Up From the Depths: Book 4 Movement to Contact

by J. R. Jackson

  “Halt. Identify yourself,” the Marine said.

  “Warrant Officer Doyle and Sergeant Luzetski to see Lieutenant DeMillio,” Doyle said. Behind the Marine there were two more Marines with their rifles ready.

  “Pass,” the sentry said and stepped to one side without blocking the aim of the Marines behind him.

  “Nice,” Ski said quietly to Doyle as they passed through the checkpoint.

  “It gets better,” Doyle said. The hall made a sharp right and they stopped outside of a barricade made up of sandbags, concertina wire and building material. Ski stopped and studied how it was made. The Marines had used whatever was available to construct a chokepoint. There was a winding path that would funnel any large group into a single file line that would be easy for the small number of Marines to engage and eliminate.

  “Impressive,” Ski commented.

  “It should be,” Doyle said. “My boys helped them make it.” They wound their way through the obstacles until they came to a sandbag wall that was floor to ceiling with vision slits set up high. Several weapon barrels tracked their progress until they were stopped by more Marines. Ski glanced over and saw the barrel of a M2 .50 heavy machine gun poking through one of the slits. If that weapon had to be fired inside the building, it would devastating for anyone on the receiving end and very loud for those operating it.

  “Warrant Officer Doyle,” a burly Marine said, stepping forward and saluting with a grin. Doyle returned the salute.

  “Lieutenant DeMillio, this is Sergeant Luzetski,” Doyle said in way of introduction. The Marine officer nodded to him.

  “I heard about you,” DeMillio said, “Don’t worry, it was only the good stuff,” he said with a smirk. “Word travels fast in here,” he added. DeMillio had his soft cover on over his brown hair cut to the regulation high and tight, his helmet hanging by its chinstrap from his waist. He looked young for an officer but Ski could see the hard creased squint lines at the corner of his eyes and the easy way he carried himself. This Marine had seen some action. A fine network of scars decorated DeMillio’s right bicep. If the barrel chest didn’t identify it, the looks of the man’s arms, exposed by rolled up sleeves, indicated that DeMillio was a serious weight lifter.

  “Welcome to the Bastion,” DeMillio said, making a grand sweeping arm gesture. “This is the last line of defense should any of the Zulus make it inside.” Doyle and Ski followed him further inside, passing crates of ammunition, grenades, flares, and numerous hard cases with the designation that they contained M136 anti-tank weapons.

  “What’s with all the AT-4’s?” Ski asked, using the Army designation for the weapon. DeMillio shook his head as he answered.

  “We’re a anti-armor unit with a heavy weapons section attached. For some reason, supply issued us a shit pot of those before we deployed. They’re not doing us much good now,” DeMillio explained. “I’m confident we can find a use for them at a later time.”

  He led them past Marines cleaning their weapons, servicing heavy weapons, or eating MREs. Ski glanced down hallways as they passed and saw more crates stacked along the walls. For a small Marine unit, they had a lot of ammunition.

  “So, why are we here?” Ski asked, looking at Doyle.

  “I presume you’re here because of this,” DeMillio said, stepping aside to reveal a large, metal door. Similar barricades, a tripod mounted M2 surrounded by sandbags, and several other weapons were directed at the door.

  “What is this?” Ski asked.

  “The back door to this place,” Doyle said. “This is the basement access door that leads to the storage, work rooms, and archive area. It also leads to the sub-basement and from there to the tunnels that Wheeler used to bring you inside the perimeter. We can secure the other entrances without too much difficulty. This one, this one is a little different. If anything gets inside the basement, it will eventually find a way to get to this door.”

  “It looks pretty solid,” Ski stated.

  Doyle walked over to the door and hit it with her fist. There wasn’t a solid metal sound like one would expect. Instead the sound was dull and hollow.

  “What the fuck?” Ski asked.

