Flight To Pandemonium

by Murray, Edward

  “Oh Laz! They killed Pug… and Puppy,” she cried, finally coming down. Lazlo came around the wreck, hugging her close as she burst into tears. He silently held her, comforting her. Glancing down, her bloody young face struck him… just sixteen years old… imagine. Cindy’s humvee had been struck countless times during the firefight and she had remained resolute all the while. Thank God she had survived.

  She abruptly pushed free of his arms and asked, “Where’s Ernie?”

  “Ernie’s hurt, but he told me to cover you. Still doin’ the right thing, anyway. I’ll bet that’s where we’ll find Christie. Let’s go. She should have a look at you. I think your nose is broken. Look at your parka!”

  On the island, Lazlo took Cindy to Christie’s humvee. Piquk helped her, settling her inside as Cindy felt woozy, fighting pain.

  Lazlo found Christie hovering over Ernie who lay prostrate in the seat of his deuce. She was probing his bloody shoulder with slender forceps, irrigating the wound as Ernie winced. She had started a packet of fluid into his forearm and Ernie bravely held it vertical while Christy continued probing. Lazlo stood by waiting for his opportunity.

  “You there, Laz?” asked Ernie.

  “How’s our victorious Lieutenant, old geezer?”

  “Déjà vu, man. I hear you and Cindy got the last of ‘em.”

  “Hell… all Cindy’s doing, not mine. That woman saved our ass.”

  “Yea…” Ernie winced as Christie probed deeply. “Can you believe it? She knew it was comin’ yesterday and started practicing.”

  “You two underestimate her,” said Christie. Turning toward Lazlo for the first time, she stopped briefly, examining his parka. “Dear man, are you hurt?”

  “Not my blood; it’s Cindy’s. I think she has a broken nose. She’s sitting in your humvee with Piquk waiting for you.”

  “Laz, take this cotton wad to her and have her put her head back. I’ll be there after I finish with Ernie.”

  “Lazlo,” Ernie called after him. “Afterwards, better take a count out there.”

  “As in… body count?”

  “You got it… and the bikes… and be careful. Bring a rifle along just in case.” Lazlo understood the implication. He just hoped it wasn’t necessary for Christie to hear any more shooting.

  After he had finished his count, he had a great deal to report to Ernie, but on the way, Christie stopped him. She asked him to help her prepare Pug’s body. She said nothing about the death of her beloved dog and didn’t ask for help, apparently having buried Puppy herself.

  Pug was a grim sight. They wrapped his body in a canvas shroud. No one else needed to see him. He was unrecognizable.

  Within the past hour, Lazlo had examined twelve bloody disfigured corpses, never having seen the like in his life. The reality of the firefight had been so much more appalling than the talk.

  When he returned, Ernie was seated in an improvised chair against a tree, his head swathed in bandages and his arm in a sling. His rifle was propped next to him. “How ya feeling?” asked Lazlo.

  “Damned sight better ‘n the last time. Just shotgun pellets this time.”

  “Yea, I’ve just seen what military stuff does to a body. Pretty grim.”

  “So tell me what you saw… all of it. This is the downside of a firefight.”

  “Twelve stiffs… twelve bikes. But there’s more. Most of those bikers were thin, way thin… and really ill kept, vermin and all. They had only thin bedrolls and blankets and little else. They had no food, damn little ammunition, and most of their rifles were so filthy with dirt and ice, I doubt they even worked. A really pathetic bunch. I can’t understand how they got this far… or why.”

  “Desperate bunch, more like it. Pro’bly explains why they took us on… not that those brutes needed a good reason. Interesting though… might mean they’ll all die off eventually. Might not have as much trouble with degenerates like these in the future. Then again… we’ve all suffered attrition, haven’t we?”

  “Don’t think I’ll repeat that in mixed company, just yet.”

  “Back to the count… sure about just twelve of ‘em?”

  “Positive… walked all around the island, even the far shores.”

  “Then that’s a problem,” said Ernie calmly. “I’m sure we started with thirteen or fourteen.”

