Reaper's Run - Plague Wars Series Book 1

by David VanDyke

  ***

  Jill peered out over the balcony rail. The object of her gaze was the US Navy frigate Ingraham, keeping station to windward at about two nautical miles distance. Beyond, hull up on the horizon perhaps twelve miles off floated a Landing Platform/Dock amphibious assault ship, probably the USS Somerset. It was this ship that held her frustrated attention.

  She lowered herself down from her hold on the railing; she had been perched there with her hands taking all her weight. Settling into the comfortable deck chair, she picked up her small 5X optical binoculars. Jill cursed herself for not bringing her 18X electronic monsters, but she hated to carry a month’s pay around on a Caribbean cruise.

  The LPD leaped into view, the angled, radar-deflecting planes of its superstructure identifying it as one of the most modern ships of the US Navy. She was familiar with the type, having served a Fleet Marine Force tour on her sister ship, the USS Arlington.

  Twelve miles away. Just sitting there for the last two days.

  Food aboard the cruise ship had dwindled, and was now rationed; Jill had recognized the impending problem as soon as the vessel had been detained. She had taken pains to smuggle everything that would keep back to her cabin and stash it in anticipation of making a break, but her stock would run out shortly, and there was no sign of them being allowed to land or disembark.

  The announcements aboard ship had said they were quarantined because of a “dangerous disease.” That dangerous disease had apparently cured cancer, blindness, even old age among those aboard, and had started to regrow her legs. Between the official word and the Daniel Markis video, she decided she believed the latter.

  Hunger became her constant companion. She didn’t know why for sure. Her caloric intake had exploded; for a triathlete like her, that was a sign something was seriously out of whack. The appetite must have something to do with the miracle disease.

  She looked down at the strange pink skin down there, contrasting with the tan that ended just below her knees. The nubs couldn’t bear her weight without excruciating pain, and they wouldn’t fit her prosthetics anymore, so she had used the wheelchair service a lot. Reaching down to scratch the itchy growth, she pushed aside thoughts of why it had happened, or even how, and concentrated on what she had to do.

  Night began to fall over the Atlantic. Making her final preparations, she wrote a letter to her parents in Los Angeles, leaving it addressed on the table for the steward to find. She ate as much as she could hold, and put the rest into the waterproof bag, along with her combat utility uniform, her wallet and ID, and the jury-rigged prostheses. She had ripped the expensive electronic guts out of them and she now had something that she could use, if barely. Padded with pillow-stuffing and cut-up blankets, they strapped onto her stumps and allowed her to stand, even walk gingerly, as long as she could take the pain, and look somewhat normal in her uniform.

  A bottle of ibuprofen went in as well, and a few other odds and ends. Then she sealed it up and put it in her rucksack. Wet suit on next, a stylish blue and green never intended for clandestine work, but it was all she had. Then the scuba gear she had brought to use – she thought – for recreation; her combat knife; and a rucksack strapped in reverse to sit over her belly. Lastly the swim fins, reconfigured to fit her regenerating stumps.

  Levering herself up to the rail, she looked out between the slats at the two ships, now visible mainly by their navigation lights. Earlier she had seen hovercraft embarking and disembarking out of the combat well at the back of the LPD. Now she could see a strobe and running lights from a helo landing on the flight deck at the rear, one of a continuous droning above and around the ships. She had seen Hornet and Lightning naval fighters high overhead earlier in the day, so there was a supercarrier out there somewhere too, running combat air patrol.

  She took several deep breaths, wondering if she was making the biggest mistake of her life. Hell, there’s an old Corps saying, she thought. 'The worst plan executed quickly and violently is better than the best plan not executed at all.'

  Far better to do something than to do nothing.

  Facemask and regulator on, she hoisted herself up to the railing, looked at the water thirty feet below, and launched over the rail like a gymnast. Balling up, she wrapped herself around the rucksack, holding her hands to her face to shield the delicate apparatus from the impact. The sea struck her like a cold wet fist, and she fought to stay out of sight below the surface, fought to get the mouthpiece settled and clear it of water. For a moment she just floated beneath the waves, recovering her breath.

  Then she began the long swim.

