Juggernaut (outpost) Read online

  Juggernaut

  ( Outpost )

  Adam Baker

  “A high-voltage shock to the system. It’s smart, witty, crammed with action and disturbingly plausible. Highly recommended.”

  –Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author of Assassin’s Code

  THEY SEARCHED FOR GOLD. THEY FOUND DEATH.

  Iraq 2005. Seven mercenaries hear an enticing rumor: somewhere, abandoned in the swirling desert sands, lies an abandoned Republican Guard convoy containing millions of pounds of Saddam’s gold. They form an unlikely crew of battle-scarred privateers, killers and thieves, veterans of a dozen war zones, each of them anxious to make one last score before their luck runs out.

  After liberating the sole surviving Guard member from US capture, the team makes their way to the ancient ruins where the convoy was last seen. Although all seems eerily quiet and deserted when they arrive, they soon find themselves caught in a desperate battle for their lives, confronted by greed, betrayal, and an army that won’t stay dead.

  A brilliant, gripping portrait of survival in the face of complete annihilation perfect for fans of Jonathan Maberry and Guillermo Del Toro’s The Strain.

  An unputdownable military thriller that SFFworld.com called "Three Kings meets The Walking Dead,” Juggernaut is a heart-pounding, fast-paced read that doesn’t let up until the last page.

  Adam Baker

  JUGGERNAUT

  For Emily

  Central Intelligence Agency

  Near East Division TO: 12MF-3-57-8U

  RESTRICTED DOS-01

  SPEKTR — 12 GROUP OPERATION DOSSIER

  PROJECT TO LOCATE AND ACQUIRE SPEKTR VEHICLE

  TOP SECRET/SPEKTR GROUP EYES ONLY

  WARNING! This is a TOP SECRET — SPEKTR GROUP EYES ONLY document containing compartmentalised information essential to the national security of the United States. EYES ONLY ACCESS to the material herein is strictly limited to personnel possessing SPEKTR — 12 CLEARANCE LEVEL. Examination or use by unauthorised personnel is strictly forbidden and is punishable by federal law.

  SPEKTR — 12 GROUP

  Oct 2005

  TOP SECRET SPECIAL HANDLING NO FORM

  Central Intelligence Agency

  Directorate of Operations, Near East Division

  Doc ID: 575JD1

  Page 01/1

  08/25/05

  MEMORANDUM TO: Project Lead, D.Ops

  SUBJECT: Spektr

  Colonel,

  We conducted a Predator overflight of the contamination zone at first light this morning, and I am forced to conclude that our attempts to contain the infection have failed.

  Analysis of 11th Recon surveillance images confirm a fire-fight of considerable ferocity has taken place. Scorch marks and cratering suggest grenade detonations. Some of the ancient temple buildings have suffered significant blast damage. Both helicopters have been destroyed.

  We have been unable to make contact with the incursion team for twenty-four hours. Their last transmission suggested exploration of the valley was proceeding as planned. We then received a series of unintelligible communications we attributed to damaged sat-com equipment.

  We must conclude that the incursion team is lost. Any further attempts to retrieve the virus flask are beyond our current back-channel resources, and risk exposing agency involvement in the Spektr project.

  I respectfully suggest we initiate CLEANSWEEP.

  R. Koell

  Field Officer

  CA Special Proj, Baghdad

  TOP SECRET SPECIAL HANDLING NO FORM

  Central Intelligence Agency

  Directorate of Operations, Near East Division

  Doc ID: 575JD10

  Page 01/1

  08/25/05

  MEMORANDUM TO: Project Lead, D.Ops

  SUBJECT: Spektr

  Colonel,

  Our pilot reports successful detonation of the Sentinel device over Valley 403 at 09:57.

  Joint Special Operations Command has been informed that the explosion near the Syrian border was an operational matter and no further investigation is required.

  The incursion team were mercenaries. A multinational squad of second tier special forces. They were not affiliated with any of the major security contractors currently operating in this sector. They had no agency connection and were unaware of the true purpose of their mission. We do not expect their disappearance to attract undue attention.

