Read Online Arisen : Genesis by Michael Stephen Fuchs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Stephen Fuchs
Tags: Horror, Military, Zombies, CIA, Techno-Thriller, dystopian fiction, Zombie Apocalypse, Navy SEALs, SEAL Team Six, SOF, high-tech weapons, serial fiction, spec-ops, Special Operations, DEVGRU, CIA SAD
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Commonwealth, those former British colonies who along with Britain still took armistice day very seriously. Cheeky bastards…
He was at least grateful that it wasn’t America that got hit this time. Though it looked like there were plenty of Americans on both flights. And it just had to be triple-sevens…
They had been two BA 777s on approach to London Heathrow. One ditched in the Channel and came apart on entry, with almost definitely no survivors. That whole preflight thing about “in the event of a water landing, your seat cushion will act as a flotation device” always made Zack laugh. If your plane is ditching in water, that means it lacks one of two things – either thrust or control. And without both of these there’s a 99% chance that when your aircraft hits water it will shortly after be tumbling end over end, breaking into a million fragments under spectacular torsion forces, and nearly instantly, but perhaps not quite instantly enough, killing everyone aboard.
But at least that first aircraft had only its own blood on its hands. Because the second had gone down west of London, in the suburb of Slough. Luckily, there is no hell, and Zack wasn’t going to it for remembering the immortal couplet, which he had learned at his English school: “Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! / It isn't fit for humans now.”
This morning’s attacks were a million miles from Hargeisa. And Zack knew they would be 97% not the Agency’s problem. They would be the problem of MI5 and MI6, and the Met, and BTP, and UKCAA – and maybe even Hereford, if they unraveled the plot and found some safehouse in Bradford or Walthamstow to raid. But it still fucked up the rest of Zack’s day, and probably his whole week.
Of course the Brits would get total cooperation from every U.S. agency with three letters. But for right now Zack’s official job, in a foreign station, would simply be to batten down the hatches. Any major terrorist incident brought a lockdown of all overseas gov and mil facilities. Luckily, the safehouse wasn’t an embassy, with juicy targets like ambassadors. They were just a bunch of Company cowboys, who would be missed, but not embarrassingly or cripplingly so.
Zack didn’t need to hit the all-hands buzzer to get the others in there. All of them were already getting secure messages on their devices, as well as cleartext ones from buddies and family members back home – many of whom knew that they were deployed, and wrote to tell them to stay safe. They all clomped into the TOC within seconds of one another.
Zack turned his chair to the center of the room, and briefed them on what SOP would be now. Basically, they were on lockdown. Which mainly meant they’d be living on tinned food for days or weeks – no roaming the market stalls for fruit and vegetables, nor roaming any of the streets for that matter. And the only intel they could deliver would be gathered on the phone, from UAVs – or with binoculars looking out the upper-floor windows.
“No problem, Zack,” Dugan said, speaking for the others. “We’re well-provisioned. Bob and I will put up the storm shutters and door braces, then take overwatch positions upstairs. And we’ll all hide out until the all-clear comes down.”
Zack nodded. He knew these two had learned the lessons of the men who fell in Benghazi – Glenn Doherty and Tyrone Woods. Those two had swept almost the whole consulate staff to safety across a mile of hostile city, then fought off 400 assholes for hours – but then both died when an asshole with a mortar tube made a lucky shot on the rooftop of the CIA safehouse. They had been up there manning a heavy machine gun and lasing targets on the ground. All to cover the withdrawal and recovery of the consular staff.
Zack noticed Dugan and Bob almost never went on the roof.
“I don’t have any expectation that anything’s going to kick off,” he said. “Though things have been weird enough around here without this.
He was at least grateful that it wasn’t America that got hit this time. Though it looked like there were plenty of Americans on both flights. And it just had to be triple-sevens…
They had been two BA 777s on approach to London Heathrow. One ditched in the Channel and came apart on entry, with almost definitely no survivors. That whole preflight thing about “in the event of a water landing, your seat cushion will act as a flotation device” always made Zack laugh. If your plane is ditching in water, that means it lacks one of two things – either thrust or control. And without both of these there’s a 99% chance that when your aircraft hits water it will shortly after be tumbling end over end, breaking into a million fragments under spectacular torsion forces, and nearly instantly, but perhaps not quite instantly enough, killing everyone aboard.
But at least that first aircraft had only its own blood on its hands. Because the second had gone down west of London, in the suburb of Slough. Luckily, there is no hell, and Zack wasn’t going to it for remembering the immortal couplet, which he had learned at his English school: “Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! / It isn't fit for humans now.”
This morning’s attacks were a million miles from Hargeisa. And Zack knew they would be 97% not the Agency’s problem. They would be the problem of MI5 and MI6, and the Met, and BTP, and UKCAA – and maybe even Hereford, if they unraveled the plot and found some safehouse in Bradford or Walthamstow to raid. But it still fucked up the rest of Zack’s day, and probably his whole week.
Of course the Brits would get total cooperation from every U.S. agency with three letters. But for right now Zack’s official job, in a foreign station, would simply be to batten down the hatches. Any major terrorist incident brought a lockdown of all overseas gov and mil facilities. Luckily, the safehouse wasn’t an embassy, with juicy targets like ambassadors. They were just a bunch of Company cowboys, who would be missed, but not embarrassingly or cripplingly so.
Zack didn’t need to hit the all-hands buzzer to get the others in there. All of them were already getting secure messages on their devices, as well as cleartext ones from buddies and family members back home – many of whom knew that they were deployed, and wrote to tell them to stay safe. They all clomped into the TOC within seconds of one another.
Zack turned his chair to the center of the room, and briefed them on what SOP would be now. Basically, they were on lockdown. Which mainly meant they’d be living on tinned food for days or weeks – no roaming the market stalls for fruit and vegetables, nor roaming any of the streets for that matter. And the only intel they could deliver would be gathered on the phone, from UAVs – or with binoculars looking out the upper-floor windows.
“No problem, Zack,” Dugan said, speaking for the others. “We’re well-provisioned. Bob and I will put up the storm shutters and door braces, then take overwatch positions upstairs. And we’ll all hide out until the all-clear comes down.”
Zack nodded. He knew these two had learned the lessons of the men who fell in Benghazi – Glenn Doherty and Tyrone Woods. Those two had swept almost the whole consulate staff to safety across a mile of hostile city, then fought off 400 assholes for hours – but then both died when an asshole with a mortar tube made a lucky shot on the rooftop of the CIA safehouse. They had been up there manning a heavy machine gun and lasing targets on the ground. All to cover the withdrawal and recovery of the consular staff.
Zack noticed Dugan and Bob almost never went on the roof.
“I don’t have any expectation that anything’s going to kick off,” he said. “Though things have been weird enough around here without this.
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