Kilo-29 (Damned of the 2/19th, Book 15)

Part 29

Site Kilo-29
Deep Storage Area - Military Area
Winter, 1993
Day Three-Morning
Status: Full Offensive Measures Engaged

"This is illegal." Wilkins said as I checked the seal on the feed lines from the tanks.

"Shut it." I told him, flicking away some of the silicon sealant with my thumb nail. It was a faint translucent gray and looked as thick as a kid's snotty nose. "All right, Kincaid, flip up the red safety catch."

"Done, Sergeant." He told me.

"Use your right thumb to flip the lever just above your thumb to a downward angle." I told him. I heard a hiss and the tube that led from the small propane tank jerked and I could tell by the way the tube spread open on the top arc. "Now, flip the switch that was underneath the safety catch to the forward position."

The pressurized hiss was loud to my ears.

...burn every goddamn one of these bodies where they've fallen. Do not check for life signs, do not approach any closer than five meters. Decon teams, deploy...

"Sergeant, this is against the Geneva Conventions." Wilkins tried again.

"You think they matter here?" I asked, rotating the small levers on the hose connectors after loosening the flow screws on the tanks to pressurize the system. "Kincaid, put light pressure on the trigger until the trigger pushes back."

"You can't use this!" Wilkins shouted at me. I turned around to face him.

"Are you trained in NBC warfare?" I asked him, moving into his face. "Do you know the proper doctrine for high threat decon work? Do know what we are supposed to do, in this situation, according to NBC warfare doctrine?"

...Colonel, we've got a live one. Oh my god, she's alive...

He shook his head.

...wrong. nobody survived. you try to assist, Sergeant, and I'll shoot you down where you stand...

"Then shut the fuck up." I told him, turning to face the ammunition pack on Kincaid packs. "Kincaid, you got this?"

"Fuck yeah, Sergeant, I've got this shit." He told me. "What's the range on this? The manual said twenty-five to fifty meters."

On the other side of Kincaid Bomber hefted what he held in his hands and grinned, his eyes and smile wild and savage. Bomber looked at me, sweat streaming down his face.

...kill anything that lives, brother...

"It's twenty-five to fifty meters." I told him. "Pressurized focus system, based on improvements after Vietnam."

"No way, it's probably got a range of about ten feet." Wilkins said.

...shut up, you lousy little bitch...

...hush, Nancy...

I rapped on the left hand tank. "This thing is fueled by a binary tank system, propane to keep the igniter lit, and if I'm right this is a mid-80's model." I glanced over my shoulder at Wilkins. "This is not a World War Two weapon, old Korean left-overs, or even Vietnam War surplus, this is state of the fucking art. Hell, the fuel isn't even pressurized diesel any more. These tanks contain a binary solution of oxygen infused thermite and magnesium enriched napalm solution that burns at over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit. It's under pressure, and the dial just behind the arming trigger will tell you how much is left in the tank."

"You can't use a flame-thrower on the people in this bunker." Wilkins tried again.

"Fucking watch me." Kincaid told him. "Anything else I should know, Sergeant?"

"Don't engage a target closer than ten feet. Once you engage a target, move on to the next, they're already dead but don't know it." I told him, grabbing the case lid off the floor slapping it over the tanks and starting to button it up. "Don't worry about accuracy, engage them as far as possible, and remember that you might have to back up to properly engage."

"What if they get by me?" Kincaid asked. "Or come from the side or drop on me."

"Donaldson has pistols, he'll be on your left. Keep that in mind." I told him, slapping the long heavy machete sheathe I'd dropped over my shoulder. "I've got your back, any drop on you or get close, I'll put them down." Kincaid turned slightly and grinned at me, his eyes bright and glittery.

"Anything else?" He asked.

"It's gonna get hot when the heat starts reflecting off the walls and ceiling." I told him, picking up his helmet and stepping around in front of him.

