ARISEN, Book Twelve - Carnage (31 page)

* * *

Park looked up at the sound of furious gunfire high above.

“Forget it,” Lovell said, getting the winch line cast off. “Eyes front. We go forward.”

Park nodded and got busy helping, by starting the outboard motor. He realized the
Kennedy
had come to a complete stop now, which definitely eased their entry into the water. Lovell pushed him down into the bottom of the boat and took over at the motor. He revved it up, dropped it down, and they roared off like a duck out of hell, the great gray ice shelf of the carrier receding behind them.

Park appreciated the sentiment, but the air cells of this raft weren’t going to shield him from any threats anyway, and he didn’t like cowering down in the bilge. As he rose up and looked back, and they angled away from the carrier, suddenly a smaller gray ice shelf appeared from around behind it – one nearly as impressive, but totally unexpected.

It was the hull of the giant Russian boat, the
Akula
-class sub.

Park’s mouth opened as he saw the ranks of armed men filling most of its sprawling deck. “Holy shit,” he said.

Lovell saw it too, but he looked blasé.

Park gawked at him, uncomprehending.

Lovell shrugged. “She shouldn’t have breached,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the engine noise and shushing of water over the rubber hull.

“What? Why not?”

“Because a sub’s totally vulnerable on the surface.”

“Vulnerable to
what
…?”

But before Lovell could answer, gigantic geysers of seawater blasted up from around the waterline of the vessel.

* * *

Wild cheers erupted in the confined space of CIC – the sound of a Super Bowl party whose team had just completed a hail Mary pass to win with time expired.

Drake just leaned back in his chair, looking over the heads of the leaping and shouting men and women, at the image on the big central overhead monitor. It was still grainy, but the
Akula
was much closer now – close enough to see the great geysers of white foam erupting all around its waterline, explosions tearing through its superstructure, and the Spetsnaz naval commandos on the deck being launched off the deck and hundreds of feet into the air. They rained down over the Gulf of Aden on all sides, limbs flailing, like a Russian meatball shower.

More wild cheers erupted with every geyser, every flying Spetsnaz dude, every splashdown.

Seaman Armour fought her way through the dancing mob to where Drake serenely sat. “What the hell is this?”

Drake smiled. “The USS
Washington
, of course.” The carrier strike group’s
Virginia
-class fast attack submarine – which, as on so much of this mission, had been trailing behind them, doing 25 knots to the
Kennedy
’s 40.

“I fucking love that sub,” said LT Campbell, appearing behind Drake’s chair. She put her hands on his shoulders, squeezing affectionately.

He looked up at her and smiled.

“Nice to have you around again, too,” Campbell added. She smiled down at his inverted face. Drake tried to remember when he had ever seen Campbell smile before. Probably never.

Armour squinted in awe. “You knew exactly when it would get here.” She knew enough to know that only a few people on board knew the location, heading, or speed of the sub.

Drake shrugged again. “I’ve been out of the loop for a while. But I had a pretty good idea. I did the math, and the LT here verified it. We also had no comms with them – so had to trust their captain to take action and attack.”

Armour shook her head, and stole another look at the overhead display. “Jesus, though – that was
close
.” She meant the
Akula
was minutes from catching the carrier when it got torpedoed.

Drake drew a breath and stood up. “Luckily, close counts in horseshoes, hand grenades – and Mark 48 advanced capability heavyweight torpedoes.”

Armour didn’t look inclined to argue with that.

The noise in the tin can of CIC was starting to die down. Which pleased Drake, because he figured that was about all the time they had for celebrating. “Listen up!” he said. “We’re still under siege, we’ve still got an unknown number of heavily armed boarders – and we’ve got a lot of dead and wounded shipmates.”

He didn’t say it, but his implication was clear:

But now we’ve got a fighting chance.

“What now, sir?” someone asked. And from those three words, it was clear that Drake’s heroic status – earned in so many victories and close calls across so many missions, surrendered when he briefly lost his mind – was back again.

“Now… we go take our damned boat back.”

Everyone got to work – with a purpose.

