Dead Island:Operation Zulu
DEAD ISLAND:
OPERATION ZULU
BY ALLEN GAMBOA
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the publisher or author of this book except where permitted by law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously (or, in some instances names/places are used and/or depicted consensually). Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. This book does not purport to provide accurate descriptions of any actual locations, things, or entities. This is an original work of fiction and all intellectual property rights are reserved by Allen Gamboa, Author.
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Edited by Monique Happy Editorial Services
www.indiebookauthors.com
Cover art by Angry Chair Designs
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Copyright © 2014 by Allen Gamboa
DEDICATION
I would like to dedicate this book to my beautiful wife Tina for her unwavering
Support in pushing me to get this story off the ground. Thank you for your sacrifice and
Your service to the military and law enforcement in which you gave so much.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my mother and father for taking a young kid to see Dawn of
The Dead in 1978. Look what you've done to me. My children for their support. WJ Lundy
For taking a fan under his wing and helping getting his butt writing. Thanks for the title.
HJ Harry for letting me annoy him. Monique Happy and Amanda Shore for making my
Scribbles look so darned good. Hope you all enjoy this little roller coaster ride.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1: MORE MONEY
CHAPTER 2: MACHINE GUN DIPLOMACY
CHAPTER 3: I NEED YOU TO FOCUS
CHAPTER 4: AIRBORNE- ELLER ISLAND OR BUST
CHAPTER 5: MARCHING ORDERS
CHAPTER 6: DOESN'T LOOK SO BAD
CHAPTER 7: ON THE GROUND
CHAPTER 8: BUTTERFLY TATTOOS
CHAPTER 9: ONE PARTY TOO MANY
CHAPTER 10: HUDDLE
CHAPTER 11: DO YOU REALLY WANT TO HURT ME?
CHAPTER 12: I REALLY HOPE THE CAVALRY GETS HERE SOON
CHAPTER 13: BAD GUYS
CHAPTER 14: ON THE ROAD
CHAPTER 15: ON THE ROAD AGAIN
CHAPTER 16: I'M GOOD
CHAPTER 17: NICE PANTIES
CHAPTER 18: AW, CRAP
CHAPTER 19: BAD GUYS 2
CHAPTER 20: PREMATURE DETONATION
CHAPTER 21: ZOMBIES AT THE DOOR
CHAPTER 22: CHECK THE OIL, TOO …
CHAPTER 23: HOLY SHIT!
CHAPTER 24: DID YOU HEAR THAT?
CHAPTER 25: I LOVE GUNS
CHAPTER 26: IS IT WORTH IT?
CHAPTER 27: GOAT FUCK
CHAPTER 28: TWO IN THE HAND, ONE IN THE AMBUSH
CHAPTER 29: THE TRAIL TO HELL
CHAPTER 30: BAD GUYS ALWAYS FINISH FIRST
CHAPTER 31: LAB RATS 1
CHAPTER 32: GOOD NEWS/BAD NEWS
CHAPTER 33: WELCOME TO THE PARTY
CHAPTER 34: DON'T BE A FUCKING SNAIL
CHAPTER 35: WHAT'CHA THINKING?
CHAPTER 36: CLUSTER F--K!
CHAPTER 37: BAD GUYS 3
CHAPTER 38: I HATE SURPRISES
CHAPTER 39: BACK DOOR SURPRISE
CHAPTER 40: AW CRAP 2
CHAPTER 41: LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD
CHAPTER 42: ‘BOUT TIME
CHAPTER 43: KNOCK KNOCK
CHAPTER 44: NOTHING PERSONAL
CHAPTER 45: WHAT HAPPENED TO ALL THE SLOW ONES?
CHAPTER 46: NOBODY STEALS OUR BABY
CHAPTER 47: RUNS LIKE A TOP
CHAPTER 48: QUIT FUCKING AROUND, SERGEANT
CHAPTER 49: BALLS ARE NOT GOING TO GET US HOME
CHAPTER 50: MISTER PIETRO'S WILD RIDE
CHAPTER 51: SMELLS LIKE A KIEV WHOREHOUSE
CHAPTER 52: ANY PROBLEM?
