They’ve accomplished a lot in the short period of operations to date. It seems impossible that it’s only been two weeks since the outbreak, but there is still a long way to go before they can truly rest. However, he took advantage of the downtime and fell asleep almost immediately upon arrival. He still feels tired, but not the overwhelming exhaustion he felt after the fight the day before.
A call directs his attention away from the flight line and toward the tarmac where a large tent has been erected. Smoke drifts from several stove pipes, the smell of meals being prepared wafting through the milling Marines and Navy crews. At some point during the fight for Grissom and their near disaster at Whiteman, this huge tent was put up in anticipation of the returning men and women. Inside, warm meals are being prepared, distributed, and downed in relative comfort.
Between Jennings and his hunger is the decontamination zone at the entrance. Once through the decontamination process, they’ll be able to take off their protective gear, eat, and relax. Each section called in has an hour of free time, and Jennings is itching to spend some of it out of the gear that he’s been in since the start of operations. Even though he knows that it will smell like a Friday afternoon locker room inside, he doesn’t care one bit. Rumor even has it that there have been showers installed, and fresh clothing brought in.
Another call comes with his batch number to enter. Come what may with new operations beginning tomorrow, he has this next hour to relax.
Chapter Three
USS Mount Whitney, off the eastern seaboard
October 19
Admiral Gettins sits at a conference table, leafing through reports coming in from Whiteman. The consolidation of the Air Force base is well underway and the strike teams are getting ready to head out at first light for the first of the power plants.
Twenty-seven lost or missing, with a further fifteen in quarantine, he thinks, looking over the casualty list. That’s nearly one percent of our forces lost, either permanently or for the duration of operations.
Pulling another sheet from a pile in front of him, he looks at the supply expenditures, concentrating on the ordinance that they’ve used to date. Knowing that they won’t be able to replace any Marine or sailor lost, they haven’t held back in their operations to secure the two air bases. If they continue with their current ammunition expenditure rates, they won’t have much remaining after they secure the power stations. They’ll need to resupply, but given that most resupply locations are in the midst of populated areas overrun with infected, the chances of that are marginal.
A single knock at the door and Gettins waves the sailor in to set up the teleconference connection with Admiral Stevens commanding the forces on the west coast. As he waits, Gettins is satisfied with the timetable of the current operation. They’ve taken two major facilities in four days, establishing forward bases for the next phase of operations. Glancing at a map pinpointing the targeted nuclear power plants, he knows that they have a long way to go. Each minute that ticks by on the clock hanging on the wall is one they no longer have.
The power grid will fail, halting the water flowing through the cooling ponds storing spent fuel rods sitting in the power plants. When that happens, the water will evaporate quickly, and the pressure will build until they blow. It’s not a matter of if, but when.
We have to get to them first, he thinks as the screen flares to life.
Admiral Stevens’s face appears, looking as haggard as Gettins is sure his does. Pleasantries are briefly exchanged before the two settle down to business. They know they don’t have time to exchange favorite recipes.
“You first,” Gettins states.
“Whidbey naval air station and the island are secured, but the hold is tenuous. The number of infected on the surrounding shores makes it impossible to sustain anything other than a MOPP level 4 presence. At the moment, we’re rotating crews in and out, in addition to rotating support vessels into the straits.
“We should be able to take the sub base at Bangor, although that will be a more difficult task. Bremerton will be a different story. That one’s going to be a bitch if we want to preserve the naval base and the supplies it houses,” Stevens begins.
“We’re going to need that fuel depot and docking facilities at some point,” Gettins interjects.
“Granted. And truly, it’s not really that. We can secure both facilities given time. It’s Seattle and the cities along the I-5 corridor, along with Victoria on Vancouver Island. The population of the Puget Sound area, from Seattle south and around the Kitsap Peninsula, is over four and half million. We just don’t have enough firepower for something like that. The only other port that can take the fleet is San Diego. There, we’re looking at nearly two million,” Stevens states.
“Well, we knew our forward bases were only springboards for operations into the interior. We’ll need Bremerton and Bangor cleared out, if only to be able to get the stored supplies. It doesn’t mean we have to set up shop,” Gettins says.
“True. It would be nice to have a longer-term solution in hand to relay to the crews for morale purposes.”
“I know, but first things first or a lot of our options will vanish. It’s imperative that we get to the nuke plants. Once we get them under control, we can look at our long-term options,” Gettins comments.
“I’m not disagreeing, I’m merely taking a peek beyond that point. Tomorrow, we’ll be launching two missions. One will be against the Columbia Generating Station to secure that site. The other will be establishing a forward deployment base in the Idaho basin. From there, we’ll strike further east to Schriever Air Force Base to get operational control of the defense satellites. Following those two operations, we’ll begin clearing the Kitsap Peninsula and take the naval bases. The plan for the moment is to merely secure them without stationing personnel ashore. When we need the supplies, we’ll dock, refuel and resupply, then head back out of the strait. In addition, our forces to the south are in place and will head inland for the nuke plants in California,” Stevens finishes.