  “Yea, you had a better view than I, but Pug said he counted sixteen earlier.”

  “Wait… there’s a way to be sure,” said Ernie. “Before they retreated up river… remember? We shot five the first round, no doubt about that, and we know nine came back on us. So that’s fourteen, but with only twelve dead, it means two are missing, doesn’t it?”

  “Shit, you’re right. Somehow two must’ve deserted while we were occupied.”

  “Or didn’t… and are waiting for us to let our guard down, like now… or tonight! Better get everyone back together… we shouldn’t stay here any longer.”

  “Good thing we didn’t unpack much,” said Lazlo. “I’ll tell everyone.”

  Cindy was disturbed by the news, especially when told that her humvee had been disabled by the collision and was beyond repair. All of the other vehicles had been damaged by the firefight, but all were drivable. Urgently fearful of the missing bikers, they loaded and locked Pug’s shrouded body in the abandoned humvee. Shortly, they were ready to leave.

  58

  The Aleutians, January 23rd. The Chief realized he should have seen the fury coming. When he put his suggestions to the Skipper, he received the worst tongue lashing of his career. Finally when the Skipper calmed down, he tempered his harsh words by explaining that despite their trials, he strictly interpreted his last orders. He was to preserve his boat and maintain its readiness above all else, and make no contact with civilians… for any reason. So long as Bangor remained silent, his orders would not be changed. The Skipper intended to endure winter and wait for command links to be restored, as was his duty.

  Four senior officers gathered in the ward room to listen to the Chief describe his troubles. The Chief ticked off the list: progressive failure of the boat’s critical electrical systems, failing Trident safeguards, the leaking reactor, limited fresh water, and an exhausted crew ever more prone to mistakes. The rumor mill had begun again, cranked up feverously. Without visible demonstration that command was facing reality, the hands were thinking their own lives were now fatefully coupled with that of the boat. Drowning with the boat was viewed as beyond the call of duty.

  Persuaded by the Chief’s remarks, the Skipper briefed senior officers that he had been in contact with other commanders of their squadron. All were experiencing difficulties similar to their own and all but one boat remained in service. That failed patrol had succumbed to the plague when they ignored orders by landing at a remote island seeking game where they encountered sick fishermen. Loyal dying hands had scuttled their boat rather than have it captured intact. Consequently, the squadron had been directed to avoid all contact with people and to carry on by whatever means necessary.

  Meanwhile, they were under the flag of the most senior of the SUBGRU commanders, Arnold Wallace of the Henry Jackson, and communication continued uninterrupted. Commander Wallace had advised that stealth vessels of other nations had apparently survived as well. Their advanced adversaries were persistently looking for any opportunity of military advantage. Doubtful as that might seem under the circumstances, flag had intercepted hostile communication and had ordered the squadron to avoid any frequented harbor where they might be expected… such as Bangor and the Hawaiian Islands.

  “Our Group represents the last surviving authority of the United States government within the considerable range of our receivers. That unprecedented state of affairs speaks for itself. I’m troubled that I need to say this… I expect your unbending dedication to duty despite all that’s happened
… and to continue to enforce discipline.”

  “I’ve asked the crew to monitor frequencies used by civilian ham radio. Civilian communication hasn’t ceased entirely, but it’s sporadic and often heard by atmospheric skips from far distant sources. Very seldom are both parties of a two way conversation received simultaneously. The fact that anyone is talking openly is important! Small groups of people seem to be assembling in places of refuge, primarily rural. What’s left of our country seems to be recovering. Command expects us to survive to help them. Personally, I would be proud to provide help and leadership and I expect morale will improve when like-minded people meet.

  “One last thought… our station remains in the Gulf south of the Aleutians. Without technical support, that presents a host of problems. We might be able to rendezvous with other boats within our squadron for mutual support. So now… I’m open to questions.”

  Without hesitation, the Chief asked the hot question, “Skipper… where’s our best hope of making pressing repairs to our unstable weapons and power plant… under the circumstances, of course?”

