The Tide: Ghost Fleet (Tide Series Book 7) Read online

  Meredith fired on him from the open door of the Seahawk. Bullets sparked against metal. The Hybrid dodged, leapt to the superstructure, then bounded for the ladder. His claws wrapped around the bottom rung.

  “No you don’t, you son of a bitch,” Dom said as the Hybrid scrabbled for purchase. With his rifle still strapped across his back and one arm latched around a rung, he pulled his HK45 compact pistol from its holster. The Hybrid got both hands around the rung and pulled himself up, hissing at Dom.

  Three shots.

  Three holes in the Hybrid’s face.

  The half-man, half-Skull fell, his body cartwheeling through the air. He hit the surface with a frothy splash and then disappeared. Hordes of Skulls were now loose on the ship, running around with no particular direction or target.

  “Time to say goodbye,” Dom said as he climbed aboard the chopper. “Andris?”

  “With pleasure.” Andris depressed his remote detonator.

  A deep roar exploded from the stern of the ship. Metal tore outward, spilling shrapnel and smoke. Tongues of fire leapt through the hole and burst out of the superstructure. Frank hummed “Stars and Stripes Forever” over the chopper’s comms as the Seahawk climbed into the sky. A second series of explosions took hold as the engines failed. The hull groaned and shrieked. Skulls spilled into the ocean, sinking under the weight of their dense bony armor. The freighter’s bow pointed skyward, and the Atlantic swallowed the ship.

  “One more ship full of Skulls that won’t be bothering anyone,” Dom said. “Good work.”

  Miguel wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “How many more of these do we have to sink?”

  “I think the answer’s somewhere between a ‘crap ton’ and a ‘shit ton.’” Glenn looked at Dom. “Am I far off, Captain?”

  “What, you don’t enjoy the smell of burnt Skull in the morning?” Dom asked, but the smile was already slipping from his face.

  They had succeeded once again. Another freighter, another piece of the FGL’s plan to conquer the surviving pieces of the world sent to the bottom of the ocean. And though they felt victorious now, Dom had learned not underestimate Pyotr Spitkovsky or the FGL. Soon enough the FGL would prove Dom right.

  He just didn’t realize how soon it would be.

  -2-

  Torsten Nilsson stood on the bridge of what may have been the last ship in the Swedish Royal Navy. He was the officer of the watch on the HSwMS Karlstad, a Visby-class corvette designed for its stealthy profile. The ship gave off only a minimal infrared signature and a limited radar cross-section, making it near undetectable. Six months ago, the ship had been coasting the Arabian Sea for a multinational anti-submarine drill.

  But that drill had quickly turned to horror as the ships involved rapidly lost contact with their respective home ports across the globe.

  Rumors spread from an American ship that the outbreak had been caused by something called the Oni Agent. Only a few pictures of the monsters and their destruction had been transmitted to the ship before the rest of the world went dark. When Torsten felt particularly morose, he reviewed those images of cities burning and shadows coming alive with the twisted forms of skeletal beings that had supposedly once been human. The scenes looked like they’d been torn from a grisly horror film, the likes of which Torsten had no taste for.

  Harsh winds howled over the ship as they sailed northward along the coast of Africa. Torsten felt like a beaten dog returning home. If the images were any indication of what he would find in Sweden, he thought maybe it would be best if they just stayed at sea. At least on the ocean they were safe from the monsters.

  He clenched his jaw, ashamed at the thought. Yes, he was safe, but that shouldn’t have been his concern. Captain Lundgren had set the course to Stockholm to see what aid they could offer. But with only a handful of rifles among them and limited ammunition, Torsten wondered what exactly Lundgren hoped to accomplish.

  Torsten supposed that this was the noble thing to do. He hated himself for not liking the idea, but what should he feel? Should he look forward to facing those things on the shore?

  Get ahold of yourself, man, Torsten thought. You are better than this.

  He took a long, slow sip of coffee and then set the cup down atop one of the banks of monitors. Alone on the night shift, the brilliance of the star-littered sky was his only company. All the monitors hummed softly.