CHAPTER 53: THAT REALLY SUCKS
CHAPTER 54: POOR BASTARDS
CHAPTER 55: NOTHING'S GONNA BREAK MY STRIDE
CHAPTER 56: THIS SUCK ASS DAY
CHAPTER 57: WHY AREN’T YOU SHOOTING HEEM?
CHAPTER 58: THIS IS IT?
CHAPTER 59: NYET
CHAPTER 60: YOU’RE ONE NASTY FUCKER!
CHAPTER 61: N.O.N.E.
CHAPTER 62: I GOT A BAD FEELING, NATE
CHAPTER 63: SORRY, DMITRY
CHAPTER 64: HORSESHOES AND HANDGRENADES
CHAPTER 65: FUNNY YOU SHOULD ASK THAT
CHAPTER 66: TELL PUTIN HELLO FOR ME
CHAPTER 67: GIVE ME A GRENADE
CHAPTER 68: SQUEAMISH, DOCTOR?
CHAPTER 69: SCHOOL KIDS?
CHAPTER 70: QUIT FUCKIN' AROUND, CAPTAIN
CHAPTER 71: TIME HAS COME TODAY
CHAPTER 72: TENTACLE PORN
CHAPTER 73: NOT EVEN IN COLLEGE
CHAPTER 74: IRONY
CHAPTER 75: IT PAYS TO BE PARANOID
CHAPTER 76: IT’S NOT A TRAP
CHAPTER 77: YOU LIKE BONE SAWS?
CHAPTER 78: THE LONG WIDE ONE
CHAPTER 79: FALLEN COMRADES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1: MORE MONEY
"Zombies?" Crossley shook his head, almost flinging his aviators across the cockpit. "Fucking zombies. You've got to be kidding me!"
Jackson looked the other pilot straight in the face and said, "No."
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Crossley slammed his fist down on the control panel of the old cargo plane. "I knew this job was too good to be true. Relief workers my ass." He slowly shook his head and stared out the cockpit window towards the runway. "When did you find out this bit of good news?"
Jackson ran a trembling hand through his sweaty grey hair. "Last night. That Aussie Clarke told me while we were playing cards."
"Great." Crossley stared angrily at the other pilot. "Did ya at least ask for more money then?"
The older pilot hung his head and mumbled, "No, Nate, I was too shitfaced at the time." He glanced up at Crossley and wiped some sweat from the caterpillar he called his eyebrows. "I think I passed out at some point too."
"Ya think?" Crossley sneered at him. "We're already giving them a deal on this flight, and now you tell me this crap?"
"Sorry, Nate."
"Not sorry enough, Cal. Not sorry enough."
"Look," Jackson looked down at his beat up, old Timex. "We're already running late. We can talk to Hale about this later."
"By 'we,' you mean me." Crossley frowned and let out a breath. "Fuck it!" He unbuckled his seat harness and stood up. "Don't touch a fucking thing 'till I get back." He pushed open the cabin door and shot an angry glance back at his disheveled partner. "I'm not getting munched on by some fucking stiffs for nothing!"
Crossley made his way out the cockpit door and climbed down the metal ladder into the massive cargo bay of the old C-5 aircraft. Strapped down to the floor were a civilian H1 Humvee, two camo dirt bikes, and a black Pit Bull VX Swat vehicle. Several big, metal lockers were also strapped to the floor. Along both sides of the plane's fuselage were several rows of seats filled with passengers.
The pilot quickly glanced around the seated passengers, looking for one in parti
cular. The more Crossley looked, the more he noticed the twenty people seated in the cargo bay. They appeared to look more like mercenaries than aid workers. He shook his head and grumbled to himself.
"Shit!" Crossley cursed. "Hale!" he shouted towards the group. "Mister Hale!"
A thick, fit-looking man with a buzz cut, who had been talking to the attractive redheaded woman seated next to him, looked up when he heard the pilot yelling for him.
"Excuse me, Lis," the buzz cut said to the redhead. He unfastened his seat harness and quickly walked over to where the pilot stood. "Mister Crossley, is there a reason we are running late?" Rollie Hale asked, glancing down at the huge dive watch strapped to his thick forearm.
