Turning Point (Book 3): A Time To Live

by Wandrey, Mark

  “If you don’t cooperate, this will complicate your treat—”

  “Fuck my treatment. Do you want to survive?!”

  The woman sighed and left, which was fine with him. “Is there anyone here with an IQ above room temperature?”

  “Mr. Osborne?”

  Jeremiah turned his head and saw a pretty, blonde woman looking down at him. Her face was instantly recognizable, and the CEO part of him switched into media-relations mode. “Kathy Clifford, good to see you.”

  “Jeremiah Osborne, isn’t it? CEO of Oceanic Orbital Enterprises.”

  Jeremiah nodded. He noted the tiny recorder clipped to her borrowed camo shirt and wondered if anyone else realized she was recording everything she saw.

  “One and only,” Jeremiah confirmed.

  She looked him over, stopping at the thick, blood-soaked bandages on his hands. Her professional smile turned to honest concern. “How were you injured?”

  “Classified.”

  “Mr. Osborne, we’re all one, big, happy family.”

  “Not for much longer,” he mumbled, thinking about the killer subs.

  “I’m sorry, what does that mean?”

  Good hearing too. He considered. There might be a chance to leapfrog the military mentality. The nurse was back, and he knew he didn’t have much time. “Ms. Clifford, I’d love to give you an exclusive.”

  “Great.”

  “However, I’m about to go into surgery. If you’ll arrange to get a message to my associates, I will give you the interview afterward.” She frowned.

  “I’m not against carrying a message for you, but what makes you think I can?” Jeremiah stared at the camera. She looked back at him for a second, then quickly glanced down at the device and back up. A sly grin appeared on her face.

  “Mr. Osborne, please?” the nurse asked.

  “I need a couple minutes,” he said.

  She glanced at the clipboard she was carrying and frowned. “I suppose I can give you two minutes.”

  “Thank you.” She moved off, and he gestured with a mangled hand for Kathy to come closer.

  “Can you at least tell me how you were injured?”

  “I was burned by a lightning gun while we were fighting infected elephant seals.” Her eyes sparkled with intense interest, and he knew he had her hooked. “Okay, listen, I need to talk quickly.”

  After he’d given her the message, and she’d hurried off, he relaxed and tried to prepare himself for what was coming. He’d had a good life with his hands and was going to miss them. Still, he’d miss life more, so if he had to lose them to keep living, they would go. I wonder how hard it will be to find a good counselor after the zombie apocalypse is over?

  Alone, without any distraction, he was again aware of the growing pain. He thought about getting someone’s attention, then realized he would probably catch shit for delaying, then hurrying them.

  “Mr. Osborne?”

  He followed the voice and saw another medical tech, a man with an NCO rank insignia. “Yes?”

  “I wasn’t expecting you to be conscious.” The man looked him over, a confused look growing on his face. “It says here you were shot four times.”

  “Shot? No, I was electrocuted.”

  The man leaned over him and looked at Jeremiah’s hands in confusion. “Where’s your ID bracelet?”

  “The plastic one? They put it on my ankle since my hands are fucked up.”

  “Oh.” The medic moved Jeremiah’s blanket to examine the plastic bracelet. “Jeremiah Osborne?” Jeremiah nodded. “I didn’t know there were two Osbornes here. Sorry.”

  “Who’s the other one?” Jeremiah asked.

  The man looked at his clipboard. “Uhm, Jon Osborne, from the Helix.”

  “Jon Osborne?” Jeremiah sat up and swung his legs over the side. “Show me?”

  “Sir, should you be up?”

  “Just show me.” The medical tech shrugged and moved down the line of wounded waiting for treatment. Jeremiah had no idea there were so many. Most appeared to have been bitten, clawed, or burned. He felt guilty for being moved to the front of the line, ahead of some of the others.

  “Here he is,” the tech said. Jeremiah turned and gasped. “You know him?”

  “I should; he’s my cousin.” It was definitely Oz, and he looked bad. Bloody trauma bandages covered his chest and abdomen. Not one, but two, IVs poured blood and fluids into his body. A compact life monitor beeped, and a mask fed him oxygen.

