ARISEN, Book Twelve - Carnage (22 page)

Handon had in fact finally been wounded, hit from behind. He didn’t even know whether it was a “seeing-eye” round or else a piece of shrapnel from an exploding grenade or rocket. Hell, it could have been a bullet fragment or tiny sliver of casing. That’s all it took. And this one had snuck up just underneath his vest, in the small of his back. There, he was pretty sure, it had done two things.

One, it either had severed or else just put severe pressure on one of the posterior lumbar nerves that emerged from his spine, on the right side. The pressure felt low, and it probably was, because the lower ones served most of the muscles up and down the leg. And Handon could neither feel nor move his right leg – not any part of it. It definitely wasn’t following his orders. This might be temporary (pressure), or it might be permanent (severance), but either way it was probably forever – due to Handon being unlikely to live long enough to recover or convalesce.

Because that same chunk of metal had also nicked or severed an artery, and he was now losing blood, a lot of it, from that same little hole in his back. He could feel the warmth and wetness of it drenching his legs – or his left leg, anyway. His guess was it was the lumbar artery. And because of where it was, and also because it wasn’t close to the surface, there was no way he could get it tied off or even wrapped up.

And he could feel his strength ebbing away.

He laughed to think of all those bullets and explosions he’d dodged by inches, over all those fights and missions. And it all came down to this – one little hole, just in the wrong place. But one bullet, one shrapnel fragment, one tiny hole, was all it took. Handon had always known it was everybody’s day someday. And that, on any given day, anyone could go down. Nobody got a pass.

Not even Command Sergeant Major Handon.

And finally, knowing Henno was still out there holding the line, Handon’s eyelids, each weighing a ton, pressed down… and his light went out.

And CSM Handon lost consciousness and slumped down into the mud.

Stronger Than Death

Somalia – Northwest River Valley

Handon awoke again to the sound of a splash.

He was badly weakened, and no longer anything like combat effective. But he was also not out of the fight – because you were never out of the fight. And a Delta operator with over twenty years in was supremely dangerous in almost any state, short of being deep under the ground.

As he heard something approaching through the brush, he dropped out the empty mag from his right-hand .45 and felt around for another one. Nothing. He looked and patted around for single loose rounds. There might have been some, but he couldn’t pick them out. Because he was lying in a pile of his own shell casings.

Correction – his and Henno’s shell casings.

Nonetheless, he laughed at this. He was going out just as he’d always planned – dying in a pile of his own brass. He remembered the old prayer, popular in the Ranger Regiment: “Lord, make me fast and accurate. Let my aim be true and my hand faster than those who would seek to destroy me. Grant me victory over my foes and those that wish to do harm to me and mine. And Lord if today is truly the day that you call me home, let me die in a pile of brass.”

And he also remembered Rule #10 of gunfights: “Someday someone may kill you with your own gun, but they should have to beat you to death with it because it’s empty.”

The mind does funny shit in combat
, Handon reflected.

But he was okay with being black on ammo, just as he was happy enough to be facing the blackness of his own extinction. Because the job was done – or so close as made no difference. It had to be. Because as far as he knew, there was now nothing between his team, with Patient Zero, and their flight out of there – nothing but a few kilometers of open road, and maybe a few stumbling Zulus at the airport. And Handon was still between them and the enemy.

And he still had his knife.

As the rustling came closer, he snapped the thumb break on his vest sheath, and pulled out his good old Mercworx Vorax combat knife. It was all he had left, but he was damned glad to have it. Though, with that, his cursedly heavy eyelids tried to go down again. And when he levered them back up, he saw, not Spetsnaz coming for him – but Henno.

Somehow, he was back.

But he was face down, pulling himself through the mud, crawling back to the little depression they had both so recently occupied. He was also soaking wet. Only now, Handon could see, Henno had one hand over his belly – and was trailing a rich dark blood trail behind him. Henno was bleeding out.

Because he had been gutted.

As he rolled back into the glen, he wheezed and said, “Didn’t think I was gonna leave you on your own to fuck this up at the end, did you…?” But then his strength gave out, and his cheek slumped in the mud, eyes still looking toward Handon.

