Arisen, Book One - Fortress Britain by Glynn James & Michael Stephen Fuchs

Author:Glynn James & Michael Stephen Fuchs
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: naval adventure, Increment, fast zombies, Horror, SEAL Team Six, SOF, Hereford, techno-thriller, high-tech weapons, SAS, dystopian fiction, special operations, spec-ops, Zombies, supercarrier, Delta Force, Military, serial fiction, zombie apocalypse
Published: 2013-11-18T00:00:00+00:00

FORLORN HOPE

“Sarge. Wake up, man.”

Handon came awake instantly. Sleepyheads didn’t make it into Delta. And the drowsy were all dead now anyway. He followed Pope out of his billet into the dark – it was still a good two hours before dawn – and the two threaded the alleys of Hereford to the Tactical Operations Center (TOC). There, they found a full house: commo guys, aviation desk, tactical, ops, medical, everyone. Back in the days of the world, the TOC would hum all night – night missions were all their missions. Now, usually, people slept. No one went out at night.

“What’s up?” Handon approached Captain Ainsley, who was hunched over a console with the Colonel, as well a couple of ops desk guys.

“The new SEAL Team,” Ainsley said, not looking up. “They’ve got into a spot of trouble.”

Handon knew about the new SEALS. Homer had briefed him.

“Who are they out with?”

Ainsley paused a beat. “Just the eight of them. A Stealth Hawk crew inserted them.”

The TOC speakers were even now playing the radio traffic from the mission command net. Handon and Pope could hear the TOC-side mission commander going back and forth with the SEAL team on the ground.

“Mud Snake Six, interrogative: can you update me on your casualty status, over.”

The channel squelched as someone on the ground team keyed his mic. “Hotel X, Mud Snake, wait one.” Behind the SEAL’s voice came the sound of rapid firing, one or more people spitting out curses – and the now totally unmistakable moaning of frenzied dead. Ones that were riled up, hungry, and attacking en masse.

Pope and Handon shared a look. It said, This ain’t good.

“Where?” Handon asked.

“Calais,” Ainsley said, still not looking up from a digital multi-map display.

“Mission objective?”

Ainsley looked over at the Colonel, who frowned, paused, then finally answered himself. “They’re checking the fortifications at the Frog end of the Channel Tunnel.”

“At night?”

“It was priority highest. And their skipper volunteered them. All of them volunteered.”

“Of course they volunteered,” Handon said. “They’re fucking SEALs. There are no words for ‘negative’ in their vocabulary. But they’ve been in theater for about five minutes.”

Ainsley sighed. “They’ve been fighting the dead for two years, just like the rest of us.”

The Colonel removed a headset and laid it on the console. “Or so they said.”

The radio traffic was going from bad to worse. From the chatter around the TOC, Handon worked out that the SEALs had been in a running urban battle for the worst part of an hour – and hadn’t yet been able to fight their way to an extraction point. And that they’d also taken casualties – dead or bit, or both.

Handon straightened up. “Let me get this straight – you sent a bunch of FNGs out on a mission over the water, at night, and by themselves. And now they’re getting eaten and everybody’s all surprised?”

The men at the desk suddenly realized that someone was standing behind them. It was Homer. And he was completely kitted out and tooled up – weapons, assault suit, mags, the works.

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