Rose was very concerned about food. They were down to a few days’ worth of usable, fresh food for the roughly 1,100 people. Dr. Breda promised a fix, only she wouldn’t say how long it would take to get it ready. He wasn’t positive she could deliver. He was thinking the best way to give her time to work was to get clear of the Flotilla. Some deep part of his combat infantry officer’s instincts was screaming a warning; get out of this area of operations. The AO was not one he was used to dealing with. Deep water was anathema to an army officer.
A storm was moving across the Flotilla. Captain Sampson called it a squall. Rose could see both sides of it and the streaks of rain pouring into the ocean just to the south of his position. A few drops splattered against the bridge window, which was why he’d elected to stay inside with the annoying Sampson. Army got wet, a lot. Not surprisingly, Rose had had enough of being soaked.
“We’re just waiting on the fuel,” Sampson said.
Rose nodded and looked at the nearby ships. There were fewer than there were this morning. Little doubt remained; between sinking and flying carriers, the civilians were losing their confidence in any implied security. The Ford was a mile off with a couple frigates nearby, or maybe they were destroyers. He couldn’t tell.
In all likelihood, a lot of people had reached their capacity for absorbing weirdness. He felt close, himself. When he’d gotten back to his ship, Sampson hadn’t been able to give him any more information about the carrier—how it flew, why it flew, or what the fuck was going on. In the end, it only reinforced his idea that it was time to have an exit strategy.
Fuel was also going to be an issue. Dr. Breda was working on a solution to the food situation. Maybe they could grow more? There were also stores with billions of MREs in different places around the country. The packaging process guaranteed they’d be good. Fuel, however. Fuel took more than a place to store it.
Over time, fuel went bad. Diesel stored better in a motor because gasoline usually had alcohol added, and alcohol damaged components. Aviation fuel aged somewhere between the two. As soon as he’d decided on his course of action, he’d sent some of his men, in small boats, to the dozens of abandoned ships and those infested with infected. They’d found a surprising number of fuel sources, one of which really stood out.
“They’ll be here soon,” he said, then glanced at Mays who nodded in the affirmative. Rose took his binoculars and scanned the horizon through the storm. There were so many small ships scattered around, he didn’t know how he’d recognize what he was looking for if he spotted it.
“Ocean Vista to Occluded, we show a good tie-off.”
Rose listened to the radio chatter between the powerless cruise ship and the tugboat.
“Occluded, roger that. We’re bringing in the sea anchor, then we’ll be ready to come under tow.”
“Helix here, we’ve finished loading and are casting off. Where do you want us?”
Rose recognized the voice of Joseph Capdepon from Dr. Breda’s Zombie Squad. During his logistics jobs, he’d also done some time as a merchant marine, so he’d taken nominal command of the Helix. Luckily, it had full fuel bunkers. After days of floating around, the fuel on the Pacific Adventurer was down to half, and the tug, Occluded, had less than a quarter remaining. If his men didn’t deliver, they wouldn’t be going anywhere.
“We’re not asking the navy for gas,” Rose told Mays when they’d decided to be prepared to cut out with Dr. Breda. “I don’t want to answer any questions.”
“I think those are your boys,” Captain Sampson said and pointed.
Rose followed the man’s arm and, after a second, he saw them. Two of their boats were tied up to a dingy, rusty, old tub chugging toward them. He didn’t know what kind of ship it was, but there were trucks on the rear deck. Fuel trucks.
“Bingo,” he said.
A few minutes later, the rusty, old ship tied up next to the Pacific Adventurer. They’d found the ship a mile away with a group of infected on the deck. After dealing with them, they’d searched the ship and found it was some group of survivalists idea of preparing for the apocalypse.
“Their loss, our win,” Mays said. “So, what do we do now?”
“Get the men to help offload those fuel trucks. Fill up our ship and put the rest on the Helix.”
“Our navy crew is going to have to help,” Mays said.
Rose grunted in ascent. Resupplying on the water was tough. The navy called it unrep, underway replenishment, even if you weren’t moving. Craning shit from one ship to another was tricky, he’d seen as much. “Just get it done. I want to be able to move ASAP.”
