Voyage of the Dead - Book One Sovereign Spirit Saga by David Forsyth Page A

Grenada in 1983.  In that “weekend war” he had shot a few Cubans who were trying to defend a bridge.  That gave him seniority in the trained killer category aboard the Sovereign Spirit, as far as Scott knew.  He was certainly a trusted and confident friend.  That morning he carried a Browning BAR Safari 30-ought-6 semi automatic rifle with high power scope.  He appeared ready and willing to use it.
     
    The other gunner, Mark Argus, was one of Scott’s best friends with a unique background that included unofficial membership in the elite airborne battalion of a friendly nation in Central America.  It was a position he had earned with more sweat than clout, even though he dished out a lot of both down there.  Mark loved guns and adventure, which Scott had learned when they were still too young to drink legally, so Scott knew that Mark wouldn’t have missed this flight for anything.  Mark had chosen to carry a Ruger Mini 14 with sniper scope and 20 round magazines.  Scott saw he was also packing a pistol and was sure he had several other nasty surprises stashed in the cargo pouches on his web gear.  It was nice to know that Mark had his back.
     
    “Good to have you both aboard, brothers” said Scott.  “I hope we won’t need your firepower today, but if we do, I want you to only shoot zombies.  Not normal people.  It might be hard to tell them apart.  So you need to be very selective with your targets.  And you should only fire on zombies that pose a threat to us, or to Mr. Hammer and his family, assuming they aren’t already zombies too.  My point is that we’re not on a zombie hunt.  For all we know there might be a cure for them someday and, aside from the infection, most of them were probably good people.  So, conserve your ammo.  Go for head shots.  Make every shot count.  And keep cool.  OK?”
     
    “Sure thing, Boss,” said Clint with a wink. Mark just nodded.
     
                “And one more thing,” said Scott.  “George Hammer is on a short fuse.  He’s got reasons.  But I’m not giving him ammo for that gun until we drop him off.  In the mean time you two will be riding behind him.  So please make sure that he doesn’t go nuts.  The critical time will probably be when he sees what’s happening down there.  So keep alert.”
     
    “Charlie Mike,” said Mark, which meant continue mission in their private code.
     
    “What are you packing there?” asked Scott, pointing at what looked sort of like a backpack that Mark was carrying.
     
    “Parachute,” Mark replied.  “In case you want to insert me without landing.  Minimum altitude of 500 feet please.”   He smiled and turned to stow his gear in the back of the chopper.
     
    “Don’t worry, Scott,” said Clint.  “I’ll make sure he straps into the safety harness too.  And you can count on both of us to deliver death from above; even it’s only to the undead.”  For some reason he decided to give Scott a military salute before turning towards the chopper.
     
    “Well, Micky,” Scott said softly.  “Looks like we’ve got a team dedicated to the mission.  Let’s get this party started.”  Mick and Scott exchanged nods before turning to climb into opposite sides of the cockpit.
     
    The flight towards Cabo San Lucas went smoothly.  Scott, being left-handed, sat in the left seat of the cockpit where he could use his best hand on the stick and his right for the collective.  Tim was right handed and preferred the right seat anyway.  George Hammer sat one row behind the pilots in the center of three seats, where he could look ahead between the pilots.  Clint and Mark had the nine seats of the rear passenger area, four facing to the rear and five forwards, all to themselves.  They strapped safety lines between their web gear and some O rings near the doors.  If they were called on to provide sniper fire they would slide those side doors open.
     
    As they lifted off the helipad Mark