  She navigated by lights from the ships. At first she steered by the brilliant glare of the bright cruise ship behind her, easy enough to see through the water above her head. All she had to do was keep going directly away. A half hour later, when she couldn’t see it any more, she cautiously broke the surface to get her bearings and adjust.

  Her stomach already complained; she rolled over on her back and pulled a plastic coffee can out of a rucksack pocket, gulping down the cold spaghetti and meatballs packed inside, shoving it into her mouth with her fingers. It was the best she could come up with for eating on the trip; she hoped she had enough food to last. A half-liter of water followed.

  The surface swim seemed interminable; even with the fins, she estimated it would take four to six hours to reach the LPD. The critical variable was the hunger, the thing she'd had to learn to live with and manage for the last few days. How often would she have to stop, how much would she have to eat – would her food and water run out? She laughed to herself at the idea of being thirsty in the ocean.

  Eating every thirty minutes, she burned calories at a prodigious rate.

  The answer came after three hours. Ingraham was far to her rear; she had bypassed it by a good mile, having no desire to be spotted and caught. It appeared that no one had even considered the possibility that someone would swim away from their floating prison, particularly not in the direction of their captors. But now she’d eaten the last of the food outside the waterproof bag. It looked like about an hour to the LPD. She wished she could ditch the scuba tank, but she might need it at the other end.

  A half hour later her gut demanded food again, and she didn’t have anything accessible to give it. If she opened the waterproof bag, she would flood everything inside with seawater – the food and her uniform in particular. She clamped down on the discomfort, bringing the discipline of a lifetime of triathlon into play. Pain is just weakness leaving the body. No pain, no gain – no pain, no brain. Pain is a feeling, and Marines don’t get issued feelings.

  Two hundred yards from the stern of the LPD, the starving wolverine in her belly cramped her up completely, curling her into a fetal ball. She ground her teeth, pushing through the pain. She put her head under water and screamed. She pounded her thigh, trying to distract her nervous system.

  Looming above her, the ship showed nothing except for its navigation lights. Uncramping just enough to propel herself to the stern, she hoped that someone didn’t pick that moment to look out into the dark water and see her in the moonlight. She forced her legs to push her closer, finally rounding the corner.

  The well ramp had closed.

  She groaned, fighting the cramps and starvation. Pulling out a water bottle, she drank, hoping the fluid would ease the sensations. She cursed herself for not thinking of putting something with nutrition in the containers – protein shake, orange juice, anything. Milk would have been ideal. I’m such an idiot.

  Lesson learned, if she lived to remember it.

  The cramping eased for a moment. Looking around she found a steel rung inset into the stern. More rungs led up the side, and she measured the climb with her eyes. Fifty feet, maybe. No way would she make it, especially not with the gear. She closed her eyes for a moment, hanging on grimly. Ketosis soured her breath as her body scoured her bloodstream for something to metabolize.

  Only one choice. She had to get to the food inside the w
aterproof bag.

  Levering herself painfully up on the first rung, she sat on it and wrapped her left arm into the one above. Clinging on crudely, she forced her right hand’s cold knotted muscles to open the rucksack strapped to her belly, then the bag inside. She grabbed the first food packet she encountered. Greedily she stuffed crackers into her face. A feeling of relief and well-being spread like a drug; she could almost follow the sugars through her veins as they reached outward from her insides, quieting her screaming tissues.

  A rumble went through the ship, a vibration felt rather than heard. Grinding and clanking sounds startled her, originating from somewhere very near. She hastily sealed up the waterproof bag and slipped back into the water, just in time.

  Light blazed above where she had just rested, and she slipped the scuba regulator back in her mouth, breathing on tank air. The great dark slab of the well ramp laid itself rapidly down onto the surface of the water nearby, forming a smooth transition for hovercraft inside to leave the ship.

  A moment later an enormous dark shape swept by just feet from her, an LCAC hovercraft shoving her downward with tremendous force, spinning her like the undertow at a riptide beach. As quickly as it had come, it was gone, off into the Atlantic night, and the ramp began to rise again.

  This was her only chance. Her legs pumped, driving the fins against the sea with all of her strength, aiming for the joint at the base of the ramp, from the side. There was no time to worry about being spotted; she had to get out of the water and on board.

