ARISEN_Book Fourteen_ENDGAME Read online

  Homer nodded.

  Wesley cocked his head. “Mind if I ask what for?”

  Homer smiled. “For protection, mainly.”

  “Protection of…?”

  “This fortress, that it may stand. Of our mission. Of everyone inside these walls, who I love. And everyone else, everywhere. Who I also love.”

  Wes nodded. All of that sounded pretty good to him. Especially the fortress standing bit.

  Homer’s expression changed slightly. “I was just thinking of Masada, actually.”

  “Masada?”

  “It’s an ancient fortification, on the eastern edge of the Judaean Desert, overlooking the Dead Sea, in modern-day Israel. It’s a very dramatic setting, situated on top of an isolated rock plateau, like a mesa.”

  “Why were you thinking of that?”

  “It was one of history’s great fortresses, and one of David’s strongholds mentioned in the Old Testament. Herod the Great built palaces on the mountain and fortified Masada about thirty years before the birth of Christ. About a hundred years later, in the first Great Revolt of the Jews against the Roman Empire, toward the very end, Masada was taken under siege. The Roman governor of Judaea led an entire Roman legion, about 15,000 soldiers, to lay siege to fewer than a thousand Jews inside – so-called Zealots, who advocated rebelling against the Romans.”

  Wesley chuckled at the name. It had been co-opted by the Christian mutineers on the JFK. Funny how everything came back around again. He didn’t even know it was Homer who had originally warned command about the Zealots on the carrier – and been ignored.

  “How did it end?” Wesley asked.

  “Not well for the Jews,” Homer said. “The Romans surrounded the fortress and built a siege ramp, moving thousands of tons of stones and earth to do so. Trapped and badly outnumbered, everyone inside the walls finally committed mass suicide. They believed it was the will of God.”

  Wesley shook his head. He wished he hadn’t asked. Also, he was getting really tired of this whole will-of-God thing. But he reminded himself not to judge. He knew Homer was very religious – and as far as Wesley knew, there was absolutely nothing to be said against this man. He had nearly singlehandedly saved the carrier from the Russian warship and its Naval Spetsnaz brigade, not to mention been in every part of the mission to recover Dr. Park.

  So Wes just said, “You know, you were right about Spetsnaz, and the risk to the ship. I was there. I saw them, close-up.”

  “Me, too,” Homer said. “Though I was just there at the end. Your NSF guys did the heavy lifting, along with the Marines.”

  Wesley smiled. That was a kind thing for him to say.

  Then Homer turned and looked back at the glow in the north. “Look how beautiful it is,” he said.

  “What?” Wesley said. “London burning? This fallen world?”

  “Yes,” Homer said. “Even dying, it’s still so beautiful.”

  “I hope you’re not right about this place being Masada.”

  “Me, too,” Homer said. Wesley expected him to say it was in God’s hands, but he didn’t. Maybe it was still in theirs. Homer turned around again and started toward the stairs.

  “Where are you going?” Wesley asked.

  “To make myself useful. There are always sandbags to fill.”

  Wesley smiled, and followed him. He still had the officer equivalent of sandbags to fill. Though he rather feared it was going to be him being walloped in the head with one.

  Either way, duty called.

  * * *

  Kate stepped out into the Common and scanned the darkness. She needed to hook back up with Baxter, but hadn’t found him back in the sniper OP, and thought perhaps he might have gone this way.

  She found Predator instead, coming through the gate from the prison to the Common. He was carrying what looked like four cans of belted 7.62mm rounds. Kate happened to know each one of those ammo cans weighed nearly twenty pounds. Naturally, he didn’t look remotely bothered by the weight. Like he’d be carrying a lot more if he could just grip them somehow.

  “Big guy,” she said, smiling – genuinely happy to see him.

  “Oh, heya, Kate,” Pred said, smiling in turn, and looking equally happy.