  The Skipper scowled but answered, “Well… under the circumstances, I’ll lighten up a touch. The answer is… we do whatever is possible with our own resources.

  “No one knows for certain whether survivors aren’t carriers, so the plague could bloom back this spring. Even though the plague of 1918 didn’t resume in spring, without that critical information, our primary order remains unchanged; no contact. Orders might change come spring… but we persevere for now.

  “However, we’ve been given discretion so long as we don’t expose ourselves. We’re all in a difficult way, some more than others. I’ll take suggestions. The last time we tried collaborating, we managed to solve a few problems. Rest assured, I’m not unmindful of our dire present condition.”

  “We need a marine machine shop and food… in that order,” answered the Chief. “And that says everything about how badly we need that shop. We desperately need to get our plant back in order or there will be the devil to pay.”

  All eyes focused on the Chief. The Skipper was long in replying, “Is that our Chief talking or your surfer life talking? A bit edgy, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps both that I didn’t intend, but I’ll explain with an apology. We sailed without our scheduled refit or maintenance as you well know. Proper attention to our shortcomings has now become critical. We especially need a crane for servicing or removing our unstable weapons. There are few choices if you eliminate Navy ports, especially with a vessel as long as we are… perhaps a civilian port where we wouldn’t be expected.”

  “No doubt you have one in mind.”

  “Sir, the best civilian port with a deep water approach is Valdez which might give us an opportunity to get close without being detected.”

  “How about a closer port… like Kodiak?” suggested the Exec.

  “I’ve been there on the ferry… shallow and constricted inner harbor,” replied the Chief. “Kodiak is a container transfer port... might work in a pinch, especially with having a crane. Marine shops there might be helpful.”

  “Kodiak is remote, so we should have a look there, first. You’d have your crane and more,” said the Skipper. “But I want a strategy to ensure we avoid contact with anyone however unlikely that might be.”

  “Alright sir, I’m anxious to try anything,” said the Chief.

  The meeting resulted in another list of tasks focused on the chief’s two priorities. If Kodiak was untroubled, they would consider searching container ships for food and provisions. In conclusion, the Chief had been reassured by the Skipper’s concern with the boat’s shortcomings.

  They approached Kodiak harbor around Long Island smoothly merging within the once heavily traveled marine highway. The plan was to draw close near dusk. They intended to conduct a passive sonar and periscope reconnoiter of the harbor entrance, alert for any sign of activity. A steady downpour of Alaska mist obscured sight of the inner harbor, so they gave up until morning.

  Presently, however, passive sonar alerted them to a small but noisy vessel leaving Woody Island heading for the harbor. The contact was likely only a small fishing vessel, but prompted the Skipper to retreat. “I didn’t like the condition of that harbor entrance in any event… too many hazards from abandoned vessels. Let’s have a look at charts of the Kenai Peninsula.”

  Early the following morning as they neared the Seward Meridian, the Chief was awakened and handed a note. Before he could read it, a piercing alarm near his bunk gave a dreadful warning. The boat’s nuclear reactor had scrammed.

  The Captain and the Exec listened to the Chief grimly conclude a brief analysis of their troubled reactor. “The high pressure loop has an uncontrollable leak. There’s nothing more to be done. I can’t restore the reactor to service.”

  The Skipper asked immediately, “What’s our range on remaining fuel oil?”

  “If we conserve all other use of power, our best range is maybe five hundred nautical miles,” said the Exec.

  “Well then, Valdez is your harbor after all, Chief… and time to make preparations for your decommissioning plan. This is a proud boat. And I’m ashamed to be the first commander to make such a request of Wallace. But, sooner or later, I suppose, there’ll be others.”

  59

  White Eye, Yukon Flats, January 23rd. Cindy refused to ride in Christie’s humvee. She rode with Ernie in the last deuce with a rifle and shotgun at her feet. She demanded a supply of grenades for her parka and insisted Ernie train her on the fifty cal. gun. Ernie refused. He wasn’t troubled by her decision, just with her ongoing adrenalin. She was a fighter and a worthy substitute for the shotgun seat, especially incapacitated as he was with his arm in a sling. And, he thought sadly, blooded by warfare at sixteen. Cindy grimly concentrated looking out the window, fearfully clutching her rifle.