  She rolled over the enormous hinge and into the wet well. There was only three feet of water inside, and as soon as the ramp closed it would drain. She swam sidestroke in the shallow water, pushing herself up against the side rail, and then wormed her way forward. She was still hidden by the sea water, the dimness and the looming machines, but soon she might have nowhere to hide.

  It’s good to be good, but sometimes it’s better to be lucky. She got lucky.

  The only person in sight was a sailor sneaking a smoke, facing into the corner opposite her across the vast open space. Parked vehicles hid her exit from the water, and the noise of the starting pumps covered any sound she made as she dragged herself up the access ramp. She climbed onto a ladder – nautical terminology for any stairway aboard ship – and upward into one of the compartments tucked up along the walls. Once out of sight, she just breathed for a few minutes, resting after her ordeal.

  Dry and safe enough, she ate her fill, stripped off the wet suit, and changed into her uniform. On a ship this size, one more Marine would be almost anonymous. The trick would be when to make herself known, and to whom.

  This was as far as her planning had carried her.

  Her MOS, Military Operational Specialty – until she lost the legs – was 5816-3RT, Military Police Special Reaction Team member, similar to civilian SWAT. The problem with such a small specialty was that her circle of contacts was limited. 3RT people tended to keep to themselves. She hoped to either find someone on this ship’s 3RT she knew, or just depend on the tight-knit community to shelter her in the face of her unlawful actions. Still, there were some violations that could be ignored by the loyalties and traditions of the service; she hoped that unofficially rejoining a deployed unit would qualify.

  She slipped the prostheses on last, grimacing as she strapped them tight. Another four pain pills and a gulp of water, and she was on her feet. She stowed her gear behind a stack of firefighting equipment and hoped it wouldn’t be noticed.

  Down into the enormous ship she tottered, holding onto railings and moving slowly. Sweat broke out on her brow, and she fended off two concerned inquiries with explanations of recovering from food poisoning. She didn’t like the way the people looked at her; she had chosen that illness as an explanation precisely because it was neither unusual nor contagious.

  These people seemed on edge. She realized the crew must have been told the same lies about a deadly disease aboard the cruise ship, and they were jittery. Maybe going to the 3RT wasn’t the best choice. She suddenly realized whom she might be able to trust – by law, custom and regulation.

  Five minutes later she was leaning against the chaplain’s door. She hoped he would be a calm, sensible sort that could keep his mouth shut. If she were lucky, she would get a Catholic priest. Priests had reputations for keeping confidences, and closing ranks. For this, she needed someone unshakeable.

  The door opened to show a pleasant, pink, thirtyish face attached to a short, chubby body with dirty blonde, collar-length hair. She stared at the Navy Lieutenant’s bars on the right lapel of the woman’s combat cammies, and the cross on the left, disoriented by preconceptions. Her name tag read "Forman."

  “Can I help you?” Lieutenant Forman’s accent exuded culture: New England – Boston perhaps, or Maine. It reminded Jill strongly of Katherine Hepburn, before the quaver, or maybe a Kennedy.

  “Yes, ma’am. Permission to enter?”

  “Of course, Sergeant.” The chaplain stepped back, then closed the hatch behind Repeth as she gingerly tottered in. “Please, sit. Are you ill?”

  Jill sat. “No, my prostheses are giving me a bit of trouble.” She reached down to thump on her boots, bringing forth a decidedly artificial sound.

  “Ah. Well, here we are. Coffee? Tea? Soda, or some juice?” She gestured at a compact coffee maker that sat upon an equally tiny refrigerator. “Privileges of the ministry.”

  “Juice would be great, and if you happen to have anything to eat…I missed chow.”

  Forman slid a tin of shortbread cookies off a shelf near her feet, opening it and setting it on the desk within reach, then pulled out a cold can of orange juice for Jill, a coffee cup for herself.

  “You have the look of someone with a lot on her mind.”

  Jill stuffed two cookies into her mouth, drank the juice in one pull. She gazed at Forman from under lowered eyebrows. “You don’t know the tenth of it. But before I go on…how confidential is this conversation?”

