ARISEN_Book Thirteen_The Siege Read online

  As they were swallowed up again by the dimness of the cabin, and the rotors began to spin up overhead, and the remains of the troop scrambled inside, once again kitted up and humping weapons and gear, Jameson realized he was far past being surprised – that they were instantly deploying again, twenty minutes after getting back from the bloodiest and most costly mission in their entire unit history. It was completely insane, for them to be thrown back into the fight, after all they’d just suffered and been asked to do. And it was also par for the course. It just kept happening.

  Jameson shook his head. It was just their fate.

  Back into the shit again.

  Lazarus

  Onboard the de Havilland Dash 8

  Wesley affectionately traced the double-helix logo on the front of the white plastic housing, then the raised text beneath: Applied Biosystems Ion PGM. He’d actually come back to the rear of the plane to pay his respects to Sergeant Major Handon, who lay unmoving on the deck – attached to Dr. Park by a snaking IV tube, which was filled with dark veinal blood. Noise sat stilly nearby, watching over him, and overseeing the transfusion.

  But Wesley couldn’t resist a moment of happiness when he saw the tabletop gene sequencer, which Park sat hunched behind, monitoring its progress as it churned through the work of sequencing the virus sample from Patient Zero – which also lay on the deck beside him, slowly wiggling in its body bag.

  This, the sequencer, was Wesley’s personal and singular contribution to the war effort – the mission objective he’d run through cataclysmic fire and biblical flood to retrieve from Jizan Economic City in southern Saudi Arabia. That it was even now speeding their progress toward a working vaccine, and perhaps ending the ZA once and for all, was probably the best thing Wesley had ever done. And perhaps the greatest feeling he’d ever had.

  He had made a real difference. And it made him feel like he had a place here. Like he finally belonged.

  Park saw him and smiled at him over the sequencer.

  “How long?” Wesley asked. “To sequence it.”

  Park exhaled. “For a double-stranded RNA virus like Hargeisa, best estimate is two to four days. But there’s really no way to know for sure. Not in advance.”

  “How long has it been going?”

  “About nine hours,” Park said. But then something in Wesley’s expression made Park motion him to sit. “What was it like? What did you have to do to get this?” Park had witnessed some of their mission, on drone video, from CIC in the Kennedy, with Sergeant Lovell. But not all of it.

  Wesley nodded, sat, and gave Park a potted history of their mission to Jizan. He started with the loss of Melvin, drowned before they even got ashore, going on to praise the skills and bravery of his team. But more than anyone he talked up Sarah Cameron. Her shooting had kept them alive through their worst moments. And then it had been her alone who volunteered to support Wesley on his run toward the massive inferno, to put it out by rocketing the desalination plant.

  “She was a force of nature,” Wesley said. “It was a pure suicide mission – and she wouldn’t hear of not going with me.” He paused and squinted. “But it was odd – like she had something to atone for. Some debt to pay.”

  Park nodded, seeming to understand. Sarah had been his personal protection detail for a long time, and he knew how devoted she was. And also how troubled. “Maybe we all have a debt to pay.”

  Wesley said, “And until the very end, when both of us were fished out of the Red Sea, everyone thought she was dead. Including her. Don’t think she expected to live.”

  Park’s expression changed, and he stood up, looking around the sequencer and around Wesley – and down at Handon.

  “What is it?” Noise asked from nearby, also leaning in.

  Park blinked and shook his head. “Nothing. I thought I saw Handon move. And—”

  “And what?”

  “And his expression change.” But Park sat back down again. “It was probably my imagination.”

  * * *

  Shortly after Wesley left and went forward again, Predator and Juice came back. They’d only just finished shucking their gear after the second refueling stop, this time on the coast of Italy. This one had, blessedly, gone a hell of a lot more smoothly than the close-hauled Foxtrot Festival that had been their first stop in Egypt.

  Maybe it was just Africa. Maybe things would be better now.

  “How is he?” Juice asked.

  “Unchanged,” Noise said. “He needs time to heal.”

