Special Purposes: First Strike Weapon

CHAPTER ELEVEN

0146, 17th November 1987

Upper East River, New York City

HAD VADIM STILL been alive, he would be taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself, trying to get rid of the roaring in his head. Instead he was just staring at the riverside. He could see fires in Manhattan now, some of them up high, skyscrapers burning like candles. He heard distant gunfire; there were still people living in the city, fighting. He wasn’t sure whether he wished them well or just wanted it to be over for them quickly. A wide road ran down the side of the river, jammed with abandoned cars. He could see figures running over the tops of the cars, silent: the dead. The plague was spreading as fast as the tireless could run.

“Boss… Vadim?” New Boy asked from the doorway to the bridge castle behind him. Of course it had to be New Boy, he thought. One of the living ones. He could smell the scout’s life from where he stood. He wanted to take it, steal it, consume it, hope that it would satisfy the hunger he felt, even just for a moment or two. “Are you okay?”

“Get away from me!” Vadim snapped. His voice carried on the humid night air, flakes of ash still falling from the sky. His voice didn’t sound right, even to himself. Some instinct, honed by years of healthy combat paranoia, told him that he was being watched. He looked up to see the Fräulein on the edge of the bridge castle five decks above, looking down at him. He turned back to the city, gripping the rail, squeezing his eyes shut so he didn’t have to look at the destruction he’d wrought on this city. It wasn’t far enough. Vadim couldn’t be around the living. Maybe when he was calm, but not like this. Stop making excuses! Are you in control of yourself or not? He turned back to New Boy.

“Let’s go and see the captain,” he said.

THE BRIDGE CASTLE was also the crew quarters: it was filled with people, their fear – of Vadim’s appearance, his squad and the situation – a palpable reek in the air. He wasn’t sure how many, but he figured at least a hundred, possibly twice that number. It was the still-terrified first mate, Gerhardt Colstein, who led Vadim and New Boy up the metal stairs. They passed through four decks of cabins, a mess area, bathroom facilities – heads, as Vadim was sure nautical types called them – and the larger staterooms for the officers. Judging by the sound of clanking machinery echoing up the stairwell, the stairs also led down to the engine room.

The bridge was on the fifth deck of the castle, surrounded by glass on three sides, backed by the smoke stack, with a catwalk running around the outside of it. Two officers sat in comfortable-looking chairs in front of a number of screens and instruments. Another sailor was scanning the surrounding area with binoculars, and two more were poring over paper charts spread over a high table.

The older of the two men at the map table was probably of an age with Vadim, maybe a little older; he had weathered skin, and a thick but well-kept silver beard with a few streaks of black still in it. He was a little fleshy, but looked in reasonable shape for his age. He glanced at Vadim with dark eyes and then went back to concentrating on the charts. Vadim was pretty sure that this was the captain. He looked less afraid of having well-armed commandos on his bridge than irritated.

“I am Captain Scorlenski of the…” Vadim stopped. “My name is Vadim, and I am afraid that we are in command of your—”

“Captain Scorlenski.” The captain spoke with a German accent. “Rest assured that I appreciate the realities of the situation, but, gunfights notwithstanding, we are currently charting a navigable but unfamiliar and unforgiving passage along this strait using charts that I suspect are out of date. That is going to take all my concentration, and that of my bridge crew, for the time being. So unless you have something particularly pertinent to keeping this ship from running aground, I’m afraid that your threats, your establishment of dominance and the general pushing us around with guns may have to wait until we reach Long Island Sound.”

New Boy glanced at Vadim, clearly worried about his response. Vadim chuckled and looked out the window. He could see Mongol patrolling the top of the containers. He didn’t like how exposed his medic was. He glanced at the fore crane. He couldn’t see Skull, but he hadn’t expected to.

“And you are?” Vadim asked. The ship’s captain looked up from his charts again, irritated.

“I am Heinrich Schiller, captain of the Dietrich, and I am of an age where I have seen bully boys with guns before.” He narrowed his eyes as he studied Vadim’s appearance. “Have you brought some disease onto my ship?” he demanded.

“I don’t want to kill any more of your crew,” Vadim said, ignoring the question.

“I will order them to cooperate and not to resist your act of piracy. Now please, get off my bridge and let us do our job.”

