Turning Point (Book 3): A Time To Live

by Wandrey, Mark

  “I bet they know more in the radio room,” she said. Nobody even looked at her this time. Kathy scanned the monitors one more time. When she didn’t see anything interesting, she took her laptop and left.

  Her roaming of the interior spaces on the Ford had quickly taught her where the various departments and compartments were located. The fatigues they’d given her were devoid of patches or insignia, so she wouldn’t pass scrutiny. However, they were enough to get her into most areas without an extra look. The communications section, which she thought of as the radio room, was two decks up and forward. It only took her a minute to get there.

  The room was twice the size of her media room, and the wall was lined with workstations and instruments. Nobody took note of her arrival, so she walked along the length of the compartment and got a feel for it. She wasn’t up on military jargon and listening to it brought back painful memories of Cobb. Not a day had gone by since they’d left him at Fort Hood that she didn’t think of him.

  Much of the radio operation looked like it was ship-to-ship or ship-to-air. The carrier didn’t have a ton of airplanes up, but there were a lot of helicopters to keep the operators busy. The problem was, of course, all the operators were wearing headsets. Techs were moving around directing traffic or acting as assistants. She relied on her reporter skills and listened to every word she could hear.

  It was a skill she’d cultivated over her entire career. The best reporters weren’t the ones who talked or wrote the most. Rather, they were the ones who listened the best. She’d learned the art of questioning a prospect in school, then, as an intern for a network, she’d lucked into an experienced mentor who explained that the schools had it backward. The best reporters knew when to shut up and listen and when not to ask penetrating questions.

  Listening proved to be the ideal tactic. As she was casually watching a radio tech key data, she heard someone say, “Mr. Jeremiah Osborne.” She did her best to mosey over for a better listen. The speaker was a woman working helicopter traffic on the flight deck. The helicopter was designated a medical evac, special code SAR, or search and rescue.

  “Can I help you, Ms. Clifford?”

  “Morning, Chief Kuntzleman. Why is Jeremiah Osborne arriving via medivac?”

  The older chief looked around and shook his head, a small smile crossing his face. “You’re amazing, you know?”

  “So I’ve been told.” She lifted an inquisitive eyebrow, and he shook his head again.

  “Mr. Osborne was critically injured in a zombie incident on his ship.”

  “Human or seals?”

  “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “I try not to.”

  “Seals, like most of the attacks on the Flotilla.” He glanced around and leaned closer. “Fifteen minutes ago, a private ship that was leaving the vicinity was torpedoed. No, we don’t know who did it. The ship was identical in design to Osborne’s ship.”

  “Oh,” was all she could say for a long time. Kuntzleman was about to leave when she finally spoke. “Is Wade Watts with Osborne?”

  “I doubt the captain would let him set foot on the Ford if this were the last ship afloat and there was no land left anywhere on the planet.”

  It was Kathy’s turn to snort. Captain Gilchrist did seem pretty good at holding a grudge. She made a note to see if it was a common trait among ship captains. Or were they more eccentric, each with different traits? They seemed more like old feudal lords, each ruling their own little part of the world.

  She moved around a bit more, noticing that Chief Kuntzleman kept an eye on her. He seemed willing to tolerate her presence and was simply making sure she stayed out of trouble.

  In her wandering, she passed the satellite communications system. Kathy recognized a lot of the equipment from remote broadcasting jobs early in her career. She was a little surprised at the age of the equipment, despite its being installed on a brand-new carrier. It wasn’t used or worn out, just old enough that she’d worked with it 20 years ago.

  She caught the chief’s eye. “Is this the system Wade got going?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Did a top-notch job of it, too. Then he went rogue.”

  She didn’t argue with him. Wade obviously thought he was helping, they obviously thought he wasn’t. Wasn’t worth arguing with them. She did her best to appear interested in everything else while actually studying the satellite system as intensely as she could. It took five tense minutes to find what she wanted. An ear-to-ear grin spread across her face. Kathy turned and left so quickly, Chief Kuntzleman didn’t notice until she was long gone.