Handon held Henno’s familiar flinty gaze.

Even as the light went out of his eyes.

* * *

Henno could feel the cold mud on his cheek, though he lacked the strength to move his head, or any of the rest of him, anymore. But he sighed in contentment. Because, while he was looking at Handon, what he was actually seeing was… Blakey Ridge, out on the North York Moors, where he had tramped so many times as a boy.

And somehow he knew that Aiden and Luke, the Captain’s lads, would one day go out there, too. Having no children of his own, he had always wanted to take them there. But they had been too young for real hiking at first, and later on there had been no time – because the world ended, and the long fight began. But now, because of what Henno and their dad had done, so many miles away from home, those boys would one day get the chance to ramble across the moors. And maybe even get a nice pint afterward at the Red Lion Inn.

Henno left this world knowing that he had done the job. That he had fulfilled his duty. Just like his revered commander, Captain Ainsley, he had given his life to get it done. To do whatever was necessary to bring it home. For England, for Queen and country.

For the world.

And he died knowing that all the sacrifice hadn’t been in vain.

* * *

Slumping down in the mud alongside his brother warrior, Handon realized that his final vision might actually be of… Sarah Cameron.

He would really have liked to get back and reconcile with her, to work things out. He hated leaving it like they had. But of course he chose the mission in the end. Which was the way it was supposed to be. And he had a funny feeling she’d find someone else – probably fast. She had never seemed like a one-man kind of woman, anyway.

But, ultimately, Handon had to forgive her. Because, in the end, she did know what her duty was. She knew what was important – even if she forgot sometimes, and frequently didn’t act like it. But she had sacrificed a great deal for the mission. And their last words to each other, over that satphone connection, had been about the mission.

But there was something else.

Handon also wondered if they had all paid a price for the influence she’d had on him. Maybe if he had been tougher, not been weakened by his dalliance, not had that epiphany at her cabin about the importance of preserving their humanity… maybe things would have played out better, or the mission progressed faster. Maybe not so many would have had to die.

Maybe Henno would even still be alive.

But Handon couldn’t make himself believe that. In the end, he knew they had to save humanity – but also find a way back to their own. And maybe their own humanity, their love for one another, was the only thing that would save them in the end. Maybe only love was stronger than death. He knew the others would have time to figure that out now. And, whatever else, Sarah had given him an experience of life, and love, and joy, that he had never believed he was going to find again in this world.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds.

And he found his last vision wasn’t actually going to be of her. Because when that dark theater descended, onto the stage of his consciousness walked players he had known a lot longer, and held a lot dearer: Ali and Homer… Predator and Juice… even Ainsley and Pope, who had bowed out of the great play weeks ago. And in the final hour, it occurred to Handon that he didn’t even need to make it home from this mission. When he was with his team, with his brother warriors, when they were all together in the fight… he was already home. And he was across the bridge.

This was the place where he belonged.

He knew no other. And he needed none.

* * *

When Handon levered his eyes open again, and fought to focus, it was on Misha’s evil eyes staring back at him. The big Russian warlord was squatting down in the mud beside him, regarding Handon with something like curiosity. It definitely wasn’t compassion. Misha was also streaming with blood. Whatever happened out on that bridge, Henno had definitely gotten his licks in.

And Misha was like a living rebuke to Handon’s belief that love was stronger than death. Misha and his whole existence, his brutality and mercilessness, the only-the-strong-survive and devil-take-the-hindmost attitude his men showed to one another… all of it was a denial and a negation of the Americans’ belief in humanity and right action, in brotherhood and love for their fellows.

Misha’s survival, and Handon’s defeat, said: only strength could vanquish death. Only viciousness and brutality could survive. Humanity and love were for the weak, and the fallen. Only by destroying their humanity – and all trace of weakness, of sentimentality and compassion – could man conquer death.