  They hadn’t had much time alone, not since their guard duty together early on, in that sangar back at Camp Price in the Somali highlands. But it had been a very quick and powerful connection forged between the two. This often happened in wartime. In thirty minutes, she’d gone from learning about his weightlifting philosophy to hearing about the death of his wife. Along the way, she’d sensed his deep and abiding sadness, and heard about his best friend Juice’s near-death experience – how he had broken through to something on the other side, to where life awaited, and was so beautiful. But how Juice couldn’t lead him there, and Pred couldn’t seem to find his way.

  She remembered him telling her that it seemed death could never take him. But he still couldn’t find his way back to life, because he couldn’t stop thinking about all he’d lost – mainly his wife, Cali. And that he was lost on his own journey.

  She nodded at the ammo cans. “Watcha’ doin’?”

  “I seem to be the supply train for Juice’s robot army.”

  Kate didn’t understand that. But she didn’t have to. She just took the opening. “‘You still don’t get it, do you? He’ll find her! That’s what he does! That’s all he does! You can’t stop him! He’ll wade through you, reach down her throat and pull her fuckin’ heart out!’”

  Pred just glared at her, clearly annoyed.

  “Aw, come on,” she said, poking him. “There must be some movies you love and can quote by heart. Aliens? Die Hard? Predator – surely that one, at least!”

  “If I recite a movie quote, will you leave me alone?”

  “No. But do it anyway.”

  Pred sighed. “‘Listen, Walter, the paper’s gonna have to get along without me. So are you. It just didn’t work out, Walter.’ ‘Well, it would have worked out if you’d been satisfied with just being editor and reporter – but not you! You had to marry me and spoil everything.’”

  Kate just stared. “What the hell is that from?”

  Pred looked at her like she was stupid, and tried again. “‘I wish you hadn’t done that, Hildy… divorce me. Makes a fellow lose all faith in himself… almost gives him a feeling he wasn’t wanted.’”

  She still just stared blankly.

  Pred sighed, exasperated. “His Girl Friday, nineteen-forty. Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell? Come on!”

  “What, screwball comedies? Are you serious?”

  “Hey, man, they didn’t call it the Golden Age of Hollywood for nothing.”

  Kate could only shake her head. She definitely had never met anyone like this man before. She realized she should have tried to spend more time with him on the flight back from Somalia. But she’d been crushed with grief over Jake’s death, holding vigil over his body – and that was when they weren’t all fighting off hundreds of Foxtrots, trying to refuel the plane. And maybe there had been something else. Maybe, with Jake still lying there cold and dead, she’d felt guilty about other feelings she’d been having…

  But maybe there was still time for her and Pred to talk.

  At least there was this moment.

  She also noted that he hadn’t put down the nearly eighty pounds of ammo. And seemed to have no desire to do so. But, mainly, he seemed to be in markedly better spirits now than when they’d last talked. She’d been pretty worried about him.

  “How are you?” she asked. “Really?”

  He nodded, seeming to know what she meant. “I’m better,” he said. “Hey, you know what? I got one.”

  “Got what?”

  “A Cali. You said maybe I could still save someone else’s Cali. Well, I saved one. Just yesterday.”

  Kate smiled, and her heart swelled. Back in that sangar, it had seemed like, if both of them could make a new friend, even in the post-Apocalypse, it might be something they co
uld build on. And a chance for him to find a way back. It sounded like that was what was happening – and she could see it in his eyes now. She knew everyone just needed a mission.

  And someone to love them.

  “And, hey, we’re not done yet,” she said. “We’ve still got a shot at saving every Cali left.” She put out her fist.

  “Every Cali left,” he said, but didn’t have a fist free to bump.

  So Kate stood tall, jumped the last stretch – and kissed him on the cheek.

  Protection

  CentCom – Armory

  Charlotte found her way to the armory on her own. It wasn’t too hard – it seemed to be the one place everyone went sooner or later, like the tea room, or the water cooler, at some normal place of work. So she also wasn’t completely surprised when she ran into Jameson in there.

  “Hiya, mate,” she said to his back. “I mean, Major.”