  “I need to get him prepped for surgery, sir.”

  Jeremiah nodded and backed away. He hadn’t seen Oz for years and had no idea he’d been in the Flotilla. I hope he makes it.

  “Mr. Osborne!” an outraged nurse exclaimed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  * * *

  Kathy walked as quickly as she could, sliding down ladders the way she’d learned from the sailors, to her media center. A few of the people sharing her space looked up as she entered but didn’t say anything. They’d ignored her all along anyway.

  She’d been studying her newly acquired hack into radio traffic, until she’d heard about helicopters bringing in injured, then rushing to rearm and take off to fight the attack. She’d had some questions, and in just a few seconds, Jeremiah Osborne had answered several of her most urgent. She still didn’t know who was attacking, though at the moment, it didn’t matter.

  She opened her laptop and logged in, quickly entering the ship’s radio system. She put a headset on. It took her a minute to figure out how to use the interface to transmit. As she worked, she tried to control her breathing. I need to exercise, she chided herself. After surviving zombie-infested Mexico, exercise hadn’t seemed like something she needed to do.

  “There it is,” she said. She examined the virtual control for a moment before entering the data. “Calling OOE ship Azanti. Come in?” She shook her head at the name, wondering what it meant. Azanti? Sounds French. She repeated the call twice.

  “OOE, who’s calling?”

  “This is Kathy Clifford on the Ford. I have a message from Jeremiah Osborne. Please listen. Wade Watts is on your ship. He needs to know something.”

  “Go ahead, I’m recording.”

  Kathy relayed the message.

  * * *

  Captain Gilchrist watched the developing battle as the Tomahawks found their targets. The E-2 fed the carrier data as missile after missile was intercepted.

  “Where the fuck did they get a Sea-Wiz?” Commander Tobias asked.

  Gilchrist grunted in response to his XO’s question. It was asked rhetorically, out of frustration. Their mysterious enemy had a lot of shit it had no right to own. It was possible to get ahold of a Sea-Wiz through some of their less scrupulous allies, but stealth submarines that could move at over 100 knots? Not so much.

  “There’s a hit!” Tobias yelled. The radar return from the Hawkeye showed debris flying into the air. One of the two radar installations on the island had been destroyed.

  “General Rose reports he is beginning his landing,” the radio operator said.

  “God speed,” Gilchrist said. Tobias nodded.

  “E-2 reports they have inbound bandits.”

  “Damnit,” Gilchrist said.

  “Had to happen sooner or later,” Tobias said.

  Gilchrist sighed. The worst thing about the situation was being unable to protect his people. In normal operations, an F-18 would be hovering nearby, ready to intercept any threat to the Ford’s extended eyes, the E-2 Hawkeye. He didn’t have a single fighter left. There were some on the other carriers, however none of them responded, and they appeared overrun with infected. Or they were on fire. “Tell them to try and evade.”

  The orders were relayed, and hopes were passed along. The E-2 was powered by a turboprop, a jet engine pushing a propeller. Its top speed was 350 knots. Radar data showed the intercepting craft were the size of Hornets and flying just under Mach. He knew the pilot would do everything he could—fire chaff and flares and
try to hide in clouds. But it was all in vain, and the radar blip for the valiant, little plane blinked out.

  “E-2 is down,” the formal report came back. Not only had Gilchrist lost his only E-2, but his visible range had been reduced by more than half. One of the last things the E-2 had shown was five more of the Hornet-like planes heading toward the Flotilla.

  “Inform all ships to prepare for air assault.”

  * * *

  Shangri-La

  Amarillo, TX

  “Hey Cobb.”

  “What’s up, Paul?” Bisdorf’s big frame dominated the doorway to Cobb’s new office. They’d insisted he take the former governor’s space. He’d promptly had temporary walls put in to add space for the senior NCOs and what would eventually be the civilian leadership. It was more comfortable than what he was used to. Even a Lieutenant Colonel didn’t get a corner office with a view in the US military.