“Fair enough. We’re finishing with the consolidation of Whiteman and have managed to create a safe zone at Grissom. As for continued operations, we’ll begin branching out from both bases toward the power plants. Initial calculations indicate that we’ll need a minimum of eight days in order to complete that phase,” Gettins briefs.
“Any idea how long the power grids will continue to operate?”
“None at all. You know how shaky they are. They could go down tonight, or stay up for weeks. Any short in the system at any point could bring any of the grids crashing down. A simple lightning strike, failing transformers, some button in a generating station that needs to be pushed…anything,” Gettins answers.
“And, what about transporting and storing the spent fuel rods? I’ve talked with engineers over on this side. They’ve come up with everything from dumping the lot into the Marianas Trench to shooting them into the sun. The only thing they agree on is that we need to get them away from anyplace we plan to be for the next thousand years,” Stevens says.
“The trench is…” Gettins starts.
“I know, I know. It’s out. The currents will carry that radiation to the western shores over time. Antarctica is an option. I’d like to launch them into space and send them merrily away, but even if we manage to get rockets on launch pads, they’d probably just blow up in our faces,” Stevens interrupts.
“That’s out as well.”
“So, we’re down to dumping them somewhere, assuming we can find a suitable means of transporting them from all across the country,” Stevens says.
“It’s beginning to look that way. There is one task we’re skirting—one that may prove impossible. Hanford,” Gettins states.
“I was afraid you’d say that. That’s a mess that may sit with us for a long, long time. If we lose power there, or it doesn’t get some love soon, then we can forget about the northern states as well. Along with the Columbia River Gorge, and in time, the entire w
est coast. If lady luck doesn’t bless us, we could find ourselves kicked out of the whole country with nowhere to go. I suppose western Canada and Alaska could be options,” Stevens says.
“That’s why we need to sustain the level of our current operations, while at the same time keeping our forces from becoming infected. It isn’t going to be easy. As you know, the operations we’re currently conducting are meant to buy us time to come up with a long-term solution with our choices intact,” Gettins states.
“Actually, we may have an interim solution for Hanford. My engineers here say that the Bonneville Dam provides a lot of the energy for the northwest and has the capability of lasting five years without any intervention. We’re looking at the grid components to figure out if we can divert power to Hanford or anywhere else we want. The power stations at Bonneville are still on the grid system, but we may be able to purposely shut down parts of the grid to alleviate the load and reduce the chance that a hiccup somewhere will take the whole thing down. We’re also looking at the wind and solar farms in the area and are reasonably assured that we can hook those into the grid, perhaps permanently replacing the larger grid components. However, that’s down the road, and the Seattle metropolitan area presents a major roadblock. While we still have most of our ordinance available, it’s not nearly enough,” Stevens comments.
“We’ve been using ours up at an unsustainable rate. And we can’t afford to keep taking losses like we are,” Gettins says, reading off the numbers. “We need those supplies at Bremerton and Bangor.”
“Agreed. We’ll see about taking those facilities once our operations to Schriever have been completed. What are we doing about the stranded crews?”
“I’ve instructed them to remain in place until we shut down the power plants. They have enough supplies for a few months, so they should be able to survive until we can get to them.”
“Okay. The ships we sent north will shortly be retrieving the stranded radar crews.”
“I guess that should do it until we get past this next phase. Here’s to hoping that luck is with us. Keep thinking about Hanford. We’ll keep each other posted.”
“Good enough, sir. Best of luck.”
Chapter Four
Farmhouse, miles south of Pineville
October 10
A deep rumble startles Emily from her slumber, her heart leaping and eyes snapping open. She looks around the living room for the source that woke her from her dreams. Everything is as she left it when she fell asleep the night before; the furniture’s the way she remembered it, her phone’s lying by her ear where she dropped it after falling asleep. Nothing moves through the doorways leading to the hallway or kitchen. Listening, she doesn’t hear anything coming from within the house.
A bright flash momentarily lights the gaps through the drapes, followed by a deep rolling rumble. Rain begins pelting the roof. She relaxes her grip on the blanket edge, realizing that it was thunder that woke her and not some strangers who entered while she was sleeping. Picking up the phone and noting the dark screen, she sets it aside, making a mental note to charge it later. The lights on in the front room let her know there is still power flowing to the house.
Emily pushes the blankets off her and sits up. Goosebumps form along her arm from the chilled air inside the house. Her gaze goes toward the woodstove sitting in a corner of the room with bricks both underneath and lining the walls. Although simplistic in nature, she has no idea how to work one. She had watched the soldier light a campfire in the caves, and remembers he had stacked larger wood pieces on top of smaller ones. With power, she knows there should be a switch for a heater somewhere, but Emily also has a feeling that the power could fail at any time without anyone to fix things if they go wrong.
Or something like that.
Rubbing her arms, she approaches the stove, looking all around it. Finding a lever underneath the opening, she moves it from side to side, but can’t determine what it’s for. Another lever opens a small door at the bottom of the fire pit, a clump of ash vanishing into a bin underneath. That one is easy to figure out, making it one for two on her ability to discern how a woodstove works.
