Omega Days (Book 4): Crossbones

by John L. Campbell

  Now I know what a drowned rat feels like.

  The aircraft carrier was still riding high seas, but the waves were more widely spaced now, no longer driving the massive vessel into the air and then dropping it into impossible trenches. He couldn’t remember being hit by the wave, but he’d seen it, a towering wall of blue-gray capped with white that came at the ship from the stern and starboard. Then there’d been a spinning sensation, his hands groping for something that might stop him, his lungs burning from lack of air. Stone was sure he would drown, or be crushed against some unyielding piece of the ship.

  Instead, one hand caught the safety netting and locked on, and the boy had pulled himself into it, riding out the nightmare of rising and plunging seas, shaking in the netting.

  Stone remembered seeing the dead, motionless on the flight deck just moments before the world tried to rip itself apart. Now, as the cloud cover scudded east, moonlight blanketed the bay and he could see that he wasn’t alone in the netting. Half a dozen broken and moaning corpses had been washed over and were tangled as he was, snapping their teeth and trying to crawl free. The closest was only ten feet from him, an elderly woman who looked as if her fall from the Bay Bridge had dropped her on her face, flattening her features and skull. She croaked behind a compressed jaw and shattered teeth.

  He couldn’t see Liebs in the netting. The man was standing right beside him when the monster wave appeared.

  “Guns?” he called, his voice sounding like the croaking dead woman.

  No response.

  He called louder. “Guns? Chief, answer me!”

  The gunner’s mate didn’t answer, and the old woman croaked at him again, trying to disentangle herself from the netting. Stone thought about his friend, washed overboard into the night. The boy lowered his head against the netting and the tears came.

  The dead woman croaked again.

  Baring his teeth, Stone unsnapped the automatic in his shoulder holster and shot the drifter in the forehead. “Be quiet,” he whispered.

  “A head shot at ten feet with a stationary target. Should I be impressed?”

  Stone looked up at the voice to see Chief Liebs standing above him on the flight deck, smiling. The man lay down and reached out. “Give me your hand.”

  A moment later Stone was standing on the flight deck. The boy looked at the gunner’s mate for a moment, then gave him a ferocious hug. “You’re alive,” he said, his voice cracking.

  Startled, Liebs suddenly smiled and hugged the boy back. “Good to see you too, shipmate.”

  They laughed, talked about the wave and being hung up in the netting, then looked out at the moonlit bay. It awed them to silence. Everything looked different; a great cliff was to the east, Oakland was gone, and so was the Bay Bridge. To the west, the Golden Gate had vanished except for a lone support at its north end. Where San Francisco had been was only the Pacific, rolling into the bay unchecked. There was no sign of the black ship.

  “We’re heading west,” Liebs said, “at a good clip too.”

  “And we’re listing a lot more to port,” said Stone, gesturing at the increased tilt to the flight deck. They were the only ones here. The dead had been either washed into the safety netting or swept away by the sea.

  “Chief Liebs, Calvin. Do you copy?”

  Upon hearing the voice, the two men stared at each other in surprise, then at the radio still clipped to the gunner’s mate’s combat vest. Stone’s had been torn away at some point.

  “I can’t believe it still works,” said the younger man.

  The chief shook his head. “I can’t believe it was made by a government contractor and still works.” He keyed the mic. “Go ahead, Cal. I’m on the flight deck with Stone.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” Calvin said.

  • • •

  Is everyone okay?” Petty Officer Banks called. There wasn’t much that could be thrown around on the bridge; it was all bolted down. The people were another matter, and they’d been bounced around plenty. Warships weren’t known for their soft, forgiving surfaces.

  PK stuck his head out of the communications room and gave the man a thumbs-up, then went back to where Maya was sitting propped against a comm console, lightly touching her fingertips to a gash in her forehead.

  The electronics tech crouched in front of her. “Are-you-okay?” he asked, exaggerating the words. Maya laughed at the face he was making as he spoke, and nodded. The man patted her leg and went in search of a first-aid kit.