  Back in the media center, she logged back into the ship’s network and entered the common access code she’d noted while in the radio room. Instantly, she had full access to the satellite feed Wade Watts had restored. After looking at the interface for a moment, she saw a log of military assets connected to the Gerald R. Ford. Among them were the ships immediately adjacent to them, all of which she recognized by name. However, there were a bunch of others as well.

  KRSOC, GCC, Dagger, TCC, ADF-C, USARJ, AMSSPS-NSF, and others. The only one she recognized was KRSOC, which was the military intelligence facility on Kunai, Hawaii. She had no clue about the others. What the hell was Dagger? Some kind of weapons program? The list suggested locations they had contact with. She clicked on ADF-C, and it brought up an interface that allowed her to plug in headphones and talk.

  “Oh, wow, it’s a satellite two-way radio interface.” She quickly disconnected. Using this she could broadcast to anyone who was linked with the military satellite communication system, MILSATCOM. Kathy backed out to the main menu and started to close the program. She thought it would be better to mess with it later when there was less chance Kuntzleman might be watching. Then a sub-system off the main menu caught her eye.

  The entry read, “VHF radio connection.” She had direct access to the ship’s radios. The same grin she’d had on her face in the radio room cut across her features again. Grinning from ear-to-ear, Kathy grabbed a pair of headphones and plugged them into the jack on her laptop. She logged onto the VHF radio, hit mute, found the frequency presets, and started moving around, listening. When she heard the call for help from a large fishing boat, she opened a recorder app and linked it. This was going to be some good stuff.

  * * *

  Classified Task Force

  Gulf of Farallones, California

  “What the fuck happened to recon?” Michael snarled over the secure comms. It took a couple seconds to get the reply. The other end was only a few hundred miles away, but a version of VLF, very low frequency, communications was being used. It took the computer time to send the signal and more time to get the reply.

  “Sir, I’m sorry. We spotted a high value target, identified by the computer as the Oceanic Orbital Enterprises launch ship. I took the shot.”

  Michael’s eyes narrowed as he calmed himself a little. The Hunter sub commanders were chosen based on their skill as submariners and their independent initiative. In simulations, Chamuel had warned him they were likely to go their own way in pursuit of part of an objective. As was often the case, the damned savant had been correct.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “Upload your reconnaissance data.”

  “Uploading, sir.”

  Michael watched the report build a virtual battlefield and fill it with data on the big laptop screen. They were still a couple hours out of San Nicolas, forcing him to run operations remotely. But it was better than when they were in the northwest. At least they had direct communications now, instead of the slow satellite relay.

  He was encouraged by the status of the so-called Flotilla. Less than 30 ships total, only nine military ships. Because the report was assembled from sonar data, the number of non-military ships wasn’t 100% accurate. There was an old oil platform to one side of the Flotilla, and the ships were in a circular formation around the carrier. Curious.

  “Chamuel, this is Michael.”

  “Go
ahead.”

  “The Hunters are at the Flotilla. There’s an old oil platform that looks like it has been modified. I need to know what it’s for. Oh, and the ships created a defensive cordon around the surviving supercarrier, apparently prior to one of the Hunters sinking a ship without direct authorization.”

  “I thought you issued hold and recon orders?” Chamuel asked.

  “I did.”

  “So, they went ahead on their own initiative?”

  Michael ground his teeth together as he answered. “Yes, as you predicted.”

  “Interesting. Very well, stand by. I have a satellite passing over now.”

  Michael grunted in acknowledgment of the delay and used the time to examine the remaining military ships. When the Flotilla was called to his attention, he’d been concerned. It had contained 29 military ships, including a pair of Marine amphibious assault carriers, three supercarriers, and a considerable number of escorts. It was a formidable force, a far larger force than Chamuel had considered probable. Then the savant spotted the second fleet coming through the Panama Canal.

