The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga (8 page)

He switched from thermal back to night vision and examined the darkened outlines of the buildings.
 
No movement.
 
The three soldiers pacing the roof of the terminal vanished.
 
They were either extremely well camouflaged or they were wearing NVG-defeating clothing.
 
If the latter, he decided, that meant
spetsnaz
—Russian Special Forces.
 
Not exactly a group he wanted to tangle with, but no one he would shy away from, either.
 

"Hammer 2-2, Actual.”
 
He clenched his jaw in frustration at the sound of his own voice.
 
He sounded like he had a head cold.
 
“Change of plan.
 
Pick two of your fastest runners.
 
Golf is going to create a diversion.
 
When the Russians move to investigate, send your men to recon the three smaller hangars.
 
I'll check the big one.
 
If our VIP is not in those hangars,
 
proceed with plan B.
 
How copy?" he whispered.

After a few seconds in which he imagined Gunny Morin cursing under his breath, the Marine's voice murmured back over Alston's radio: "
Hammer 2-2 copies all, Actual.
 
Awaiting your signal."

"Golf copies all."

"No heroics, Golf.
 
Just do something to get their attention."

"
Hooah
," was the whispered response.
 
Alston could hear the smile in Garza’s voice.

He turned to his right and about ten paces away saw the infrared flash from the shoulder patch on his runner, Zuka.
 
He held up two fingers and pointed forward.
 
Like a snake, Zuka shifted from his position and disappeared.

The man's like a damn ghost
, Alston thought.
 
He was staring right at Zuka as he moved forward and yet he’d heard nothing.
 
If it weren't for the IR patch, Alston doubted he would even see him at all.

Zuka settled into the weeds next to his CO and whispered, "Ready when you are, Cap."

Alston gently removed a pair of wire cutters from his tactical vest.
 
He reached up and quickly snipped just enough of the chain-link fence for Zuka to slither through.
 

"Hit it, Golf,” he whispered.
 

He counted to twelve before a bright flash erupted from the other side of the airport.
 
Whatever Garza had touched off lit up the night sky and created a thunderous echo that bounced off of the hangars and rolled across the airfield.

"Hammer 2-2, execute.”
 

Alston tapped back to thermal and saw all three guards on the terminal rush to the edge of the building.
 
A door on the hangar closest to the Marine’s positions opened and four more Russians emerged carrying rifles.
 
When they spotted the glowing fireball at the far end of the airport they rushed in that direction.
 

The door behind them shut.
 
Alston grimaced.
 
Someone was still in that building.
 
He watched as Zuka crawled through the hole in the fence, stood, and sprinted across the grass to reach his primary target.
 
Alston brought his rifle up and peered through the hole in the chain link fence, covering Zuka’s approach.
 

The Marines were operating on the far side of the other three hangars, hidden from view.
 
Alston hoped they were at least half as quiet as Zuka, but being Marines, he figured not.
 

A light flickered in the middle hangar on the far side and was almost instantly extinguished.
 
Something was going on over there.
 
He shifted his gaze and saw lights turn on in about half the terminal.
 
He could see shadows moving inside the building.
 

Yup, a lot more guys in there…damn.

That was not good news at all.
 
He shifted his rifle and took a quick glance at the corner of the target hangar, just in time to see Zuka disappear into a low window.
 
No lights turned on.
 
The commotion and fireball from the southeast end of the airport began to die down.
 
He watched as the three guards on top of the terminal began to work their way back into their original positions.
 

“Come on Zuka, hurry up…” he muttered.

More Russians poured out of the terminal and streamed across the tarmac, many of them without weapons.
 
That was a good sign.
 
Echoed shouts reached his ears.
 
They thought it was an accident and not an attack.
 
Garza had done his job well.
 

A fire truck rolled out of one of the hangars, lights flashing in silence.
 
It was surrounded by armed Russians and rolled forward to combat the fire at the far end of the airfield.
 
As the fire truck emerged, light poured out from inside that hangar.
 
He cursed and snapped his night vision up out of his face, blinking back tears.
 

When his eyes cleared, he was able to see the inside of the hangar had been turned into some sort of barracks.
 
There were rows and rows of cots, and sleeping forms occupied them.
 
There had to be at least a planeload of troops in that building alone.
 
That would not be the prison.

"
Well
," panted Garza, “
that got ‘em all stirred up.
”

“Keep your ass under cover, Golf…” replied Alston.
 
He continued to scan the airfield and could see no movement near the target building.
 
That could be good or bad.
 
Come on Zuka…

"
Actual, Hammer 2-2
," said Gunny Morin’s voice.

"Go ahead," replied Alston in a whisper.
 
He shifted his rifle towards the first of the far hangars.
 
There was no movement.

"Recon complete, looks like the hangars are bingo VIP, repeat hangars bingo VIP."
 

Alston was about to answer when he saw Zuka emerge from his target and sprint across the tarmac.
 
He shifted his rifle to provide cover and waited to see if anyone took notice.
 
Zuka dove for the hole in the fence and disappeared into the grass.
 
Alston replaced the cut section of fence with a few metal ties.
 
