Omega Days (Book 4): Crossbones

by John L. Campbell

  Banks was standing with Maya near the bridge windows overlooking the flight deck. More than a hundred shapes dropped out of the sky and smacked onto the deck before the carrier cleared the Bay Bridge on the other side.

  Maya took a legal pad and pen from a bridge console, and they began scribbling back and forth, Banks catching her up.

  Still no word on Evan, sorry, Banks wrote.

  Are you still looking?

  Yes, scanning all frequencies. Xavier has us on lockdown. Refugees that came on board are hostile. Being hunted down now.

  Maya scribbled questions back at him. Who is hunting? How many refugees? Where are they?

  Banks answered what he could, emphasizing that she was to stay here with them, safe on the bridge. After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded agreement. Then Banks told her about the radio contact from a ship called Adventure Galley.

  Fired a shot across our bow, he wrote. Demanding we surrender.

  Banks didn’t need to be a trained lip reader to see Maya mouth the words Fuck that.

  • • •

  Xavier wished Pat Katcher would shut up. The demands that he call the bridge right now, however, not only persisted but were sounding more urgent. His voice echoed through the passageways. Why didn’t the bridge have a Hydra radio? Neither he nor Calvin could take the time to find a phone right now. They were hunting—or being hunted—and shots had already been fired. Calvin had a buckshot pellet in the meat of his left thigh to prove it.

  Minutes ago a big woman with short hair and a flannel shirt popped out into the passageway behind them and fired a shotgun. It was a hasty, unaimed shot, and most of the blast blew apart a cluster of electrical conduit running up one wall. The two men spun to return fire, catching a glimpse of the woman as she ducked back out of sight. Now they were advancing slowly with their weapons to their shoulders.

  The empty hull of her shotgun shell was lying on the deck at an intersection, and they swung their weapons in every direction. Corridors, hatches, ladderways, but no woman.

  “She could be anywhere,” Xavier breathed.

  Calvin nodded and started right, easing up to a hatch. He gripped the handle and pushed, both men staying out of the opening for a moment, and then Xavier went in low with his shotgun. A pair of fluorescent bars illuminated a planning room of some kind, filled with tables and chairs, several whiteboards, and a projector. There was no one inside.

  “Father Xavier, call the bridge immediately.” Pat Katcher’s voice had an annoyed tone as it came from an overhead speaker.

  “Take it,” said Calvin, crouching in the open hatch and watching the hallway. Xavier picked up a wall phone and punched in the bridge extension. The electronics tech answered at once.

  “Skipper, Jesus . . . I mean, what have—”

  “Talk to me, PK,” Xavier said.

  The young man paused. “Father, a shitload of drifters dropped onto the ship when it passed under the Bay Bridge. A bunch are still moving. We also got a radio transmission from a ship calling itself Adventure Galley. It sounds familiar, but I don’t know why, and they’re demanding we surrender and muster everyone on deck. They just fired a warning shot across our bow.”

  The priest digested the message. Compounding problems. “Any other transmissions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay, don’t respond to them. Is anyone with you?”

  “Banks and Maya are here. They had a close call with some drifters out on the catwalk, but everyone’s okay. We’re locked in the bridge.”

  “Good,” said Xavier. “Stay there. See if you and Banks can get some surface radar working so we can see where this other ship is, and where Nimitz is going.”

  Katcher said he would try, and clicked off.

  Xavier turned to his friend. “Maya’s on the bridge, and she’s safe,” he assured him before filling him in on the rest.

  Calvin kept his eyes on the corridor. “Go. You deal with that. I’ll get this bitch, then hunt down the rest of them.”

  Xavier had shamed and bullied his friend into this hunt, and now he was supposed to run out on the man? They couldn’t permit these boarders to have free run of the ship, but they suddenly had new problems. He keyed the mic on his Hydra. “Chief Liebs, it’s Xavier.”

  A moment later the chief’s voice said, “Go ahead.”

  Xavier updated the gunner’s mate on what was happening belowdecks, and now topside with both the dead and the appearance of a hostile ship.