  Then there was a chirp.

  Torsten straightened, peering at the radar screen. There, fifty klicks off port and less than a hundred from the Karlstad, was a small vessel. It seemed to be headed their direction.

  That in and of itself was not entirely alarming. They had run into all manner of other vessels—civilian and military alike—especially this close to the coastline. Many people had sought refuge on the seas when the outbreak spread.

  This one might be more of the same. Except most of the ships that had spotted the Karlstad had done so in the day. And they’d been much closer. Only a few klicks away. How in the hell had a vessel—especially one that seemed no bigger than a luxury yacht—caught the state-of-the-art stealth ship in the middle of the night?

  Something was not right.

  Maybe it was just a coincidence. Another yacht and its crew that had thought they could weather the storm of the apocalypse at sea. The Karlstad just happened to be crossing this yacht’s path. Still, maybe he should call the captain. The man would be grumpy if this turned out to be nothing. But Lundgren was always grumpy, and Torsten would rather be paranoid than dead.

  He picked up a handset and called Lundgren’s cabin. It took several rings before the captain answered. His voice was gruff and scratchy, still caught somewhere in the haziness of sleep. “What is it?”

  “Captain,” Torsten said, “there is a vessel, approximately fifteen meters in length, headed our way.”

  “Civilian or military?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Torsten said. “It’s almost one hundred klicks out, but it’s set to intersect our path in under two hours.”

  “How’d we miss it until it was this close?”

  “I do not know,” Torsten admitted.

  “You were sleeping on the job.”

  “No!” Torsten said, maybe a bit too forcefully. “I have been awake the entire time, Captain.”

  “Not likely. I’m coming up there.”

  At least it seemed Torsten had made the right call. If the captain dragged himself out of bed, he thought it was important. A few minutes later, Lundgren joined him in a loose-fitting T-shirt and sweatpants.

  Lundgren peered over the radar. “Turn us hard-a-port and continue full ahead.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Torsten twisted the helm. The projected path of the Karlstad adjusted accordingly on his monitor. “New heading acquired.”

  The both stared at the radar. The mystery vessel continued on its path, and Torsten let out a breath. Maybe this had been a mistake after all. They watched for several long minutes, the radar blinking.

  “Looks like nothing,” Lundgren said. “I’m going—”

  The craft began to adjust its course. Again, it would intersect with the Karlstad.

  “We have not received any hails?” Lundgren asked.

  Torsten shook his head.

  Lundgren took up a handset. He tried a hailing channel on VHF. “Unidentified vessel, this is the HSwMS Karlstad. Please identify yourself.”

  Nothing.

  The captain tried various emergency channels, and still the vessel did not respond, nor did it put out any hails of its own. It merely continued sailing ever closer.

  “Alert the crew,” Lundgren said. “All hands to battle stations.”

  A pit formed at the bottom of Torsten’s stomach. He twisted on the alarms and spoke into the handset. “All hands to battle stations. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill.”

  The smaller vessel drew closer, and still it did not respond. No radio calls, no flares.

  “This is very odd,
” Torsten said.

  “Odd indeed,” Lundgren said. “Fire a warning shot with the fifty-seven-millimeter.”

  A moment later, the cannon burst to life. Torsten watched through a night-vision scope as the round exploded into the water off the bow of the craft, yet still it continued forward. But now, it weaved erratically, deliberately engaging in an ordinance-avoidance course. As the vessel at last loomed into view, it seemed to be nothing more than a rather swift civilian yacht. There were no cannons or rocket launchers.

  It didn’t make sense.

  “They must be pirates,” Lundgren said. “Fire another round.”

  Torsten relayed the order. The yacht curved abruptly as the shot pierced the ocean’s surface. A geyser of water flared, but the yacht remained unharmed and unfazed.

  “Get everyone armed,” Lundgren ordered. “They are going to try boarding. That can be the only explanation.”