  Bisdorf walked in and put a digital voice recorder on Cobb’s desk. He didn’t like the desk; it was too ornate. The only thing he wished he had back was the window. The three bullet holes were a constant reminder of what he’d been forced to do to rid himself of Governor Taylor.

  “What’s this?”

  “Play it,” Bisdorf said.

  Cobb picked it up and pushed play. The first few seconds were static with an occasional crackly sound that reminded him of dogs howling. Then it cleared, and he heard a clear voice. “Roger your location, Russell. Confirmed ASW Seahawk down to missile fire. Recommend we prepare…”

  “That sounded like navy traffic,” Cobb said, looking up at Paul.

  The big man smiled and nodded. He’d been eager to help as much as possible after the truth came out.

  “There’s some kind of battle going on.”

  “I heard. Is there any more?”

  “Just one bit.” He took the player, set it to a different recording, then handed it back. “I thought this was a news report. A couple of stations are still on the air, though it’s playing in a loop. Listen.”

  As soon as the voice came through, Cobb sat bolt upright.

  “This is Kathy Clifford on the Ford. I have a message from Jeremiah Osborne. Please listen. Wade Watts is there. He needs to know something.”

  “Kathy!” he cried.

  Bisdorf hit pause. “You’ve met her?”

  “Yeah, she’s my girlfriend.”

  Bisdorf nodded slowly. “Way to go, my friend.”

  Cobb felt his cheeks getting warm. “It just kinda happened.”

  “Doesn’t it always?” Bisdorf laughed.

  “I knew the guy Wade Watts too. Play some more?”

  Bisdorf nodded and un-paused the recorder.

  “Go ahead, I’m recording,” another voice said.

  “The sub that sank those ships is coming back. They won’t be able to stop it, you need to…” the transmission dissolved into static.

  “That’s it?” Cobb asked.

  “I’m afraid so. Atmospheric skip can work like that sometimes.”

  Cobb backed it up and played the clip again, listening carefully. “They’re being attacked. Do you know where this is?”

  “I heard San Diego in the background.”

  Cobb nodded. It matched what he knew about General Rose’s destination. If Kathy and Wade had made it, it was all but certain the rest had as well. Who was attacking them? She’d also talked about sunken ships. My God, where they in danger? They had to be.

  He jumped to his feet and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Bisdorf asked.

  “I need to see Daimler, and you’re coming with me.”

  * * *

  Operation Roundhouse

  San Nicolas Island

  As the low, coastal island grew slowly closer, General Rose held his breath and prayed to whatever deity happened to be listening and gave two shits about grunts. Please don’t notice us.

  “Eagle to Roundhouse.”

  He perked up. Eagle was the callsign for the navy AWACS. “Roundhouse. Go ahead Eagle.”

  “Package delivered. One headlight is out. High beam only. I repeat, high beam only.”

  “Acknowledged. You get that, Pepper?”

  “Yes, sir! Altering course for the ridge. Since we don’t have clear radar, we’ll be at high risk if we try to dust off. Once they spot you landing…”

  “I got it, Warrant. Cancel the rappel. Wait one, and I’ll advise on LZ.” Rose secretly heaved a sigh. He wouldn’t have put money on his ability to repel down from a hovering Osprey. Frankly, it had the potential to be disastrously embarrassing. He switched channels. “Roundhouse to Passkey.”

  “Passkey actual, go.”

  “We’re about to arrive at Grandma’s House.”

  “Acknowledged, Roundhouse. We have unexpected guests, so I don’t know if we’ll be here much longer. Grandma’s might be the safest place. Best of luck, Roundhouse.”

  Rose cut the channel and sighed. They were attacking the Flotilla again. Can we take out the objective quickly enough? It was worth considering. He still considered Lisha to be the #1 objective. Killing the fuck out of the bastards and finding out who they were was a bonus.

  San Nicolas’s beach passed below the Osprey as the pilots slowed and started climbing toward the low mountain opposite the objective. Rose glanced at his tablet, examining the map. Part of his mind wondered where they’d get new computers or have the ones they had repaired. He’d realized when they did the inventory aboard the Pacific Adventurer, he only had one. Six more were scattered among his command.

