“Do you want to address the fleet or any of the survivors?” Twidzicki asked.
Crockett was silent, thinking before he replied.
“This is a need a need to know operation,” Crockett said. “Once we start gearing up, word will get out. When it does, I’ll make an announcement. We’ll have to move the fleet.”
“What about the people still on the island?” Twidzicki asked.
“We’ll have to evacuate the civilians from the island. Eventually,” Crockett said. Buttermilk Channel, the body of water that separated Governor’s Island from lower Manhattan, was only eight hundred yards across. The two officers shared a look then cast their gaze out to the room where the hushed conversation of the sailors manning the CIC murmured like the buzzing of thousands of insects. They both knew the odds of getting out of Manhattan Island alive. If the remaining units had any chance of surviving what was coming their way, they would have to leave now.
“How many do we still have over there?” Crockett asked quietly, meaning Manhattan. Twidzicki pursed his lips, the only expression he had made the entire time.
“Less than 100. But, there’s an unconfirmed number of civilians. The estimate is close to 15,000 scattered all over. We can pinpoint about 500 to the area around Central Park,” he said shaking his head. “That would take all our rotary aircraft and several of the LCACs to evacuate.”
“Do we have the personnel to conduct that size of an evacuation?” Crockett asked. He knew that what remained of their Marine MEU was spread all over the fleet providing security. What was left was minimal, a platoon that could be augmented with some of the SITT and FAST units but, he doubted that would be enough firepower if any of the aircraft or LCACs came under siege by the infected. There was no way of knowing the current disposition of any of the survivors left in New York. Not without boots on the ground and some solid HUMINT. The boots were there but the commo with those units was spotty at best. Crockett glanced at the clock on the wall. They had another two hours before the Marine reconnaissance unit checked in. Maybe they could provide better insight to the situation on land before he ordered the city destroyed.
***
Chapter 33
Firebase Cascade, former City of Tenino, Washington State
James Martin used a short wooden club and hit the tires on his Mercedes Unimog. The MPT81 military grade tires had held up well given the terrain he had taken the rugged utility truck through. The ritual he was performing was something that he had made a habit of. The walk around allowed him to inspect the tires, the frame, the lights, and look for any leaks underneath. In all the years that he had owned the Mog, he had never encountered a leak caused by any of the fluids that were vital for the operation of the truck.
“Yo,” a voice said as Martin walked around the rear of the Mog and gripped the tailgate cables. He looked over at who was requesting his attention.
“Hey, Smiley-Man,” Martin said in greeting. “What’s up?”
Smiley-Man or Jay Smiley, was a member of Martin’s Mutual Assistance Group or MAG that had arrived at the gates of Cascade almost a month after the global outbreak. He was the owner of a 5-ton military surplus truck. He casually sauntered over to Martin, one thumb hooked through the sling of his rifle.
“I heard that Carter sent a group out for a supply run,” Smiley said.
“Yeah. You looking for something in particular?” Martin asked.
“No,” Smiley said, shaking his head. “Just wondering if you’ve heard anything about what’s going on at the fort.”
“I know we’re all wondering where all the infected that were in the hospital disappeared to,” Martin said. “I’d like to know where all the ones from Olympia and Capitol Forest went.”
“They’re all coming for us,” Smiley said with a forced chuckle. Martin quickly looked at his long time friend then shook his head. Smiley had a strange sense of humor.
“You get Shorty to look over your piece of shit?” Martin asked, changing the subject and needling his friend about his truck. “And where the hell did you find that Hummer that rolled in with you?”
“Nothing wrong with my truck,” Smiley said somewhat defensively. “At least I buy American, unlike some people I know,” he said with a smirk and look of superiority. The two men grinned at each other, it had been some time since they had joked around like this, circumstances being what they were.
“That Hummer showed up with a bunch of college students. They said they were from the UW in Seattle. Supposed to have been down around Mt. St. Helens doing geological work or some shit like that. You know, the work in the dirt with the seismographs,” Smiley said.
“How’d they hook up with you?” Martin asked, casting a sideways glance as he crouched down and visually inspected the undercarriage and skid plates.
“We were stopped doing a refueling when they roared up on us,” Smiley said. “They damn near got themselves killed.” Both men knew that it was only the intensive training and the level of experience the MAG members had were the only reason that prevented them from opening fire on the unknown Hummer when it had breached their security perimeter.
“What made you bring them along?” Martin asked.