“Right away, General.” Mays left the bridge to find the senior lieutenant and get the crews working. Alone on the bridge with Sampson and his people, Rose looked out as rain lashed the ocean and the waves swelled to a few feet high. God, I hate the ocean.
A dark shadow seemed to pass under the ship. He tried to focus, wondering what it might be. But it was gone as soon as he noticed it. Sea monsters. He quietly chuckled.
* * * * *
Chapter 5
Dusk, Friday, May 3
Joint Combined Evacuation Fleet
100 miles West of Corinto, Nicaragua
“They’d court martial me if the CNO ever saw this,” Admiral Kent mumbled as he watched the RHIB pick up its passengers. They were steaming north at a slightly reduced speed because of the Yasen-class Russian nuclear submarine pacing them 200 yards off his starboard. The shape of the sub’s mast immediately marked it as foreign, as if the Russian naval officers in their gawdy, gold-bangled black uniforms weren’t enough. He was in his dress uniform as well, waiting on the Bataan’s bridge wing.
Their RHIB grounded on the Russian sub, the Severodvinsk, just like he’d suspected, and a door opened on the sail to allow two men to exit. They quickly and expertly boarded the RHIB, which was pushed clear by a pair of white-uniformed Russian submariners, and the RHIB spun about and headed back toward the Bataan. With the sun setting over the Russian sub, Kent wasn’t sure what kind of message God was sending him. He frowned as he exited the bridge and headed down toward the well deck.
A few minutes later, he was standing at a railing over the well deck. The aft door was down, and the RHIB rode up inside. The boatswain piloted the craft well, and he brought it up onto the ramp where an LCAC would have been. They didn’t have any of the Marine hovercraft aboard. Instead, the Bataan had a very different cargo.
The older Russian looked around curiously, eventually glancing up and seeing Admiral Kent standing at the railing. He saluted Kent and yelled up in his slight accent, “Permission to come aboard, sir?”
“Granted,” Kent said, and he walked down the stairs to join him. “Captain Chugunkin, welcome aboard the USS Bataan.”
“Thank you, Admiral. This is my XO, Captain Lieutenant Svetan.”
The much younger man with very blond hair, blue eyes, and dimples saluted crisply. There was no hint of a smile on the man’s face.
Kent returned the salute. “I am sorry I cannot offer you visiting captain’s honors. We don’t have a band aboard.”
“Understandable,” Chugunkin said, nodding. “Pardon my misunderstanding, but I did not know a flag officer of the US Navy would command an…what do you call them, Amphibian Assault Ship?”
Kent smiled and shook his head. “Amphibious Assault Carrier,” he corrected.
“Ah, yes, sorry.”
“Your English is excellent; I am surprised you missed that one.”
“You will forgive my ignorance. We are trained to sink your supercarriers and nuclear missile submarines. Targets this…” he looked around, “…small are not of any serious concern.”
Kent’s eyes narrowed at the dig. He resisted replying. At one point, the US Navy had functional carriers. Instead, he gestured at the huge tarp hanging over the forward section of the well deck. “Would you like to meet Dr. Gallatin?”
“I would.”
Kent escorted the two men to the
tarp where a sort of door had been mounted. A pair of Marines stood with M4 carbines shouldered. They both saluted the admiral and gave Chugunkin and his XO dubious looks.
“At ease, men,” Kent said, returning the salute. He pulled the fabric door open and motioned the two Russian officers inside.
Behind the barrier was the Bataan’s principle cargo. Dozens of mobile office modules and trailers. Some were marked with the NASA logo, euphemistically called the “meatball”. Others bore the blue CDC logo with white rays running through it, and still others said FEMA in red. Chugunkin’s eyes took it all in.
“Not the cargo I was expecting,” the captain said.
“As I explained,” Kent replied, “we left most of our war assets behind at Norfolk when we evacuated. My carrier, the Eisenhower, was in for repairs and unable to put to sea, so I borrowed the Bataan.”
Dr. Gallatin came out onto the steps of the nearest trailer with a NASA logo on it, saw the three officers, and waved. “Captain Chugunkin,” he said. “Welcome.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” the Russian said. Theodore gestured, and they walked up the short metal steps and into the trailer.