  “No,” Pred said. “He needs fucking vascular surgery, to repair that torn artery.”

  “And he will have it,” Noise said. He checked his watch. “Soon.”

  Pred sighed, then reached around behind him and pulled at his ass-crack as he sat – not for the first time, in the experience of either Juice or Noise. “That’s it,” he said, looking like he’d come to the end of his rope. “I’m going commando. Fuck it.” For pretty much the full two years of the ZA, he had been cursed by the impossibility of finding underwear that fit his giant ass, not to mention his other giant parts.

  Juice was fully aware of this ongoing issue, but also didn’t want Pred getting naked right on top of them in the narrow confines of the cabin. Nobody did. “Oh, please don’t,” he said.

  “Yep,” Pred said, nodding his huge head, as he unlaced his boots and stood up. “I’m free-ballin’ it all the way to Baghdad!”

  Not commenting on the sudden and bizarre change in destination, Noise just said, “Do not worry, big man. I know an excellent Big’n’Tall men’s shop in central London. I will take you there and get you sorted.”

  Pred grunted as he dropped trou. He honestly wasn’t sure clothes shopping was going to be a big mission priority when they got there.

  If London was even still standing when they did.

  The others turned away as the land giant got naked, blessedly briefly – and then the three of them settled down, resuming their vigil, watching over Handon.

  And willing the plane to fly faster.

  * * *

  They got an update on London shortly after that, when Ali padded silently to the back, flitting in as usual like a ghost.

  “We got through to CentCom,” she said.

  “And?” Pred asked.

  “It’s not good. There’s a giant hole in the city wall in the north. And like five guys left defending it.”

  “Five guys can make all the difference.”

  Ali, Pred, Juice, Noise, and even Park all gaped, open-mouthed, not even catching the reference – that there were exactly five guys left alive on Alpha team. Because the voice that said this was raspy, but still strong and virile, and it had come from all the way down on the deck, right at their feet.

  Handon.

  He’d just woken up.

  * * *

  “Thanks for the blood,” Handon said, his lips cracked and dry, not trying to sit up, but just turning his eyes to follow the transfusion tube from his own arm over to Park’s. As Noise hastened to tilt Handon’s head back and get some water down him, Park shrugged and said, “It’s little enough, I’m afraid.”

  “Yeah,” Pred said to the scientist. “What do you weigh – like a buck twenty-five? Soaking wet, with a hard-on?”

  Park tried to decide whether to explain that no one weighed any more or less with a hard-on. But he knew how smart Predator was, and figured he was setting him up, just to make a crack about his dick size. He didn’t take the bait.

  They were all giddy with excitement and relief that Handon had come around. They only refrained from slapping him on the back so as not to risk killing him. And because he was lying flat on his back. But Handon finished drinking, pushed Noise away, and quickly ruined the party by saying, “Now take it out.”

  “What?” Juice said.

  Handon just looked at him, then at the transfusion tube, not needing to explain. They all got his meaning quickly enough – the world didn’t need a bioscientist savior too lightheaded from blood dona
tion to do the work of finishing his vaccine, just to save one dinged-up old sergeant major.

  “It’s an order,” he said, settling it.

  Pred finally complied – but first getting every drop of blood already in the tube across to his wounded friend. When he pulled out the needle in his arm, Handon felt something nestled beside it, reached over, and came up with his Mercworx Vorax knife. He couldn’t help but smile.

  Ali said, “Pred and Juice got it back for you. From that asshole Misha.”

  Handon put the knife down, but his smile melted away.

  As Pred taped Handon’s arm, reading his look, he asked, “Henno?” The last time any of the others had seen him was when he went back to singlehandedly hold the line at that bridge against Spetsnaz.

  Handon shook his head. “He’s gone.”

  It all flashed before his eyes again, like an especially bad and surreal dream. He’d watched the light go out of Henno’s eyes from barely eighteen inches away. That was after their two-man holding action at the river – and after Henno’s last stand, and crowning moment of badass, fighting Misha head to head on the single girder that remained of that bridge.