As the founding members of the group, both men had written some of the policies that the MAG was to adhere to in the event of a disaster. Martin knew there was flexibility built into the policies and it was up to the most senior member of the group present at the time to make the final determination on what course of action they would take. He trusted Smiley. They had known each other since high school. Smiley had gone into the Army and Martin to the Navy but they had kept in communication over the years. When they had both got out of their selected branch of service, they had formed the MAG as first a private camping club but as years went by, it became evident that there was a serious lack of forward thinking being done by the average citizen. They had both agreed that the vast majority of the general public were sheeple who had no clue what to do when there were a disruption in services that affected their little bubble of reality. These sheeple relied on a very weak and very vulnerable supply chain to provide them with fresh food for their Need It Right This Second shopping trips, usually done on the way home from their chosen field of employment. The two of them knew that to rely on something that could be disrupted so easily was insane but thanks to the media and the outlets of reality television, anyone who prepared for a power outage or a major earthquake or a disaster that may never happen according to the so-called experts that were foisted on the unsuspecting public, were to be considered borderline mental cases, domestic terrorists, dangerous to society, or some kind of bible thumping, end of days religious cult that saw everything as being predicted in the Bible. Or that Rapture was upon us as soon as God walked the earth or aliens from the Reticulum galaxy invaded.
Rapture didn’t happen and the MAG was not some kind of crazed religious cult hell bent on believing ancient folkloric writings that could be interpreted any number of ways. They had quietly prepared for the most common annual events that occurred in their immediate area, snow, high winds, downed trees, regional flooding, power outages. They worked on skills they felt they would need if there was disruption of services that lasted for more than a week. They became self-sufficient and didn’t rely on the outdated and extremely fragile power grid that interlaced the United States. They focused on being able to provide for themselves by growing the majority of their own food and knowing how to preserve it for long term storage. They had trained and practiced in force protection, weapons handling, defensive driving, and many other subjects that would have put them on every watch list by any number of alphabet agencies if it was known what they were doing. They had preplanned rally points, well stocked and fortified locations to head to and supply caches along the way.
What they weren’t prepared for was a global viral outbreak that would turn its victims into cannibalistic psychopaths.
“Shit,” Smiley said, drawing out the word for a few seconds
longer than needed. “Those kids were scared about out of their minds. If I had left them to their own devices, they would be zombie chow by now.”
Martin nodded at his friend’s use of the word ‘zombie’ as he finished his vehicle inspection and returned the tire club to the exterior tool box. He couldn’t blame Smiley for his decision. He had been faced with the same decision when he and Rocky had left Rocky’s Market and picked up Michelle and her soon to be dead former boyfriend. He was about to make a comment about the whole zombie or not zombie when gunfire echoed through the quiet streets. He opened the driver’s side door and retrieved his Barrett 468 rifle, ejected the magazine, slapped it back in place, chambering a round and slinging it across his chest for easy access, all in one fluid motion. Smiley had him beat as his M468 rifle was already slung over his shoulder and all he did was move it around to the front. The MAG had standardized all their weapons for convenience and compatibility. The group decision to go with the Barrett rifle chambered in 6.8mm was based on performance of that particular caliber. When they burned through the ammunition that they had with them and in storage, they would switch to a different model of rifle that used a different caliber. However, based on the amount of stored ammunition available and their ability to reload the spent rounds, it would be several years before they would be faced with switching their long arms.
“Where’s that coming from?” Smiley asked.
“Don’t know.”
More gunfire echoed followed by the metallic chug of mortars.
“Damn. That’s at the main gate,” Martin said, heading in that direction at a jog. The boom of a large caliber rifle spurred him on. That sound was familiar to him. It was his wife’s rifle accompanied by the increasing staccato of light machine guns and the crescendo of heavy weapons. The concussive explosion of grenades made him break into a run.
Why hadn’t the observation posts signaled that there was a threat approaching? Martin thought as the intensity of weapons fire increased. He heard the huffing and puffing of Smiley next to him as he ran. The other man kept up but it was a bit of a strain. Martin slowed then stopped as he approached the previously empty Scotty-B’s cafe that had now become the Tactical Operations Center for Cascade. He caught a glimpse of Colonel Carter moving around inside with some of the officers from 1st Special Forces Group that had withdrawn from Joint Base Lewis/McChord when the infected had swarmed that installation. Just past the TOC the road made a slight curve, passed by the former elementary school that was now Cascade’s medical center and garrison for the Home Guard, before the road crossed over Scatter Creek and eventually to the cities of Tumwater and Olympia. A large concrete wall encircled Cascade with another wall, a palisade, made up of shaved logs taken from the surrounding hills 50 yards further out. Between these two walls was a series of man-made barriers designed to slow down any vehicles and large groups of infected. Outside of the palisade, another series of barriers provided the same method. This prevented large numbers of infected from massing against the walls and allowed for a small number of defenders to engage those that did make it this close to Cascade.
Mortar pits had been dug on the lawn of the elementary school and it was those mortars that were firing barrage after barrage over the walls and into what Martin had to presume to be a very serious threat. The towers along this side of the wall were spraying forth a continuous stream of heavy weapons fire punctuated by tracers racing out into the distance and the boom of the mortar projectiles impact.
Martin pushed through the door of the TOC and was hit with a wave of noise coming from both the personnel inside the building and the vast array of radios.
“...drop 14, fire for effect.”
“...rounds on target.”
“...got more coming! There’s a few hundred more!”