He was dressed in an armored J-Suit. You didn't see them often outside of an offensive NBC warfare unit. The suits had flexible metal strips to keep slashes from debris from slicing open the J-Suit, a layer of Kevlar to protect from shrapnel and to add another layer of protection against slashes from debris, a thin layer of asbestos to keep you from cooking if a someone popped a therm nearby or you ended up doing a particularly nasty decon and needed to run a flamethrower. The suit could be run on a positive pressure system in a facility or vehicle, could run positive pressure from tanks/recirculator/uptake system, or simply have the vents open.

Kincaid was going to be running on the uptake box on the bottom of the flamethrower fuel frame and plugged it into the intake and outtake systems.

"OK, Kincaid, it's going to get hot as hell in there, your sweat will be up to your shins inside of twenty minutes." I warned him. "Did you thread the dick-wire?"

"I'm not going to put in a catheter, no fucking way." Kincaid told me, laughing nervously.

"Then you'll have to piss down your leg, because you ain't unassing that suit till it's all over." I told him. I stepped up into his face, pitching my voice so only he could hear. "Once this helmet goes on, it doesn't come off until the mission is over, soldier. Do you understand?"

Kincaid stared at me and swallowed, the nodded.

"We're depending on you, Private Kincaid." I told him, then clapped the hood on him and began sealing it.

"Where did you learn about that kind of stuff?" Natchez asked me.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." I answered.

...once you gentlemen enter the next chamber, you will be in a full chemical environment with higher levels than anything you will encounter outside of an industrial accident or direct exposure to weapons being deployed in on the chemical battlefield. This is your last chance to drop on request before entering that chamber...

"Sergeant, are you serious about all of us staying in MOPP-4?" Shads asked, snapping me out of my memory.

"Look, unless you want me to autopsy one of them..." I trialed off and everyone stared at me. "Donaldson, make sure everyone is in MOPP-3 with their masks ready to go, make sure everyone is armed and ready to go."

"What are you going to do, Sergeant?" Donaldson asked.

"Wait, why is Donaldson in charge? I outrank him!" Wilkins said.

"Donaldson, until further notice, you're brevet pinned Specialist." I said, moving toward the door, running over the inventory control sheets I'd glanced at. "I'm getting my gear together." I stopped at the door and turned to face them. "Welcome to Special Weapons, gentlemen."

"He can't do that!" Wilkins yelled as I left.

"You argue with him." Shads said.

"I'm backing the Sergeant." Natchez added.

"Fuck yeah." Kincaid said. "Flamethrower, baby! I'm loving this shit!"

The door closed, cutting them off, and I started heading down the hallway, following the stripes. I'd need a full kit, but it was going to weight about sixty pounds, and I was already at max load with the extra tank pack. I'd have to pass it off to Natchez, since Wilkins was already packing one. Donaldson was on action front duty, and I was on recovery and flanks.

Everyone in my new unit looked at me weird for running with a full basic ruck on my stomach and a full infantry ruck on my back with 50 pounds at the bottom. I ran every goddamn day, at least every other day, pushing what was left of my body to limits.

I'd run out of gas when everyone depended on me before

...I couldn't see, lost in the dark and snow, but I could hear Nancy's sobbing in the darkness...

and I wasn't about to let it happen ever again.

So I knew I could pack the weight. I didn't have the space to pack the field kit, but if I transferred the tanks to Wilkins, I could still pack my gear and the field kit.

It was an unassuming door, with a label that gave no hint as to what it meant. Kincaid's suit and the flamethrower were in the armory and the excursion team equipment area.

What I was after was more specialized.

Nancy was waiting for me inside the room. She pointed out where the things I needed was, reminded me when I almost forgot to add something, and reminded me to get down the portable kit.

I ripped it apart, putting it back together with the extra stuff I'd need, Nancy reminding me of things I'd need that I almost forgot about. By the time I was done, I was pretty sure I had everything I needed, and Nancy was satisfied with my choices. All told, it weighed probably 50 pounds, but was bulky as shit. I'd need Donaldson to carry my infantry ruck, and the gear was only for a few moments, but those few moments would help me decide what option I wanted to go with.

And if I'd have to betray everyone sitting upstairs with the Major.