  “It’s a wooden exterior door wrapped in a finish to make it look like a standard fire door,” Doyle explained. “We’ve found quite a few like this one all over the museum on every level. Someone was milking the budget and maybe even paying off the building and fire inspectors.”

  “That explains why we’re set up here. We’re here to make sure nothing comes in this way and nothing makes it past if something got inside,” DeMillio said, not mentioning by name what exactly the ‘it’ was that he was referring to. “We’re a tripwire and the Alamo all wrapped up in a nice little package.”

  Ski looked at Doyle, back to the door, then at DeMillio. He couldn’t help the thoughts that ran through his mind. They had made it through a city inhabited by violent cannibals and inside what they presumed to be a safe building only to discover a seriously fatal flaw in the perimeter.

  Ski was about to make a comment when the crackle/hiss of a radio echoed through the hallway.

  “You have comms?” he asked, not quite believing his ears. DeMillio smirked and motioned him to follow. The officer led Doyle and Ski to a room where several Marines sat behind consoles, laptops and other communications equipment. Off in one corner was a large SINCGARS that normally would be mounted inside a vehicle. A small bank of batteries was connected to it but none of the indicators were lit up.

  “It’s not much, but it works,” DeMillio said. “We can talk to a carrier group moored around Governor’s Island on clear days and that’s about it.”

  “Carrier Group?” Ski asked.

  “It’s a slapped together group from what we’ve gathered. Got an admiral in charge and everything,” DeMillio said, tossing in a little sarcasm. “They’ve been moored off the island for a while now. Homeland Security has some kind of facility there.”

  “Can they provide support and extraction?” Ski asked, already thinking about getting all the civilians out of the city and somewhere not surrounded by hordes of infected.

  “Yes, and no,” DeMillio said. “They could do it but...” he trailed off, pointing up to the ceiling.

  “Wiener,” Ski said with a knowing look. “What’s his problem?”

  “The Dick,” DeMillio said using the nickname for an officer who’s first and last name were slang terms for male genitalia. “Won’t accept any orders from the admiral because the admiral doesn’t have the proper codes. That and we have to use USMC comms gear instead of Army.”

  “The codes were lost when the TOC fell at Fort Ti,” Doyle said. “There’s no way to generate new ones because navy comms don’t work with army comms,” she explained.

  Ski looked at both of them, shook his head and tried hard to understand the thinking of the little National Guard Napoleon upstairs.

  “We have a SATCOM manpack but, the only antenna that survived was medium gain and can’t get past all this metal and steel around us. We’d have to get to a roof taller than where we are. Even then, they’d have no way to decrypt the signal,” DeMillio said. “We did manage to salvage that,” he pointed to the large SINCGARS in the corner. “From one of the vehicles but I don’t think that the batteries are providing enough power. And none of our antennas can mate with it. If we had a satellite phone, we could literally phone home.”

  “How are you talking to anyone? You just said there’s a carrier out there but you didn’t say how you know that,” Ski said.

  “We have a work around that uses our same system and decryption key,” DeMillio said.

  Ski quirked an eyebrow at the Marine officer.

  “There’s another Marine unit in the city. Mechanized recon. I don’t know exactly where they are but we’ve talked to them a few times,” DeMillio said, looking over at Doyle who nodded slightly. “They have comms with the Navy. We relay messages through them.”

  “But there’s another issue,” DeMillio
said, removing his cover and rubbing his hand back and forth over the close cropped hair in his head. “Wiener thinks the carrier group is here to provide support for the original operation. Clearing out the infected from the city.”

  Ski looked at DeMillio then at Doyle who nodded.

  “Run that by me again,” he finally said. “Wiener thinks that the carrier group, who you can’t really talk to and he hasn’t even contacted, is somehow here to provide support for an operation that failed months ago?”

  “Nailed it in one,” DeMillio said.

  “It gets better,” Doyle said. “Every day, as I mentioned earlier, he has a sniper and spotter go up on the roof and engage any Zulu’s they see in an attempt to draw in more to the park where they can set off mines and draw even more into the kill zone,” she said making air quotes over the last words.