I guess I just put the wood in, light it, and close the door, she thinks, rising to head to the back door.
Just outside, a covered shed, open on one side, holds stacks of split wood. Large raindrops splash endlessly into puddles in the backyard, the sight of which chills Emily even further. She thinks back on all of the times when she was mad at her mom and dad and wanted to run away, thinking that she was fully capable of surviving on her own. Although she’s managed so far, it hasn’t been easy, and she’s been frightened beyond belief a number of times. However, she’s also found moments of peace that she never thought existed. She isn’t so confident that she thinks she can live on her own forever. There are situations she knows will come up that will elude her abilities.
Like that woodstove. I don’t even know how to use one and that’s something simple.
Staring out of the back door, she eyes an axe, the blade set into a stump under the overhang of the woodshed. It looks too heavy for her to manage; visions of her cutting her leg off enter her thoughts. The rain outside looks miserable to be in and she doesn’t know what she would do if she cut off her leg. Turning away from the door, she searches the walls for the switch to the furnace.
* * * * * * *
Farmhouse, miles south of Pineville
October 11
Emily again finds herself staring out the door at the woodshed. The thunderstorms that swept through the area the past couple of days have moved on, for the most part. Showers continue to move through, but for now the yard is only filled with the mud and puddles from two days of being drenched.
Several times yesterday, she came to the same back door, staring at the wood pile as if facing something insurmountable. She knows deep down that the rain was only an excuse to continue relying on the furnace in the house. She feels lucky that the power is still operating, but that could end at any second; then she’d be thoroughly screwed. Not only will she not have heat, but she also won’t have the stove and refrigerator for food. She has no idea how to “live off the land” and will have to rely on scavenging food from stores after the shelves in the house become bare.
There’s still a lot of food in both the cupboards and the basement, but that won’t last forever. With that in mind, she knows that she’ll have to leave her little sanctuary at some point. If the power goes out, she’ll be down to eating cans of cold food, along with the jars and jars of green beans in the basement. She nearly gags at the thought of having to force down the beans.
If I can get the woodstove to work, perhaps I can cook on that, she thinks. Maybe then the beans won’t be so awful.
But first, she has to brave the axe, and then hope that all she has to do is stack the wood in the stove and light it. With a sigh, she opens the back door and walks to the shed.
She works the axe out of the block of wood. It feels much heavier than she anticipated. Laying the axe on the ground, she grabs a piece of wood and sets it upright on the bigger block. Emily lifts the axe as high as she can and lets it fall onto the upright piece. The axe head hits the wood, and then turns to the side, the axe and piece of wood falling in opposite directions. Picking up the piece of wood, there’s barely a dent on the top where the axe fell.
At least I didn’t cut my leg off, Emily thinks, righting the piece of wood once more.
She tries again, this time attempting to slam the axe down harder. She can’t lift it above her head, mostly because she’s afraid of dropping the heavy blade on top of her, which would be worlds worse than cutting off her leg. Emily manages to embed the axe head into the block of wood. Holding the axe further up the handle, she repeatedly slams the axe and piece of wood down; each time the blade cuts deeper until the wood splits.
“Whew…OK,” she mumbles, running her arm across her forehead as if wiping sweat away.
Over time, she builds a small pile
, cutting some into smaller pieces with a hand axe. Making several trips, she stacks the wood next to the stove. Wadding some newspaper, she begins piling bigger pieces onto thinner ones. She strikes a match and holds it until the paper is burning, holding the door open until the fire starts burning well. Then she closes it, watching as the flames die down, then smolder and go out.
“Crap on a stick,” she mutters, pulling everything out and starting again.
Well, if it didn’t work with the lever there, I’ll move it to the other side.
Emily starts it again, this time holding the door open for longer before closing it quickly, afraid that the fiery wood will fall out of the stove. The fire continues to build, the crackling filling the living room. Feeling satisfied, she steps back to admire her work. The stove’s metallic pinging worries her.
Maybe I made it too big and it’s going to explode.
She backs away, feeling the radiating heat. Watching from the far side of the room, it takes her a few minutes to realize that the sound is only the woodstove heating up. With fire raging inside the stove, she heads to the kitchen to make something to eat, first removing a few splinters from her fingers.
* * * * * * *
Farmhouse, miles south of Pineville
October 12
Emily sits on the couch, occasionally taking a bite from the plateful of mac and cheese while playing a game on her charged phone. A fire crackles in the stove. Over the past day, she’s figured out how to control the heat and amount of fire with the lever, kind of like the heat settings on a normal stove. Although there are times when she’s been bored out of her mind, she feels fairly comfortable with her new place. That’s how she’s come to think of the farmhouse—as hers. Last night, she even slept in the bed. She reminds herself that the food won’t last forever, and that once it’s gone, she’ll either have to move on or find someplace nearby to scavenge. For now, even though she misses her parents, being the last person on earth isn’t so bad.
ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising Page 3