Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 12b

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 12b

By Phil Miller

Admiral Stark and Major Singha had re-joined the rest of the war cabinet. “Update please. Any reaction from Moscow, Iran or Beijing?” he asked, focusing in on a region of the Pacific Ocean, just off Japan, “None, Sir! Local Chinese media are reporting the blast as some kind of chemical factory explosion,” replied a senior officer.

Major Singha tapped his headpiece to receive an incoming call. “Sir! We have scoped a call from agent Donyevsky’s phone. Different SIM but  IMEI verified and VR confirmed the caller ID as special ops agent Cody Wright”. Major Singha stood up abruptly, knocking his coffee to the floor in the process, “get that number up on the board and get it traced. I want a drone and G-force on them, double quick. No way they could have gotten Donyevsky’s phone; they would have to kill him first. If we are quick, there may still be time.”

Moby had been hunting the Russian Archangel-M2 for three months and had stealthily tracked it into the murky depths of the Pacific Ring Of Fire, just above the lines of the Kamchatka and Kuril Trench. The crew were at battle stations and although it was the pride of the Russian naval fleet, it was still no match for the ultra hi-tech, hi-spec allied master of destruction that was, MOBY.  She had  been fitted with the most advanced weapons and sonar system known to man, the only negative being that it was noisier than the Russian diesel electric 040AX which made it easier to locate in a theatre of war.  

Both nuclear vessels were manned by highly focused professionals, but Captain Terence Morgan was confident they had the edge.

He had carried out many tours around the oceans and seas of the world and, to the Captain, the crew were his family, the sea his home and MOBY, his pride and joy.

He was lost in thoughts of nostalgia and retirement; this was his last tour. He thought of all the people he had served and who had served under him, all the families he had known and all the weddings and funerals he had attended and the medals he had received and awarded. He had achieved much, considering his humble beginnings; orphaned and rescued from a Romanian orphanage, aged just 11 months; adopted by a wealthy and childless American Industrialist.

He began to get dressed. An immaculate uniform lay neatly on his bed. It was time to address the men. He was a tad displeased at the crease in his shirt but pulled it on anyway. As the call came through from the bridge he checked himself one last time in the mirror. He smiled to himself but couldn’t help noticing a small red vein pulsating under his left eye. It felt itchy, so he scratched it slightly, which caused it to pulsate more frequently, the irritation working its way into his right eye. He began to twitch and his vision blurred. He blinked to clear them, but the movement of his eyelids felt like molten metal. His eyes started to weep blood as he staggered back, falling to the floor, the strength leaving his body as he lay, staring up at the ceiling. His body felt like it was being eaten alive by an army of fire ants, his hands tearing and clawing at his eyes, face and neck. The shock sent him into cardiac arrest. It was just the beginning of the end for the Captain as his body burst into hundreds of rashes which expanded and burst, releasing jets of black blood around the room. Five minutes later he was dead.

The Allied Command Centre was a hive of activity as operations swung into action. The order was given for Carrier Strike Group Sword 1, headed by the multi-billion pound 120,000 tonne aircraft carrier, HMS Regina Ignis, to attack

Trojan 3 had been loaded onto an Israeli F-35I, in full escort with 116^th squadron, as satellites confirmed the mobilisation of the Islamic Republic of Iran Army (Artesh).

Admiral Stark was being briefed minute by minute.

“Sir.”

“Yes!”

“Sir, Moby is dead in the water, sir!”

“What?”

“Sir, Russian forces are reporting that they have destroyed an allied submarine along the Kamchatka line. We are awaiting visual, sir.”

John Stark was incredulous. “That’s impossible. What the hell happened?  I want eyes on screen 1,” he loosened his tie and popped the top button of his shirt. Time seemed to stand still for all personnel as they visually confirmed a mass of floating debris.

“Sir,” the President is on line, sir!”

The Admiral had been joined by other high-ranking members of the joint chiefs of staff. All were speechless, staring at each other, or at their laptops. Most watching the events unfolding on the large screens around the Command Centre, when comms dropped completely. The entire system seemed to have collapsed, again.

“Forget the President!” screamed John Stark. “Jesus! What’s going on? Wait! Matrix must still be alive. It must be her,” he grabbed at a desk phone- completely dead; mobile phone- power but no signal.

