First Chapter of Storm of Ghosts: Surviving the Dead Volume 8

ONE

Caleb

 

At around 0300 on a Saturday morning in the first week of June, I found myself lying on a hillside in Northern Arkansas. I had been lying there since sundown, and was losing hope I would move my legs again before dawn. So when my earpiece crackled and my old friend Tyrel Jennings spoke, I was grateful.

“All stations, Sierra Lead. Confirm targets acquired. Over.”

There were eight other snipers positioned around the walls of the small community nestled in a natural hollow roughly two-hundred yards below. From where I lay, I could smell the smoke of cook fires preparing breakfast for the marauders who ruled the town. Orange lights glowed from glassless windows, mostly candles and oil lanterns. Only a few buildings boasted electricity. What power was available was provided by a large generator near the central plaza.

The buildings connected to the limited grid belonged exclusively to the Storm Road Tribe. There was no infrastructure in place to provide power to the rest of the town, even though doing so would not have been difficult. A twenty-man work crew and a halfway knowledgeable electrician could have done the job in a week, provided they had the necessary resources, which the Storm Road Tribe most certainly had. However, in the three weeks the Blackthorn Security Company had been surveilling the area, the town’s leader had made no effort to improve his town’s infrastructure. Nor did it appear likely he would. Perhaps it was his way of establishing a sense of privilege among his men while simultaneously reminding the peasants of their place in the pecking order.

“Sierra One, target acquired.”

“Sierra Two, target acquired…”

On it went until Gabriel Garret’s rumbling baritone informed Sierra Lead, AKA Tyrel Jennings, that Sierra Eight had acquired his target.

I keyed my radio. “Sierra Nine, target acquired.”

“All stations, Sierra Lead, acknowledged. Stand by.”

My right eye peered through the reticle of a night vision scope. The crosshairs followed a man walking the catwalk on the southern wall of the compound. He was one of twelve guards on the outer perimeter, eight on the catwalks and four in the towers. The roving patrol on the south wall and the southwest tower were my responsibility.

The rover I was watching stopped by the guard tower, pulled something from his belt, took a drink from it, replaced the container, and stood staring southward for a few seconds. Then he turned and began walking toward the other tower. I shifted aim toward the southwest tower, positioned the crosshairs center of mass on the tower guard, and began counting backward from sixty-two.

Over the last couple of hours, sixty-two seconds was the average time it had taken the rover to walk from one end of the south wall to the other and turn around. If Tyrel gave the order to fire during that time, the tower guard would die first, then the rover. If the order came down after sixty-two seconds, I would take out my targets in reverse order. The second option was not my favorite. It meant there was a chance the tower guard would see the rover go down and sound the alarm. There would be less chance of that happening in the next minute while the rover had his back turned.

“All stations, Sierra Lead. Coordinate fire on my mark.”

“’Bout damn time,” I muttered.

“Three, two, one, mark.”

I squeezed the trigger and felt the rifle thump against my shoulder. A sound suppressor on the end of the converted SCAR 17’s barrel dulled the report to a muted crack. Through the NV scope, my target stiffened, but did not fall. I fired twice more and watched him twitch with each impact. He collapsed.

The tower guard must have made some noise because when I switched aim to the rover, he had stopped, turned around, and was peering through the darkness at the watchtower. He put his hands around his mouth to call out, but the words never made it. I fired twice. The shots took the marauder in the chest at a diagonal, sending two gouts of dark liquid behind his shoulder. He stumbled backwards, fell on his ass, and brought his hands to his chest. Before he died, he looked at his hands, no doubt seeing them covered in blood. I had a moment to wonder what he was thinking in his last few seconds before the radio crackled again.

“Sierra One, tango delta.”

‘Tango delta’ was the call sign for ‘target down’, meaning Sierra One had killed his bad guys without incident. If he had said ‘tango Charlie’, meaning ‘target compromised’, things would have gotten hectic. Thankfully, the rest of the confirmations came quickly, including mine, all stations reporting tango delta.

I let out a slow breath and willed my heart rate to decrease. There is a wire in the human psyche that warns us about killing each other, about violence of any sort. When we activate that protocol, adrenalin flows. It is unavoidable. The brain gives us an extra shot of energy in case things go tits-up and we have to fight for our lives. Some people enjoy this feeling. I am one of them, though I am not proud of it. I felt it then, and I had no doubt the other snipers were feeling it as well. Everyone I had ever spoken to who had peered through gunsights and fired on human beings and watched them fall had reported similar feelings.

I took a few big breaths and let them out. The adrenalin faded quickly. This time, I did not get the shakes. My hands were steady.

I was seventeen the first time I killed someone. Two someones, actually. Afterward, I had shaken badly enough the paramedics had wanted to take me in for observation, which I had refused. In the years since, my reaction to fighting and killing had gradually diminished. I likened it to the Doppler Effect, the noise of a loud object passing close by at first, then diminishing like the drone of an engine fading in the distance. It had been over five years since those first killings, and the noise was dim now. I wondered how long it would be, how many more bodies would pile up, how many more faces I would see in the dark when sleep refused to come, before I would hear it not at all.

 

*****

 

Tyrel’s decision to attack at three in the morning was not random. At that hour, most people in the settlement were asleep. The townsfolk, lacking electricity and therefore unable to light their homes without the risk of burning them down, had mostly turned in after sunset. The marauders stayed up later, but not excessively so. Even criminal scum need to rest before a late watch. The pattern had been the same the last three weeks. Tonight was no exception.