  It was immediately obvious the fleet coming through the canal meant to link up with the other one, and he couldn’t allow it. Strangely, Chamuel had predicted that wouldn’t be a problem. She told him the Russians would take care of the second fleet. Michael knew the Russian government was toast, so how were they going to deal with the second fleet?

  The answer came in the form of a squadron of Russian submarines on the western side of the Panama Canal. Chamuel had fed the Russians intel suggesting the American government had caused Strain Delta, just as the Russian state was collapsing. The Russians were almost certain to lose their ships, but they would take out the remaining American ships first. The savant had said, worst case, the Russians would nuke a couple US cities. Since the cities were not vital to the survival of the species, they were no major loss.

  “I have your information,” Chamuel said two minutes later.

  “Go ahead.”

  “The oil platform belonged to an organization known as HAARP, the Human Advancement and Adaptive Research Project. They were outlawed from the United States three years ago.”

  “I remember them,” Michael said. “Eugenicists or something?”

  “It’s more complicated than that. HAARP was not trying to improve the human genome; they were trying to find ways to remove vulnerabilities. Fun fact—Project Genesis was at least partly responsible for their creation.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, this gets better and better. There is a 50% probability they’ve either found a cure for Strain Delta, or at least, a way to treat infected material.”

  Michael considered. Was it possible to take out the Flotilla while capturing elements of this HAARP? His memory of the HAARP thing was less than perfect. Such details weren’t in his wheelhouse. “Who’s the main person on this project?”

  “Dr. Lisha Breda. She’s a biologist with some physics and computer training. Their board of directors were largely biologists in practice, though I show a 99% probability none of them were on location and are all dead. The rest were simply shadow figures used by Genesis to gain a say in HAARP’s development. Wait one.”

  Michael took the time to continue evaluating the military ships for risk as well as to review the Hunters’ assessment of manpower remaining. Wow, the Marines took it in the ass during their assault on Coronado. He had to hand it to Chamuel, feeding the president the location of the Flotilla had been a master stroke. It took her out of the equation and nearly decimated the Flotilla’s combat forces.

  “Okay, additional information,” Chamuel said. “The platform has been abandoned by HAARP. They are now aboard the ship I’m indicating on the images you received from the Hunters.”

  Michael examined the image. The indicated ship was a supply or support ship of one kind or another. Chamuel also indicated another ship with it, a tug. The only issue was that she thought an adjacent ship had soldiers billeted on it. Since there was an Osprey and attack choppers on it, he considered it a possibility.

  “What are the odds we’ll be able to cure the alien bug?”

  “Not good in the short term,” she explained. “However, since the language barrier with the Vulpes has been breached, the odds are steadily increasing. Within five years they pass 50%, and they gradually climb to 99% inside 25 years. However, the addition of Dr. Breda significantly increases those odds in the short term.”

  “Got it, thanks.” He cut the connection and looked at the imagery. The carrier had one of the old guided missile frigates deploying ASW assets, looking for the sub. That might work in his favor. The other Hunter was in the middle of the Flotilla, quietly relaying live views to Michael. Slowly, his normally non-emotional face broke into a grin.

  Michael used his comms to contact Colonel Baker. “Colonel, change of plans.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 8

  Late Morning, Saturday, May 4th

  Shangri-La

  Amarillo, TX

  Cobb felt partly human for the first time in days. He’d gotten three hours of sleep, a shower, a shave, and even some chow. He wasn’t sure which he liked more. If forced to choose, he’d probably pick the hot shower. Immediately after getting cleaned up and donning a clean uniform, he looked in on Master Sergeant Schardt. He was recovering from his surgery. Dr. Clay insisted the master sergeant would be fine. She noted Schardt had apparently been shot at least twice before.