North Dakota would turn into a cluster fuck anyway, and if that had bloomed to the point they were dressed and armed like Kincaid, nobody would ever know what happened here. Someone was going to be thrown under the bus to divert the public's attention from North Dakota, and the little mess I was going to cause wouldn't even be noticed during whatever public shitstorm was stirred up to hide North Dakota.

Nancy reminded me of something I might need.

I pulled the grenades out of my satchel, leaving them on the table, and went and loaded it full of what I was afraid I was going to need. I needed what was in one of the ammunition cans I'd pulled out of my truck and put in the room I was using. Hell, one of the vaccines was still experimental, but I still packed the goddamn thing.

Like Nancy had reminded me, they hadn't gone through what I had, none of the Major's men had. I was vaccinated and inoculated against everything known to man, the CDC, the WHO, and NATO. Hell, I'd got inoculations for shit that didn't exist outside of a goddamn lab. Part of graduation was a cocktail of 130 different protective measures. If you survived and weren't crippled, then you passed.

It was brutal, it was inhuman, and ruthless.

My knuckles and the scars on me spoke silently of my brutality.

Missions and circumstances had shown I was ruthless.

My mother had made sure I wasn't human any more.

...vile, disgusting, horrible boy, ruiner of women, you're nothing more than a monster and I should have drowned you, you disgusting, vile little creature...

Heather's eyes appeared in my mind, and I could feel her arms around me.

My mother's voice vanished.

I finished packing the kit and grabbing the rest of what I would need. My "go to hell" kit, in case everything went to shit and the fallback plans and contingency plans were nothing but dust and death.

I'd promised the Major that I'd do everything I could to keep our men alive.

I hadn't lied.

I slung the gear and made one stop at a supply room on the way back to grab something I needed, no, that I needed Kincaid and Donaldson to have.

When I got back to the others Kincaid had shut the system down and was bitching to everyone about how hot the suit was already, how he had to pee, and how everyone needed to quit bitching about "bullshit ass MOPP-3". He had leaned the tanks on a table to take the weight off of him.

"Don't lean on shit." I snapped as I walked through the door. "Act like you're wearing sponges, boots, and gloves and that everything you touch is covered in liquid poison." Kincaid turned to stare at me. "You'd have failed initial testing." I snapped.

"Roger that, Sergeant." Kincaid said, standing up.

"This is for you, Donaldson." I told him, handing him a package of corporal rank. "Just put one on your left collar." I held up the specialist rank. "Once we're done down here, this is for you, Kincaid."

"Hot damn, a flamethrower and a promotion." Kincaid said. I could see him smiling through the Lexan shield in front of his face.

"They aren't legal promotions." Wilkins said.

"I'll have the Major sign the paperwork tonight, they'll be legal." I told everyone. I made sure I had everyone's attention. "Look, we're about to go into combat against an unknown enemy with unknown capabilities." I started. "I don't want any confusion regarding the chain of command when we make contact with the enemy."

Wilkins opened his mouth and then closed it.

"It's mission time." I told them. "Kincaid, you're in the lead. Donaldson, half a pace behind him on his left. Donaldson, you take my pack, Natchez, you're carrying an ammo pack for Kincaid."

"Sergeant, I officially wish my objections to this 'operation' of yours to be recorded, and wish to formally remind you of the illegality of what you are proposing to do." Wilkins tried, his voice formal and clipped with stress.

"Fine, drop the tanks. You can either wait here until we return, at which time I will have you repeat your objections to Major Darson." I shrugged. "We might not come back, so after a few hours, you can go down and use the lift." I opened my MOPP top and dug into my pocket, pulled out my notebook and pen, and jotted down some numbers before tearing it off and handing it to him. "Those codes will get you back up to the Major and will open the doors for you."

Wilkins paled, but I kept going. "I won't ask you to do anything you have a moral or ethical objection to, Private Wilkins, but this operation is going to go on with or without you." I shrugged again. "All that you bowing out will do is make it a little more difficult for us to accomplish our mission." I unsnapped my mask carrier, the sound loud in the sudden silence. "But we will accomplish it."

"This is against the Geneva Convention." Wilkins said. "It's gotta be illegal according to the UCMJ."

"Anyone else want out?" I asked.

"I'm in." Donaldson said, grunting as he shifted my ruck.