Great, Nate shook his head. Military! The pilot cleared his throat and then looked the soldier in his scarred face. Hale wore green BDU pants and a black polo shirt with the words Strategic Securities stenciled across it in red. "Yes, you didn't tell me this flight had anything to do with zombies."
Hale stepped forward and started to make up a story, but then he saw the determination in the pilot's eyes. He crossed his massive arms and slumped a bit, looking at the plane's floor.
"Shit!" He looked back up at Crossley. "Fucking Clarke!" He turned to the seated passengers and fixed his glare at a large, bearded man fast asleep in his chair. "Okay," Hale sighed heavily. "What do you want?"
"More money."
"Of course," Hale nodded. "More money." He quickly mulled it over. "Five thousand."
"Five thousand plus a full tank of gas for the bird when we get back, and," Nate smiled widely, "Jackson and I don't step foot off the plane."
Hale turned and looked back at the redheaded officer, who rolled her eyes then nodded curtly. "Alright, Crossley," he exhaled, his massive chest moving under his shirt. "You have yourself a deal."
"Okay." The pilot bobbed his head up and down happily. "So what's the mission?"
"No," Hale said sternly and headed back towards his seat.
"Well, General," Crossley smirked, "I thought there weren’t any more deaders left?"
"Actually, it's Major," Hale sat down, "and so did we."
"Freaking government." Nate started back up the ladder. "Always messing things up!"
"Mister Crossley!" Hale shouted back to him. "We're your government, and we’re here to save you!"
The redhead laughed as the pilot shook his head and cursed, resuming his climb back to the cockpit. "Buckle up!" He shouted back down. "I don't want anyone to bump their heads once we're airborne." After he entered the cockpit, Crossley slammed the door shut and sat heavily in his jumpseat. Jackson, less sweaty than before, handed him his aviators with a shrug.
"Well?"
"Five grand and a full tank when we get back home." He started to fasten up his harness. "Fire up the bird, and let's get the fuck outta here."
"Love it when you talk sex and money!" Jackson looked down at his instrument panel. "Off to Deader Island it is!"
"Can it, Cal," Crossley grumbled.
Jackson flipped Crossley the bird with a hairy finger and returned his attention to his controls. "One day, Nate, I think God's gonna give you that sense of humor you've been missing."
"Cal, I've been fine for years without it. Why start now?" He flipped a toggle switch on his console. "Just get this bird off the deck before Captain America down there decides to ram his mighty shield up our asses."
"See," Jackson shouted over the plane's engines as they roared to life. "I think you're coming around."
"Fuck you." Crossley slipped on his headset and spoke into the mic. "Miami Control, this is Flight 4607 requesting …"
Jackson stared at the instrument panel in front of him. He'd flown many, many aid missions during the undead outbreak ten years before. Those flights had been real scary, but something about this one … Nothing on the scale of what he had been used to before scared the hell out of him. Twenty-five hundred extra bucks hardly seemed worth it.
"Alright," Crossley yelled above the engines. "We are clear to go. Put on your headset, and let's get this baby moving."
"Finally." Jackson pulled on his headset. The older pilot ached for a drink and to be somewhere else. "No more of these jobs, Nate."
"Right," Crossley said absently. "Last one."
"Last one." Jackson pulled back on the plane's yoke. "Heard that before."
CHAPTER 2: MACHINE GUN DIPLOMACY
Hale watched the runway disappear out of the modified window next to his seat as the large aircraft lifted off into the sky. The soldier had flown in many planes and helicopters during his fifteen years as an Air Force Pararescueman. He still hated take-offs and landings, but he sure as hell didn’t mind jumping out of them.
Once the plane was in the air, Hale unfastened his seat harness and stood up, getting a good stretch in. The other members of the team followed suit. Hale was the commander of the group of security contractors.
"Not bad." The trim, muscular redhead said, standing up. "At least those two know how to take off."
"Landing would be a plus too," Sergeant Tim Wu yawned.
"One step at a time." The redhead smiled. "One step at a time, Sergeant." Lis Brooks was an ex-Air Force captain and a Northern California Native American. Brooks was also Hale's second-in-command. She was former Special Ops, as was most of the team. "Where's that shitbird Clarke?"
"Ah, Lis." Major Hale smirked and shook his head.