  Maya’s hands went to her belly. Are you okay?

  • • •

  He’d thought the radical tipping of the deck would flip the Navy helicopter right over on top of him. Xavier had been thrown hard against the bulkhead to his rear, then just as quickly sent rolling back into the chopper’s landing gear. He’d lost his cover and expected the man behind the crates—Charlie, the man who’d led killers into their home—to shoot him, before he realized his opponent was being tossed about just as he was.

  The helicopter might indeed have fallen over on him had it not been chained to the deck. Even though Nimitz was grounded and going nowhere, Vladimir always insisted that every safety precaution be followed when it came to aircraft.

  Thank you, Vladimir.

  At some point when the ship was rising and falling, spinning and tilting, Xavier had lost his grip on the shotgun. Now that he was once again lying on his stomach, hidden behind the helicopter tire and unsure of where the other man was, he could see it resting on the rubberized hangar deck floor, out in the open, twenty feet away.

  Not a chance. That just smells like an ambush waiting to happen. Instead he drew the pistol Calvin had given him, the one taken from the girl who’d shot him in the body armor. A quick inspection revealed he had seven rounds. There were plenty of shotgun shells in his combat vest, but there was no way he was going out there to retrieve the weapon.

  Where was this guy?

  • • •

  In over twenty years at sea, Charlie Kidd had never experienced anything even approaching what they’d just been through. Knowing ships and storms, he calculated it would have taken fifty-foot waves at least to toss an aircraft carrier about, and concluded that there would be little or nothing left of the urban sprawl encircling the bay. The Pacific had exerted its authority, and he counted himself lucky to be alive.

  But you’re alive too, aren’t you, priest?

  The crate behind which Chick had been hiding was sent tumbling away in the tempest, and he’d found himself sliding across the deck as it tilted at a sickening angle. Then the forklift by the far bulkhead shifted and began to slide, coming at him. Chick scrambled and dove as the heavy piece of equipment tipped and crashed onto its side.

  That was where he was now, crouched behind its bulk, peering at the shot-up helicopter from a new angle. The M14 was still in his hands—he wasn’t sure how he’d managed to hold on to it—and he scanned the shadows beneath the helicopter for something to use it on.

  The kid deputy killed by the priest had turned just as the cataclysm started, staggering across the deck, thrown flat and then crawling on hands and knees. He’d crawled too close to one of the open aircraft elevator shafts when a monster wave hit the ship, the impact flinging the dead kid out into the sea.

  Where . . . are . . . you?

  The priest’s shotgun was lying out in the open. Would the man be reckless enough to make a grab for it? Up until now, he’d shown patience and proven he wasn’t stupid. Would the man get desperate and do something stupid?

  Chick ached to get the man in his gun sights. His hands flexed around the rifle. Come out, come out . . .

  The senior chief no longer cared about the others who had come aboard with him, or about the mission. Only a fool would believe his sister and her ship had survived that. It was over. But this wasn’t. The priest was their leader, and he’d dared to stand against Chick and his sister. His death was the only mission that counted now.

  Come out, come out . . . />
  • • •

  Xavier couldn’t stay any longer, couldn’t keep hiding. People would be hurt, frightened, and he couldn’t help them while hiding behind this tire. In a single movement the former boxer propelled himself to his feet and sprinted to the right, across the twenty-five feet of open space between this and the next chained-down helicopter. Halfway across, he saw the hatch in the far bulkhead, partially hidden by shadows, a way out he couldn’t see from his former hiding place.

  He poured on the speed.

  A rifle cracked and a bullet hummed past his head.

  Then he was behind the chopper and at the hatch, hauling it open, going through. From the hangar deck behind him came a loud curse, followed by the sound of running boots.

  • • •

  Calvin was sitting on the cold deck, back pressed against a bulkhead, wrists draped over his drawn-up knees. His assault rifle rested beside him in a clutter of spent shell casings.

