Gray Matter Splatter (A Deckard Novel Book 4) (35 page)

“What kind of damage are we looking at?” Joshua asked.

“Tens of millions dead in the United States alone. Then you
have significant damage to South America, Africa, and Europe as
well.”

“Those are the desired second- and third-order effects. China
and their partners get to swoop in with economic recovery packages,
supplanting the economic balance of power that America has had for
the last seventy years,” Will extrapolated. “Maybe even sending
armed troops into these areas in the name of humanitarian aid.”

“But once they are there, they won't be leaving,” Craig said,
continuing his line of thought.

“The tsunami that hit southeast Asia in 2004 was only thirty
meters high,” Flynn said. “If the flank of this island cleaves
off during the eruption and slides into the ocean, the amount of
devastation this tidal wave causes will be unlike anything we have
seen before.”

* * *

“Standby, I have control,” Kurt said.

He stood behind the front line of mercs going into the breach. He
held the fuse ignitor in his hand, which was connected to the
detonation system wired into a cluster of cratering charges. Arranged
in a circle out on the ice, the explosives were designed to create
massive craters in roads and airfields, preventing the advance of
enemy troops.

“Five.”

The Samruk mercenaries were strung into four separate lines,
dynamic climbing rope running through carabiners attached to their
harnesses. The ends of the ropes had been secured to the steel shanks
they had driven into the snow.

“Four.”

The cratering charges were aligned directly above what would be
the main chamber of the Danish ice base, now occupied by Oculus.
According the Aghassi, this was where the radio transmissions were
emanating from, and there sure as hell wasn’t anything else in the
middle of Greenland.

“Three.”

The mercenaries tensed, like Olympic runners ready to sprint the
second the pistol fired. Everything came down to a very exacting
sequence of events. Fuck it up in any way, and they were all dead.

“Two.”

The mercenaries ran toward the charges. “Go, go, go!” someone
yelled. They had to get there, pushing the minimum safe distance so
they were ready to take advantage of the chaos and confusion caused
by the explosive breach. Kurt yanked the safety pin out of the
ignitor.

“One.”

Kurt put his finger through the metal loop at the end of the
ignitor, twisted it, and then pulled it straight out. The cratering
charges blew, shooting white shrapnel high into the air. The
mercenaries buckled as the concussion of the blast washed over them,
but continued running straight forward toward the gaping hole in the
ice as the smoke was cleared away by the wind.

Chapter 33

Deckard hurled the coiled rope into the dark chasm, where it
spiraled out as it descended down into the breach. He threw himself
over the ledge, chasing it into the darkness. He was suddenly
weightless, gravity sucking him into a black hole. Gripping the
leading edge of the rope, Deckard brought it behind his back, slowing
his fall as the line was routed through the carabiner on his climbing
harness. He had to get to the bottom fast, before the shooting
started, but too fast and he would end up a greasy stain on the ice.

His boots came down hard on the floor and he spilled onto the
ground, his Kalashnikov clattering on the ice. In the haze created by
the cratering charges and falling ice, he could not see what was
going on, but knew he needed to get out of the way before the next
mercenary came down behind him. Unclipping the rope from his
carabiner, gunshots nearly deafened him inside the chamber.

Rolling left, Deckard brought the butt of the AK into his
shoulder and scanned for muzzle flashes. Staccato bursts of fire
echoed off the chamber walls, coming from everywhere and nowhere.
Seeing a muzzle flash in the corner of one eye and a stack of wooden
crates in the corner of the other, he dashed for cover. His men came
pouring down through the smoke behind him, landing in the chamber and
detaching from the ropes.

Taking a knee, Deckard aimed at the location of a muzzle blast
and fired beneath it. Hot brass bounced off the crates and ricocheted
back at him, one of them burning his neck.

Voices screamed in Russian, some of them belonging to Oculus.
Others were his own men. It was impossible to tell who was who.
Deckard palmed a frag grenade, pulled the pin, and overhanded it
through the haze toward another two muzzle blasts he had spotted.

“Frag out!”