  He turned around from squatting down in front of a shelf, pen and sheaf of paper in hand. “Evening, Captain.”

  She zoomed in on the rank insignia on his chest. “Ooh, look at you with your flash new rank slide.”

  He stood up. “Yeah, now it’s out in the open, I’m going to get all the really shit jobs. Like ammo manifests.”

  “Figured they’d have clerks for that.”

  Jameson smiled. “They do. But those guys aren’t going to be first to die when the ammo runs out. Wanted a quick look and a rough tally myself. What brings you in here?”

  Charlotte looked around. “Shopping. Thought I might pick up a new weapon. Think they’ve got anything compact?”

  “Follow me,” he said, leading her around to the weapons racks on the other side. “Carbine, maybe?” He pointed to a couple of lonely L22s at the end. It had a 12.5-inch barrel, versus 20.4 on the standard L85A2, and a vertical foregrip due to having no handguard. Its reduced power and range were made up for by compactness.

  “Perfect,” Charlotte said, taking one down.

  Jameson nodded at the MP7 still in her shoulder rig. “Not happy with the street sweeper?”

  Charlotte sighed. “I’ve got a bad feeling I’m going to need a bigger hand weapon before this is over. I’ve already crash-landed once, and seen closer action than I’m used to.” She paused. “I was also thinking of Jugroom Fort.”

  “I think Croucher was actually there,” Jameson said.

  “So was I,” Charlotte said. She figured Jameson, as a Marine, would know about the famous battle. In it, a company of 45 Royal Marine Commando had assaulted a fortified Taliban compound, crossing the Helmand River on foot to reach it. A fierce firefight ensued and the Marines withdrew – but, back across the river, they discovered one of them had been left behind.

  They didn’t have proper helicopters to support a rescue mission – so, displaying the genius of desperation, four Marines strapped themselves to the stub wings of two Apache gunships. Covered by a third, they flew over the battlefield and landed inside the walls of the fort. The four Marines, assisted by Apache pilots and gunners, moved out on foot and found the missing man, and everyone flew out again, clinging to the outsides of the helos.

  The missing man was already dead, but they got him out.

  That third Apache had been flown by Charlotte – and in covering the others, she had famously held off hundreds of attacking Taliban, by firing every weapon she had, expending £426,353.36 worth of ordnance in six minutes, thus setting a record for then and probably for all time.

  But she wasn’t even the biggest badass of that battle.

  Because on the same day, fellow Apache pilot Ed Macy had performed actions that earned him the Military Cross – the third highest award for bravery in the British military. And it is not a flying medal. He got it for jumping out of his Apache and engaging Taliban fighters on the ground with his side arm.

  Emptying a vest pouch of some survival supplies, then refilling it with magazines for her new weapon, Charlotte said, “If I find myself out on the ground again, and the Ed Macy of the scenario, I want something bigger to shoot with.”

  What she didn’t say, but figured Jameson knew anyway, was: the heavier weapon wasn’t even really to defend herself. It was so she would always be able to protect her boys. Even if her dragon was peeled away from around her piece by piece.

  And she was out there with them, down on the ground.

  * * *

  “This is going to be hard,” Ali said, “but you’re going to have to forget most of your training.”

  Elliot looked across at her in the dark.

  The two of them had moved positions, emplacing their weapons on the east side of the guard tower. No more dead had come over the top of the meat wall, and now they needed targets. And there were plenty to be seen migrating to the south around the sides of CentCom. Happily, they were mostly keeping their distance from the walls, and still seemed oblivious to there being living people inside.

  “I’m ready,” Elliot said. “Tell me.”

  Ali nodded. “Okay. Weapon position and shooting posture, external ballistics, time-of-flight, windage and bullet drop, breathing, all that stuff. They’re still important, and you can’t totally disregard them. But they’re no longer the main factors in this type of shooting.”

  Elliot took another shot on a runner – a hit.

  “You’ve demonstrated you can hit runners,” Ali said.