  But then Handon’s expression changed to confusion. The last thing he remembered was Misha pointing that cannon at his face and saying goodnight. “Wait – how the hell am I still alive?”

  Ali said, “Misha tried to trade you for Patient Zero.”

  Handon looked up at her. “And you told him to go to Hell.”

  “Nope,” Juice said. “She just hung up on him. And resumed shooting.”

  Handon exhaled. “If you didn’t trade me, how am I here?”

  Ali nodded across at Pred. “Because this big stupid lummock, who is also insane, jumped out the hatch of the plane as it was accelerating for take-off—”

  Juice finished for her. “Jumped out onto a speeding truck, threw every Russian in it out onto the tarmac, tossed your unconscious body back in the plane, then leaped in after you.”

  Noise jumped in. “But not before dismantling the whole Spetsnaz convoy, more or less by hand.”

  Pred nodded at Noise. “I had help.”

  Handon blinked slowly in the near dark, obviously not sure whether to believe any of this. What they had described was patently impossible, too badass even for Predator. He honestly thought they might be fucking with him.

  Then again, he thought, it is Predator.

  He just shook his head weakly and let it go. Maybe there’d be time later to hear the full tale. Time for everything.

  “Misha?” he asked.

  Pred said, “We threw him out of the goddamned plane – after take-off.” He nodded at the nearby rear hatch.

  Noise said, “But not before Pred beat him senseless.”

  Pred looked at Juice. “He was also bleeding to death.”

  Juice nodded at Park. “Plus infected.”

  “Jesus,” Handon said, laughing weakly again. They’d really done a number on the poor guy. He was slightly shocked to learn that Misha had actually been on board the plane – but it clearly hadn’t worked out well for him. And whatever his own people’d had to fight through, they had gotten it done.

  As he always knew they would.

  His expression darkened again. “Who did we lose?”

  Ali answered, her voice affectless. “Jake Redding. Both Brady and Reyes. And Zack Altringham.” She paused. “That was just the shore mission. We don’t have casualty numbers from the carrier.”

  “And don’t fucking forget Sergeant Lovell.”

  This voice was new – and unmistakable. It was Fick, belatedly getting the news that Handon had woken up. Behind him, Baxter and Kate were lurking in the wings, trying to get a look. Slowly, everyone on board was coming back and gathering around to behold the risen Lazarus. Fick shoved the others out of his way, squatted down by Handon, picked up his limp hand in his own, and gripped it, arm-wrestling style.

  Handon said, “I’m sorry. Your Marines were good men.”

  “They were fucking outstanding,” Fick said.

  Handon exhaled, his head rolling slightly on the deck, as he absorbed all this. It was a hell of a sacrifice. All those heroes fallen, gone forever. His eyes went across to the gene sequencer, to Park, and to the wiggling form of the bagged-up Patient Zero on the deck.

  Fick caught his look. “You got it done,” he said.

  “No,” Handon said. “You did.” It had been Fick’s team that had finally swiped the precious corpse from Spetsnaz in a daring and costly raid on the far side of the river.

  “We all did it,” Juice said, squeezing Handon’s arm, tears appearing at the corners of his eyes.

  Handon looked up at Ali, then at the others.

  “Give us a minute,” he said.

  The others nodded and rose – save Park, who just sat down and disappeared behind the sequencer again.

  Noise looked at Ali. “His vitals or presentation change—”

  Pred finished for him. “You shout – loud.” He looked back and down at Handon, his eyes shining. “We love you, man.”

  Handon knew they did. And it occurred to him now that maybe love was how you knew you were still alive. That you weren’t dead yet. He looked up at what was left of his team.

  Maybe love would keep them all alive.

  * * *

  “I had a feeling you’d be up,” Ali said as she sat down, smiling and squeezing his hand. She was repeating his line, from back when he’d come and found her in her cabin on the JFK – in the middle of a black night when neither could sleep, and which now seemed like a lifetime ago. It was probably the last time they had talked alone.