  He’d followed the blood trail and found the woman. She attacked from an open hatch on the left, just as the aircraft carrier began heaving in the monstrous waves. She was mortally wounded, her flannel shirt and jeans soaked red from where his earlier rifle bullet punched through her lower side. The wound had been mortal, and death claimed her while Calvin was still hunting.

  A snarl of hunger was the only warning the hippie got as the logging truck driver burst from the hatch, on him in an instant with clawing fingers and snapping teeth. The two of them locked together, Calvin trying to fend her off with the rifle as a barrier while the ship threw them down the passageway and back again.

  Calvin head-butted her to no effect. He shoved and she hung on, still snapping, a fingernail clawing a red stripe down his neck. And then Nimitz bucked hard to the right and threw her clear. Calvin swung the rifle muzzle around and sprayed her with 7.62-millimeter bullets, emptying the clip, ensuring that he not only hit the head but blew it apart.

  The woman went down, little more than bone fragments and jam from the neck up.

  Now Calvin rested against the bulkhead, feeling the turbulent sea subsiding to a rhythm the ship handled easily. He pulled the Hydra radio from his combat vest and turned up the volume, keying the mic.

  “Chief Liebs, Calvin. Do you copy?”

  After a moment the gunner’s mate responded. “Go ahead, Cal. I’m on the flight deck with Stone.”

  “I’ll meet you there.” Then the aging hippie put the radio away and lifted his wrist from where it rested on his knee, the denim there dark and wet. Calvin looked at the torn flesh where the woman had bitten him, then rested the damaged hand in his lap.

  He thought about Maya and Michael, about his other children and a grandchild he would never see. He thought about those already lost. Then Calvin lowered his head and allowed himself to weep silently.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Adventure Galley

  The cutter’s night-vision camera captured the image of the motorized lifeboat carrying Lt. Riggs and most of Liz’s crew being hurled through the air by a towering wave, only to be sucked into the crevasse as soon as it hit the water again. Moments later, the earth thrust upward, sealing the crevasse and creating a towering cliff against which the sea crashed and was thrown back.

  Gone.

  There was no time for rage or grief, because the sea was trying to kill her. Terrifying swells capped with white raced in from the Pacific, sweeping away all traces of civilization and threatening to send the cutter to the bottom. She’d ordered the helm to turn straight into it, calling the two remaining men in the engine room and ordering flank speed, then joined the frightened young helmsman to help him hold course.

  The 418-foot vessel climbed, crested and dove, and at the bottom of the trench between the waves, the sleek bow cut the water and knifed under, the sea surging up against the bridge windows. Liz gripped an overhead handhold and watched in terror, thinking the ship would simply keep going, arrowing to the bottom like a crash-diving submarine. Each time, however, the bow burst from the surface and began climbing the next swell. At the crest, the cutter’s propellers cleared the water as the vessel tipped forward, blades whining like airplane props before biting in once more.

  Liz had never experienced a sea like this. What the earth had done was unimaginable, and the resulting destruction—to both cities and terrain—demonstrated both the power and brutality of nature. But this was a geological event, not a storm, and it ended relatively quickly. The sea soon came into balance with the larger, deeper bay, finding new shores to surge against, and the land ceased its movement, seemingly satisfied with its new form.

  Ocean waves pushed in from the Pacific, but now they were thrown back into a powerful new current, one that entered the bay, then curved like a horseshoe to rush back out. Liz was forced to turn and point the cutter east, maintaining forward propulsion to keep from being pulled out into the Pacific.

  Nimitz had no such propulsion. Liz saw the flattop on her surface radar, several miles away. It had passed them at some point during the event and was now running bow-on toward the northern edge of the newly widened San Francisco Bay at ten knots. If it didn’t run aground somewhere, Liz knew, it would be dragged out into open water. The vessel’s severe list and inability to maneuver told her it would not last long out there.

