Zack, you’re on me.”

It didn’t even occur to Zack to argue. He just got his pistol into his right hand, got out, and took off at a trot behind Dugan. They reached the first paratrooper in seconds, a few meters off the road. He was on the ground, tangled up in his chute, and struggling with it. Dugan let his rifle fall on its sling, drew his knife, and moved to help.

“No!” Zack shouted, hooking Dugan’s elbow with his gun hand.

“Lemme go,” Dugan said, pulling his arm free.

“Look!”

Dugan followed the ray of Zack’s pointed weapon, level with the ground and further north, but closer to the treeline. One of the paratroopers had gotten clear of his chute and was moving toward them. He was clear of it, but not free – it dragged on its lines behind him, twisting and catching on the ground. Zack couldn’t see the man’s face, only his movement. But that told him enough. Through his NVGs, Dugan could make out more. He brought his rifle back up and stared over the top of it, as the lurching figure dragged his canopy toward them, arms outstretched toward them.

“Fucking shit…” Dugan said.

Zack stood where he was, waiting to be told what to do.

Then he screamed and kicked. Something had grabbed his legs, both of them together, stealing his balance, and he tipped over heavily. He reached out to break his fall, but then bounced onto his left arm, and screamed in agony as the hard road surface pummeled it.

“
Fucking fuck!
” he spat, suddenly tangled in parachute nylon – and in limbs. The fouled paratrooper had crawled forward to Zack’s feet and pulled him down. Now it was all over him, clawing and grabbing, grunting and biting – but the parachute lay between the two of them like a body condom. Zack was too shocked and hurt and scared to speak, but just hissed and fought off the arms that embraced him while he tried to kick and crab crawl away. He heard an impact, and some grunting, and then a louder impact, and the body that was on him flew off. With the weight gone, he pulled and scrabbled at the slick material of the chute, still trying to scurry away. Two shots rang out, then two more, then more hands were on him through the nylon.

“No –
nooo—
” Zack grunted, flailing blindly.

“Zack, easy, calm the fuck down.” It was Dugan. He pulled the rest of the chute off him and flung it away, then grabbed Zack’s good arm and hauled him up. Zack lurched to his feet, head swimming from the fear and the pain. He couldn’t get his breath. He looked down, and nearly at his feet was a fully kitted out airborne Ranger in a jumpsuit, pants bloused into boots, big chest ruck in front of him, rifle strapped to his side, pouches stuffed with magazines, tactical helmet with radio mic and goggles on top. He was totally squared away – except for two bullet holes in a sore-covered and peeling face. His open eyes were rheumy and ulcerated. He was sick.

And now dead.

Four more shots rang out and Zack’s head snapped level in time to see the one with the trailing chute fall to his knees, then pitch over. There were two more beyond that one, in various states of struggling with their chutes and lines. Zack looked to Dugan, who checked his fire and lowered his rifle. They really didn’t know the state of the other two. And, very clearly, Dugan had had his fill of murdering U.S. Army Rangers today.

A single sharp wolf whistle sounded behind them. They both spun to face the truck. Bob stood beside it. He looked at them, then up and away to the south, tossing his head. Behind him, in the distance, there was now a brighter fire in the sky. It was the C-130, visible for the first time due to great licks of twisting flame trailing from its open cargo ramp in the rear. Gouts of thick black smoke billowed behind it and obscured the stars, and the plane was already moving at an angle, both down and to the side, and was tipping over further by the second. By the time it went in, out of sight beyond the horizon, Dugan and Zack were back at the Tahoe. The sound of the crash arrived a few seconds later. They and Bob climbed in wordlessly. Nor did Baxter speak.

Dugan turned the motor over and put it in gear.

“Fuck holing up for the night,” he said, driving the vehicle forward and scanning ahead through his night vision goggles.

As they drove in silence through the black heart of the night, Dugan and Bob sat there trying to picture, and Zack knew they were trying to picture, what an outbreak and battle in the close quarters of a C-130 cabin would be like. Dozens of young men, closer than brothers, sickening and turning on one another, while the healthy – and of this there could be no doubt – tried to help them.

And all of them falling together to the cold earth.

PART THREE

“My punishment is greater than I can bear.”
– Genesis, 4.13

No Sleep ’Til Brooklyn

They didn’t stop again except to pour fuel in the tank. They just drove on and on. Anything, or anyone, on the road they just blasted by at the highest speed possible. They also didn’t speak much, except to hail the TOC at Lemonnier a few times more. First the TOC blew them off. Then it stopped responding to their hails altogether.

While Dugan drove, hunched over the wheel, Bob flew the Predator, with the GCS, which he had dragged up front and wedged in the passenger side on his lap. Its excellent night vision and thermal optics were a huge help in making sense of the black maze of the landscape, and allowed them to see threats before they appeared. In retrospect, they decided the UAV made the difference between getting up this highway safely, and getting jammed up and killed or infected.