  Following the motorcycle tracks on the ice, they found where the biker gang had doubled back to attack them, but found no new tracks beyond. Finally relaxing somewhat, they gathered to discuss how and where to find fuel. Only two towns on the river dispensed fuel: Fort Yukon and Circle.

  “When I visited my cousins at Fort Yukon last winter,” said Piquk, “I noticed everyone buys diesel from the only two stations on the river. Getting into the village from the landing is easy, but everywhere else around the village is swamp. No roads go anywhere else.”

  “When we get there, let’s explore Fort Yukon in the humvee,” replied Ernie. “I like the sound of no roads going anywhere else. Might be our kinda place.”

  Ernie joined Christie and Piquk in their humvee. The airport lay within sight of the river, so they headed there first. Dozens of small aircraft were parked on the tarmac beside an Army C-130 transport. Wreckage of other aircraft lay scattered about the grounds. Tent camps had been pitched among the aircraft, all in tatters from the storm and covered with snow. Alarmed, Christie halted.

  Ernie grabbed binoculars and climbed atop the humvee to scope the scene. He returned within a minute. “We shouldn’t go any further. This village must have become some kind of medical sanctuary. Can’t be sure, but I think bodies lay in the snow beside those tent camps. The whole place looks like a death camp.”

  Christie drove back to the river with Piquk beside her, crying… thinking of her cousins and her past life.

  Gathered together, Lazlo asked, “You didn’t find fuel here?”

  “Didn’t look,” replied Ernie. “Stopping here is way too risky. Gotta be something ahead without gang bangers or bugs. Let’s move on if Piquk will tell us what’s up ahead.”

  Piquk explained the Yukon River stretch they were traveling was a marshy river plateau meandering for miles. Near Circle they could find a sheltered and watered camp, but the town was connected directly to Fairbanks. Any spot along the river was nearly the same as another, and her family h
ad never described anywhere special.

  Near dusk, they stopped for a hot meal of MRE’s and then pushed on along the shore by the lights of the lead humvee. When they reached a convenient watered camp they had traveled more than one hundred miles from Purgatory.

  The night passed peacefully. Morning reminded them of their missing much-loved companion, Puppy who had always been first to awaken them by nosing under someone’s hand asking to be released from the tent.

  Instead, Piquk woke them. She and Christie exchanged sorrowful words in their native tongue. Lazlo had no doubt of the subject, so he wrapped his arms around her while she cried. Soon, patting his back, she smiled sadly.

  That morning, after tending Ernie’s wounds and Cindy’s nose, the five decided to explore Circle despite the fright of the previous day. Although Circle was served by a highway from Fairbanks, they hoped the accumulation of winter snow had isolated the village. Still frightened by thoughts of bikers reaching as far north as the Yukon River Bridge, they drove cautiously approaching town on the river.

  When the village came into view, Ernie raised his spotting scope. He saw only an undisturbed peaceful wintry scene. His report wasn’t enough to satisfy everyone. Entering town, Lazlo drove Christie’s humvee together with Piquk to see if anyone remained in the Gwich’in community.

  The village looked deserted. There was no evidence of past military presence and they found no vehicles except rusted out Alaskan derelicts. The buildings were neither boarded shut nor vandalized, nor was there evidence of any corpse. Everything looked orderly and undisturbed… exactly opposite of what everyone anticipated.

  Lazlo stopped before the Post Office looking for a hint of what happened. A tattered official notice emblazoned with large red letters stapled to a public bulletin board exclaimed... Quarantine!

  No wonder the town had been abandoned; the announcement must have sparked panic. Peering through the windows of nearby stores revealed mostly bare shelves. Without entering private homes, the village held no promise of supplies, and without power, not even diesel fuel. When Lazlo asked Piquk if she wanted to look further, she shook her head sadly, saying nothing.