  R. Koell

  Field Officer

  CA Special Proj, Baghdad Station

  Central Intelligence Agency

  Directorate of Operations, Near East Division

  FLASH CABLE — READ AND DESTROY

  TO: Project Lead, D.Ops

  FROM: R. Koell

  08/25/05

  14:46 AST

  Colonel,

  I have just received a bulletin from Joint Special Operations Command, Qatar. They say they have detected movement within the contamination zone. They report a locomotive heading out of the blast area along an old mine track.

  JSOC have personnel in the Western Desert as part of Delta operations targeting foreign mujahedeen along the Syrian border. They have re-routed an air patrol from 160th Special Ops to intercept the locomotive.

  We have made Operational Command aware of our wish to debrief the occupants of the vehicle and we are assured of their cooperation. We are currently monitoring radio traffic to determine if a member of the incursion team has survived.

  IRAQ

  August 25th 2005

  Ghost Train

  The Western Desert

  The Contamination Zone

  The locomotive roared headlong through a rippling, caramel sandscape. A dust-streaked behemoth jetting black diesel fumes. A plough welded to the forward buffer bar scoured the dune-choked rails in a series of sand-bursts, like a speedboat smacking through chop.

  The engine looked like it tore out of hell. A shattered cyclopean nose lamp. Bodywork pitted, scarred, scorched black. Maintenance panels ripped away. Cables trailed and sparked.

  The windshield was smashed. The cab was empty. The throttle was jammed at full power and lashed with rope. Rev needles at max. A tool box wedged the trip-brake pedal open. Every surface dusted in sand: the console, the driver’s bar-stool seat, the plate floor.

  The track ahead was blocked by a high fence half submerged in sand. Rusted chain-link propped up by metal stakes. The barrier stretched to vanishing point north and south.

  Corroded stencil signs. Alternate English/Arabic. A warning to coalition troops and camel-driving Bedouin:

  DANGER

  TOXIC HAZARD

  KEEP OUT

  USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORISED

  IN ACCORDANCE WITH PA DIRECTIVE 84–4643

  The locomotive punched through the barrier. It wrenched fence stakes from the sand. The plough blade sheering through chain-link like it was paper.

  The Blackhawk flew low over dunes, chasing its shadow. It drew parallel with the locomotive.

  Captain Flores held the chopper steady. She lifted her visor and surveyed the cab. Smashed windows. An empty driver’s chair. She adjusted her helmet mike.

  ‘The bridge at Anah is out. That thing is going to drop into the fucking ravine.’

  Sergeant Tate sat in the cargo compartment. He had a goatee, and a big tattoo on his forearm: the Pegasus insignia of the 160th SOAR. Night Stalkers Don’t Quit.

  He tossed his rifle to Frost, the combat medic. He unbuckled his harness. He pulled on sand goggles and adjusted the earpiece of his radio.

  ‘Put me down on the roof.’

  The Blackhawk banked and hovered over the five-hundred-ton juggernaut. Flores adjusted airspeed, lowered the collective and nudged the cyclic forward.<
br />
  The starboard tyre of the chopper gently touched down on the locomotive roof. Tate stepped onto the blackened, wind-scoured metal and the chopper pulled back. He crouched, lashed by downwash.

  Tate crawled on his hands and knees along the cambered cowling. He climbed over louvered intake grilles and belching exhaust stacks.

  He reached the roof of the cab. He climbed down onto the nose, holding the smashed air horn for support. He spat sand, crouched and peered through the broken windshield.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Ghost train.’

  He swung his legs through the windshield. He slid across the engineer console into the cab.

  Suede desert boots crunched on broken glass. He crouched and inspected debris that littered the floor. He examined Glock pistol clips and US STANAG magazines. He scooped up a handful of brass cartridge cases and let them spill through gloved fingers.

  ‘Spent rounds. Plenty of them. AK. Nine mil. Muzzle burn round each window. Fucking war zone.’

  ‘Better cut the power. Few more miles you are going to run out of track.’