Vadim didn’t move. “I need some of your crew.”

“As I explained, my crew are busy.”

“A number of the walking dead made it on to your vessel. We think we’ve dealt with them, but we need to search every inch of it, and for that we need people who know the ship. That is assuming you don’t want the virus loose on board.”

Schiller stared at him for a moment before turning to Colstein and speaking a few words in German. The first mate nodded.

“Herr Colstein will see to your requirements.” Schiller went back to the charts. Vadim couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been dismissed.

VADIM HAD TO force himself not to hurry away from the stink of frightened refugees in the crowded corridors of the ship’s crew quarters. When he made it back out into the night air, a breeze was freshening up the air, blowing around the ash, making it feel a bit less like a sweaty summer’s day and more like November. And hopefully blowing the fallout west, away from us, Vadim thought. Though that was more of an issue for New Boy and Princess than it was for him.

He heard gunfire echoing out across the river, and crossed the deck.

The river had opened up a little. He could see an airport on what had been the Brooklyn side of the river. It looked as though it had been built on reclaimed land. There were still lights on in the airport buildings, but he was too far away to make out much detail. He could, however, see a passenger jet taxiing to the end of the runway. Several hundred people were sprinting towards the aircraft as it started down the runway. At first Vadim thought all the running figures were zombies, chasing the living in the plane, but then he saw some of them being taken down. The mindless dead, feeding on their prey. The roar of jet engines filled the night and Vadim willed the plane to make it, but as it clawed its way into the air, he wondered if they were just putting off the inevitable.

He heard gunfire again and turned his attention to the large island to port. It looked like a prison. People were firing from the towers at the hordes gathered outside the walls. In a situation like this a prison was as good a defensive position as a castle, at least until your supplies ran out. He turned away and called the others to him.

SKULL WAS NOW up on top of the bridge castle, which gave him the best command of the entire ship. They had turned east, though both sides of the now much broader river were still very built up, and still dark. There was another bridge ahead of them, and beyond that, what looked like more rural areas.

The rest of the squad had assembled just outside the starboard hatch to the bridge castle. First Mate Colstein and three other anxious-looking crewmembers were also present. Gulag was sitting on an equipment locker whilst Mongol cleaned and sewed up the ragged mess that was the Muscovite’s left ear. There was little blood coming from the wound.

“Princess, New Boy, you stay here and keep an eye on the passengers, secure any other weapons, okay.” Gulag and the Fräulein had the other two G3s they had taken from the crewmembers. “Don’t antagonise any of them – they’re just civilians – but if they act up, take whatever actions you deem necessary.” There was a reason he wasn’t asking Gulag to do this; in fact, he didn’t want any of the dead anywhere near the refugees, if he could help it. New Boy and Princess nodded. He turned to the others and pointed at Colstein. “We’re going to search the ship from top to bottom. We’re looking for zombies. We find them, kill them, throw them overboard.”

“I just need to find the guy who shot me first,” Gulag told him. Vadim withheld a sigh.

“Just leave him alone,” Vadim told him.

Gulag frowned. “It wasn’t your fucking ear he shot off! In fact, what were you doing, getting in the way of Princess’s shot?” he demanded.

It was a good question. “There was no need for him to die,” was the best Vadim could manage. “He’s a civilian.”

“He’s an enemy combatant with a gun,” Gulag spat. “So I’m going to fucking kill him, and then get on with my day.” He turned away from Vadim and reached for the hatch.

“You’re going to do what I tell you to, do you understand, Gulag?” Vadim said. It was extremely rare that ever had to drive home an order like this. To his mind, it was a failure of leadership. This wasn’t a conscript motor rifle regiment, after all.

Gulag stopped, and the rest of the squad shifted uncomfortably. The gangster spun back to face Vadim.

“Or what, Infant?” Gulag demanded. He turned to the rest of the squad. “Why are we still listening to him? What has he ever got us, but dead?” Then to Vadim again: “I mean, aren’t you supposed to be second-in-command of a whole company? Where are they, old man?” He leaned in close. “They’re all fucking dead! We’re fucking dead!” Out of the corner of his eye, Vadim could see Dietrich’s crewmen flinch. Gulag pointed at Princess and New Boy. “Two people. Two, out of an entire company. I don’t think we’re taking orders anymore. So I’m going to find that fat German fuck, and kill him. If you’re lucky, I won’t eat him, do you understand?” Gulag turned away from him.