  “As confidential as you want it to be.”

  “And what if I told you I had done something unlawful? Would you stick to that?”

  Forman sat back, blowing on her hot coffee, contemplating. “Are we talking capital crimes here?” She smiled, obviously only half joking.

  Jill stared, intent. “I don’t think so. Mostly just Article 92.”

  “Failure to obey a lawful order. I can tell you then with ironclad certainty that my lips are sealed.” She took a drink of her coffee, made a face. “It’s this ship’s water. I ran out of bottled a while back.”

  Repeth took a deep breath. “All right. I choose to trust you.” A pause. “I am not assigned to this ship.”

  Forman’s eyebrows flew up in surprise, and she sat forward, putting her chin on her fist. “Really? That’s a new one, not that my military career is particularly long or distinguished. Do tell.” Her eyes sparked with the cheeky joy of shared secrets.

  Jill shook her head angrily. “Ma’am…six hours ago I was looking at this LPD from the railing of that cruise ship you have under quarantine. I just swam twelve miles, I’m hungry, and I’m not in the mood for girl talk. And there is no disease aboard that ship. At least, nothing…nothing bad.”

  Forman opened her hand to drum her fingers on her own cheek, staring into Jill’s eyes, as if seeking truth. “Dear me. Dear me. Sergeant, I never thought to say this, but I am at a loss. What do you want me to do?”

  “Ma’am...I haven’t a clue. But I’m exhausted. I need food and rest, and I’m holding my head up by sheer willpower. Is there somewhere…”

  “On a ship? We both know that every space is spoken for. You might be able to join the crew as a transfer in and get away with it for a few days…”

  “Just let me eat and sleep, then I’ll be able to think straight. Please?”

  Forman pondered for a moment. “Take my cabin.” She gestured to a door in the back of the tiny office. “No one will disturb you. I can sleep in my chair if need be. I’ll go ge
t some food to go from the mess.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Jill stumbled to the cabin’s bunk, falling asleep as her head hit the pillow.

  The wolverine in her guts woke her up. Faint light from the open office door illuminated food cartons next to the bunk. She wolfed down their contents – sandwiches, fruit, potato chips, milk – then rolled over and went back to sleep.

  A long black time later, a giant club struck the ship like a gong, throwing Jill out of her bunk and onto the deck. She yelped as the impact twisted her wrist, then again as she put her weight on the prostheses. She gave up and went back to one hand and two knees, crawling along the heaving deck to the doorway.

  Chaplain Forman sat on the deck as well, holding her head. She would have a nasty shiner soon, above her right eye. The two women stared at each other, and then Forman clawed her way to her seat behind the desk as the PA came to life.

  “Now hear this, now hear this. General Quarters, General Quarters, all hands General Quarters. Condition Zebra.” They felt the ship get under weigh, the sound of the screws churning at flank speed, maximum revolutions.

  “I have to go to my station in the infirmary. You stay here!” Forman pointed severely at Repeth with an emphasizing finger.

  An hour of sweat later the chaplain returned, teeth clenched. “The scuttlebutt is your cruise ship just exploded. Lost with all souls. One of the corpsmen said they saw streaks of light from the sky, then it just vanished in a fireball. Someone should be court-martialed. The Ingraham was a lot closer than we were, and has been gravely damaged. Their wounded are being medevacked to us. I have to get right back.”

  “You know what this means, don’t you, ma’am?”

  “It means the US government just murdered three thousand innocent people because they thought they were sick. They must have been extremely frightened to do something like that. Though perhaps they have a right to be. Terrorists just detonated two nuclear weapons on US soil: one in Los Angeles, another in West Virginia.”

  Sergeant Repeth gaped in shock. “Nukes? Los Angeles? What the hell is going on? Just what…” She trailed off, stunned.

  “Something rotten in the state of Denmark, methinks. I have to go.”

  Jill just raised a shaky palm as Forman left, not looking. She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes, damning her leaking tear ducts. Los Angeles. Her whole family was in Los Angeles, her parents and her little brother and uncles and cousins...