"I'm with you, Sergeant." Shads told me.

"I have no objection to the mission." Natchez said almost grudgingly.

"I want some fucking payback." Kincaid said, and there was a sudden pressurized hiss as he kicked on the flamethrower.

...you have your orders, men...

...the brutal hissing of the flamethrowers broke the silence as we stepped forward as one...

"If we aren't back in three hours, make for the lift, don't go into any darkness, and if it starts to get cold, run for it, Wilkins." I said, pulling on my mask. I cleared the mask and stared at him. "Good luck, soldier."

"You aren't going to leave me here, are you?" Wilkins asked.

"I can't afford to reduce our combat effectiveness by sending manpower to escort you to the lift." I told him, pulling the drawstring on the hood. "I won't ask you to do anything you feel is illegal." I grabbed my helmet and clapped it on. "I'll have you returned to the regular Army as soon as possible, and all of this can just be a nightmare."

"Your Army rocks, Sergeant." Kincaid said, popping the pressure on the flamethrower so the hiss stuttered. "Flamethrowers, killer mutants, underground bases, and rogue secret agents." He turned toward me. "You get lots of pussy in your Army?"

I laughed. "No complaints, Kincaid. Just the woman look as mean as they are and would cut your throat in a hot second."

"I can hang with that." Kincaid said. "Let's go before I fucking drown in this suit before I can get some pussy."

...I'd fuck that boy to death...

...I know, Nancy...

"Good luck, Private Wilkins." I said, pausing at the door. He stared at me in shock, unable to believe that I'd leave him behind.

"Sergeant, you can't..." He started.

I stared at him for a long time. "The mission comes first." I told him. He just kept staring. Behind me Kincaid was playing with the pressure trigger, popping the hiss repeatedly in impatience. "Wilkins, I'd rather have you with me, I need the manpower, this is going to turn into a total clusterfuck, we'll be lucky if half of get out of here."

He wavered physically. "I was just following orders isn't an excuse, Sergeant."

"You have to make that decision yourself." I told him. "This is going to get ugly."

...he's not a coward, Ant, he wouldn't have stepped up like that if he was a coward...

...I know, Bomber...

"They might court martial you." He told me.

"If that's what it costs, then I'll take the court martial quietly." I told him.

"Really?" He asked.

"Yeah, really." I told him, and started to turn away.

"Is it that important?" he asked.

"It's more important than you'd understand." I told him.

"Wait!" he called out. I slowed down, and he caught up to me. "Is it that important?"

I was silent until we caught up to the others at the Deep Storage Locker door.

"Gather up." I told them. Kincaid popped the flamethrower again, but kept the nozzle pointed down the hallway the way we'd came, away from everyone.

"Wilkins brought up a legitimate point." I told them. "What we're doing may or may not be illegal under the Geneva Convention, the Hague Convention, and the UCMJ, but that doesn't matter." I paused.

"Fuck it, they get to die." Kincaid snarled, popping the flamethrower twice, the double metallic hisses punctuating his statement.

"This is the hard choice." I told them as if Kincaid hadn't put in his two cents. "This goes beyond killing a man, this goes beyond anything you've been trained for. " I shook my head, suddenly tired. "As soldiers our primary duty is to defend the Constitution and the civilians of America from all threats." They all nodded, this wasn't anything new. "This goes beyond dying on a battlefield though. This is way above your guy's paygrades."

"This is where it hurts." I told them. "At this time, I know what we have to do, and I know what we're going to will be investigated, and I know who will be thrown under the bus if someone has to take the fall."

Beside Kincaid, Bomber was making a yadda yadda yadda talking motion with one hand and rolling his eyes.

"That's me." I told them. "But it doesn't matter. What matters is that we have a serious threat down here, a threat that we cannot allow to spread outside of this facility."

"No offense, Sergeant, but fuck the speeches, let's go kill those assholes, see if this works on your old CO, and go the fuck home." Kincaid snarled. "If you're trying to explain why you're going to turn this goddamn place into a fucking volcano, fine, I'll help you wire the nukes."

Everyone nodded, and for a second they were replaced by my old crew.