The interior was set up like a conference room with a half-circular table against one wall and a dozen chairs arrayed around it. Each chair had a notepad, a pen, and a glass of water on the table in front of it. Arrayed on the far side of the table were Alphonse Bennitti, Dr. David Curie, Dr. Albert Gallatin, and Dr. Wilma Gnox. Kent realized he had far too many doctors on his boat.
“Gentlemen and Lady,” Kent said. “This is Captain Chugunkin and his XO, Captain Lieutenant Svetan.” He saw most of them squint at the XO’s rank. He couldn’t fault them; Russian ranks were strange. They all spoke greetings to which Chugunkin merely nodded. “Would you care to sit?” Kent asked the Russian.
Chugunkin and his XO examined the room for another moment, the younger officer waiting to follow his senior’s lead. Eventually, the senior captain took the chair in the middle of the table, the one closest to the door. Kent had noted neither were armed when they came aboard. Regardless, a squad of armed Marines were only a couple seconds away, if he needed them.
He doubted the Russians would start anything. Should the Americans cause problems, most of their ships would be sunk in retaliation. It would be a slaughter, probably on both sides, though he wasn’t certain of his ability to inflict serious casualties. He didn’t have a proper task force and was severely light on ASW assets. He dearly wished he had comms with some of his submarine assets. Sadly, they were probably lost to Strain Delta.
“I await details of your interesting story,” Captain Chugunkin said. Neither of the Russians did more than glance at the water and notepads provided.
“Since I’ve been nominally placed in charge of our efforts,” Bennitti said, “let me introduce you around.” Chugunkin’s eyes narrowed. Bennitti noticed and cleared his throat before continuing. “Quickly, of course.
“First, myself, Alphonse Bennitti, NASA. Dr. David Curie, Chief Immunologist at the CDC, and his boss, Dr. Albert Gallatin, director of same.”
“Captain,” Gallatin said. Curie remained silent.
Chugunkin gave the barest of nods. Kent was sure his level of trust regarding the entire situation wasn’t helped by the presence of the CDC people. The Russians probably think the CDC was used to develop biological weapons. Sure, the US had people who did. However, if even half of what the CDC men said was true, there was no way Strain Delta came from Earth. Bennitti continued.
“And over there is Dr. Wilma Gnox. She’s not with any of the agencies mentioned.”
“Then why is she here?” Svetan asked, the first time he’d spoken.
“She’s an expert NASA employed as an independent contractor.”
“My specialties are biology and paleontology, but I’m considered a bit of an expert in xenobiology.”
“The study of alien biology?” Chugunkin asked.
“Precisely. It’s more of a hobby, though, as there weren’t any aliens to study. We liked to play around with what might be possible. During one get together, we tried to figure out if a silicon lifeform could exist. Between science and beer, we had—”
“I don’t think the captain needs details about your conference exploits,” Kent intervened.
Gnox gave him an aggrieved look but shrugged. “What I’ve mostly been doing has to do with linguistics—learning to talk to our guest.”
“This is all fascinating,” Chugunkin said. “But I fail to see any proof.”
Bennitti looked at Kent. He knew what they wanted and dearly wished there was some kind of command authority left. God only knew how many national security acts he was violating. Of course, a Russian submarine commander was sitting in a NASA trailer on a navy boat. In for a penny, in for a pound. He nodded to Bennitti.
“You can hear it from the fox’s mouth,” Bennitti said.
“I thought it was horse’s?” Chugunkin asked.
“Not in this case,” Kent replied.
Bennitti pressed a control in his hand, and the wall against the flat part of their table hummed as a shield moved away. It revealed a glass wall and a room on the other side. The room was simple with white walls of a soft-looking plastic. The lighting was more subdued than you would find elsewhere. A pallet against the back held a blanket and something furry. As the shield moved aside, the furry object raised a small, delicately pointed face and opened black-on-black eyes.
