Speed the Dawn

by Philip Donlay

  “I know, plus there have to be splints around here somewhere.”

  “Take this.” Shannon handed him the plastic bag.

  Donovan nodded, walked into the next trauma room, where he spotted another six-drawer cabinet on wheels. He pulled open the first drawer and discovered duplicates of what he’d already seen in the other cart.

  “I found where they kept the drugs—it’s empty,” Shannon said from across the room. “They must have cleaned it out as they left. I did see a map of the place—there’s a pharmacy, as well as an operating room just upstairs. I’ll go check them out and be right back.”

  “Make it fast.” Donovan handed her the penlight. “I’ll take this stuff out to the truck, and then make one last pass through the emergency room for anything else I can find.”

  Donovan lifted the plastic bag into the cab and set it between the seats. The smoke was growing worse, the glow to the west more intense. He turned and hurried back to the emergency room where he stopped and tried to think of what else he might need to help William. He walked to the nurse’s station, and there was just enough light for him to see they must have left in a hurry. Papers were scattered, clipboards and pens strewn on the floor, desk drawers partially opened. Donovan tried to understand the reason for the chaos, but couldn’t. It reminded him more of a place that had been ransacked than evacuated. As the thought formed, he heard a faint scream echo in the darkness.

  Donovan ran to the emergency room, snatched the pry bar he’d leaned against the wall, and, using the emergency lights for guidance, climbed the stairs. He ran as fast as he could down the hallway, and heard another cry, this one more of a wail, enough to give him a bearing. He spotted the sign for the south pavilion. Just beyond were the operating rooms.

  He slowed as he listened. Then he heard a man’s voice: “I didn’t hear you, baby.”

  Donovan rounded the corner and saw two men, their backs to him. One was big and fat, his trousers hung low, and a ponytail dangled down from under his headband. The other guy was much thinner and wore a stocking cap pulled down over bushy black hair. Shannon’s face was pressed into the wall. Both men had their hands on her.

  Noiselessly, Donovan swept in from behind, and swinging the heavy pry bar like a baseball bat, connected with the fat man. The metal impacted the shoulder with enough force to cave it in, and an unseen knife clattered to the floor. As the man yelled in pain and staggered sideways, Donovan shoved him into his buddy. With both men off balance, Donovan shifted his weight and brought the pry bar over his head and swung downward, aiming for the second man’s collarbone. Using all his strength, he hit his intended target squarely. Bones snapped and the man dropped to his knees, screaming. The fat man rolling on the floor thrashed wildly as he struggled to grasp the butt of a pistol in a shoulder holster. With a sweeping arc, Donovan used the steel bar against the fat man’s jaw. A muffled popping noise coincided with the fat man’s eyes rolling up in their sockets. His big body sagged, and he collapsed sideways onto the floor and went still. Donovan reached down and snatched the pistol.

  Shannon pushed away from the wall and stepped around to face the man in the stocking cap. He was on his knees, groaning, using his good arm to support his shattered collarbone while trying to get his feet under him to stand.

  Shannon moved aside as Donovan stepped in and brought his knee straight into the bridge of his nose. The man went limp and crumpled in a heap.

  “We need to go. There’re more of them,” Shannon said as she leaned down, picked up a canvas backpack off the floor, and threw it over her shoulder. “These two were stealing drugs from the operating room, and I gather the others are trying to break into the pharmacy.”

  Donovan checked the gun he’d taken, a 9mm Beretta. There was a round in the chamber and the magazine held fifteen. They began to run down the hallway that would take them back to the truck. As they reached the top of the stairs, Donovan heard shouting. They ducked through the shattered door and sprinted the final distance and climbed into the truck.

  “They’re coming!” Shannon cried out as she pointed down the truck’s hood toward the glass doors.

  Donovan slammed his door shut, cranked the ignition, threw on the headlights, and switched on the high beams. In the intense light, he spotted a man with long red hair pulled into a messy pony-tail. There was a pistol in one hand, and the other shielded his eyes from the lights.