“You’re going to follow my order, Gulag,” Vadim told him as the Muscovite reached for the hatch.

Gulag swung round again. “You’ve got nothing!” he howled.

“How far do you want to take this?” Vadim asked.

“That it?” he asked. He nodded towards the bridge castle. “One of them over one of us?”

“He doesn’t need to die.”

“He’s just meat! They’re all meat now!” Gulag shouted. New Boy shifted uncomfortably, and Princess moved to better bring her weapon to bear.

“That’s enough, Gulag,” the Fräulein said. “You have your orders.”

“Why don’t you just crawl up his arse?” Gulag asked her, but didn’t take his eyes off the captain. Vadim held his stare.

“You’re right,” Mongol told his friend. “The captain’s led us into the mincer time and time again, and everyone’s dead, but I think if it hadn’t been for him, it would have happened a lot quicker.”

“And he gave us the opportunity to defect,” New Boy pointed out.

Gulag turned on him. “Who gave you permission to speak? Think you’d be strong enough to come back from the dead, boy?”

“You keep threatening me and one day I’ll have to take you seriously,” New Boy said. Gulag opened his mouth to retort.

“Gulag, New Boy’s all right,” Mongol told him

The Fräulein caught Vadim’s eye and shook her head. This wasn’t good

“I am sick of your whining,” Princess said quietly. Suddenly it went very quiet. Gulag’s face was contorting. Perhaps it was the sum affect of all his injuries, but the rage made him look more than ever like a monster. Vadim’s hand was on the butt of the revolver he’d taken from the police officer. The others were getting ready to intervene. Vadim was sure that if Gulag made a move, Princess was going to kill him.

“Yeah, but you’re still alive, aren’t you, bitch!” he spat. Princess didn’t say anything. She just looked at him with calm, cold eyes.

“Gulag!” The voice came from above. They all looked up. Skull stood on the edge of the bridge castle’s roof, .303 in hand, looking down at them. The silence stretched out. Neither Gulag nor Skull said anything.

“Okay, that’s enough,” the Fräulein finally snapped, breaking the silence. “We have things to do.”

Gulag turned to her, his grin rendered monstrous by his wounds.

“Sure, Fräulein,” he said.

“Gulag,” Vadim said. “Nothing happens to your guide, understand me?”

Gulag crossed the distance to Colstein and laid his hand on the trembling first mate’s shoulder.

“Sure, Infant, I’m not even hungry anyway.” Colstein blanched and wobbled a little, as if his knees had gone weak, but he managed to hold it together. It was a lie, of course; if Gulag felt anything like Vadim did, he was hungry all the time. “Lead the way,” he told Colstein, and the pair headed towards the containers. Mongol took his guide and made for the starboard side of the ship. New Boy turned to Princess.

“Go on,” she told him. “I’ll catch up with you.” The scout opened the hatch and went into the bridge castle. Princess looked to the Fräulein, but it didn’t look like the big East German sergeant was going anywhere.

“I messed up, boss,” she told Vadim. He was hoping she didn’t mean by standing up to Gulag. “The wounded that got inside: they came past me, I didn’t check. No excuses, it was my fault.” Vadim just nodded. She was making mistakes because she was tired. She’s tired because she’s still alive, Vadim thought. He was worn out, mentally, but not physically tired. But even by Afghanistan standards, it had been a busy few hours.

“Okay,” Vadim said. “We’re going to do this sweep and see about rest.” There was no need to say anything else. Princess knew what she had done, and would take the steps to remedy it. She would be a lot angrier with herself than anyone else was. She nodded and followed after New Boy. Vadim turned to the Fräulein.

“Are you still running this squad?” the Fräulein demanded. Vadim felt like he’d been slapped.

“Did you not just see…”

“I watched you and Gulag measure your dicks, but seems to me Skull’s is the biggest.”

“Are you remembering who’s the sergeant and who’s the captain here?”