Carter noticed Martin standing in the doorway and motioned him over. On the table in front of the US Army Special Forces officer was a topographical map of the surrounding area.
“Colonel,” Martin said, nodding his head in greeting.
“What do you know about this area right here?” Carter said, not bothering with a response and getting right to the point.
Martin leaned over and studied the map for a few seconds.
“That’s a shallow ravine that ends at this hill here,” he said, indicating. “Some of the local kids used it for a shooting area.”
Carter was silent as he looked at the area Martin indicated.
“One of our forage teams was on its way back and noticed trampled weeds and brush. They went to investigate and stumbled upon a sizable horde of infected.”
Martin looked up, a shocked expression on his face. Of all the preparations they had made, the walls being built, the observation posts on the hills, the barricades and signs, he had overlooked the possibility that someone, in this case, infected, could use that ravine to get close to Cascade. It was normally impassable except by foot. Before the world went insane, local kids would hike or ride their bikes to that area. Now, with that lack of traffic, the brush had grown up enough to camouflage the movement of a large mass of infected. That ravine had essentially provided a perfect route to the walls without being seen. How did I miss this? Martin asked himself. To have overlooked something so important, he had put the entire town at risk.
Carter watched the other man’s expressions. He knew what was going through Martin’s mind. He had been there himself a time or two.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Carter said. “Shit happens. Life goes on. We got this under control.” No sooner had he said that when the mortar barrage and the weapons fire ceased.
“...cease fire, cease fire.”
“...Tangos are down. Tangos are down.”
“... Charlie Team, move in.”
The diesel rumble of military Hummers sounded outside as several of the Special Forces group and members of the civilian Home Guard mounted their metal steeds and exited the walled citadel.
“We’ll send out some of the engineers at first light and have them work on that area,” Carter said. “Don’t beat yourself up about this. We were bound to overlook something. Consider this to have been a free pass. It was also an effective real world test of our response. That’s all that matters.”
“This time,” Martin said. Carter hesitated as he rolled up the map, then continued rolling.
“Yes, this time,” he agreed.
Martin turned so abruptly he bumped into Smiley who had stood there the entire time in silence. He stepped aside and let Martin out of the TOC, watching his long time friend walk towards the main gate, shaking his head. He turned back to Carter who pointed to his eye and then at the retreating form of Martin. Smiley nodded, he would keep an eye on his friend and make sure that he didn’t take this oversight too hard.
Martin was mentally working on what had blocked that area outside the walls from his memory. Sure, he had a lot to work out, the plans for the perimeter defense, the logging operations, taking part in the forage operations. But to have overlooked something so simple was unbelievable. He knew he had to get out there now and see what could be done. Flagging down one of the Hummers before it left the elementary school parking lot, he climbed inside for the short journey to the battlefield. The former farmland outside the walls of Cascade had been chewed up by the mortars, the rich dark soil contrasting with the green of the pasture grass. As the small convoy penetrated deeper into the conflict zone, the bodies of the infected lay scattered like discarded children’s toys. In some places, only rags and rotted meat remained of the denizens of the Reset Virus. The vehicles stopped in a reverse arrowhead formation and several soldiers exited and secured a perimeter around the idling Hummers. Martin stepped out, his rifle up and tracking the dismembered bodies that lay before him. Some of the infected still twitched, some spark of whatever remained inside them. Those were quickly dispatched as the soldiers advanced towards the ravine. The trees, shrubs, and soil had been torn up, tossed around and heavily disturbed by the short engagemen
t. Infected lay scattered everywhere. Martin could see that what had started as several hundred, that number would fluctuate up and down by the time the after action report was written, had stumbled upon the ravine either by pure random chance of by some latent memory, and continued to gather their numbers until they had reached a boiling point and emerged from the defile to move towards Cascade.
This would not happen again. Martin was already analyzing the area, making mental projections of what needed to be done. The simplest and easiest method would be to take one of the large dozers that the city works department had and push the bodies into the ravine along with generous helpings of the surrounding material, and seal that avenue of advance for good.
The sound of another vehicle approaching caused him to glance back at the wall. Rocky’s Jeep CJ came bouncing over the field at a reckless speed before skidding to a stop amidst a cloud of dirt and a shower of torn up grass. Christie Martin leapt out of the driver’s seat before the jeep had come to a complete stop. Smiley was in the passenger seat. He stepped out, his own rifle at the ready but he was more focused on the departing form of his friend’s wife and the reaction that he was sure would not be pleasant. The look on her face and the stride of her walk was enough to know that she was angry.
“James Martin!” she yelled as she approached him. “What the hell are you doing out here?” she asked. Martin started to reply but was cut off. “You don’t need to be micro-managing the cleanup!”
“Christie, I need to be out here,” he said. “I need to see how this happened. This is my fault. I missed this when we set up the defenses. I need to see what has to be done to prevent this from happening again.”
Christie looked at her husband; her hands on her hips, eyes squinted at him as she took a couple of calming breaths.
Up From the Depths: Book 4 Movement to Contact Page 25