...get out of here, boys, we're all dead down here...

They went from ready to go to bloodstained, cut, stitched, and bandaged, and my blood ran cold. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, my old crew was gone.

Shads threw the bar and the sirens howled as the doors slid back and the main door slowly began to rise.

Without being told Kincaid squatted down and triggered the flamethrower, a solid bar of white cored fire shooting under the door as he panned it from side to side. When he stood up, a few drops of flame fell from the muzzle.

"Just in case that asshole's out there." He told me. "Goddamn this thing rocks."

When the door was up high enough we moved underneath and I threw the bar to make it lower back down.

"Mask up, gentlemen." I told them.

It was more than just for their safety. It was psychological, both for the enemy and for us. I wanted them to take what we were going into seriously, and the sight of men in gas masks had been part of the American subconscious for decades. From The Wall to shitloads of movies, everyone knew that soldiers in gas masks were about to kill everyone and all of your rights were so much wishing.

That image was a cultural fear, and I was gambling that it still existed in the darkest nightmares of whatever those creatures had become.

...yes we're from the government...

...no, we're not here to help...

the brutal hiss of two flamethrowers kicking on, and the screams as the people realized what was about to happen

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the image back.

neverhappenedneverhappenedneverhappenedneverhappened

Kincaid led the way to the Event Locker, popping the igniter over and over. It bled the propane tank, but not enough to sweat it.

Besides, I did it too. So did Bomber. So did Nancy.

So did Taggart.

The door opened to reveal the hallway, the blood splashed walls, the shattered pictures (some fallen), and the still bodies.

"Give me a few minutes." I told them, moving forward and dropping the pack off my back. "Wilkins, Shads, cover me. Natchez, drop the door. I opened the pack and pulled out the case.

"Sergeant?" Shads asked when I pulled up the battery operated saw.

"Stay back." I told them. I sliced away some of the ragged skin. Took swabs of the sores. Then I took the saw and got to work.

Someone retched behind me. "Don't puke in your mask." I snapped, not bothering to turn around. "Deep slow breaths." I took a handful of blood samples after putting the samples in the small glass tubes with tweezers.

...Christ, Ant, stick to stabbing people...

...shutup, Bomber...

The CDC would have shrieked at my methods, and my old trainers would have slapped me with a NOGO and made me retake the whole damn test, but I was pressed for time, without facilities, and had to do it fast and dirty, field expedient.

I wanted Heather.

I wanted my sock monkey.

It took me a looong time, I was out of practice. I was a field specialist, this was shit for the lab boys, for the specialists, not for a ground pounding meat head like me. When I was done, I stood up and stepped back next to Kincaid.

"Burn em." I told him. "Apply it directly for the count of fifteen, then move on to the next one."

"Yes, Sergeant." Kincaid told me, stepping forward and hitting the trigger.

Natchez puked at the stench of roasting meat and the sticky hot-fuel smell of the enriched napalm. Kincaid was lucky, his suit went through three filters, so the majority of the smell was scrubbed out of the air that was pumped into him. The rest of us the masks didn't help, the smell of charred and burning pork filled our lives.

I kept flashing back to fire of my own. The sudden horror as I realized what would happen. The bloom of fire, the agony that snapped instantly into cold across my back.

There were other memories there, memories built of fire that were suppressed by the jet, but still bubbled up as Kincaid played the flamethrower on the bodies, moving back to other ones that hadn't completely burned away.

It was brutal, inhuman work.

Kincaid took to the work like a duck to water.

I stood by lock to the airlock, holding onto the lever.

"Are we ready?" I asked.

Everyone, even Wilkins, nodded.

They'd seen the pockets of pus I'd hit when I'd cracked open the second chest, the lungs surrounded by pus, white with strings of green and blackish-red clotted blood. I had ignored the questions that they'd asked and warned them it might be worth their lives if they puked.

The far door was open, even though the door on our side of the airlock slid open without a need for an override or anything else.

From inside the darkness, something screeched in hatred.

"Daddy's home, bitches!" Kincaid shouted.

They came at us in a rush.

We were ready.

Kincaid laughed as they burned.