The resulting explosion collapsed a large chunk of ice, which
fell from the ceiling and shattered into a million pieces. Samruk
troopers moved to Deckard, taking cover with him behind the crates as
they returned fire, snuffing out the enemy even as the smoke cleared.

“On me, let’s go!” Deckard ordered.

“Go where?” one of the Kazakhs asked.

“Doesn’t matter. We can’t lose the initiative.”

Deckard broke cover and dove into the haze, running toward where
the frag had gone off in hopes that the immediate area had been
cleared by the explosion. A half-dozen Kazakhs followed after him.
They found themselves at a T-intersection, the white walls that had
been cut into the snow rising up around them. It was the most
dangerous place they could possibly be because of the multiple angles
of fire they were exposed to.

Grabbing the nearest Kazakh, Deckard pushed him forward
into the adjacent corridor. Now it was apparent that they had
breached right into the main corridor. Wide enough to drive a couple
tanks through side by side, it probably ran the length of the ice
base. Off of that main artery, it appeared that a series of smaller
corridors broke off to the sides. Whatever the case, they needed to
flood the compound with men as quickly as possible to clear it and
locate the weapon before it could be used.

Several more mercenaries joined them, catching up with the lead
element as Deckard pushed deeper into the facility. Two white-clad
gunmen spilled out through a doorway toward the end of the corridor.
Deckard got his front sight post lined up center mass on the first
and stroked the trigger. The gunman squeezed the trigger as well,
even as he dropped to the ground. The Israeli bullpup coughed yellow,
and chunks of ice were blasted off of the wall. The second gunman met
a similar fate as the mercenary next to Deckard put a double tap in
his chest.

Priming another frag, Deckard pitched it through the
doorway and counted off the seconds as it cooked off. The air went
thick, washing over the mercenaries as the explosion increased the
air pressure, burping out a gust of wind from the door. Flowing
inside, the men cleared their corners and searched for targets. An
Iranian-looking dude lay on the ground filled with shrapnel. He only
had one boot on, and had probably been in the process of putting on
the other. Deckard put a round through his forehead just to make
sure.

Becoming more aware of the details of his surrounding, the
American looked around in confusion.

“What the hell?”

The walls were hardwood and the floor was covered in
carpet. Tables and chairs were spread around the room between couches
and overstuffed chairs. Fake windows displayed typical countryside
outdoor scenes. There was even a billiards table. It was a recreation
room for Danish soldiers who might be stationed underground for long
periods of time.

“Dead end. We need to get back out there.”

In the side corridor, the mercenaries could hear a raging
firefight in the main chamber. Three Samruk mercenaries were at the
corner of the side corridor and the chamber, using the angle for
cover as they returned fire. Deckard could see some of the boys
taking cover around the chamber, but others looked like they had
already moved on to clear the rest of the base.

Worse, three or four snow-camouflaged bodies lay face-down on the
ice. Another was motionless, hanging above them, tangled up in one of
the rappel ropes.

* * *

“Now!” Jiahao ordered. “Fire!”

The walls shook as another explosion reverberated from deeper in
the ice base. They were under attack.

“I can’t! It doesn’t have enough of a charge since the last
test shot,” the technician’s voice sounded like nails on a
chalkboard as he lost his composure and shrieked like a schoolgirl.

Jiahao picked up his assault rifle, then turned and drop-kicked
the Russian. The Chinese commando could have caved in his chest, but
frankly, he needed a moderately useful pawn to finish the job.
Looking at the touchscreen that controlled the device, he could see
the power bar recharging quickly, but not fast enough for his liking.

“I’ll deal with the American myself. If you don’t cause the
Canary Island collapse before they get here, you’d better surrender
to the mercenaries before I get back, because it will be your only
chance at surviving,” he warned, even as the last words were
drowned out by the sound of gunfire.

* * *

Rochenoire ducked as a trio of rounds chiseled into the
ice above his head.

A group of Oculus shooters had retreated to another chamber,
taking cover as Samruk quickly gained the tactical inertia. Now they
had found refuge inside the ice base motor pool, taking cover behind
the massive tractors and sleds that served as the base’s logistical
line of resupply.

