“Maybe we could use the photos to start a bidding war between the Hawaiians and the Aussies,” Forrest joked. “First ones to rescue us get the pics.”
“I don’t care if they send a canoe full of Aborigines,” Ulrich said. “So long as the damn thing floats. I just hope that his name and those photos are enough to tempt somebody into taking the risk. That’s one hell of a voyage.”
“Are you guys sure you can even reach Hawaii with that transmitter?”
“No,” Ulrich said. “That’s why we’re working to boost its power.”
Erin was sitting with Emory at the back of the cafeteria, where Emory was finishing up with the baby’s morning feeding.
“Is Wayne warming up to her at all?” Emory asked.
“He’s doing a little better,” Erin said with a wan smile. “He’s got an awful lot on his mind.”
“Are you still pissed at him for not telling you about the, uh . . .”
“Rodents? Well, a wife has to pick her battles carefully down here. He says he was only trying to avoid upsetting me. He knows how horrified I am of the damn things.”
“Here he comes,” Emory said, covering her breast as Erin took the baby.
“Good morning,” Ulrich said, walking up to the table. “How’s our little girl this morning?”
Erin almost fell off the seat. Our little girl? “Um, she’s fine. She’s just finished feeding, actually.”
“Can I have her?”
“Um, well, she needs to be burped.”
“Let me give it a try,” he said, putting his arms out across the table.
“Are you sure, Wayne?”
“Would you rather I didn’t? You don’t think I can do it?”
“No, it’s not that . . .”
“Then let me give it a try.”
“Okay,” she said, a little unsure as she offered him the baby.
“You’ll need this,” Emory said, standing up to put a towel over his shoulder.
“I’ve had worse shit on my clothes than baby puke,” he said.
“Haven’t we all,” Emory muttered.
“Where are you going?” Erin asked as he turned to walk away with the baby resting against his shoulder.
“Outside for a walk in the snow.”
Erin sat watching as he left the cafeteria patting the baby gently on her back.
“What’s that about?” Emory wondered.
“Beats me,” Erin said, getting up to go after him.
“Where ya goin?” her friend Taylor said, coming around the counter, wiping her hands on her apron.
“To see what Wayne’s—”
“No, you’re not,” Taylor said, putting her arm around Erin’s waist and walking her back toward the table. “The quickest way to ruin it is to make him feel like you don’t trust him with the baby. Trust me. I’ve been there. You wanted him to take an interest. So now you’ll just have to—”
“But that wasn’t like him, Taylor, and you—”
“E, name one fucking thing we’ve done down here in the last year that’s been like any of us.”
“But—”
“He’s not going to hurt that baby. Now, sit down and finish your reconstituted egglike breakfast and let your husband get to know her.”
Ulrich walked down the hall and into Launch Control. “Put that cigarette out, will ya?”
Forrest glanced up and crushed out the cigarette in the cannon-shell ashtray. “Since when are you Father of the Year?”
“Since the whiz kid made me start to think we might actually live through this bullshit.” Ulrich heard the baby burp in his ear.
“That’s a dangerous way to think,” Forrest said with a smile.
“Tell me about it. It’s only been twelve hours, and the worrying’s already got my appetite fucked up.”
Forrest laughed. “You’ll get used to it, Stumpy. Hope is a love-hate relationship.”
“How many times is this kid supposed to burp?”
“Get a good one yet?”
“Pretty good.”
“Give her a bit longer, but she might be done.”
“I’d like to get me some of that milk,” Ulrich muttered, casting a careful glance over his shoulder to make sure there was no one in the doorway.
Forrest chuckled. “You’re the father, all right . . . already looking to bang the babysitter.”
“I would too.”
“Lyin’ ass.”
That night, Forrest and the rest of the fighting men were gathered in Launch Control waiting for the transmissions to begin. Melissa was there too, nervously biting her fingernails.
“Think you can keep up with me?” Ulrich asked her.
“No, not that fast, but I won’t be far behind.”
“Are we going to try to contact them tonight?” Marty asked.
“Depends on what they’ve got to say,” Forrest said, “but I don’t think we should waste any time.”
Forty minutes later the transmissions began.
“That’s the Hawaiian,” Ulrich said, recognizing the telegrapher’s hand and grabbing his pen.
Melissa looked on as he wrote out the string of numbers, going straight to her decoding, having long memorized the cipher and seeing the numbers themselves almost as words now.
“There he goes,” she said. “ ‘Greetings from Hawaii.’ ”
Forrest watched over her shoulder.
“Don’t,” she said, pushing his leg with her hand. “You’ll mess me up.”
He curled his upper lip, backing away with a grin at Kane, who crouched in the corner petting the dog.
The first transmission was finished in a very short period of time.
“That’s it,” Ulrich said, sitting back. “The Australian should answer within a minute or so.”