  Newly promoted Sergeant Tango and Sergeant Zim accompanied him to the landing field. Cobb had wondered how many people would show up. Neither man had given him any idea. However, Cobb found out for himself as soon as he turned the corner and saw the open landing area crowded with thousands of men, women, and children. The sound of their combined voices immediately reminded him of the last time he’d gone to a sporting event.

  The nearest people noticed him, and news of his arrival traveled through the crowd in a wave. It was disconcerting to hear the conversation quickly slow and die out. He wondered if the meeting was a big mistake, especially without more security. Then he saw, once again, that his people had been thinking ahead. It looked like every soldier on Shangri-La was already there, divided into two groups, up by the elevated docking area where Bisdorf’s barge sat. The modified houseboat was serving as an improvised stage.

  “We got this,” Tango said quietly.

  Cobb nodded and strode forward. Because they came in from the side opposite the houseboat, they had to move through the middle of the crowd which parted for him respectfully. The looks he saw could mostly be described as curious, though more than a few seemed upbeat or, possibly, happy.

  He reached the ladder and climbed up into the back of Bisdorf’s sky-barge. The man was sitting on a stool behind the controls, basically in the same place Cobb had first seen him. Now, however, there was a woman in her twenties sitting with him, holding the older man’s hand. Bisdorf was smiling so hard his face was almost split in two. The woman appeared tired and malnourished; however, she was no worse for wear.

  On the far side of the boat was Daimler. The man’s hands were behind his back, tied with stripper cuffs. He’d apparently tried to fight when a squad of soldiers came for him. Luckily for him, he fought badly. None of the men were injured, so he only got roughed up for bad behavior. If the German had wounded any of the men, Cobb knew he would have found himself flying down to Earth. He had a swollen eye and a split lip. Considering how pissed the soldiers were about the whole hostage thing, he was lucky to be alive.

  Cobb turned and cast his eyes over the crowd. Several thousand people watched expectantly. Clark climbed into the boat, and a much thinner, light-skinned, black man followed close behind. Clark immediately came over to Cobb and held out a big, beefy hand.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” he said, “and I can’t apologize enough.”

  Cobb glanced at Clark’s partner who looked like he’d been crying. He nodded. “I understand, I just wish you’d said s
omething. Anything. But I understand that you were afraid.”

  “Perry is all I have,” Clark said, and took the other man’s hand. “We survived Houston falling, and with Daimler and a few others, we got this place going. When that German SOB turned on us and helped Taylor take over, it all happened so fast. She promised to let the hostages go, eventually. We were beginning to realize she was lying when you came along. It was hard to trust you when Sergeant Groves fell into line so quickly after getting here.”

  “What’s done is done,” Cobb said. “Will you help us?”

  “Of course, this is our home. Help is all we ever wanted to do.”

  “Thank you,” Perry said. His voice had a strong Cajun accent. “For everything.”

  “It’s probably not over,” Cobb said.

  Clark produced a small, battery-powered bullhorn and handed it to Cobb. “We found a 20-foot container full of these. We dumped most of them over the side, but Perry is a bit of a hoarder.”

  “I just like stuff,” the other man said with a guilty grin.

  The bullhorn looked like one of those you’d buy at a sporting goods store, made for a coach to yell at his team. It wasn’t exactly mil-spec, which meant it was probably better. It would do. He checked the controls, turned it on, and looked at the crowd once more.

  “Shangri-La,” he said and adjusted the volume down a notch. The little bullhorn was more powerful than he’d expected. “I am Colonel Cobb Pendleton, United States Army. I’ve only been here part of a day, but by now, you’ve all heard at least a little about me.”

  “Paul Bisdorf found me and a group of survivalists in Junction, Texas. We were trapped. As we were being rescued, we lost a good man. Without that lost man, we would have all died. The man who saved us took a real risk, and I’m grateful.” To the side Bisdorf nodded his thanks. “When I got here, I found out how many soldiers had also been picked up. I didn’t come planning to take over and be their commander, but fate had other plans.