  “I had to learn. Or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Survivorship bias,” Ali said, with a twinkle. However, Elliot seemed not much to like the sound of that, so she moved on. “But Foxtrots move differently. A lot differently. I’d say they’re an order of magnitude harder to hit than runners. And to do it consistently, you have to learn to feel their movement. Then you’ve got to slap at the trigger, not squeeze it, at just the right instant to hit them. Typically the range isn’t much – they’re on you too fast. Like I said, this is where most of the principles go out the window.”

  Elliot picked out a Foxtrot in the distance, gamboling around in the dark. He fired – a miss. Again – another miss. Then he hit, but not in the head. He cursed aloud.

  “It’s all right,” Ali said. “You’re improving. And you’ve got some native talent.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. If you were in the Airborne or the Rangers, I’d recommend you for SOTIC.” This was the Special Operations Target Interdiction Course, the nine-week sniper school conducted on a dedicated training facility at the JFK Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg. It was also the primary basic training course for all Delta snipers. Elliot would have heard of it. Now Ali looked across at him. “But it’s not really about talent, or even about learning – the lifelong commitment to mastering your craft. Though both are necessary.”

  “What then?”

  “It’s about the men down on the ground below you, who are going in first through that front door. It’s about the determination to be able to protect your teammates.”

  He obviously liked the sound of that better.

  Ali stopped short of saying, It’s really about love. But she believed it. And she was pretty sure this kid was thinking it.

  They both were.

  * * *

  How about you stop feeling sorry for yourself.

  Wesley’s words replayed in Fick’s head, over and over, as he sat alone now in the dark of their CP. From the mouths of babes, he thought. He’d never imagined he’d have to be set straight by someone who was, all at once, an officer, a former security guard, and a Brit.

  Just goes to show. People will surprise you.

  The doorframe knocked, and Fick spun around in his chair. Somehow he hadn’t heard anyone come up the stairs. Squinting in the dark, he recognized the Royal Marine officer – from back when he and his team had almost lit up Fick’s ass and his team’s asses, down in the prison yard.

  “Lieutenant Wesley around?” Jameson asked.

  “Nah. What do you need?”

  “I did a rough ammo manifest from the armory, from after the
battle. Thought it might be useful to him.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  The Marine walked in and handed over a single handwritten sheet of paper. Fick liked that. It wasn’t on a goddamned glowing device. Looking up, he now noticed for the first time the Brit had a thick line of scar tissue on his face. Other than being three furrows instead of two, it was eerily like Fick’s own facial scar, even on the same side, the left.

  “How’d you get that scar?” Fick asked.

  Jameson laughed. “You Americans, always the same.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know someone for five minutes, and think you’re entitled to their entire life story. How did you get yours?”

  Fick snorted. “If we both survive this, maybe I’ll tell you.”

  “If anyone survives this.”

  Fick gestured at the other chair. Jameson took it, but gave him a slightly sardonic look.

  “Yeah, I know,” Fick said. “It’s your chair, just like it’s your base. And yeah, I know – bloody Yanks, always riding to the rescue, after Britain has been fighting alone for years, and when it’s almost too late.”

  Jameson smiled. “You said it, not me.”

  Fick smiled back. Both men had been in the military long enough to have served alongside personnel from the other country. By the time of the fall, it was sometimes said that virtually no one but the British could share a battlefield with the Americans. They were the only ones who kept up the investment, technology, training, and professionalism.

  Fick nodded his head at the desk. “Coffee?”

  “Got anything stronger?”

  “Yeah, actually.” Fick got up, went to a drawer, and pulled out that pewter flask of Scotch Wesley had found in there. “Been saving this.”

  “For what?”

  Fick raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. Good point.” He poured two fingers in each of two coffee cups. Then he added a finger to each, and handed one over.

  Jameson nodded at the bandaged tip of Fick’s ring finger – or, rather, the absence of tip. “What happened there?”

  “Damned Russian shot it off me, in an ambush on open ground.” Fick nodded at the bloody bandage visible beneath the torn cloth of Jameson’s sleeve. “What happened there?”