  Torsten’s nerves lit up like a summer lightning storm over Stockholm. He had never seen a civilian craft operate with such precision, especially against a military vessel like theirs. And somehow, the damn thing had evaded their targeting systems. These weren’t just a few vagabonds looking to score a larger ship.

  Lundgren’s words were soon proven right. Half a dozen sailors, including Torsten and the captain, positioned themselves along the gunwale of the Karlstad with AK5C rifles. Torsten felt a strange sense of security with the weapon, but he still didn’t like it. If the captain was forced to take up arms, then the ship was already lost.

  “Open fire,” Lundgren said as the yacht zoomed up to the Karlstad.

  Bullets ricocheted across the hull of the smaller ship and cracked against the glass covering its helm. But no one fired back.

  What was this? Some kind of ghost ship?

  Then Torsten saw movement. A shape exploded from one of the yacht’s hatches. He had trouble understanding what he was seeing at first. It looked like a person had shot up from the open hatch, jumping inhumanly high.

  A couple of seamen opened fire. But the enemy was too quick. He was already on the deck and had leveled the nearest sailors with a barrage of fire. More figures followed, each leaping like oversized frogs.

  The invaders made quick work of the deck crew. Lundgren grabbed a handset and sent out a distress signal. Torsten doubted anyone would respond. And if they did, it certainly wouldn’t be in time. The remnants of the crew were firing desperately to save the ship. Gunfire rang out all across the deck, followed by screams of agony.

  Then, silence.

  Torsten’s heart raced.

  Lundgren shouldered his rifle. “Do you see anything?”

  Torsten peered out over the deck. The knot in his gut tightened. “Just our men. Dead. All of them dead.”

  “What about the boarders?”

  There was no movement except for the waves slapping the hull of the Karlstad. Where had the enemy gone? They hit hard and then disappeared like shadows in the night.

  Glass exploded behind Torsten. He twisted in time to see a shape burst through one of the windows and barrel into Lundgren. The captain went down in a spate of gunfire.

  The soldier that had taken Lundgren down reared back. A wicked grin cut across his face. The man was unlike any Torsten had ever seen. His eyes were bloodshot and red. His teeth ended in points, and his cheekbones jutted out, bony protuberances piercing his skin. His fingers ended in claws that looked every bit as terrifying as a tiger’s.

  Torsten had seen the images of what the Oni Agent did to humans. He’d heard stories about them. They were mindless monsters with no shred of humanity left. But what stood before him now was no dumb abomination. This monster carried a rifle and wore fatigues like a spec ops operator.

  Lundgren reached for his rifle. Blood trickled across the gashes in his forehead, but he wasn’t dead. His fingers twitched around the stock, and he pulled the weapon toward himself.

  The monster-soldier laughed. He said something in what sounded like Russian as he placed a taloned foot on Lundgren’s wrist. Then he lowered one of his clawed fingers to Lundgren’s neck. He ripped through the skin, leaving behind a gaping mass of throbbing red. Lundgren choked and gurgled as the Russian monster-soldier stared at him with an amused expression.

  Another monster-soldier barged in through the broken window. While the other watched Lundgren die, this one headed toward Torsten. The soldier didn’t raise his rifle, nor did he come at Torsten with any particular urgency.

  Torsten shook himself from his shock. He raised his weapon and fired. Bullets cut through the monster-soldier’s fatigues, and he staggered, wincing. But then he continued onward as if it had been nothing more than a strong wind.

  “What in the...?” Torsten squeezed the trigger again.

  This time the soldier ducked under his aim and slammed into Torsten’s chest. Air rushed from his lungs. Pain radiated deep in his chest. His head cracked against the bulkhead, and his vision blurred. A foot pressed against his agonized ribs, and a demonic face leered down at him.

  Footsteps announced the entrance of someone else on the bridge, and the pressure was suddenly relieved.

  “Is he the only one left?” the newcomer asked. The man spoke English with an accent. Iranian or something like it.

  “Da,” the soldier holding Torsten answered in Russian. Then he switched to broken English. “Not many men on ship. Pathetic.”