“Do you?” the Fräulein demanded. She leaned in towards him. “I know what’s happened is bad, but if we’re doing this – if we’re still a squad, a family – then you need to be back in charge. Gulag’s always been an insubordinate arsehole, but he spoke to you like that because you’re just going through the motions. That stunt you pulled with the National Guardsmen… who did you think you were, Clint Wayne or something?”

“It’s Clint Eastwood,” he told her, smiling. His smile wasn’t returned.

“You looked like you were trying to get yourself killed,” she told him, and his smile disappeared. “And you know what? Gulag was right. I talked to Tas, you walked right into her field of fire.”

“He didn’t need to die,” Vadim told her. “You weren’t there.”

“They pull a gun on us, they die,” she said, glancing back at the two increasingly nervous-looking crew. “The rules of engagement. We start second guessing ourselves and we hesitate; and then we die…”

“We are dead, and we’ve done a lot of harm. And we’ll do more.” Now Vadim looked at the sailors. He blanched. “I have no more stomach for killing civilians. We’ve done enough of that.” He turned back to her. Her expression had softened.

“Vadim, I’ll back you to the hilt, but you have to prioritise. What’s done is done.”

“Keep Tasiya and Orlov alive, keep the civilians on this ship safe…” he started, surprised at how important it suddenly was to him.

“That’s guilt talking,” she told him.

“Can we not do something right for once?” he asked her.

“There is no safe,” she told him.

“Then we do what we can!” Both the waiting sailors jumped at his suddenly raised voice. He pointed back towards the city, towards the glow of New Jersey burning. “And we find the architects of this and remove them from humanity.”

“What about the rest of us?”

“We’re already dead,” he repeated. The Fräulein just watched him warily. “Can you accept that, Liesl?” She considered for a few moments, but finally nodded. She snapped something in German at the crewmember waiting for her, and both of them disappeared into the bridge castle. There was no denying it, he reflected: his masters may have been deranged psychopaths, in the end, but life was much easier when someone told you what to do.

IT WAS CLEAR they were no longer in the river. The water had grown rougher, and they had picked up considerable speed. The banks of the estuary were more rural, though Vadim could still see the odd town with its own electricity. No fires or gunshots in evidence. He guessed the dead hadn’t got that far yet.

As he climbed the steps up to the bridge, he wondered if they needed to worry about the US Navy. The Russian submarine wolfpacks would have concentrated on hunting NATO subs rather than surface fleets. The ballistic missile launching submarines were, after all, the biggest threat. The big naval bases would have been targets for nuclear weapons, as would carrier groups. The American navy probably wouldn’t be too interested in a ship like the Dietrich fleeing the country. He guessed what remained of them would be too busy with humanitarian aid.

“Captain Schiller,” Vadim said, as he walked onto the bridge. The captain sat in one of the chairs facing the instruments. He looked tired.

He spun the chair round to face Vadim.

“Captain Scorlenski,” he said. He sounded tired, as well. The reactions of the rest of the bridge crew ran from nervous disgust to borderline terror, judging by their expressions. Schiller, despite the obvious fatigue, remained impassive.

“I trust you understand what happens if you call for help, captain?” Vadim asked. Schiller sighed.

“I suspect the coast guard and the navy have more important matters to deal with at the moment, and besides” – he nodded towards the radio – “we can’t raise anyone long range at the moment; too much interference. I can only assume it is some side effect of the nuclear weapons. Perhaps it is a side effect of the gates of Hell opening.” There was a collective held breath on the bridge. Vadim wasn’t sure whether it was supposed to have been a joke or not. He’d met religious people before; he didn’t understand them, but it could provide them with a great deal of strength. It could also make them crazy. But he understood why people would see the current circumstances from a religious perspective. Most religions seemed to have their end-time myths.

Captain Schiller stood up. “Well, I suppose, since you’ve gone to all the effort of hijacking my ship, I should at least pay you the courtesy of a conversation.” He exchanged a few words in German with one of the bridge crew and walked past Vadim for the stairs.

SCHILLER POURED HIMSELF a very large glass of brandy and offered Vadim one. The other captain was tempted, but had no idea what it would do to him in his current state. He suspected it would just be a waste. He shook his head.