Bob quietly called out sitreps to Dugan beside him: “Two Victors, front to back, both in the right lane… two foot mobiles in the left.” Dugan flashed the lights and blatted the horn on approach. When the two figures didn’t get off the road, but instead moved toward them, Dugan slowed and swerved to miss them. But only just barely. And mainly because of the risk of damage to the truck.

Something was hardening inside all of them.

In the back, belatedly, Zack tried to get some news on his phone. There probably wasn’t a cell tower within 50 miles anyway, but if there was it was out now. His data throughput via satellite was terrible, but he got some headlines. On the front page of
The New York Times
was a small block in the bottom right: “African Mystery Illness Spreads: Cases reported in Cape Town, Delhi, and Qatar.” It was much smaller and lower down than the big headline that read “UK Bombings: Additional plots foiled, but Britain remains locked down.” He clicked on the outbreak headline for five minutes before giving up. He read it aloud to the team. Nobody said anything.

Zack slumped back in his seat and regarded the phone in his hand. He’d known all along he was going to have to call Langley at some point. At first, they’d been running for their lives… but later? Who knows why he put it off. It had seemed beside the point somehow. Like, how could a building full of people in northern Virginia help them? But now he knew he had a clear obligation, at the very least, to report that the safehouse, the principal CIA facility in Somaliland, was
gone
. Had been taken off the game board entirely.

He checked the glowing phone face in the dark of the truck cabin. He’d have to charge it soon. Luckily, they had a “universal” charger in the truck, that worked with all of their phones, and most of their other devices. But the battery still showed around 50% and he couldn’t be bothered right now. Moreover, the sat signal was still tolerable, so he dialed Langley. After a few minutes delay, he got put through to the senior duty officer, who was also his immediate supervisor. And in quiet and professional tones, he reported everything he knew. Everything that had happened to them so far.

“Okay
,” his boss said in response.
“Heading for Lemonnier was probably the right call. It’s probably your best option. So we’re not second-guessing that.”
Zack felt distinctly unreassured by the agreement that this was their best option – i.e. that the Agency had nothing better to offer them.
“I’m going to try and marshal some assets to rendezvous with you, either on the road, or when you get to the base – though at that point you should be fine, security-wise… But I’m having serious fucking trouble getting anything done anywhere across the region. So don’t hold your breath, and for now proceed as if you’re on your own. This is exactly what we give you the Tier-1 shooters for. Plus, at the moment, we’re starting to have big problems elsewhere across this fucking globe…”

“You want to tell me what else is going on in the world?” Zack said.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on there? What your analysis is, on top the empirical data points?”

Zack sighed quietly in the dark womb of the rumbling SUV. “What’s going on? My analysis? My analysis is it’s the beginning of the end of the world.” He heard a countering sigh on the other end.

“Okay, Zack. Keep moving, get to Lemonnier, and hang tight there. I’ll get back to you as soon as we’ve got something for you.”

And the line went dead.

Zack considered briefing the others on the call. But he figured they got the gist from his end of it. And the report was really “nothing to report.” Langley had nothing for them.

He continued to monitor the backs of the two SEALs from behind, heads misshapen with the all-seeing prostheses on their faces. SOF guys, Zack knew, were by definition the most resilient and resolute people in the world. That’s the only way they got to be SEALs, or other elite operators, in the first place – the selection courses weeded out anybody who had even the faintest trace of
quit
in them. And from then on, they had “get-it-done” attitudes that just never, ever died. He tried to imagine what these two were thinking right now.

And Zack knew another, related, fact. That the guys who ultimately survive – whether it’s a firefight, or a natural disaster, or a medical emergency in the wilderness, TEOTWAKI, whatever… the guys who survive are the ones who are
absolutely determined to
. Who are willing to do whatever it takes to get themselves out alive. To make sure it’s the other guy who doesn’t go home. Who
aren’t
going to be the victims today.

Those ones are the survivors.

Zack knew this intellectually. But he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t make himself believe that this was going to work out okay. In fact, all of his hard-earned erudition and acuity and savvy in the game… all of it seemed like so much worthless trivia. For a board game. For use in some other world, one that had burned completely away, and left them flailing at empty air in some dying abyss.

He’d taken more drugs a half hour ago. But in addition to the pounding head and arm, he began to feel like he was running a fever. He wiped away a thin gloss of sweat on his forehead. After rolling around with that sick paratrooper… could he…? It was certainly possible. But, no, it couldn’t be. He knew he needed to warn the others that he was at risk. But he couldn’t make his voice work. He was too afraid. He turned on the overhead light and checked his reflection on the inside of the window glass. He looked okay. Bob said, “Turn that off, buddy. Screws with the NVGs.” Zack flicked the light back off.