So when the ladders went up and nine squads of highly-trained Blackthorn operators scaled the walls of Parabellum, it seemed there was no one around to observe them. All the marauders on the wall were dead, and the others were still in their barracks with the lights out.

Someone, however, must have been awake because the assault teams had no sooner reached the ground and set out for the center of town when, from near the east wall, a bell started ringing.

My earpiece crackled. “Bravo Lead, Sierra Lead, all teams proceed on mission. Acknowledge, over.”

“Acknowledged, Sierra Lead. Proceeding on mission. Over.”

“Sierra Two, who the fuck is ringing that bell? Over.”

“Got him, Sierra Lead. Wait one.”

A moment later the ringing stopped.

“Sierra Lead, Sierra One. Tango delta.”

“About fucking time. All right Sierra stations, the ball is up, but the plan hasn’t changed. Stay focused, provide fire support where you can, and make sure you don’t shoot anyone dressed like a Blackthorn.”

We didn’t bother with acknowledgments. There was no time. I hunched down over my rifle and searched the area of town I could see. A few people came out into the streets, none of them armed. I held my fire. From the east part of town the unmistakable rattle of an AK-47 tore into the night. It was answered by several M-4s. The AK went silent. I scanned the streets again. Still no gunmen, and no sign of the assault teams.

I shifted focus to the center of town. A few dozen marauders had exited their barracks and formed into fire teams, each one moving to a different street accessing the central plaza. One of them had taken position directly in my line of sight. I put the scope on the guy who looked like he was in charge, let out half a breath, and squeezed the trigger. The shot took him high in the back, likely hitting a major artery. Dead or not, he was out of the fight.

There was a moment of panic as the rest of his fire team saw him go down. One moment he was standing there giving orders, the next he had a hole in his chest and was spitting up blood. The delay gave me enough time to line up another shot and take it. Another marauder went down. The last two broke and ran. I tried to sight in on one of them, but he went around a corner and out of visual.

At other points around the central plaza, panic was taking hold. Shots poured in from all sides, their source invisible to the men on the receiving end. All they knew was they had been awakened and now stood in the darkness taking heavy fire. But they couldn’t hear any reports or see any muzzle flashes. It was useless to return fire because they could not tell where the shots were coming from. They were more likely to hit each other than the enemy.

After a few more seconds, the defenders broke. Panicked men left their posts and fled down streets and alleyways and ducked into buildings. I shifted focus to the largest building in town. The marauder’s leader lived there. He had been seen going in and out of the building numerous times over the last few weeks. At night, he went in and stayed. I checked the windows and doorways. No one. The balconies were deserted as well. To all appearances, the place was abandoned. No lights, no movement, nothing.

Strange.

Back to the southern part of town. What few people had been in the streets before had now sought shelter indoors. Smart. It was not a good time to be outside. Too much chance of getting shot.

Since I had nothing else to do, I switched comm channels and listened to the assault teams’ radio chatter. They moved with speed and efficiency, keeping conversation to a minimum. Several teams met small pockets of resistance and crushed them without mercy. None of our guys had been hit so far.

Less than five minutes from the time their boots had hit Parabellum soil, the teams reached the central plaza. A few of them advanced on the barracks while the rest stormed the leader’s mansion. They met no resistance. In fact, they met no one at all. The building was empty.

The assault teams reassembled and began to sweep the town building by building. At each doorway, they announced themselves and gave the inhabitants a chance to come out. Most did. A few houses contained people too sick or injured to stand up. The assault teams entered and cleared, but did so carefully.

Our rules of engagement were very firm on one particular point: we were to minimize civilian casualties. The mission was to liberate these people, not kill them. The teams took their time and did things right.

A few houses turned up marauders trying to hide out from the assault teams. Most of them went quietly, but one took a hostage and started shooting. The teams did the smart thing: they waited until he was out of ammo and then moved in. Within seconds of the first dry trigger pull, the marauder was face down on the ground, pinned by about five-hundred pounds of armored whoop-ass. His hog-tied form being dragged into the central plaza marked the last gasp of resistance from the Storm Road Tribe.

The radio emitted static and Tyrel started talking again, but he abruptly stopped when several thumps reverberated through the ground. I was confused for a moment, then realization dawned and I felt my heart sink.

Explosives.

The radio was loud for a while until it was determined no one was hurt. The explosions had come from underground. I keyed my radio.

“Sierra Lead, Sierra Nine. Looks like Sierra Eight’s theory was correct.”

Tyrel ignored me. “Bravo Lead, can you confirm if those blasts came from tunnels?”

“Affirmative. Just found the entrance to one in the mansion. Nothing but a pile of rubble now.”

“Any chance we can get our guys in there and give chase?”

“Negative. We’d need an excavator. Place is a fucking mess.”

A few seconds passed. I could just imagine Tyrel scraping a hand over his close cropped hair and cursing in frustration.

“Bravo Lead, can you confirm the town is secure?”

“Affirmative. Last team just reported in.”

“Good. I’m calling in air support. Those raiders have to come out somewhere. Maybe the helo can find them. All sierra stations, maintain posture. Report contact, but do not engage. Wait for backup. Bravo Lead, keep everyone on the clock. This might not be over.”

“Copy, Sierra Lead.”

I sat up, put my back to a tree, and took a long pull from my canteen.

“Tunnels,” I muttered to myself. “Sneaky bastards.”