“He should already be done translating,” Melissa said, handing the message off to Forrest. “I am.”
“Well, give the guy time to digest what he’s reading.”
“He’s not digesting anything,” Melissa said. “If I can read it in my head almost as fast as you’re writing out the numbers, these two guys should know what it says without even consciously deciphering it. What he’s doing is letting someone else read it.”
Ulrich looked at her. “He is, is he?”
Forrest was sitting in a chair now, allowing Marty and the other men to read over his shoulder.
Greetings from Hawaii / mostly good news tonight / will not be eating rats after all / hurray / latest quartermaster report indicates now one month ahead of food consumption / meteorology now believes will be sufficient sunlight for limited farming within ten years / subject to change / oceanography reports previously unknown plankton species extra sensitive to ultraviolet light beginning to thrive / believes this could be very good news for oceanic life / now for bad news / surprise pirate raid along shoreline near kapaau left nine men dead and six women kidnapped / et has given navy free hand throughout island chain / how are things down under . . .
“The Navy is still operational,” Forrest said. “That’s damn good news! Maybe we won’t have to rely on those Aborigines of yours, Wayne.”
“We’ll see,” Ulrich said feeling his pulse quicken as he and Melissa began to intercept the Australian response.
Salutations from land down under / news of plankton life very encouraging / will begin own studies here asap / meteorology here not so optimistic about s
unlight / will discuss further at future date / piracy here also growing problem / launching all out offensive this week / oil production here up / food stores remain shallow / only one week ahead of consumption / great white shark reported off barrier reef yesterday / raises interesting questions / chinese war vessel spotted in torres strait north of queensland / any ideas what this could mean . . .
“That’s curious as hell,” Marty said. “What’s a shark eating?”
“Screw the shark,” said Sullivan. “What’s the Chinese navy up to?”
“This discussion is a good sign overall,” Ulrich said. “They don’t seem nearly as concerned about their long-term survival as they were in the last conversation we recorded. I think we need to break into this conversation, Jack.”
“Jump in there,” Forrest said, indicating the prepared message on the console.
Ulrich began tapping out the encoded message.
Greetings from Nebraska / only recently able to decipher your transmissions / wish to join conversation / in possession of impact crater photos . . .
Within seconds the Hawaiian telegrapher was rapidly tapping out a signal in blind Morse Code.
—••/••—/—•—•/—•—/—•••/••/•—••/•—••/•/—••/•——•/•—••/•—/—/—•——/•——•/•——/•••
Which Ulrich translated effortlessly: duckbilledplatypus.
“Shit!” he said, throwing the pen down.
“What the fuck does that mean?” Sullivan said over his shoulder.
“It means the Hawaiian just told the Aussie to switch to another fucking code. A code that not even our little genius here has a prayer of cracking.” He put his arm around Melissa and kissed her on the side of the head. “No offense, honey.”
“But how do you know that?” Sullivan said.
“Because they’re switching to a three-layered emergency encryption. I’m guessing our signal is only strong enough to reach Hawaii, which means the Australian didn’t hear us. So right now the Aussie’s down there waiting with bated breath to find out why the Hawaiian just declared an emergency.”
“So that’s it?” Marty said. “They won’t even talk to us?”
“Give them time,” Forrest said easily. “What did you think they were going to say? ‘Hey, guys, join the party’? They need a minute to figure how they want to handle this.”
Ten minutes later the Hawaiian sent a lengthy message to the Australian, and it was nearly half an hour before the Australian got back to him.
Forrest took Ulrich’s pen and scribbled out a message: Nebraska standing by.
“Send that in Melissa’s code,” he said quietly.
Ulrich tapped it out and two minutes later they got a reply: confirmed nebraska.
“See there?” Forrest said, patting Ulrich on the shoulder. “Relax. It’s going to take a little time. That’s all.”
They listened to the telegraphers communicating slowly back and forth for nearly two hours before the Hawaiian got back to them directly:
Greetings nebraska / understand you have reconnoitered impact zone / is this correct . . .
Ulrich told them that it was and that they were requesting extraction from the American west coast.
Unable to respond to your request at this time / state size and location of impact crater . . .
“It’s approximately fifty miles across and nearly a mile deep,” Marty said. “Just north of the Montana border.”
Ulrich relayed the information.
State radiation levels / seismic activity / level of damage to surrounding areas . . .
“Radiation minimal,” Marty said. “Seismic activity moderate to heavy. Damage—total.”
Ulrich sent the information, and then at Forrest’s direction, added: Please tell Ester Thorn that Martin Chittenden sends his regards and looks forward to seeing her again soon. Nebraska signing off. Attempt to contact same time tomorrow.
“Wait,” Marty said. “Why are you signing off?”