Chugunkin gawked at the alien sitting a few feet away. He got up and moved closer to the window, coming within inches. Kent could see him carefully examining every detail. The alien was doing the same to him. “What is this?” the Russian asked. “You dress up an animal and tell me this is some kind of alien?” He’d turned toward Kent, so he didn’t see the alien pick up the microphone and speak.
“I am not animal.”
Chugunkin spun, his jaw falling open in shock. “Did you speak to me?”
“Obviously,” the alien said. The words were English with a certain quality that was hard to put your finger on. Kent thought it was because the alien didn’t have movable lips. Her voice was slightly higher-pitched than an adult man’s or woman’s and had something of a nasal tone to it.
“As I said,” Gnox spoke up, “linguistics is also my thing, though more of a hobby. Nikki, there, proved better than I was and more-or-less mastered basic, conversational English. Now that we can talk, Nikki’s helping us master her language.”
Chugunkin was spluttering and staring, his mouth wide open. His XO crossed himself and muttered something in Russian.
“As the humans explained,” the alien said, “we are, unfortunately, responsible for the plague.” She gave an almost human shrug. “We are sorry.”
“You called it Nikki?” Chugunkin finally managed to speak. “What is it?”
“She’s a female,” Gnox said haughtily, “not an it. And yes, she chose the name after reading some books.”
“Nikki is from Gliese 436, a star about 32 light years from Earth,” Bennitti said, his face beaming. “We named her species Stellae Vulpes.” Chugunkin’s head spun to stare at him. “Star Fox.”
He turned back to look at Nikki.
“What do you want to know?” Nikki asked.
“`Tchyo za ga`lima?”
“Sorry?” Nikki asked.
Gnox, knowing Russian, smiled and laughed.
* * *
Shangri-La
Over Amarillo, TX
Cobb took a long drink of the scalding hot, real-as-shit, coffee. It was in a Yeti mug, which kept it super-hot. The creamer was fake, of course. He didn’t care; it still tasted great. The view out of the office was spectacular. The area of Texas Shangri-La was flying over was pretty flat. At over 1,000 feet above ground level, he could see for almost a hundred miles. The view from the military camp was clear to the west where the sky was turning bright red.
“So,” he said, “it looks like you’ve got plenty of ammo, around 20,000 rounds, but y
ou are short on small arms. You’ve got fifty M4s and a few older M-16s, five M-240s and a pair of Ma-deuces.”
“Spot on,” Schardt said and nodded.
“It looks like they raided at least one military installation,” Cobb added. “Why didn’t they pick up anything heavier?”
“It was all locked up,” Zimmerman said. Groves had left at one point and still hadn’t returned. “Everything we have, we brought with us when we got picked up.”
Cobb glanced at the heavy machine gun ammo. Just six boxes of ball, 600 rounds. An M2 machinegun could chew through 600 rounds in a few minutes.
“If we could get access codes to some of the armories, Governor Taylor would be agreeable to going for it,” Schardt explained.
“She wouldn’t have access as a lieutenant governor,” Cobb said under his breath. Both the sergeants grunted in agreement. He was wondering where Groves had gotten to when the door opened.
“Where’s this new officer?” asked a deep, feminine voice with a decidedly obvious Texas accent.
Cobb stood and turned around, coming to attention. “That would be me, ma’am. Colonel Cobb Pendleton, US Army.”
“Well, good to meet ya,” Governor Taylor said. TV didn’t do her justice. She was nearly 6 feet tall. On the large side of what you’d courteously call chunky, she had short cut auburn hair, a permanent, somewhat disingenuous, smile, and eyes which spoke of a dangerous, barely hidden rage. “I thought Bisdorf was gonna bring ya by to meet me?” She looked around the room, quickly taking in the situation and the two sergeants, including how they were letting him do the talking. She had a pair of uniformed state patrol officers with her who wore looks of calm determination. They were both examining Cobb curiously. “I assume you are in command now?”
“You are correct, ma’am.”
“Some of these boys and girls aren’t army or guard.”
“In the absence of a proper chain of command, the highest ranked officer can assume command of any available military units in order to maintain a semblance of cohesion and defense of self and US assets.” He shrugged. “Paraphrased.”
Turning Point (Book 3): A Time To Live Page 15