  On the screen, he’d marked three potential landing zones. With one of the base’s two radar installations taken out, his best choice was the LZ just behind the hill, almost in view of the main base. There was no way in hell anyone at the base would miss the sound of four fucking Osprey settling in. But, if he deployed closer to the far beach, they’d have more than a mile to cover, partly up hill, in unknown territory. If these bastards had stealth subs, who knew what other toys they might possess. Speed was the better option.

  “Pepper!”

  “General?”

  “LZ #5, if you please.”

  “Roger that. ETA 30 seconds.” Above the rear door, the jump light turned red, and everyone started final checks on their gear.

  * * *

  Chamuel’s tea was cold, and her eyes were dancing back and forth across the massive monitors. She half expected Michael to come raging in at any minute, and he might have had a good reason. She moved her mobility chair slightly so she could concentrate on another screen. She stared at the big, weird shape over north Texas, wishing there was an NRO satellite she could re-task to get a better look. Sadly, the US government had been too short sighted to task more satellites with watching the mainland.

  “Something is happening,” she mumbled, flipping between screens faster than the most people could follow. She was so tense, her distorted back muscles were spasming. She’d created a file of unexpected events:

  - The sudden attack of the cruiser missiles.

  - The Flotilla understanding at least part of the alien tech.

  - The thing floating over Texas.

  - The cure apparently discovered by Dr. Lisha Breda.

  There were hundreds of trembler alarms all over San Nicolas. They were there to detect people setting foot on the island. For years, they’d guarded against unwary boaters who’d decided the island was a good place for a picnic. Nine times out of ten they were set off by a sea turtle, a seal, or a group of birds feeding in the surf. Usually one or two would go off near each other. This time, when the alarm sounded, dozens triggered at the same time.

  Chamuel accessed the cameras near the sensors and saw four V-22 Osprey flash over at low altitude, heading almost directly for the destroyed radar position. A ground attack by a Marine unit. However, the Marines had been neutralized; the probability was 92%. But what about the east coast fleet?

  She’d been ignoring them for quite a while, sure th
e Russians would attack them sooner or later. After all, she’d been sure the intel leaked to them blamed the US government for the virus. She reviewed the last NRO satellite pass over the Nicaraguan coast. Nothing! No signs of a battle, no signs of American surface ships, and no signs of Russian subs.

  “No,” she said and slammed her fist against the computer tray, nearly sending her keyboard flying. “What’s happening?”

  Chamuel spent minutes reevaluating the data while simultaneously evaluating the chances of the ground assault succeeding. She kept dozens of files with other odds. Chances of a world government surviving were less than 1%. Chances of a regional government surviving were 2%. Chances of a new government emerging in the aftermath, taking into account Strain Delta, were 3%. She tabulated new data, and the last datapoint changed. Changed alarmingly to 25%.

  All thoughts of the attacking force were forgotten. Michael can deal with it. She searched for the east coast fleet. She found it at last, just west of Isla de Cedros, or less than 200 miles from San Diego. As she observed the fleet, she input data. All the previous US ships were there. Further, reconnaissance satellites showed six Russian submarines. They weren’t hunting, they were ranging ahead in a clear vanguard formation.

  She updated dozens of files with numbers representing the new developments. Something she’d considered effectively impossible. The key to her predictions was math. She’d learned the beauty of math at a young age, quickly proceeding from basics into algebra, geometry, trigonometry, plane geometry, and calculus. She’d mastered all of them before she graduated from high school. She would find out years later, Genesis had arranged her scholarship to MIT.

  Once in the university environment, she had truly exploded, and she had been free to pursue topics her high school was completely unprepared to teach her. Combinatorics had briefly fascinated her, as well as computational equations and logic. She had moved into applied mathematics and found her first love—game theory.

  Then, while finishing her first PhD, she had discovered quantum mechanics. When she started mixing this new area of interest with game theory, a whole new way of thinking was born. She might well have been known to the world as another Sagan or Hawking if Genesis hadn’t harvested her. She had disappeared from the world, having only published a single paper on game theory.