  She waited as long as she could, until the ship secured from General Quarters and the watertight doors and hatches were allowed open and the ship slowed; they must have gotten word they were not under attack after all. She wondered why the two naval ships had not been told to move away before they sank the cruise ship.

  Her first concern was more information. She also needed more food, and to move the illicit gear she'd stashed back in the compartment. Angrily she shook her head, throwing the tears off, wiping her eyes with her sleeves. She stood up, gritting her teeth against the pain, and strode out into the passageway.

  The ship blurred busy around her, sailors and Marines scurrying about with extreme sense of purpose. The amphibious well filled with people checking landing craft and gear, loading armored vehicles aboard the huge hovercraft, chaining them down to hardpoints on the decks. She saw live ammunition being hoisted into the tanks and personnel carriers.

  The commotion hid her, just one uniform among hundreds, hurrying about a task. She climbed the ladder to the compartment where she'd hid her gear, using mostly her upper body strength, and then struggled back down with the rucksack, everything stuffed inside it.

  “Hey, let me give you a hand.” He was smiling, handsome, cheerful and dark. She saw Staff Sergeant’s stripes, and “Gaona” printed on his name tag.

  “No, I got it.” She grimly struggled on.

  “Come on, Sergeant. You know, chivalry isn’t really dead.”

  “With all due respect, Staff Sergeant, you can stow that shit where the sun don’t shine. I pull my weight.” At that moment, the jury-rigged prosthesis on her left leg failed her, twisting sideways under the pressure of walking down the ladder steps. She would have fallen had he not caught her, setting her gently on the deck, along with her rucksack.

  He looked at her lower leg, then her face, then back again. “You should be screaming about now, so I’m going to guess that’s not your real leg. I mean, that’s…” Confusion showed on his visage.

  She bit back her embarrassment to growl, “It’s a prosthesis. I need to re-secure it. Just help me get out of everyone’s way.”

  Accepting his support, she hobbled a few yards on one leg to a spot against the bulkhead. Once there she pulled up her trouser cuffs and began redoing the bindings. “Thanks, Staff Sergeant. But you don’t have to do any more. I’m good.”

  Pursing his lips he nodded, then shrugged as he pointedly read her name tag. “Okay, Sergeant Repeth. I’ll see you around.” His tone was playful.

  She watched him walk away. Just as good-looking from this angle, and he knows it. Oh, Jill, give it a rest; not the time for the libido to act up. Funny, she’d been feeling friskier the last few days. Maybe it was from the…the whatever-it-was that was fixing her legs.

  Boot and straps again secure, she stood back up and hefted the rucksack down the passageway toward the chaplain’s berth. After dropping that off, she made her way to the nearest mess. The galley crew was in full swing, and she loaded up on everything she could, demolished the whole tray, then did it again. She didn’t think she could get away with a third; one of the mess ratings had looked at her strangely the second time through. Fortified, she stumped down the passageways to the other enlisted mess and went through the line there too.

  This time she could eat slowly enough to listen to the scuttlebutt. She chose a spot close to a group of sailors in uniforms somewhat crisper than average. She thought they were part of the CIC, the Combat Information Center, nerve center for operations aboard. Maybe they would know what was going on.

  “The Old Man said it was a kinetic strike.”

  “Kinetic strike of what?”

  “Inert reentry vehicles. Like nukes but just made of metal.”

  “No way that could have blasted that cruise ship like it did.”

  “Dude, those things come in at fifteen thousand miles an hour. Mach 20. I ran the energy on my computer – it’s way enough. Like manmade meteors. I’m surprised it didn’t take Ingy with it.”

  “It almost did, from what I hear. Two dozen dead and fifty wounded.”

  “Somebody screwed up bad. They should have had her move away.”

  “If they wanted it gone, why didn’t they just have us do it? With a missile or the guns or something?”

  “Dunno, man, dunno. Maybe all them civilians on board. Glad I didn’t have to push that button.”

  “Oh, yeah. That would suck. So where we going now?”

  The sailors all stared at the questioner, a young junior enlisted rating, but no one spoke. Security prohibited talking about operational details, such as their destination, outside of secure spaces.

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s what I always tell them you are.”

  “What?”

  “You’re sorry.” The sailors laughed.