The former SEAL sent a return volley from his Kalashnikov, which
sent a shower of orange sparks washing over the enemy soldiers behind
the tractors. One of the Kazakhs came up behind him with a PKM and
began firing rapid bursts of suppressive fire. Now Fedorchenko and
Sergeant Major Korgan were on the scene, directing the troops and
shaking them out into a haphazard assault line.

Firing on an empty chamber, Rochenoire pulled a fresh magazine
from his kit. Using the loaded magazine, he pressed it against the
magazine-release lever on his AK. When the empty mag dropped, he
quickly rocked the loaded one into position and racked the bolt.
Suddenly, his head felt like it had exploded inside. He slammed his
eyes shut trying to shake the debilitating burning he felt.

“It’s the damn lasers,” he heard an Italian-accented voice
say. “They are bouncing the lasers right off the ice on the walls.”

The PKM machine gun fell silent as the enemy gunfire picked up.
Slightly opening one eye, Rochenoire saw that the gunner was
face-down on the floor. It was unclear if he was blinded by the
lasers or had been shot.

“This is motherfuckin’ bullshit, man.”

Reaching down, he grabbed the machine gun, pointed it toward the
enemy, and depressed the trigger. The metal-link belt cycled through
the feeding mechanism, dropping hot brass at his feet. At least it
kept the enemy’s heads down for a few seconds.

To his flank, a half-dozen Samruk mercenaries collapsed to the
ground as something flashed at their feet. They were going into
convulsions, shaking as if they were having some kind of epileptic
fit. Another one of those damn seizure grenades like the one they had
encountered in Alaska.

Amidst all of the gunfire, he could hear one of the enemy
commanding his men in English.

“Advance! Get up!”

For a split second, Rochenoire saw him as he walked behind one of
the giant sleds. It was one of the big Chinese dudes. Maybe the one
who had killed some of his men in their sleep. Maybe the one who took
down Pat in Canada.

Another flash.

Rochenoire shuffled back behind cover, slamming his eyes shut
once more. He had been looking in the wrong direction, but upon
hearing bodies around him crumpling to the ground, he knew they had
nailed the mercs with another seizure grenade. The non-lethals were
the perfect weapon to cut their balls off. Incapacitate the
mercenaries, and then Oculus could just casually stroll around,
putting a bullet between their eyes.

Opening his eyes, he ignored the fact that Fedorchenko was
doing the clucking chicken right next to him and reloaded the PKM
with another belt of ammo from the dead or unconscious machine
gunner. It was a last-ditch effort, but Rochenoire knew that he had
to at least keep the enemy preoccupied in the motor pool so they
would be unable to mount a counterattack against Deckard and the
other men as they attempted to take control of the weapon.

He was about the open fire as the enemy advanced toward him when
he noticed something on the ceiling of the chamber. The black giant
took a few steps away from his cover while making sure he remained
unexposed to the Oculus commandos. It was time for some indirect
fire.

Shooting from the hip, he raked 7.62x54R autofire across the
stalactites, some of them four or six feet long and hanging above the
motor pool like massive daggers. One by the one, the giant icicles
broke away from the ceiling and fell free toward the Oculus troops
below. Then, they all came tumbling down like a Jacob’s Ladder,
landing with a crash.

Rochenoire dropped the smoking PKM and transitioned back
to his Kalashnikov. The Samruk men were groaning and trying to
stagger to their feet. Several of them had vomited on themselves.
They had their bell rung, but they were alive.

The same could not be said for the Oculus troops. They lay
sprawled out in the empty space between the line of sleds and
tractors they had broken cover from, assaulting toward the other line
of vehicles that Samruk hid behind. Their broken bodies were heaped
around shattered shards of white and blue ice. Rochenoire walked
between the still bodies, plugging them with insurance rounds.

That was when he came across the big Chinese one. A stalactite
had caught him on the shoulder, nearly taking his arm off. His
breaths were rapid, his eyes searching. He was scared. Rochenoire
placed a boot on his chest and smiled.

“Welcome to the Thunderdome, bitch.”