  As Donovan threw the truck into gear, the man raised the weapon. Donovan slammed his foot to the floor and the truck lurched forward. Accelerating, he saw the barrel flash and heard the bullet hit the metal grill. Clenching his teeth, Donovan held the truck steady as the F-250 exploded through the glass and aluminum and charged into the foyer of the hospital. The man was late trying to move out of the way, and the grill caught his hip, tossing him screaming into the air. He landed back-first on the reception desk. His wails ended as his body went limp, the pistol dropping to the floor. Donovan braked hard, put the truck in reverse, and the truck tires screeched on the glossy floor as he gunned the engine. He backed all the way out through the destroyed entrance, and once they were clear of the building, he spun the wheel, pulled the gear shift into drive, and accelerated. In the rearview mirror, he saw three more men arrive at the destroyed door. One man ignored the downed man and stood in the light facing Donovan. He was broad-chested, wearing a sleeveless t-shirt with tattoos covering his exposed skin. His shaved head sat on a thick neck, and he raised an arm, and with an empty hand, mimicked pulling the trigger of a pistol.

  Donovan understood the gesture. He and Shannon had just started a war.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “THE BUCKLEY’S COMING!” Lauren yelled just as the helicopter began a steep descent.

  Janie banked the damaged helicopter toward the ship. Lauren could see the controls shaking violently in her hands. Montero had one arm around a seat support, the other trying to hold the injured sailor in position on the floor. Lauren reached out to help Montero as the Buckley’s bridge filled the windshield. The superstructure towered above them as Janie brought the crippled helicopter into a momentary hover above the helipad just before the skids touched down hard. Janie throttled back to reduce the vibrations, but it wasn’t until she shut down both engines and pulled on the rotor brake to slow the blades that the 412 stopped shaking.

  “Everyone out!” Janie called out as she continued flipping the switches to fully shut down the 412.

  Crewmen surrounded the helicopter, and a medic climbed into the open door nearest Michael. Behind Lauren, the other door was opened from outside, and a crewman reached out for her. Once on the deck, Lauren and Montero were escorted toward the closest hatchway. Lauren stopped and turned as medical personnel converged near the door to help with the injured man from the Olympia. Michael and Janie were already out of the helicopter, and Lauren could see the drained but determined expression on Janie’s face.

  “Is everyone okay?” Janie asked as she drew near.

  “We’re good,” Lauren said. “That was a hell of a landing.”

  “I just about got us killed out there,” Janie said through pursed lips as she shook her head at the thought.

  “What happened surprised the hell out of all of us, but you handled it,” Michael said. “The good news is, we didn’t crash.”

  “Oh, we were well on our way to being in a crash. All that stopped that from happening was the Buckley got in our way.”

  “I say the Buckley gets an assist, then,” Montero said as she peeled off her personal flotation device and handed it to a crewman.

  “How long do you think until the helicopter can be fixed?” Lauren said as she removed her PFD as well and crossed her arms in an attempt to hide the fact that her body had begun to shake.

  Janie clicked on her flashlight and aimed it upwards at the tip of one of the four rotor blades. Instead of a smooth metal tip, the steel was ripped and distorted. A string of mumbled swear words came from her lips and then she looked straight at her pa
ssengers. “The tip of this blade is trash.”

  Lauren looked over at the next blade, and even without the flashlight, she could see that it, too, was damaged.

  “They all are,” Michael said.

  “The rotor caps are stainless steel,” Janie said, sweeping her light to illuminate each tip. “Look, that one is missing the cap altogether, which is what set up such a severe vibration. I’m surprised at least one of the blades didn’t come apart.”

  An officer burst from the hatchway and stopped when he spotted Montero.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her and then looked at Lauren and the others. “Is anyone injured?”

  “I think we’re fine,” Montero said.

  “Dr. McKenna, I’m first mate Ethan Wiley. If none of you require medical attention, the captain has requested you join him on the bridge.”

  “Janie and I need to check out the rest of the helicopter,” Michael said. “Though I’m pretty sure we’re not flying out of here anytime soon.”