  “Copy,” said Liebs. “Stone is with me; we’re leaving the armory, fully loaded. Meet us on the port side catwalk amidships, right below the flight deck. We have to be ready to mount a defense.”

  Xavier acknowledged and turned to his friend, who was standing at the hatch now. Before the priest could speak, Calvin repeated, “Go.”

  Xavier unsnapped the Hydra radio from his combat vest and handed it to the other man, smacking his shoulder. “Watch your ass.” Then he slipped through the hatch and jogged to the right, shotgun held low in front of him.

  Calvin watched him go. When he was sure the priest was safely away, he unlaced and kicked off his boots, turned the radio volume down as far as it would go, and ghosted left up the passageway.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  They found something to pry up the handle, Sophia thought. There was a metallic groan at the hatch, the lever inching upward and stretching the television cord and sheets they’d used to lash it down. She and Kay stood back from the door, watching the lever move.

  The children were all the way at the back of the berthing compartment, hiding under bottom racks or in the head and showers, trying to stay quiet. The lever creaked and rose another inch.

  “It’s not going to hold,” Kay said, her voice on the edge of panic.

  “And they’re going to come in shooting,” said Sophia. She looked around, seeing nothing else that could wedge the handle, nothing that would make a difference. She looked at the other woman. “Go back into the compartment. If they get through me, you’ll have to take them.” She didn’t have to tell her what would happen to the children if both adults fell.

  Kay was pale and looked ready to cry, but she bit her lip and nodded, disappearing back into the room. Sophia moved behind a triple stack of bunks facing the hatch and knelt behind them, resting the shotgun across the mattress, aiming at the door. It was poor cover, she knew, but it might buy her time for an extra shot.

  Another creak, and the TV cords snapped, the knotted sheets beginning to tear as the handle went up. Sophia tensed.

  • • •

  Stay right here, buddy,” Tommy said, setting the toddler on the deck. The little boy had one hand over his eyes and was sucking a thumb furiously, his small body trembling as it had been since the orderly took him from the officer’s mess after Mercy and Jerry were murdered by the boarding team. He hadn’t fought or squirmed as Tommy carried him through the passageways, and for that the man was thankful, but the boy hadn’t spoken, either.

  Not surprising. He’s seen so much horror just since coming aboard. What had he seen during his time with these killers?

  Tommy had been heading toward the room Sophia and Kay used as a school when he heard the gunfire echoing through the corridors. It made him stop, and the child began to whimper. He wished he were holding the rifle slung around his neck, but he couldn’t grip that and carry the boy at the same time, so he’d settled for the pistol. Another brief exchange of gunfire followed the first and he moved toward it. The boy started whining, and Tommy briefly wondered how responsible it was to be heading into trouble while carrying a child. But gunfire meant his people were in trouble, and so he went.

  Things were quiet for a while, and he slowed to a creep as he lost the direction of the shooting. Then he heard a scraping of metal, a creaking noise, and low curses coming from around a corner.

  “I’ll be right back,” he whispered to the toddler. The boy sat on the deck and covered his face with his hands, his chest hitching. The sight of this te
rrified child made him angry: not at the boy, but at those who had dragged him along on their brutal mission. Tommy shoved the pistol into its holster, bringing up the rifle.

  • • •

  Almost . . . got it . . .” the bearded man said, his face purpling as he heaved on the heavy pry bar he had taken from a nearby firefighting station, forcing the handle upward. His fire axe and pistol were on the deck beside the hatch and his bearded partner stood behind him, rifle pointed and ready.

  “Almost . . .” There was a pop and the handle flew up, the man dropping to his knees and letting go of the pry bar. “Yes!”

  A long rattle of 5.56-millimeter bullets cut the two men down.

  The one who’d been using the pry bar was on his back, blood in his mouth as he struggled to breathe. He saw someone wearing green medical scrubs and an orange backpack run up to stand over him, pointing a rifle down and to his left, firing a single shot into his partner’s head. Then the muzzle swung back toward him, aiming at his face.