  Tate pulled off his goggles. He examined the lashed controls. He reached for the combat knife strapped to his webbing. Then he noticed the door ajar at the back of the cab. An access hatch with a big voltage zag. The engine compartment. He drew the Sig from his quick-release chest holster. He flicked the safety and chambered the pistol.

  He kicked open the metal hatch. Deafening machine-howl from the cramped engine bay. A huge turbo-charged twelve-cylinder generator. Massive alternators and rectifiers. Pounding motive power.

  He let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Sunlight shafted through roof vents. Fan blades projected swirling cartwheel shadows.

  ‘Hold on. I’ve found something.’

  A dusty boot protruding from behind the power plant. Tate edged along the wall of the tight engine compartment. A crouched shuffle.

  Two figures in combat fatigues slumped in the corner, positioned beneath the down-draft of an overhead vent.

  Ripped, ragged clothes. Blood spatters and sweat salt.

  ‘What can you see?’

  ‘Couple of bodies.’

  Tate leant forward. He pulled aside the lapel of a prairie coat and examined dog tags.

  S9346448

  WHYTE

  LUCY

  NON AFF

  O POS

  MAR

  He brushed black hair aside.

  Lucy opened her eyes. Blue, like ice chips.

  ‘You all right?’ asked Tate. She snatched the knife from his chest rig. He caught her hand as she slammed the blade at his throat.

  The locomotive at a standstill. Tate carried Lucy in his arms. He kicked open the slide door and jumped from the cab.

  The Blackhawk performed a steep combat landing and set down among the dunes. Tyres settled in soft sand. Lucy and Tate were engulfed in a cyclone of rotor-wash.

  Lucy turned her head. She wondered if the helicopter was a vivid hallucination. A vision of deliverance. Earlier that day, as temperatures peaked and she took shelter in the fan-blasted cool of the engine compartment, she succumbed to a lucid dream in which she explored the paths and arbours of a perfumed garden. She picked invisible flowers and wore them in her hair.

  The main rotor slowed to a standstill. The sandstorm began to subside.

  The side door of the chopper slid open. Three Delta jumped out, faces masked by sand goggles and scarves.

  ‘There’s another girl in the engine compartment,’ said Tate. ‘I think she’s alive.’

  He laid Lucy on the ground. A medic crouched beside her. He checked her pupils, checked the pulse in her neck.

  ‘Severe dehydration. Bad heatstroke. Let’s get her on a drip.’

  He unfolded a litter. They lifted Lucy onto the stretcher and laid her in the cramped cabin of the Blackhawk.

  They brought a second girl from the locomotive. Blonde. Unconscious. They strapped her to a litter and laid her next to Lucy.

  Tate checked dog tags.

  ‘Amanda Greenwald.’

  The medic examined Amanda’s bandaged leg. He pulled away crusted dressings.

  ‘Shot in the thigh. Looks infected. Crack me some gauze and a suture kit.’

  The Delta guys climbed aboard and sat looking down at the women.

  Dust-off. Escalating engine whine. Rotor spinning up to full speed. A tornado of sand.

  Lucy turned her head. A doorman in a full-face visor. She looked beyond the long barrel-drum of his Dillon Gatling gun, the fuel pods and Hellfire rockets. She watched the dunes fall away beneath her, the locomotive lost in a desert so vast she could almost see the curvature of the Earth.

  The medic pulled a trauma trunk from beneath a canvas bench. IV equipment packed in Ziploc backs. He drove a large-bore fourteen-gauge needle into the back of Lucy’s hand and taped it down. He uncoiled tube and plugged a bag of saline solution into her hand. He hooked the bag to overhead webbing.

  The medic shouted to be heard above wind noise and rotor roar. ‘Drink.’

  He held a bottle to her mouth. She gulped and coughed. He poured water on her face and washed away grime.

  ‘Look at me. Can you talk? How many fingers am I holding up?’

  She tried to speak. Her cracked lips formed words but she couldn’t make a sound.

  She tried to reach out to the stretcher beside her and take Amanda’s hand, but her arm was blocked by the centre stanchion.