  “No chance.” Janie shook her head. “This thing needs to be taken to a shop on dry land, have four new blades installed, and a small army of technicians to check out the rest of the machine.”

  “We’ll be on the bridge,” Montero said to Michael and Janie, as she stepped through the hatchway and made her way with Lauren down the passageway. “Ethan, Dr. McKenna will need a computer, and a voice link with the Pentagon.”

  “I’ll take care of it right away,” Ethan said.

  As they rode the elevator up to bridge level, Lauren’s thoughts turned to Captain Ryan Pittman, a man she’d known for years. He was a retired Navy officer and lifelong mariner. He and Donovan had formed a lasting friendship during the design and construction of Eco-Watch Marine. Whenever business brought Ryan to Virginia, he always had dinner with them. Lauren loved listening to Ryan’s stories; they gave her a glimpse into the marine side of Eco-Watch. When the elevator opened onto the bridge, Ethan moved aside to allow Lauren to step out first. She breathed in the new ship smell and took in the entire bridge.

  “Lauren,” Ryan said warmly, reaching out to give her a hug. “I apologize for the circumstances, but welcome aboard the Buckley.”

  “Ryan, it’s good to see you,” Lauren said, returning the quick hug.

  “Ms. Montero,” Ryan said.

  “Captain,” Montero said with a nod. “Can you give us a situation report? Janie mentioned you took damage during the initial meteor barrage.”

  “We took a hit to our primary radar array—several holes were discovered in the antenna. It’ll be an easy fix once we’re ashore. In the meantime, we have no radar. There’s also a single hole in the aft deck—it’s about the diameter of a ping-pong ball. We traced its trajectory, and it went through multiple decks before it seemingly vaporized. No appreciable damage was detected.”

  “It could have been far worse,” Montero said.

  “We’ve moved away from the debris field created by the sinking ship. Twenty-eight men from the Olympia are safely aboard the Buckley. I’m waiting to hear the status of the injured seaman you brought aboard. There’s a commercial salvage tug steaming this way from Oakland. They’ll take over the oil spill response, as well as secure the floating containers. Several Navy vessels that were inbound to San Diego have now been diverted to the area and ordered to assist. The tug should arrive midmorning, the Navy ships around noon. Other ships should be on scene by late tomorrow.”

  All of Lauren’s earlier visits to the Buckley had been in broad daylight. She hadn’t ever been on the bridge at night and was mesmerized as always by a design that was as sleek and modern as the exterior. Her late father had served in the Navy. She loved his stories and always felt closer to him when she set foot on a ship.

  Located just under the heavily angled forward windows, the main control panel wrapped around in a semicircle. Two crewmen were standing side by side, quietly talking into headsets. They were separated by a console that ran aft. Ship’s controls for the throttles and thrusters were located within reach of either man. Rows of screens glowed in the darkness. Electrical schematics told of engine and system status. At the end of the console, two larger instrument displays were canted so they could easily be seen from the elevated captain’s chair, and off to the side was a chart table. On either side of the compartment were hatchways that led outside to an observation deck that wrapped around the leading edge of the bridge.

  “What happened to damage the Olympia to the point it sank like that?” Montero asked.

  “She took multiple impacts forward, and judging by how fast she took on water, their captain estimated that the meteors went all the way through the ship and came out the keel. When we arrived, she was already listing ten degrees and taking water over the bow.”

  Lauren slipped past Montero, stepped through an open hatch out to the exterior observation deck, and looked down toward the bow and the helicopter pad. Two crewmen steadied a ladder, as both Janie and Michael closely inspected the damage to the rotor blade. Already, a high-powered bank of lights had been erected to provide illumination. Lauren had great affection for the efficient, highly structured environment aboard ship. These men and women worked and lived together, sometimes for months at a time. She knew that just below the casual manner in which they operated was a highly trained professional, handpicked for duty aboard the Eco-Watch flagship. The same sense of camaraderie was one of the reasons she loved working for Calvin and the Defense Intelligence Agency. The loyalty and high level of professionalism were very similar.