  The bearded man tried to say, “No,” but it came out as a gurgle. The muzzle flashed.

  • • •

  Sophia listened to a long silence after the initial burst of gunfire followed by two shots. Then came the muffled sound of a child crying in the corridor. Someone banged on the hatch. “It’s Tommy,” said a voice outside. “Who’s in there?”

  “Be ready, Kay,” Sophia called, approaching the hatch with the shotgun to her shoulder, finger on the trigger. The lever had been forced up, the hatch standing slightly ajar, and she eased it open with the toe of a sneaker, aiming. The passageway outside was blood-splattered, two dead men crumpled on the deck with neat bullet holes in their foreheads to go with their other wounds. A child was crying somewhere to the right.

  “It’s Tommy,” the orderly called. He’d moved back from the hatch, not wanting to become collateral damage.

  Sophia peeked into the corridor and saw him. He approached her and held out the little boy. She set down the shotgun at once and took him into her arms.

  “You have the kids?” Tommy asked.

  “All of them,” she replied, passing the toddler to Kay, who had come up behind her.

  The orderly nodded and quickly collected the dead men’s weapons, carrying them into the berthing compartment and dumping them on a rack. Then he brought in the heavy pry bar.

  “Who is this?” Kay asked, rubbing the toddler’s back and swaying with him. The child was crying behind his hands.

  “They brought him along as some kind of diversion,” Tommy said with an edge to his voice. “I don’t know his name.” He looked at the toddler, who popped his thumb into his mouth and looked away, shaking his head. Tommy sighed and handed the pry bar to Sophia. “Use this to jam the handle. It should hold.”

  She took it, felt the weight, and knew he was right. Tommy went back into the corridor, rifle to his shoulder. “I’m going after Rosa.”

  Sophia closed the hatch behind him and jammed the pry bar against the handle.

  • • •

  The compartment was cold and black with two feet of seawater covering the floor. Rosa had no power, no phone, and no radio, just her flashlight, and found herself wondering how long the batteries would last.

  It was a small space containing quarters for two men that doubled as a tiny office. She figured they had to be chiefs or senior petty officers, as low-ranking enlisted men didn’t get private quarters like this, and no commissioned officer would be quartered down here in the bowels of the vessel. The racks, stacked one atop the other against one wall, lifted up to reveal bed-sized storage compartments beneath. The lower rack was flooded out, but the upper one still held the neatly folded clothing and personal items of its former occupant. Rosa was able to put on dry—though slightly large—clothes and layer up with extra T-shirts and socks. A bulky sweater went over the top of it all.

  While she went through the contents of the storage space, she was careful not to look at the photos of the man’s family, set carefully to one side.

  After she had run from the bloated and pasty corpses in the recreation room, Rosa had made a series of turns, dodging down passageways and through black compartments, wading through the knee-deep water. Groans echoed through the maze of flooded corridors, joined on occasion by the deeper creak and rumble of the torn hull taking on water. She could feel that the ship was on a sharper tilt now.

  The flashlight’s beam revealed bloodless faces and yellow eyes in almost every direction, and she had shot at them until she had emptied her magazine and replaced it with a fresh one—her last. More shots left her with only six rounds, but she didn’t regret firing. It had kept her alive and held them back, allowing her the time and space needed to duck into this compartment unseen. A privacy bolt beside the hatch handle ensured it would remain closed.

  Now, lying on the top bunk and wrapped in a wool blanket, Rosa looked down at the leftovers of a medical patch job floating on the water’s surface in the room: paper from bandage packaging, bloody gauze, and a plastic hypodermic for antibiotics. Her sneakers, one torn and bloody on one side from where the bullet had entered, rested at the end of the bunk next to her medical pack. Under the blanket, her right foot was bandaged and throbbing.

