Arisen, Book Nine - Cataclysm by Michael Stephen Fuchs Page B

made a mental note to shoot himself in the head immediately if anything ever happened to Eli.
    He nodded at his friend to go ahead.
    “As ordered, we’ve taken command of all surviving base personnel.”
    Jameson exhaled. Thank God . “Outstanding. I want everyone in uniform and still breathing air reporting to and under the operational control of you or one of your Marines. Down to and including our most junior enlisted.”
    “It’s already being done.”
    Jameson nodded. “We are running this show now, we are responsible – and there will be no more fuck-ups.”
    Eli nodded, still unfazed. “Leave it with me. Do you also want me to organize a full assembly? Or just the RMPs, so you can issue orders?”
    He meant the Royal Military Police who, aside from One Troop, were the only remotely effective fighting force here in what was supposed to be a hardened military installation. But Jameson shook his head. “No. You speak for me, with my voice, and you can handle it. Alert me if you need input or resources.”
    “Roger that.” Eli cocked his head. “Any update on the arrival of the command element from Edinburgh?”
    The only really good news in the whole pear-shaped situation was that Jameson & Co. were only going to have to manage this shit-show for a little while longer. At that point, a whole slew of replacement commanders and ops officers, basically a JOC-in-a-box, would be flying in from CentCom North HQ in Scotland, and would take this whole thing off their hands.
    Jameson hadn’t had time to get an update on that. “No. Assume they’re on schedule.” He checked his wristwatch, at the end of a soot-streaked bare forearm, his camo combat shirtsleeves long ago rolled up. It was hard even to remember that they had stepped off the helicopters from the Germany mission and virtually straight into the outbreak here – and its aftermath, including inheriting responsibility for everything. “It’s less than two and a half hours total flying time by Chinook, so they should be here within the hour.”
    Eli nodded. “Thank fuck for that. Sir.”
    Jameson smiled. As usual, his troop sergeant had it right. But then his smile melted away… as Jameson mentally pictured some blighting Foxtrot they had missed in their sweeps leaping out at the arriving command detachment and mauling them all before they could relieve One Troop, and particularly Jameson, from this loathsome duty.
    He looked at Eli seriously. “Listen. I want one last sweep – of everything . But starting at the helipad and hangar, and pushing out from there.”
    Eli nodded. He got it.
    “Prioritize this, put every warm body you can scavenge on it – and do it now. Whatever’s already been checked three times, check it a fourth and fifth. Our relief is going to take over as planned. Seriously – no fuck-ups.”
    “Understood,” Eli said. “We’ll do it proper.”
    Eli knew his boss was on target as usual. It wasn’t just that they wanted out of there. It was that they were totally unqualified for the job they were doing. Simply, they had to see this through to a successful handover – or else they would be half-assedly manning that place until everyone everywhere was dead.
    Including, in the end, them.
    But Jameson almost smiled at the thought of the handover. “With luck, we’ll be doing some nice relaxing zombie fighting out on the ground by nightfall.”
    Eli saluted, turned on his heel – and headed out to get it done.

Days Not Weeks
    CentCom HQ - Helipad
    “No fuck-ups,” Private Simmonds told the two RMPs, stressing the most important of their mission parameters. He knew this was a little cheeky, not least because the two “Redcaps” – as the Royal Military Police were called due to their traditional scarlet berets – outranked him. Both were sergeants. But word had come down from the top – and the top was now Major Jameson – that when it came to chain of command, there was everyone in One Troop… and then there was