As Drake and Campbell moved to a station to plan their high-level strategy, he saw a jaunty gleam in her eye. “What?” he asked.

“I was just thinking that we’ve had worse than this.”

Drake nodded. “Hell, yeah. I’d actually say the Third Battle of the
JFK
has been a cakewalk.”

Campbell arched an eyebrow. “Third, sir?”

“The mutiny and outbreak were really the first. We just didn’t realize it at the time.”

Campbell grinned. “And the flight deck battle and storm of ten million dead was second.”

“Yep – and if we survived that shit, I seriously doubt anything can kill this ship. Not a few dozen Russkies and a big tin phallus.”

Campbell shook her head. “Though this shit does keep happening for some reason.”

Drake shrugged. “Maybe we’ll finally learn some lessons. Right now—”

“Yeah. Let’s go take our damned boat back.”

Drake smiled at the LT. He wouldn’t take her on.

* * *

Completely slack-jawed, face misted with ocean spray from the fast-moving CRRC, Park watched the chain-exploding submarine – and the cannon-launched Spetznas guys – recede in the distance behind them.

“Vulnerable to stuff like other subs,” Lovell finally answered. But he didn’t even look back. He was running them flat out, moving fast toward their next battles – and maybe even their last ones – all of which lay on land.

And he was only looking ahead now.

Leading Them Home

Djibouti Airport – Main Terminal

Misha lifted up the lifeless head of the Team 3 man from the blood-splashed tile floor. He had a small entry wound in the back of his helmet – but only an exit wound where his face had been. Misha had no idea who this used to be. It didn’t matter. His battle buddy one position over seemed to still have some features, but Misha wasn’t interested in seeing them. Instead, he looked up at Kuznetsov. “Any response from the others?”

The captain shook his head.

Whatever had befallen Team 3, it had hit them hard. And it taken them all down. Misha took some small satisfaction that they hadn’t died in the terminal, and had at least executed his orders to slip away and set another ambush at the hangars. He hoped they died out there, ideally holding up the assclowns who had his zombie.

He intended to find out now.

Two men appeared from down the corridor that led to the departure lounges, moving at a run. It was Badger and Warchild, who Misha had sent out to sweep the perimeter. Badger said, “We found Team 3’s vehicles. Tucked out of sight around the side.”

Misha nodded and grunted. “Good. I’m sick of fucking walking.”

In fact, they had run all the way from the destroyed bridge, albeit making excellent time. The two men he’d made carry the folding litter hadn’t enjoyed this process. But nobody had to enjoy shit. They just had to do it.

“Don’t forget that,” Misha said, tossing his head at the stretcher.

Then, hefting his weapon and heading out, and without looking back, he added, “RTO! Get me my hunting hawk…”

* * *

Nina grunted in approval as the tool she needed appeared like magic over her right shoulder. It was true Bazarov had an edge as an aircraft mechanic, not to mention attack helo back-seater – though she had marginalized him in that role more and more over time. But all things being equal, she was much happier having Vasily in her aircraft. First and foremost, he wasn’t a fucking whiner.

But more importantly, he was a killer.

Then again, it had arguably been Nina’s bloodlust and desire to do her killing up close that had landed them in this mess. She just hadn’t believed the enemy personnel in that SUV could have survived their tumble down into the river. And she definitely hadn’t imagined one of them would have the size, strength, or stones to leap up onto her helicopter and dump grenades into their one working engine. Then again, the man had looked to be the size of Misha, so maybe he also had equivalent strength.

He’d proven beyond any doubt he had the sack.

She made a mental note to look for him on the next battlefield. But that was only if they could get in the air and back in the fight again. Happily, their luck looked good. That big, smug son of a bitch had dropped explosives in both ends of her left-side turboshaft aero engine – in both the intake and the exhaust. The engine was a tough son of a bitch, but still the resulting explosions had badly deformed the fan blades on one end, and the low-pressure turbine on the other. It was a miracle Nina had been able to get them clear of the river valley and set down on flat ground beyond it. But she had.