Handon mustered a last pulse of strength and brought his knife out from under his body, striking toward the side of Misha’s neck. But either the Russian was faster than he looked, or Handon was moving slower than he thought, because the knife struck Misha’s forearm, which he had brought up beside his neck. He didn’t even block the strike, but just took the stab in his arm, holding Handon’s gaze, fascinated. Finally he reached around, wrapped Handon’s knife hand in his, pulled the blade free, and regarded it.

“Excellent knife,” he said. He then pulled out a square of cloth, which actually looked to Handon like a Harley bandana, wiped the blood off the blade, then tied the cloth around his arm wound.

He then touched his radio and said, “
Polucheno. Pomnite – NE vykhodyat iz stroya, chtoby zakhvatit’ ikh samolet
.” But when he released his radio button and focused on Handon, he saw the American was pressing his own, holding the channel open. Almost gently, Misha pulled the wire from the radio.

And when Misha finally stood up, Handon could see he was surrounded by a circle of soldiers. One of them handed Misha back his Desert Eagle, which he chamber-checked, then pointed at Handon’s head. Handon mustered his strength again and, refusing to die face down in the mud, rolled over on his back, then levered himself up on his elbows.

And he looked up at Misha, his eyes still bright.

Misha cocked his head, evidently puzzled by what he saw on the face of the other man.

It was contentment.

Handon had just spent his life to delay the enemy long enough to complete the mission – and to ensure the safe return of the people on his team, whom he loved.

And so he was happy.

But what Misha saw was a man who did not fear death. And he was impressed, despite himself. The American commander had put up a hell of a fight.

“Warriors wage war,” Misha said, putting the muzzle of the Desert Eagle to Handon’s forehead. “But for you, now – sleep.” For once, his voice was not a terrifying rumble, nor even unkind.

It sounded nearly human.

Last Stand

JFK – Hospital Lab

Sergeant Lovell, Sarah Cameron, Doctor Park, and Professor Close were still holed up in the lab, while the battle for the hospital raged outside. Park and Close had their laptops and research materials in satchels and backpacks. Sarah insisted on humping the DNA sequencer on her back. Lovell had no idea how she was going to bear the weight, much less fight while doing it, but then again he didn’t know how much she could deadlift. And also there was no choice – because he had to carry the even heavier bagged-up CRRC on his back, the raft that was their ride out of there. And he was definitely going to have to fight while he did that.

The question was no longer where to go, just how the hell they were going to get out of there. They all froze as the sounds of battle ramped up outside again. It started with another flurry of grenade blasts.

Then shouts, screams of pain.

And firing, both suppressed and full-volume, rifles and pistols, more shouting, the desperate cries of men and women fighting to the death in close quarters. Growing closer.

No one spoke, as Lovell scanned faces a last time. Sarah looked adrenalized but ready. Close looked like he was battling with bladder control. Only Park looked calm – totally unperturbed, actually. Like, whatever was going to happen now, he would deal with it. Lovell hadn’t been along for most of Park’s journey from mouse hiding in his hole to indomitable survivor and champion of humanity, fully committed to living long enough to do his job. But he liked the result.

Lovell picked up the frame charge from where he’d dumped it on the floor, out of the ruck that now held the sequencer. And he picked a spot on the bulkhead.

They were out of options, and out of time.

* * *

Outside, the invaders had breached again – once again in front of a grenade volley. Most of the hospital personnel active in the defense were now dead, dying, or wounded, including Walker herself, who was bloody but unbowed. She’d run out of shotgun shells, so had picked up the fallen NSF man’s M4 and got his vest on, with its few remaining mags. Rifle to shoulder, she fired steadily, falling back with the survivors while Patrick, badly wounded himself, covered the withdrawal.

The front of the hospital was lost.

Walker directed the three remaining men and women under her command in establishing a fallback position in the middle. Two of them, out of pistol rounds, had managed to pick up AK carbines from fallen Russians. One, a doctor badly out of his depth, but aware of his duty as a military officer, dropped the mag out and checked it. It was empty. There’d been no time to pull extra mags off the dead invaders. Walker drew her M9, reversed it, and handed to him.