As quietly as he could, he pulled back into the weeds.
 

"He's not in there," whispered Zuka.
 
He lay perfectly still as he calmed his breathing.
 

"He's gotta be in the terminal…" said Alston, his spirits sinking.
 
So much for an easy grab and bag.

"Sir, there's a shit-ton of Russians…"

"Looks like we came to the right place, then,” Alston said.
 
He grimaced.
 
There would be no assault tonight.
 
They were definitely outnumbered and outgunned.
 

"All units, Actual.
 
Pull back to secondary observation positions, repeat: pull back to secondary observation positions.”

"What’re we gonna do?" whispered Zuka.

"I'm calling for some backup.
 
We've got them trapped.
 
We can’t let them get out of here."

“Hooah,” whispered Zuka.
 
He rolled over and disappeared into the weeds with no more than the sound of rustling leaves.

C
HAPTER
5

Boston, Massachusetts.

L
IEUTENANT
C
OOPER
B
RAATEN
HELD
his silenced MP5SD close to his chest as he peered around the corner of an old brownstone.
 
His SEALs were deep inside Boston on what felt more and more like a wild goose chase.
 
They were hunting Dr. Maurice Boatner, one of the few surviving geniuses who’d helped stop the Great Pandemic a decade ago.
 
The Brass hoped he could pull off a repeat performance against the weaponized flu the North Koreans had unleashed against the United States.

That was where Cooper and his team came in—they had to run the good doctor to ground before the Germans or Russians or anyone else found him.
 
Cooper didn’t like to think about what the Russians might do if they were in control of a vaccine and the weaponized strain of The Pandemic at the same time.
 
To prevent anyone from finding out, Cooper had been tasked with bringing Dr. Boatner to Denver.

Cooper checked his list.
 
They had been to Boatner’s former residences and the last known place he had been spotted by security cameras before Boston lost power.
 
Germans were crawling all over the city trying to suppress the locals.
 
Their main encampments were marked as red triangles on his forearm-mounted map screen.
 
The Germans had unwittingly locked down enough of Boston that Dr. Boatner should be trapped.
 
Easy pickings for a bunch of badasses like Navy SEALs.

Cooper looked up and sighed.
 
If Boatner’s even here.
 
Almost three days hunting through the streets and alleys at night had so far turned up nothing but trash and rats and a few dead bodies.
 
They were running out of options.
 

Now, directly across the street sat the apartment complex that appeared next to last on the list of places Boatner might be.
 
Cooper motioned for the rest of the team to stay hidden in the alley’s shadows before he peered around the corner to glance up and down the street.
 
Movement to his left, at the far end of the street, caused him to curse as he ducked back around the corner.
 

"German patrol," he said.
 
"Looks like a truck and three foot mobiles."

"
The hell are they doing here?"
grumbled Jax’s voice in Cooper’s HAHO helmet.

Cooper ignored the question.
 
Jax knew as much as he did.
 
"Sparky, you got eyes on?"

The speaker in Cooper’s helmet broke squelch twice.
 
The team’s sniper, John Sparks, positioned up on a roof adjacent to the target, confirmed that he had spotted the German patrol.

“Watch them.
 
When the road is clear, we’ll breach."

The sniper broke squelch twice again.

Cooper thumbed the fire selector on his MP5SD to three-shot burst and adjusted his grip.
 
Thus far, they had successfully avoided all German patrols.
 
They had executed a textbook High Altitude/High Opening jump at 40,000 feet.
 
His team had made contact with the local Sons of Liberty chapter and delivered some valuable supplies to the resistance movement.
 
Now they were on their own in German-occupied Boston.

Cooper felt the weight of the sleek HAHO helmet that covered his head.
 
It was armored and aerodynamic, complete with enough Heads Up Display options to make an astronaut jealous.
 
Nothing but the latest and greatest for this mission.
 
SEAL Team 9 had used the next-gen helmets before, but to be honest, Cooper didn’t care for all the high-tech crap.
 
He was a little more old school: just give me a target, I’ll take care of the rest.

He had to admit though, the Buck Rogers helmets were kinda cool.
 
He flicked his eyes to the bottom right corner of the visor and a blue-tinted digital map of the area appeared in his vision, complete with markers for his Team’s location and that of known German encampments.
 
After double checking the location, he looked at the bottom left corner of the visor and the map winked out and vanished.
 
Other information, likewise in blue-tinted digital readouts listed the date, time, current temperature, and if the air was safe to breathe.

The docs back at Denver had warned him not to pay attention to that particular readout too much—the helmets were calibrated for chemical warfare only.
 
The sensors could detect nerve agents and particulates like chlorine gas, but not minuscule biologic material like the flu virus.
 

It doesn’t matter anyway
, he told himself for the 10th time.
 
As he had explained to the docs, he’d been one of the lucky survivors of the Great Pandemic.
 
It'd been bad—real bad—but Cooper Braaten had survived.
 
By all rights, that should make him immune to the version going around now.
 
But the docs, as usual, either didn't care or wouldn't listen.
 
So here he was, slinking around Boston dressed for a
Star Wars
convention.