  Jill finished her third tray and sidled away before they noticed her eavesdropping. Replete at last, she went back and got a to-go carton for later.

  When she slipped into Chaplain Forman’s office she found the older woman staring at her shipnet computer screen. “Come here,” the lieutenant said. She pointed at an open e-mail.

  “All hands, pass this message. Sergeant Repeth report immediately to the Personnel Support Detachment.”

  “Someone must have noticed you weren’t on the manifest.”

  Jill growled. “Gaona.”

  Forman looked a question.

  “Just a nice guy that tried to help. Probably tried to look me up at Personnel and found out I wasn’t in the system. Now the
y’re trying to find me. There goes my anonymity. F– umm, freaking do-gooders. Sorry, ma’am.”

  “I’ve heard salty language before, Sergeant. I’m sure Jesus did too.”

  “Yeah, lots of people talking about Jesus on that cruise ship. Didn’t do them any good…ma’am, I need to get off this ship. I need to get to somewhere that I can plausibly rejoin from – I can say I missed reboarding – that I got drunk and got left behind in the Bahamas or something. Do you know where we’re headed?”

  “Yes, and I think I know how to get you off the ship. We’re going to Norfolk to transfer the injured ashore on to Bethesda. That’s how you’ll go – as combat wounded.”

  Jill looked at her doubtfully. “That seems pretty iffy. I don’t have any fresh wounds.”

  “You’ll have a concussion. Disorientation, you can’t think straight. It will be the perfect cover. And I’ll attend the wounded. Nothing more natural. I’ll make sure you get left alone. Then, at Bethesda, you’ll disappear in the shuffle.”

  “Ma’am…that sounds like it will work. Can I say, you’re the most…unusual chaplain I’ve ever run across?”

  “Why, are most of them you have met cowards?”

  “No, just more sticklers for the rules, I guess.”

  “I never much liked rules. I didn’t like my father’s rules,” – she pronounced it ‘fahtha,’ the New England Brahmin coming out strongly through clenched teeth – “so I married a Navy man. After a while I found I didn’t like my husband’s rules much either – or his skirt-chasing – though I did keep his name after the divorce. Better than ‘Jenkins,’ and a bit less conspicuous. But then I found God, or perhaps God found me, and I decided to go to seminary, to be a chaplain. I still didn’t much like rules, so I made sure the only ones I respected were really His, not the ones that mankind had tacked on to the religion.”

  “That…that makes a whole lot of sense, ma’am.”

  “I’m glad you approve,” she said drily. “If we’re going to be co-conspirators, you might as well call me Christine.”

  Sergeant Repeth squirmed. “Ah…I’m not really comfortable with that, ma’am.”

  Forman’s tone turned ironic. “God forbid I trespass on the sanctity of Marine Corps sensibilities. Suit yourself. Just remember, I’m not a line officer, I’m a Navy chaplain. You’re permitted.”

  “All right…Christine. Thank you.”

  “You can thank me when you’re ashore and gone.”

  “Ma’am…Christine, can you see if you can check on my family? They are in L.A…I’d like to know if they’re…how they are.”

  The chaplain looked at Sergeant Repeth and swallowed a lump. “Sure, Jill. Just as soon as I can.”

  Repeth sat back, some of the knot of worry finally unraveling. Like any good Marine, she hated being without a plan. Now she had one, or at least, half a one. After she got back to where she belonged…her mind shied away from the future. Some part of it knew she wouldn’t like it when it arrived.

  The next morning Forman dropped a sack on Jill’s bunk, waking her up. “Sit up. We need to give you a good wrap and disguise.” She opened the bag, pulling out gauze, bandages and a soft neck brace. Soon, Repeth was swaddled in enough of the material to hide her identity, save the last part across her eyes.

  “Did you find anything out about my family?”

  “Jill, I’m sorry. Communications are swamped. There are half a million people dead in LA, and the authorities there are way behind the power curve. Here, eat this. It might be a while before I can feed you again.” The chaplain handed her a carton full of scrambled eggs, sausages and biscuits. While Jill was eating, Forman dumped the Marine’s rucksack and started making two piles. “You can’t get caught with anything incriminating. That means the scuba gear and anything with your name on it except your neck wallet. Shove that down your panties and tell anyone that asks you lost it in the attack, until you get clear. Where were you stationed, anyway?”