  Thank God it was only a ricochet. A direct shot into her foot would be crippling, and the dead would’ve been on her in seconds. As it was, the flattened slug had lodged in the meat behind her little toe, and Rosa was forced to scream into a pillow as she plucked it out with a pair of forceps. There was Demerol in her kit, though it remained unused. She needed a clear head, so over-the-counter pain relievers would have to suffice, but they weren’t doing much.

  The blanket and layers of dry clothes warmed her, and although she wanted to be out there looking for Michael, she knew she’d be of no help to him if she shut down from hypothermia and became an easy meal for the former crew. Warmth and rest. She had no choice.

  Michael. Lying curled up with her head on the pillow, pistol close to her hand, she stared out at the small room, thinking about the boy. Some rescuer I am. I hope you’ve been smarter than me. She shut off the flashlight to conserve the battery. Hang in there, kid. I’m still coming.

  Rosa slept.

  • • •

  Lying mostly submerged in the blackness of the gear handling compartment, Michael’s body, still in a fetal position, jerked and convulsed. The corpse of a female sailor approached and briefly inspected the figure, decided it wasn’t food, and shuffled away.

  Muscles rippled beneath Michael’s tightening skin, while firecracker strings of red electrical pulses made his brain jump. Eyes moved quickly behind closed lids as if the boy were not dead, but deep in REM sleep. His body ejected blackish fluids into the water.

  Primal, violent urges flashed in his mutating brain as Michael’s flesh began darkening to a deep crimson.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Five pirates, Charlie Kidd and his four civilian recruits, moved along the starboard side of the hangar deck. The young auxiliary deputy was in the lead, following Charlie’s whispered directions and commands. They stayed close to the high steel wall, advancing quickly, weapons trained out into the big space. Forklifts and low-slung motorized carts sat on the rubberized decking, along with pallets of crates and the shadowy outlines of five helicopters parked at the end of the bay, hinged tail booms neatly folded against their sides.

  Ahead of the group, near an aircraft elevator in a space open to the sea and the night, someone had built a square of sandbags, stacked to form a low wall. The interior was filled with soil and rows of crops. Charlie found it bizarre to see a garden growing in this place of cold steel, green leaves fluttering in the sea breeze.

  Sudden movement whipped them all left, and they saw a man with long hair, cutoffs, and sandals dart from behind a pallet of crates, running for an open hatch on the port side. He was carrying a rifle but wasn’t pointing it, only running away.

  • • •

  Charlie aimed his M4 and shot him
down. The group immediately ran to the fallen body, and Ava slit the hippie’s throat just to be sure he was dead.

  “Where were you going?” Charlie mused, crouching and relieving the dead man of a canvas flight deck vest, its pockets stuffed with six heavy magazines of rifle ammunition. Then he collected the rifle itself, grinning. It was an M14, the 7.62-millimeter assault rifle of the early 1960s, originally produced with a wood stock and grips. This was the newer version used by naval services, prisons, and Special Forces: blued steel and a dense, black plastic composition. A lethal weapon, and Charlie knew it well.

  “Hello, baby,” Charlie said, running his fingers over the weapon.

  The deputy kicked the body. “This one’s gonna be up in a minute.” He pointed the muzzle of his rifle at the head.

  “Don’t,” Chick said. “Save the bullet. He’ll make things interesting for the folks aboard once he’s up and walking.”

  “He might attack us,” the kid said.

  “And then you may shoot him,” Chick said, as if speaking to a five-year-old. The chief handed his assault rifle to Ava, shrugging into the canvas vest full of magazines. The others quickly moved away from the corpse as Charlie took his time to ensure that the M14 had a full magazine, flicking off the safety. Then he followed his people as they continued through the hangar.

  Chick looked around at hatches and ladderways climbing to interior catwalks. Once he was inside and stirring things up, his mission was to make certain it was safe for the second boarding party—the one that would be heavily armed with three times the original boarding group’s numbers—to reach and enter the ship. The carrier’s defenders would try to stop them, and Charlie knew they had only two ways to do that: put a helicopter into the air armed with an anti-ship torpedo (which they couldn’t do, not while he controlled the hangar bay) or mount fifty-calibers to the catwalk rails.