Shortly after, though, when they assessed the damage, they found fate to be on their side. The other engine, on the right side, which had been disabled by the anti-air missiles from the drone, had suffered all its damage in the middle – its compressor, combustion chamber, and compressor turbine basically destroyed. But both its fan and low-pressure turbine were intact. Now it was simply a matter of scavenging those parts from one engine and getting them installed on the other. The damage and deformity caused by the grenades was making this easier said than done.

But Nina was highly motivated.

They were also running out of areas of aircraft where they could absorb a whole hell of a lot more damage. But they weren’t done yet – not by a long shot. And Nina was definitely not out of the hunt. Vasily passed her the next tool she needed and clapped her on the shoulder. Yes, they definitely saw eye to eye – and made an excellent team. It had been a good trade.

When the radio went, and it was Misha, she had good news for him.

* * *

“We’re back in the car again,” Juice said, leading the way inside.

“I’ve never been in this car,” Pred answered.

But that was all the time either of them had for banter. There was way too much to do, and the inside of the aircraft hangar came to life with frenzied activity and animated conversation, all of it happening around the hulking shape of the 84-foot-long, 25-foot-high de Havilland Dash 8 turboprop airplane in the center.

The hangar also quickly took on the aspect of a field hospital. There was Chief Davis’s arm wound, being wrapped up by Burns, with Pete assisting. And Homer unfortunately hadn’t been wrong in thinking some of them must have gotten hit in the initial barrage of that last ambush: Reyes had been hit in the leg – “Again! God clearly wants me to lie the fuck down” – and was doing self-care, while Fick had lost the tip of his left ring finger, but was ignoring that. Jake and Kate both had cosmetic shrapnel wounds from a grenade explosion too near them.

But worst off was still Zack. Baxter gripped his hand while Predator felt him up more thoroughly. He grimaced as he palpated the man’s abdomen – it was hard as wood. “Internal bleeding – just what I was afraid of. He’s gonna need field surgery.”

Baxter looked down at Zack, and said, “Hang in there, boss.”

Zack managed a painful smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve told you a thousand times: I’m not dying on this shitty continent.”

Pred turned away to see Ali calling him over. “Okay, listen. Get him loaded up on the plane – get dreadlock guy or someone to help you.” Pred unsnapped a larger than average aid kit from the side of his pack and stuck it in Baxter’s chest. “Expose his abdomen from groin to sternum. Get the whole area wiped down with betadine. And get a shitload of bandages ready to go. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Baxter nodded rapidly as he stepped away. At the same time, al-Sif stepped over. Looking down at Zack with what looked like genuine compassion, he asked, “Will he live?”

“Yeah,” Baxter said. “He’ll live.” He had to. Looking up at al-Sif, Baxter caught him looking across the hangar at Jake. And he looked worried.

Looking back down to Baxter, al-Sif said, “Thank you for what you told him before.”

Baxter didn’t respond.

Al-Sif looked like he had something to say. His face looked more open, more present, than Baxter had seen it before. Finally, he said, “I hope what you said before is true. That I am with you now.”

Baxter squinted. He honestly couldn’t tell whether this was a real conversion or just more savvy self-preservation. But, even after everything, Baxter was determined to cling to the same idealism he’d had the day he walked in the door of the Hargeisa safehouse for the first time. He decided to believe him. But then he remembered something: how he and Juice had been willing to let al-Sif keep driving the jingle bus and get vaporized in a drone strike – while they jumped for it. And suddenly his self-image as an idealist didn’t hold up.

“There’s something I’ve got to tell you,” he said.

“What is it?”

But then he hesitated. “…I’m glad you’re on the team. Give me a hand getting Zack on the plane.”

* * *

Where Ali had called Pred over to was the end of one wing, where she was conducting something like a leadership meeting. This group included Homer, Juice, Fick, Wesley, and the newly bandaged, but still unperturbed, Chief Davis.

Ali regarded the plane, impressed with its size if not its evident condition, then looked at Chief Davis. “Will this thing fly?”

“I gather you’ll soon find out.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Davis sighed. “It’ll fly. Probably. Anyway, if you’ve got some alternative method of long-haul air travel, I invite you to avail yourself of it.”