  “Quantico.”

  “Good, that’s just down the road from Bethesda. I assume that if you make it home you have uniforms and other gear?”

  “Of course.”

  “Very well. Let’s go, get those prostheses on.” The chaplain started to help, then stopped as she looked at the exposed stumps. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was new skin. Right there at the tan line. That’s very strange.”

  Repeth licked her lips. “Uh…I didn’t tell you everything, because…because I’m not sure I even believe it myself.” She cleared her throat. “I think it is new skin. New skin and more, new everything. I think my legs are, uh, regrowing themselves.”

  Christine sat down suddenly, reaching out a hand to gently touch the baby-pink nub. “That’s…that’s amazing. Miraculous.”

  “Yes. I think it’s why they killed all those people. There were things like this happening all over the cruise ship. Blind people that could see. People with terminal cancer cured overnight. A paraplegic got up out of his wheelchair. And this. I guess regrowing – regeneration – takes a bit longer, but I think in a few months I’ll have new feet.” The younger woman’s eyes were pleading, begging the chaplain to let her have a chance at being a whole Marine and a whole person again.

  “And that’s what they are trying to cover up. But why? You aren’t some kind of monster.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a secret worth killing for. It’s going to take smarter people than me to figure that out. I just know that I don’t want to be locked up in some lab.”

  “You won’t be if I can help it. We stick to the plan. This doesn’t change anything. In fact I’m more sure now than I was before. Something big and rotten is going on, and I’m going to find out what. And fight it. My family is wealthy, and has contacts. Maybe it’s time to use them.” The chaplain looked very determined.

  They heard an announcement over the PA, calling for the patients to be prepped for medical air transportation to Bethesda National Military Medical Center. Hurriedly strapping Repeth’s prosthetics on, they walked carefully through the passageways to the auxiliary infirmary that had been set up in one of the cleared cargo holds. Ratings stepped out of the way as they saw the chaplain and the walking wounded Marine. The two slipped in among the hustle and bustle of the doctors, nurses and corpsmen, and got Jill horizontal on a cot as quickly as possible.

  Forman fended off several helpful medical professionals, insisting this one was fine, just combat stress and a lingering concussion. When asked for her name, she said, “Jane Doe. No ID, no dog tags, no memory. Bethesda can take her fingerprints and DNA and look her up in the system.”

  Everyone was too busy prepping the patients to pursue it further.

  Several six-man teams of Marines carried patients to the cargo lifts, then up to the flight deck to be loaded onto MV-22 Osprey tilt-rotors. Lieutenant Forman sweated and watched as they worked their way toward her and Sergeant Repeth, finally surrounding the cot and reaching for the lift points.

  One man stopped short. “Hey, this is Sergeant Repeth, the one they were looking for.”

  Forman saw the man’s name tag read “Gaona.” Thanks, Murphy. Mind racing, she whipped him with her raised voice. “That’s right, Staff Sergeant. She’s concussed, she’s suffering from combat stress, and she’s in no condition to be bothered with you like last time. Now take charge of your detail and put your hands on that cot and lift, damn you, one, two, three, lift, and march your asses up to that aircraft or by God I will have your stripes – and you too, Corporal, don’t think I won’t, you men ought to be ashamed of yourselves, I should file charges for sexual harassment, for abuse under cover of authority. I thought Marines had more discipline than to be sniffing around a wounded female like horny butt-monkeys looking to hump everything in sight – h’ut, two, t’ree, fower, keep your eyes front you stinking pus-poxed son of a guttersnipe streetwalker or I swear I will have you locked up at attention in front of the Sergeant Major and he won’t be anywhere near as nice as I am…” />
  She hardly took a breath as she vented her bile in a running monologue, channeling her drill instructors and her abusive ex-husband and her lacrosse coach and that DI in Full Metal Jacket, calculated to stun and overwhelm the men until they loaded Repeth aboard the humming Osprey VTOL transport. Forman followed Jill onto the aircraft, where her blazing eyes dared anyone to interfere with her patient.