Schiller’s cabin was bare, but for a picture Vadim took to be of the captain’s family. There was a woman of an age with the captain, and two younger families with five children between them: presumably the captain’s children, their spouses and grandchildren. There was also a crucifix on the wall and a bookcase, mostly nautical texts or biographies. The captain sat on a wooden swivel chair at a narrow desk.

Vadim found himself looking at the cross.

“I wasn’t being serious about Hell, in case you were wondering,” Schiller said. “I suspect that whatever made people crazy is just another technological horror, like the nuclear weapons. We are more than capable of making our own hell.”

Vadim turned to face the captain.

“I am dead, and so are four of my squad. You need to come to terms with that,” he told him. “Whether it’s supernatural, or science—”

“I thought Communists do not acknowledge the supernatural?” Schiller asked. Vadim didn’t answer. “What do you want, captain? I am assuming you want us to take you somewhere.”

“The Baltic—” Vadim started but Schiller was already shaking his head.

“We’re a feeder ship, we don’t have the fuel.”

“Captain, if you’re lying…”

“Enough,” Schiller said, and leaned forward. “I will deal honestly and fairly with you at all times, because my paramount interest is the safety of my crew and my passengers, and I don’t want you threatening either of them.”

For what it was worth, Vadim believed him. He put the police shotgun down on the bunk, then the revolver, which was digging into his stomach. He unslung the AK-74 and laid that down on the bunk as well. The captain watched with something approaching amusement.

“Are you sure you don’t need any more guns?” he asked.

“We had to keep taking them from your crew. Are there any more?” Vadim asked as he sat on the edge of the bed. Then the fatigue really hit him. He wondered if he could still sleep. The more he thought of sleep, however, the more it scared him. It felt like it would be a loss of control, like he would wake up one of the mindless dead.

“We have six rifles in total, standard ship’s complement. I have no idea if the passengers are armed or not.”

“Where can you get to, with the fuel you have?”

“Most of the people we took on are American. I think we should make for one of the ports further north, or perhaps even Canada. Are you at war with Canada?”

Vadim nodded; he assumed that they were at war with all of NATO and Iran, at the very least.

“America is gone,” Vadim told him. “The entire continent.”

Schiller chuckled. “My countrymen learned some forty years ago not to underestimate the Americans.”

“This attack was part of a coordinated strategy. The release of the… chemical weapon in cities, nuclear weapons for infrastructure. Create chaos, and then remove any chance of a coordinated response to it. The continent will be a wasteland for however long it takes the corpses to rot. You take those people back to America and you guarantee their deaths.”

Schiller was staring at Vadim, open disgust on his face. “I trust you know that’s monstrous,” he finally managed.

“Even by German standards,” Vadim told him. “Fuel?”

“Greenland,” Schiller suggested, clearly trying to suppress his anger.

“Europe,” Vadim insisted.

“Spain, Portugal…”

“Too far south.”

“Ireland, maybe the UK.”

“Britain,” Vadim said, nodding. He was sure the USSR would have invaded the island nation. They wouldn’t have made the same mistakes the Germans made during the last war, allowing what amounted to a huge staging post to go unconquered that close to Europe. “Supplies?”

“Surprisingly, we have enough food. We were shipping beef up from Galveston. We also have several containers of tinned fruit. Potable water will be the issue.”

“How many of the containers are refrigerated?” Vadim asked.

“Just over a hundred, I believe.”

“We can scrape the ice out, melt it.”

“It will be filthy.”

“We can show you how to purify it.”

“And when we get to Britain, then what?” Schiller asked. Vadim’s smile was without humour.

“Then you all learn to become good communists.”

“And live in a socialist utopia? I’ll leave it to you to break this to our American passengers.” It wasn’t a conversation that Vadim was looking forward to.

“What happened?” Vadim asked, after a few moments of silence.

“You mean after your despicable attack?” Schiller asked. He took a sip of his brandy. It looked as though he was trying to wash a bad taste out of his mouth. “We saw the flash. A wall of flame. I can only imagine the Upper Bay and the Hudson served as a firebreak, though it sent banks of scalding steam across the water. The pressure wave almost capsized us.”

“The people?” Vadim asked quietly.

“There was anarchy. Many people in Red Hook made for the docks. We were trying to find out what was happening when the… well, the things like you attacked the crowds. We took as many on board as we could.”

Vadim looked down and nodded.