  “We’re in agreement, that’s fucking stupid,” Ski said before he could catch himself. Both Doyle and DeMillio smirked at his comment.

  “Wiener thinks that the personnel that are left here in the museum are going to be able to sweep and clear the rest of Manhattan Island?” Ski asked rhetorically. “Has he even seen what’s out there?”

  Both Doyle and DeMillio shook their heads.

  Ski rubbed his brow; he felt the beginnings of a headache coming on.

  “Seems to me that I recall a regulation that during times of disaster National Guard units can be, and usually are, federalized meaning they fall under the command of the highest ranking officer in theater,” Ski said. DeMillio motioned him back out into the hall and closed the door to the comms room.

  “That could work but Wiener doesn’t recognize any authority higher than his own,” the Marine officer said.

  “This admiral might have something to say about that,” Ski said. “He could relieve him for cause.”

  “While that would work, Wiener won’t talk to the admiral for the reason previously stated, no up to date codes and no compatible encryption key,” Doyle said.

  “Narrows down the options,” Ski said.

  “There are other options,” DeMillio said quietly, his eyes hardening. Ski knew what the Marine officer was suggesting and nodded slowly, understanding the implications.

  “Let’s keep all options open,” Ski said. “That way we have more flexibility.”

  “Agreed,” DeMillio said as Doyle nodded.

  “Lieutenant, thank you for showing us around your encampment, it’s been enlightening,” Doyle said.

  “Always a pleasure, ma’am,” DeMillio said with a grin. Doyle gestured to Ski.

  “Shall we?” she asked.

  “Yes, let’s,” Ski said as the two of them walked out of the Marine’s area and headed back into the main section of the museum.

  “Where to next,” Ski asked.

  “We’ll go visit Little Moscow,” Doyle said. “It’s about time you expanded your knowledge of American and Russian relations.”

  Doyle led Ski through numerous corridors before someone called her name, halting their progress.

  “Ma’am, the colonel wants you to get a detail out to replace the mines that were detonated earlier,” the young soldier said, somewhat out of breath from jogging through the immense museum.

  Doyle looked at the soldier, her eyes squinting a little at the corners and her jaw clenching.

  “Corporal, please return to the colonel and inform him of the standing policy that he and I agreed upon. No one leaves the building until morning after there has been an engagement. This allows for the Zulus to disperse,” Doyle said.

  “Ma’am, I understand that, but the colonel was pretty adamant about it. He insisted that you include the new arrivals with the detachment that goes. They’re to provide security,” the corporal said.

  Doyle held up a hand to stop the soldier from continuing as she shook her head.

  “Corporal Hammersmith, I will be along shortly to discuss this with the colonel,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hammersmith said, somewhat relieved that he wouldn’t have to relay messages back and forth.

  ***

  Chapter 32

  Governor’s Island, New York City

  Admiral Xavier Crockett sat behind the desk of his in-port cabin. His fleet had been anchored off the island since they had made their speed run to the east coast months ago. The plan, his plan, was to race to the east coast and attempt to rescue the remaining Joint Chiefs of Staff from the Pentagon. Once that was accomplished, they would move to rescue any of the remaining politicians, Supreme Court justices, and anyone else that was critical to COG operations.

  He leaned back in his chair and stared at the gray and white overhead mass of pipes and conduits that supplied vital needs to his carrier. He had left ships behind, those that hadn’t been able to keep up and still they were too late to do any good. The Pentagon had been breached as had all the major structures in and around Washington D.C. Every single major city along the eastern seaboard had succumbed to infection.