  “Pathetic or not,” the Iranian said, “this one may be useful.”

  The soldier hoisted Torsten up by his collar. Before him stood a man who appeared to be in his sixties. A thin mustache lined his upper lip, and creases sprouted from his eyes and across his forehead. His skin looked weathered by the sea and sun. He carried himself with a clear air of authority.

  Did this man control the Russian monsters? It seemed that way, but it made no sense. Then again, neither did half the things Torsten had seen and heard since the outbreak.

  “What do you want?” Torsten asked in English, his voice coming out shakier than he had intended.

  “Ah, good, you can still speak,” the Iranian said, leaning toward Torsten. “How much do you know about this ship?”

  Torsten didn’t reply. How much information should he give this man? Did it even matter now? If he was the last man standing from his crew—perhaps even the last sailor in the Swedish Navy—then why bother resisting?

  The soldier stabbed a claw into Torsten’s side and twisted. Pain scorched through his flesh. He wanted to shrivel up and die, to be relieved of this once and for all. His teeth ground together until the man finally stopped.

  “I’ll ask you again,” the Iranian said. “How much do you know about this ship?”

  “I’m the officer of the watch,” Torsten said. “I know... quite a bit.”

  “Good. This is a stealth ship. Is this the only one?”

  “No, it isn’t,” Torsten said.

  “There were others.”

  Torsten nodded. Where was this interrogation going?

  “One ship was canceled,” the Iranian said. “A Visby-class corvette that never made it into your navy.”

  “I was not aware.”

  “Then maybe you will not be so useful after all.” The Iranian stepped closer, his eyes narrowed. “There is a man by the name of Dominic Holland who sails on a vessel just like this. I would quite like to get my hands on him and his ship. He must be stopped. You understand? Are these ships connected in any way—any type of secured frequency, installed tracking devices, anything that may lead me to him?”

  Torsten shook his head. “No, no. These vessels were designed to be ghosts. They were never meant to be tracked. We’re only found if we want to be found.”

  The Iranian smiled. “Then I suppose it is a good thing we found you. Maybe you are not so invisible as you thought.”

  Torsten swallowed hard. How had this man tracked them down?

  And then he realized what had happened. Lundgren’s constant efforts to help civilians and other military shi
ps, the incessant and open communications they’d been transmitting. It all had gone against every covert regulation. They hadn’t thought stealth was important anymore.

  An old American adage floated through Torsten’s mind: No good deed goes unpunished.

  “More questions?” the Russian asked.

  “No,” the Iranian said. “Dispose of him.”

  A loud rip sounded, followed by a wave of unbridled pain. Torsten looked down to see his stomach torn open like a glinting red smile. The monster-soldier let go of him and wiped his bloodied claw on Torsten’s shirt. Unbearable agony sent Torsten writhing on the deck.

  “Then transfer everything to the Karlstad,” the Iranian said. “We set sail at once.”

  “And the corpses?” the Russian asked.

  “Dispose of them.”

  “With pleasure.”

  By the glint in the Russian’s eyes and the way his teeth gnashed together, Torsten couldn’t tell if that meant throwing the bodies overboard—or something far grislier.

  -3-

  Meredith traced her finger down Dom’s chest. It was scarred and bruised—injuries both old and new. They represented the history of their missions together, ranging from their days in the CIA to their most recent adventures combating the relentless terror that was the Oni Agent. She pressed her body against his, grateful to have a few minutes alone with him in his cabin.

  Finding moments like this had been difficult, not solely because of the intense demands on their time trying to help save the world but also due to the psychological burden of guilt. Maybe they could be doing something more to help others; maybe they were being selfish by stealing some time for themselves when others were dying.

  But they were only human. Pushing themselves onward relentlessly, facing a relentless onslaught of horrors... well, it couldn’t be good for them. Their bodies and minds needed time to unravel all that they’d dealt with, from fighting Skulls to losing close friends and family. Meredith hoped that these moments shared with Dom would be enough to keep her sane.