  Handon remembered, and used another line from the same chat. “A stone-cold hyper-professional killer like me? No danger.” The last two words were, they both knew, stolen from Henno.

  Ali squeezed his hand harder, before putting it back on his chest. “I’m glad it was Henno. And not you. Who fell.”

  Handon didn’t look like he was so sure. “Whatever else, I can answer your question now.” His voice sounded like his own, but he spoke more slowly, still weak and dehydrated.

  “Which question?”

  “‘What’s the difference?’’’ Handon said. “You wanted to know what the difference was – between Henno and the pirates, on Lake Michigan. And the answer is: in what he fought for. Yes, he was every bit as vicious as them – ten times more vicious. But it was all in service of something greater than himself. He went down so the rest of us could stand, and carry the fight. And so everyone back home might live. He fought for others.”

  Ali nodded. It was suddenly obvious to her – Handon and Henno had finally made their peace with each other. Before the end. Maybe right at the end.

  “I withdraw my question,” she said. “I’d take one Henno over ten thousand pirates.”

  “If we had ten thousand Hennos, the ZA would be over.”

  * * *

  Ali guessed there was a reason Handon wanted her alone, and it wasn’t to eulogize Henno. Now he got to it.

  “London still stands?” he asked.

  Ali nodded. “For now.”

  Handon took a breath. “When you hit the ground, get the vaccine completed and into production. Vaccinate front-line combatants first – starting with us. Starting with yourself.”

  Ali nodded.

  “You’re going to have to work with the Brits. But don’t let their conventional-forces leadership take over and make decisions that can’t be walked back. Do end-runs around them if you have to. You’re a lot smarter than they are. We’re too close to the endgame now.”

  “Check,” Ali said. “But you can do the end-runs yourself.”

  Handon didn’t reply. His look said: Maybe. Maybe not.

  Instead, he said, “I think it’s going to get bad before the end. You’ll have to tune out the chaos, and the panic that will envelop everyone around you. You’re going to have to fight to maintain mission focus. But do that, and you can pull this thing out. Even at t
he very last second, even if time is expiring.”

  Ali nodded. She could see, from Handon’s expression, that he knew she already knew all or most of this. These were reminders. It was last-minute coaching.

  “Stay together, and fight together, if you can. Split up if you have to, but try to stay in pairs. Don’t hesitate to make the necessary calls yourself – I mean you, personally – to take control of the process, if that’s what’s required to get it done.”

  Ali took a breath and nodded.

  “Whatever happens, don’t let Alpha get poured into the fight as front-line infantry. However many or few British forces left, you let them do the ground pounding. Don’t get pulled into low-value-add missions, or risk becoming Zulu fodder. Your team is a force multiplier, the long lever. You find the right spot to plant it. And then dig in.”

  Ali didn’t comment on the phrase he used: Your team. But she didn’t fail to notice it. And she knew it wasn’t an accident.

  Handon’s expression softened, and he smiled up at her. “And think of me when things get dark.”

  Ali shook her head. “I’ll look at you, standing right beside me. Because you’re coming back.” What she meant was, You’re coming back to the fight. But both meanings hung out in the air. And Handon still didn’t respond to this.

  Instead, he switched gears. “Where’s Homer?”

  “Back at the flattop. His kids.”

  Handon nodded. “He’ll come back.”

  Ali smiled. It seemed unlikely, but maybe Handon was right. Homer always did seem to come back.

  His expression grew serious again. “And when he does, you hold him close. You keep each other alive.”

  Ali looked noncommittal. Handon interpreted her look.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. He didn’t have to tell her of what. She knew. “Because the mission is more likely to succeed with both of you alive – and fighting together. Side-by-side.”

  She nodded, still looking equivocal.

  Handon reached out and took her hand now – and he squeezed it with a force that surprised her, drawing her gaze down into his eyes, which were ice-blue, yet alive with warmth, and also very intent.