"I got it." Brooks grinned. "Clarke, get your kangaroo humpin' ass up here now."
The big, bearded, former Australian SAS operator groaned and slowly unfolded his oversized frame out of the too-small jumpseat and half stumbled over to the tiny redhead. Wiping some drool from his mouth, he stopped a few feet from the captain.
"What 'ave I been steppin' in now, Cap'n?" The words came out slow and thick.
"You were running your mouth to one of the pilots about this mission."
"I ..."
Lis raised a small but determined finger that stopped the Australian soldier dead in his tracks.
"This is a secret mission, is it not, Sergeant?"
"Yes … yes, Cap'n, it is."
"Then why, if it's a secret, do the pilots know?"
"I …"
"No! Was your mind so lager-filled that you thought you were down under fucking your sister and waiting for the next big wave to break?"
There were chuckles from the other contractors. Wu turned and shook his head, not wanting to watch the rest of this train wreck. The big Australian was turning red. Anger and embarrassment were both attacking his hung-over brain cells. The diminutive captain continued.
"That blabbering of yours has cost the company thousands of dollars, and confidential information is in uncertain hands! You did sign a nondisclosure agreement, right?"
"Major …" Clarke looked sheepishly at Hale.
"The captain is talking to you, Sergeant. I'd listen," Hale said, crossing his massive forearms.
"I don't know how you do it in your country, Sergeant, but this is a joint venture between both our countries since they both have mutual assets involved in this fuck up." Brooks took a breath and looked at the other team members standing behind Clarke. Two males and a female. "How come Sergeants West, Newman, and Gibson can keep their mouths shut? You some kind of reject?"
"No, Cap'n," Clarke said under his breath. "I fucked up. First time. It will never 'appen again."
"It better fucking not, Sergeant, or so help me, you will be swimming home from that island. I do not give a rat fuck if you file a complaint with the company or not. You could have seriously goat fucked this mission. Understand?"
"Yes," Clarke nodded slowly. "Never 'appen again."
Lis shook her head, frustrated. "Alright, grab some chow. We'll mission plan in …" She looked at her dive watch, which was the same make as Hale's but smaller. "Thirty minutes."
As the team disbanded into smaller groups, Hale shook his head, smiled, and rested a hand on Captain Brooks' shoulder.
; "Isn't that my job, Cap'n?" he said in a mock Australian accent.
"Sorry, Major. I got a little carried away. That Aussie fuck really pissed me off. Clarke could have sunk this whole OP."
"I know. Clarke’s probably trying to find his ass right now." Hale nodded towards the cockpit door. "I don't think we have to worry about those two pilots. They just want to get paid and get home alive."
"Just like us."
"Amen. Come on. Let's break open some of those box lunches. I'm hungry."
CHAPTER 3: I NEED YOU TO FOCUS
WASHINGTON D.C.
0800 HOURS
Thunder and lightning rolled across the angry sky. A steady staccato of rain assaulted the well-dressed senator, who was trying unsuccessfully to stay dry. The senator fumbled with a tiny umbrella he'd stolen from an aide. As he stood on the curb, waiting impatiently, a dark limousine slid up alongside the curb, spraying water all over his three-thousand-dollar suit. The man cursed the limo driver. A dark-suited man who looked more like a combat Marine then a chauffeur climbed out of the driver's side and opened the passenger door for him.
Without acknowledging the driver, the senator slid his considerable bulk into the back of the limo and tossed the tiny umbrella into the gutter at the driver’s feet. With dead eyes, the chauffeur shut the door behind him.
"That could be a stiff fine," a voice said from inside the darkened vehicle.
"Whatever," the senator grumbled as he looked over at the well-dressed man sitting across from him. "Not my problem."
"Doesn't seem like there's a whole lot that's your problem." The man poured from the limo's mini-bar into an ice-filled tumbler. "Drink?"
"No. It’s early. What do you need?" the senator said distastefully as he tried to fix the sparse, rain-soaked hair that covered his head.
"Hmm." The man in black took a long drink from his glass and leaned back into the plush leather seat and studied the politician. "You sure you don't want a drink?"
"Yes. I don't have time for this, Black!" He sneered at the man in the more expensive suit. "Cut to the chase."