“Someone get me a bloody working phone, now,” he yelled at the top of his voice.

All personnel checked their communications devices; all dead. Panic started to set in. They were blind to the world. Voices rose in frustration, confusion and anger. After 10 minutes a unanimous sigh of relief emanated almost instantaneously from all present, along with cheering, laughter and clapping when their giant TV screens and monitors flickered back to life. Stunned silence followed.

The Russian president and Chinese Prime Minister stood, side by side, on all visual displays. They spoke in their own languages with subtitles, in English, provided along the bottom of the screens.

“We, the Joint Eastern Communist Party have taken control of all Western Intelligence Networks Data centres (WIND’s). All national infrastructure networks within The United Kingdom and America are under our control. Electrical grids, metro and underground, hospitals and clinics are out of action. Your trading floors cannot trade and your planes cannot fly. Thank you for ghosting our prestigious Russian Super Data Centre. We could not have achieved this without your help. Please observe the following link.” A small box appeared in the corner of the transmission which showed the small patch quilted island that could only be England. An unmanned aircraft zoomed in to a small section of land in Essex and two people holding each other tight.

Admiral Stark and Major Singha, along with the entire staff at Command Centre were frozen to the spot, waiting, watching, gripped with fear and trepidation.

The narrative continued, “We have control of HADES. Please observe that he is almost at complete contagion phase. We have the ability to stop it. We have the ability to activate it. We shall demonstrate”.

The drone moved in closer. “I think they have us, Cody. No more running,” he said, resignedly.

He pulled away from Cody, holding her at arm’s length. What felt like a bolt of lightning shot through his body, his muscles tensed in reflex. Cody jumped back as he began to scratch at his head, vigorously, then tore off his clothing and fell to the floor. Red and black patches appeared all over his body. They began to expand and join up, giving the impression they were about to burst, when suddenly, they reduced in size and formed into small rashes, before turning a light pinkish colour, blending in with the pigment of his skin. Cody felt compelled to help, but moved further away.

WIND’s transmission continued. If you don’t want to be responsible for the death of approximately 70 million people, then we request your immediate surrender.”

There was a pause in the transmission, before what seemed like a screensaver, filled every viewing platform. There was a sharp intake of breath as several small identical silver objects appeared within a mass of black.  The Russian president gave the order. Yassarevitch obeyed. It was over in the blink of an eye; all Western SSAD’s exploded instantly. Many at the Allied Command Centre gasped in horror, some collapsed to their knees. Major Navin Singha clutched at his chest, a deathly pale grey washed down his face. Admiral John Stark, visibly shaken, retired to his office, locking his door behind him. He opened a desk drawer and loaded his Beretta 92SB.

Cody ran. She ran for her life, as Craig lay motionless in the dirt. A huge bio-lab relocation vehicle pulled up alongside him and four men jumped out, kitted with full biological protective suits and breathing apparatus. A robotic stretcher, guided by one of the soldiers, moved swiftly over the ground as a hydraulic boom winch positioned itself for the lift. Cody watched from the safety of the woods as Craig’s body was dropped onto the stretcher and into an isolation chamber at the rear of the lorry. She held her hand over her mouth to muffle her scream, the tears flowing uncontrollably.

In a moment, he was gone. She fell to her knees and sobbed. She was alone. After a few minutes, she wiped her nose on her sleeve and blinked back the tears.  She had no one to turn to and almost jumped out of her skin when the phone vibrated in her pocket. KC had left a message:

“MAKE YOUR WAY TO GOATSMOOR LANE, BRENTWOOD.

STOP BY THE OLD WHITE TREE STUMP. I WILL COME AND GET YOU.

IT’S NOT OVER, KC.”

Cody relaxed slightly. Although the future looked very bleak, KC’s presence gave her hope. She moved further into the woods. The sun was almost directly above her, so she knew which direction to take through the mass of dense woodland and scrub; just a few miles more.

Her stomach began to rumble. The cramps were getting worse. She felt a twinge in her gut and unzipped her HV suit. She felt a slight burning sensation and looked down at her stomach. A small gastropod like lens extruded from her umbilicus, surrounded by a black rash which appeared, bubbled up and then vanished.

Copyright Phillip Miller