  ‘Don’t worry. She’s alive. You’ll both be in Baghdad in no time.’

  He gave Lucy more water. She gripped the bottle like it was life itself.

  IBN Sina Hospital, Baghdad

  Lucy lay on a gurney. She was in some kind of triage room.

  She struggled to focus. Cracked ceiling plaster. A broken light socket.

  She turned her head. A smashed window. Glass on the floor. Streaks of arterial spray across the white-tiled wall, blood dried black.

  A couple of Iraqi guys walked into the room. White coats, stethoscopes hung round their necks. Cheap sneakers crunched on grit and glass. They murmured in Arabic. They checked her pulse. They checked her eyes. One of them leaned into her field of vision, and switched to English. His voice was clear, educated, like he studied abroad.

  ‘Lucy?’ said the doctor. He looked like he hadn’t slept for a week. ‘Lucy, can you hear me?’

  She wanted to reply, but she couldn’t turn thought to speech.

  ‘You’re in hospital. We’ll look after you, Lucy. You’re safe now.’

  He helped her sip water from a china cup. He helped her lie back.

  They cut off her clothes. They sliced her laces with a knife and peeled off her boots. They released the press-studs of her Osprey body armour. They cut off her knee pads. They cut through her trousers and belt with trauma shears. They cut through her Union flag T-shirt. They let her keep her Nike sports bra and briefs.

  They tried to remove her watch and pull the gold band from her wedding finger but she snatched her hand away.

  They draped her with a sheet.

  ‘Get some sleep.’

  Lucy lay on a hospital bed halfway between life and death. A bare room. Iron bed-frame. Iron chair.

  Sometimes she was alone. Sometimes Sergeant Miller sat on the chair beside her.

  Come on, Sergeant Miller would tell her. Keep fighting. You’re not done yet.

  But Miller died two years ago in Afghanistan. He got fragged by a mortar round as his patrol entered a Helmand village on a meet-and-greet. Bled out from a gut wound as he lay in a ditch waiting for a medevac Chinook that took six hours to show up. Clutching his belly, panting and screaming. His coffin offloaded at RAF Lyneham, walked down the cargo ramp of a Hercules with a Union flag draped over the lid, then a slow cortège through Wootton Bassett. The battalion held a service at Camp Bastion. They laid a poppy wreath in front of the memorial wall. The padre led prayers in his sash and fatigues, until a rocket alert sent everyone running for the bunker.

&nbs
p; ‘What’s it like? Being dead?’

  ‘It’s not so bad.’ Miller squeezed her hand. ‘It’s peaceful. A long sleep.’

  ‘Sounds nice.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘No wife. No kids. I had nothing to leave behind. How about you? Do you have a reason to live?’

  She woke. She sat up. She sat on the edge of the bed. An old mattress mottled with piss- and bloodstains.

  The ceiling fan revolved, gently stirring the air. Must be one of the brief periods each day when Baghdad enjoyed electrical power.

  There was a needle taped to the back of her hand. A clear tube ran to an empty bag of saline hung from a rusted drip stand.

  ‘Hello?’

  She peeled tape and pulled the wide-bore needle from her hand.

  ‘Hey. Anyone?’

  Street noise from an open window. Car horns, the heavy throb of twin-rotor Chinooks.

  Distant gunfire. Might be fire-fight. Sunni militia and the Mahdi Army duking it out. Or it might be a wedding party.

  Crackling speakers. The noonday call to prayer. Muedhin summoned the faithful.

  ‘Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar…’

  Mournful. Alien.

  There was an insectocutor on the wall. Two glowing ultraviolet bars. Lucy watched bugs spit and crackle as they were drawn into the lethal light.

  A washstand. The faucet gulped and spat. She scooped water in cupped hands and drank.

  A sliver of broken mirror screwed to the wall. Cracked lips. Sunken eyes. Peeling, sun-blasted skin. A living corpse. A thirty-three-year-old woman reduced to a desiccated hag.

  She pulled shredded mosquito netting aside and looked out the window.