  Now that her ship was no longer in peril, fury began building in her, reddening her neck. Riggs and her crew were lost, and any chance of taking the carrier was lost with them. Charlie and his team were likely dead as well. And still Nimitz eluded her.

  Not for long.

  Liz snatched up a handset. “Combat center, bridge. Are you still alive, Mr. Vargas?” She had to call twice before getting a response.

  “Vargas here, Captain.” He sounded dazed.

  “Clear your head, mister,” Liz snapped. “How many rounds left in the forward gun?”

  A pause. “Nineteen, ma’am. Armor-piercing and high-explosive mixed.”

  “Very well,” she said. “Light up your target acquisition system and prepare for surface action.” She clicked off and lifted her binoculars, finding Nimitz in the moonlight. “Mr. Waite,” she called to her quartermaster, “set an intercept course for that carrier. Flank speed.”

  • • •

  Did she have a concussion? Amy wasn’t sure. Her head hurt, and her body felt like a punching bag after being thrown about the maintenance closet. Other than some brief training maneuvers, she’d never been to sea or experienced a storm. She could only imagine this had been just that, but so fierce and sudden? And then to end just as quickly? It was like nothing she’d ever heard about.

  She sat on the deck and ran her hands over her body. Nothing broken, nothing cut—wait, her ear was bleeding, but not badly, and there was a lump on her head. She felt the rolling motion of the sea, so they were still afloat.

  With a groan she got to her feet, holding on to a shelf as sudden dizziness threatened to put her back on the floor. Then there was a shadow in the light at the bottom of the door, a rattle of keys as the deadbolt was unlocked. The door opened and Amy shielded her eyes, blinking in the sudden light. Mr. Leary, the older civilian contractor, was standing there. He looked pale.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Amy stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

  “Come out of there.” He extended a hand.

  She saw that he was alone and allowed him to guide her out into the passage. “Why . . . ?”

  Leary shook his head. “It was wrong leaving those people behind in Oregon,” he said. “It was murder. We’re all dead anyway, Miss Liggett. No one should die locked in a closet.” He dropped his ring of master keys on the deck and walked away, his head down.

  Amy watched him go, then checked the passage. It was empty, and the ship was quiet, lacking the normal sounds of people moving and talking and working.

  Dead anyway.

  She snatched up the keys and started running.

  • • •

  Alone in the cutter’s
combat center, Mr. Vargas sat in a chair facing the fire control system. His left arm was broken after slamming against a vertical water pipe and now hung limp in his lap. Although the pain would spike with excruciating bursts, it was bearable as long as he didn’t move around a lot, and it wouldn’t interfere with his duties. He could do this one-handed.

  On a screen to his left was the infrared image of Nimitz, three miles out. The camera watching it was locked on and held the target, pivoting as the cutter executed a 180-degree turn and headed west at flank speed. Vargas switched on the targeting system for the forward gun and punched in a code to slave the video image to the fire control computer.

  A small square with crosshairs at its center appeared on the image, and with a fingertip pressed to the screen he dragged the square until it was centered on the carrier. The fifty-seven-millimeter Bofors gun had an effective direct range of 9,300 yards—double that if arcing shells at a forty-five-degree angle—and the carrier was well within its reach. It could fire 220 rounds per minute, but at that rate his nineteen remaining shells would be depleted in 3.6 seconds. With a tap of the screen he set the firing selector to single, then tapped the word lock nearby.

  Out on the bow, the radome mounted over the deck gun’s barrel locked on target, and with a hydraulic whine, the gun turret rotated slightly and the barrel elevated a half inch. The weapon’s gyro-stabilized sights would now make continuous corrections, holding the deck gun on target despite the rise, fall, and roll of the sea.

  “Target is locked,” Vargas reported.

  • • •

  Liz watched the carrier through her binoculars, the cutter closing fast and keeping well off its port side, just in case someone was foolish enough to try using the same fifty-caliber heavy machine gun she carried on her own ship. She knew that weapon’s capability and kept out of its range.