sill.
Then the camera tilted crazily, turning until it was focused on a soldier with a thin black goatee and haggard brown eyes. Yuri Filipov, Commander Jordan’s favorite subordinate. “Is shit, command. Cut them down, but zombies just keep coming. Don’t have many rounds left.”
The Director was silent as he considered. So many unanswered questions, but the man was in a firefight.
“Corporal Filipov, I know you’re in the thick of it, but we need a status. Where are you?” The Director said, arms falling to his sides. His fists clenched as he suppressed the urge to take a step closer to the screen.
“Is Panama,” the Russian replied, glancing over his shoulder then back at the camera. “Peru status unknown, but bad when left. Werewolf tore off Yuri’s leg.”
“Acknowledged. Yuri, is the package secure?” It was amazing that the man was still conscious, much less manning a heavy weapon with that kind of injury.
“No. Is still in hangar,” Yuri replied. His head turned and the camera spun wildly. There were a flurry of gunshots, then his face returned. “Cannot breach perimeter. Is impossible. Have enough fuel to make Houston, but need extraction from there.”
“Acknowledged. Get back in the air and get as much footage as you can in Panama. We’ll dispatch another team to secure the package,” The Director ordered, face dispassionate despite his roiling emotions. It was all going to shit so very quickly.
Yuri gave a tight nod. Then the screen went black. The Director spun to face the room. “Get me viable extraction options. I want that package back in our hands and I don’t want to lose anyone doing it. Estimates and full brief in two hours.”
Mark turned on his heel and strode up the center aisle, not pausing as he stepped through the automatic doors. He knew their timing to the millisecond and had made every motion as efficiently as possible. Many people would have laughed had they known it. Such a small thing, passing through a door at the optimum speed.
Yet it was from the simplest actions that one’s core self arose. The standards you set. If you held yourself to excellence in the little things, you quickly realized that big things were just an accumulation of all those little things. So Mark made the little things count.
He ducked into an elevator moments before it closed, eyes widening as he identified the car’s other occupant.
“Heading to your quarters?” the Old Man asked. That nickname was most definitely at odds with Leif Mohn himself. He wasn’t an old man so much as he was eternal. His platinum hair and stern face hadn’t aged in the entire time Mark had known him. The bastard was even more timeless than Patrick Stewart.
“Yours actually. We just received a live combat report from Panama,” he said. The Old Man always liked knowing as soon as data was obtained. “Peru sounds bad. The package was never delivered.”
Mohn stabbed the button labeled 24 for Mark then 26 for his own quarters. Mark had always wondered why he kept an entire level between himself and the senior staff, but he’d never asked. He wondered what the Old Man would say if he did. The man clearly valued privacy, but when the world ended that kind of paranoia was just too expensive.
“Where is it now?”
“We have confirmation that the package is still in Panama. An extraction team landed, but faced heavy resistance from these walking corpses,” The Director replied, eyeing the Old Man sidelong as the car began to descend. “We haven’t created an official term for the creatures, though Z, zombie and zed have been suggested repeatedly.”
“Draugr, Mark. They’re called draugr. I don’t care about the package. What I do care about are the Arks. I want a bird assigned to every one and I want hourly reports detailing everyone coming or going. That includes the one in Peru,” the Old Man ordered. The car slid smoothly to a halt and the doors opened. Mark made no move to exit.
“What
Then the camera tilted crazily, turning until it was focused on a soldier with a thin black goatee and haggard brown eyes. Yuri Filipov, Commander Jordan’s favorite subordinate. “Is shit, command. Cut them down, but zombies just keep coming. Don’t have many rounds left.”
The Director was silent as he considered. So many unanswered questions, but the man was in a firefight.
“Corporal Filipov, I know you’re in the thick of it, but we need a status. Where are you?” The Director said, arms falling to his sides. His fists clenched as he suppressed the urge to take a step closer to the screen.
“Is Panama,” the Russian replied, glancing over his shoulder then back at the camera. “Peru status unknown, but bad when left. Werewolf tore off Yuri’s leg.”
“Acknowledged. Yuri, is the package secure?” It was amazing that the man was still conscious, much less manning a heavy weapon with that kind of injury.
“No. Is still in hangar,” Yuri replied. His head turned and the camera spun wildly. There were a flurry of gunshots, then his face returned. “Cannot breach perimeter. Is impossible. Have enough fuel to make Houston, but need extraction from there.”
“Acknowledged. Get back in the air and get as much footage as you can in Panama. We’ll dispatch another team to secure the package,” The Director ordered, face dispassionate despite his roiling emotions. It was all going to shit so very quickly.
Yuri gave a tight nod. Then the screen went black. The Director spun to face the room. “Get me viable extraction options. I want that package back in our hands and I don’t want to lose anyone doing it. Estimates and full brief in two hours.”
Mark turned on his heel and strode up the center aisle, not pausing as he stepped through the automatic doors. He knew their timing to the millisecond and had made every motion as efficiently as possible. Many people would have laughed had they known it. Such a small thing, passing through a door at the optimum speed.
Yet it was from the simplest actions that one’s core self arose. The standards you set. If you held yourself to excellence in the little things, you quickly realized that big things were just an accumulation of all those little things. So Mark made the little things count.
He ducked into an elevator moments before it closed, eyes widening as he identified the car’s other occupant.
“Heading to your quarters?” the Old Man asked. That nickname was most definitely at odds with Leif Mohn himself. He wasn’t an old man so much as he was eternal. His platinum hair and stern face hadn’t aged in the entire time Mark had known him. The bastard was even more timeless than Patrick Stewart.
“Yours actually. We just received a live combat report from Panama,” he said. The Old Man always liked knowing as soon as data was obtained. “Peru sounds bad. The package was never delivered.”
Mohn stabbed the button labeled 24 for Mark then 26 for his own quarters. Mark had always wondered why he kept an entire level between himself and the senior staff, but he’d never asked. He wondered what the Old Man would say if he did. The man clearly valued privacy, but when the world ended that kind of paranoia was just too expensive.
“Where is it now?”
“We have confirmation that the package is still in Panama. An extraction team landed, but faced heavy resistance from these walking corpses,” The Director replied, eyeing the Old Man sidelong as the car began to descend. “We haven’t created an official term for the creatures, though Z, zombie and zed have been suggested repeatedly.”
“Draugr, Mark. They’re called draugr. I don’t care about the package. What I do care about are the Arks. I want a bird assigned to every one and I want hourly reports detailing everyone coming or going. That includes the one in Peru,” the Old Man ordered. The car slid smoothly to a halt and the doors opened. Mark made no move to exit.
“What
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