“I don’t want them treating us like a bunch of goddamn stepchildren, that’s why. The more desperate we sound, the less we have to offer and the less likely they’ll be to send someone to pick us up.”
Confirmed nebraska / will comply . . .
They listened to the Hawaiian and the Australian talking privately for another hour before the airwaves fell silent.
Sixty-One
Harold Shipman placed his hand on Ester’s shoulder, gently shaking her awake at 4:40 A.M. “Ester?” he said quietly.
“What?” she said, coming awake quickly. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing bad,” he said. “Are you awake?”
“Well goddamn, Harold, I’d better be. I’m talking, aren’t I?”
Shipman chuckled. “May I turn on the lamp?”
“Of course,” she said, pushing herself up against the headboard. “What is it?”
Shipman turned on the lamp and sat in the chair beside her bed. “You won’t believe it,” he said. “I’m not even sure I do, but our wireless operator has heard from a group on the mainland who has not only cracked his code, but also claims to have been to the impact crater. They say that it’s a mile deep, fifty wide, and that there is heavy seismic activity in the area.”
“What’s so hard to believe about that?” she said, dry-wiping her face with her hand.
“For one thing, it’s difficult for me to believe that anyone civilized is still functioning anywhere near the impact area.”
“Well, that was Marty Chittenden’s plan,” she said. “For someone to survive and carry on.”
“And that’s the irony of it, Ester. These folks claim that Martin Chittenden sends his regards and that he hopes to see you soon. They’re asking to be evacuated off the West Coast.”
“My God!”
“That’s what I said.”
Ester threw back the blanket, revealing her blue flannel pajamas. “When did we get this message?”
“A couple of hours ago.”
“Why I am only now hearing about it?”
“Apparently, no one was quite sure whether or not to wake you,” Shipman said. “Had I not gone down to the lobby for a stroll, they would have waited until morning.”
She took her cane from against the nightstand and crossed to the walk-in closet, switching on the light. “Can we get them back on the air?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “They signed off asking that we contact them at the same time tomorrow night.”
“They did, huh?”
She reemerged from the closet a few minutes later dressed for the day in black slacks and a salmon colored button-up sweater. “Well, let’s drive up the mountain and see if we can’t get them to answer. I don’t believe for a goddamn minute they won’t be listening.”
Sixty-Two
Forty-five-year-old Captain William J. Bisping stood drinking a cup of coffee on the flight deck of the USS Boxer LHD 4, a Wasp Class amphibious assault ship capable of accommodating 1,200 crew members and 2,100 battle-ready Marines. In addition, the Boxer was capable of carrying up to forty-two helicopters and a number of amphibious landing craft. For the purposes of this cruise, however, it was carrying fewer than eight hundred crewmen, a detachment of only four hundred Marines, two F-35B Lightning VSTOL fighter jets, four attack helicopters, and five EFV, or expeditionary fighting vehicle, amphibious landing craft.
Steaming just off of Boxer’s starboard bow at one thousand yards was her escort vessel, the HMCS Algonquin DDG 283, an Iroquois Class Canadian destroyer, one of only a few foreign vessels the Hawaiian navy had per
mitted to join them at Pearl Harbor.
With Bisping’s month-long mission to the Americas now at an end, both ships were en route back to Pearl Harbor. The naval port of San Diego, more than twelve hours in their wake, the Boxer hangar deck was loaded stem to stern with thousands of boxes of fluorescent bulbs of all sizes, shapes, and varieties. She was also laden with tons of medical and mechanical supplies, critical to the longevity of the Hawaiian population.
Ashore, the sailors and Marines had encountered a few violent cannibal groups, but the Marines were heavily armed, and the ever-watchful attack helicopters on station in the air above prevented any surprise attacks as the sailors moved methodically from store to store up and down the coast, collecting every lightbulb they could lay their hands on and loading them onto trucks for transfer to the ship. They had taken no casualties, though it was necessary to kill a few dozen starving male civilians intent on eating them, most of whom had been too sickly and malnourished to be effective in pitched battle.
Bisping had remained aboard the Boxer, which did not actually go into port until it was time to load the cargo collected on the pier. The reports and digital photographs the division commanders brought back, however, gave Bisping a horrific impression of what had taken place in Southern California during the early months after the impact. Freeze-dried, mummified corpses littered the streets by the thousands, and nearly everything made of wood or that was otherwise flammable had been burned to ash.
Boxer communications officer, Lieutenant jg Brooks, stepped out of the conning tower and walked across the flight deck to where the captain stood watching the sea. “Message from Pearl, Captain.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brooks,” Bisping said, reading the printout. “Have Mr. O’Leary meet me in my cabin.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
First Officer Commander Duncan O’Leary rapped at the captain’s door five minutes later.
“Enter.”
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Have a look at this, Duncan.”
O’Leary read the printout and gave it back. “Extract who, sir?”
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