  Crockett mentally shook his head as he thought about the losses that he had incurred. Some of the ships he had left behind had finally caught up with the rest of the fleet but by that time he had already searched along the coast for survivors, finding only a small group of 82nd Airborne troops, some local police officers, and large amounts of panicked civilians. He had ordered his fleet to anchorage around Governor’s Island hoping to make use of the Homeland Security and Coast Guard facilities there. The DHS facility had only a small staff, less than ten, who were mostly maintenance personnel and had lost contact with the DHS teams that had been sent to New York City when the infection was still only reported as a civil disturbance. When he had arrived, the waterway between the city and the island, Buttermilk Channel, was a navigation nightmare. Ships, ferries, barges, and Coast Guard cutters were intermingled with personal watercraft, rowboats, jet ski’s and even a couple of windsurfers. It was organized chaos.

  Since that time, he had taken command of the situation and delegated authority and out of the chaos had come a semblance of order. Those vessels capable of long term habitation were anchored off the island and those that had no facilities for that use were moored together with a vessel that did. This created a support system that radiated outward from the carrier and enabled the survivors to get a hot meal daily and have someplace to sleep. Conditions were crowded but it was maintainable. Those that could, were moved to the island and housed in the numerous buildings present, specifically, Castle Williams and Liggett Hall. These buildings now housed the civilians that had medical issues requiring immediate attention or regular treatments and acted as overflow for the vessels that didn’t have room for all the civilians. Governor’s Island became the medical station for the entire flotilla. The ships that were equipped with desalinization plants were working non-stop to provide enough drinking water for the floating islands.

  A knock at his cabin door roused him from his reverie. A Marine in khaki shirt, blue trousers, and white cover opened the door to allow a yeoman to enter.

  “Sir, flash traffic from NCA,” the sailor said, referring to National Command Authority, as he placed the paper on the admiral’s desk and then left the room.

  Crockett picked it up and wondered what else Site R was going to request. They had already stripped half his embarked MEU and the SEAL detachment and sent them off on some cross-country mission to God knows where.

  Adjusting the glasses that had been perched on head, he read the memo. Paused, then read it again. He dropped it to his desk, took off his glasses and rubbed his face with both hands. He reached over and pushed a button on his intercom.

  “Captain Twidzicki, meet me in CIC.” Not waiting for a reply, Crockett grabbed up his glasses, tucking them into a shirt pocket, then picked up the memo before leaving his cabin. The Marine that was outside the cabin remained in place but another joined the Admiral as he made his way to the carrier’s Combat Information Center. Two more heavily armed Marines in full battle dress stood outside the doors t
o CIC.

  Crockett swiped his ID card through the reader, waited for the computer to allow him access to the inner sanctum of the carrier then entered the CIC. Technicians and analysts were busy at their stations, compiling data, or reviewing satellite imagery. Off to one side, a civilian in shirt sleeves, his tie undone and loose around his neck stood watching. He was a tech rep from some computer company that had come aboard before the world ended. Now he was on a cruise that was much longer than planned. Crockett nodded to the man but didn’t stop until he was at the main console for encrypted communications with Site R. Of course, this console could also talk to NORAD, NIMIC, or any number of other secure installations, aircraft and ships.

  Captain Hollis Twidzicki was already present. His cabin was a few minutes closer to the Combat Information Center than Crockett’s. That and he had spent more time on the carrier and knew all the shortcuts to get to just about everywhere on the mammoth vessel in the least amount of time. Crockett handed him the memo he had received. Twidzicki quickly read it then handed it back, his face impassive.

  “When?” Twidzicki asked.

  “How soon can you spool up the systems?” Crockett asked.

  “We’d need to test and configure,” Twidzicki said. “Four hours to test all the systems, another four to verify readiness and address discrepancies. Two more to change out the payloads. Tomorrow morning, easy.”

  Crockett nodded. He wanted some time to verify with Site R if there were any particular targets they wanted saturation or if it was a blanket operation. The ships he had carried enough Tomahawks and stand off weapons. Just to be sure, he’d get as many of the remaining aircraft aloft for BDA and follow up target servicing. This would be the last air operation until they could get more fuel for the birds.