  Overhead, she took in the few stars she could see through gaps in the clouds drifting above. As she watched, a furrow came to her brow. She turned until she located Polaris, and once again tracked the movement of the clouds against a north reference. Her mind raced with the implications of what she was seeing, and she rushed back inside the bridge.

  “Lauren, what’s wrong?” Montero asked, instantly on alert.

  “We have another problem,” Lauren said, pressing her temples as if contemplating the unimaginable. “I need a computer and a phone.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “I SEE LIGHTS,” Shannon said as she looked up from the Ford’s side mirror, and turned toward Donovan. “They’re coming.”

  “How many?” Donovan asked

  “I only see one car.” Shannon spun to get a better look out the rear window. “No, wait. It’s not a car, it looks like motorcycles, three of them.”

  “Do you have any idea how many men there were inside the hospital?”

  “I only saw the guys you saw,” Shannon said as she slid on her makeshift mask.

  “Hold the wheel,” Donovan said as he, too, secured his mask against the dense smoke to come.

  “How are we going to fight a motorcycle gang?” Shannon asked as she turned the wheel back over to Donovan.

  “They’re not a gang. They didn’t have any colors. They’re just criminals looting a hospital for drugs,” Donovan said. “We don’t want to fight them. We just need to put some distance between them and us. The last thing we can afford to do is lead them back to William.”

  Shannon recoiled and ducked as the glass in the rear window exploded inward.

  Donovan winced as the pieces of safety glass bounced off the side of his face and pelted the dashboard, which now sported a single bullet hole. In the mirror, he saw three motorcycles roaring out of the smoke, coming fast, and far closer than he would have calculated. He stepped on the gas, and the Ford began to accelerate.

  Donovan sped down the winding road, wind and smoke swirling in the cab along with the distinctive roar from the powerful motorcycles. Donovan understood he had no chance of fending off multiple motorcycle riders who were willing to open fire at will. Ahead and to the right was the cluster of four burning homes they’d passed earlier. The smoke and ash twisted upward, and the fire looked alive as red-hot embers climbed into the sky.

  “Hang on,” Donovan called out just before they plunged into the thick smoke. He guided the
Ford into a tight turn, and they bounced off the main road down an unpaved side road. Donovan braked hard, made another quick turn, and switched off the lights. Without hesitation, he jumped from the cab, drew the pistol he’d taken, and ran to the back of the truck. Invisible in the thick smoke, he listened as the motorcycles, following the paved road, roared past.

  His exposed skin was peppered by the drifting embers from the nearby fires. Small collateral fires began to flare in the pine needles that covered the forest floor. His eyes burned and filled with tears as he found his pry bar, and with two quick swings demolished the brake lights. Instead of tossing the pry bar back into the bed, he slid it behind the driver’s seat, tucked the pistol he’d taken into the pocket of his leather jacket, and climbed back in the cab.

  “What was that about?” Shannon asked.

  “Our brake lights are nothing but a homing beacon for these guys. I fixed the problem.”

  Donovan searched the darkness that surrounded them, put the Ford into gear, and with the headlights extinguished, he backed the truck toward the main road.

  “Listen.” Shannon cocked her head. “I hear them.”

  Donovan nodded and tried to pinpoint the direction and distance.

  “They’re coming,” Shannon said, her voice wavering with fear.

  “It only sounds like a single motorcycle. I think they split up to find us,” Donovan said. He gunned the truck up to the edge of the pavement and stopped. From around the corner, the beam from the motorcycle’s single headlight filtered through the trees. Donovan judged the speed of the motorcycle and then stepped on the gas pedal and swung the black F-250 onto the road until it blocked both lanes. The driver swerved and dumped the bike, sliding in a shower of sparks to keep from hitting the truck at full speed.

  The motorcycle tangled with the Ford’s heavy front bumper. The impact shook the truck, and Donovan threw on the headlights in time to see the motorcycle bounce off the pavement and catapult into the air, shedding parts. Donovan stepped to the ground just as the battered, denim-clad motorcyclist pulled himself to his feet, staggered backward, and then pulled a long knife from his boot.