by Greg Dragon
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 email.
“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 they’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.
***
The transport team was sweating and only too happy to get away from the most cross-grained and viper-tongued minister of the Lord they had ever encountered.
“What the hell was that all about?” muttered one Marine once they were out of earshot.
“Must be a lesbian thing,” said another nervously.
Staff Sergeant Gaona coughed, then spoke in a stentorian voice. “Belay that, Edwards. This is the new Corps. Embrace the rainbow.”
After a distinct pause, all six of them burst into gasping, raucous, relieved laughter. When they could breathe again, they headed down to pick up another patient. The corporal said, “Remember, Staff Sergeant, that Chaplain’ll be coming back eventually.”
“Oh, shit. And she knows my name.”
***
On the Osprey, Forman strapped Jill in – Navy chaplains afloat were trained in as many medical-assistance tasks as possible – and shook with relief when the aircraft finally lifted. She bowed her head and said a heartfelt prayer of thanks, certain now that Jill would get away. She resolved to have a little talk with one Staff Sergeant Gaona when she returned to the ship.
Bending down, she spoke directly into Jill’s ear. “Take this,” she said, handing her a folded piece of paper. “Memorize it if you can, then get rid of it. It’s an anonymous email drop I set up when I was going through my divorce, so I could communicate with my lawyer without my husband snooping. If you avoid any distinctive keywords, you should be able to contact me through it without the NSA picking it up. Only use it if you have to.”
Jill nodded, opening it up to commit it to memory. When they landed, she handed it back to Christine with a confident nod.
Chapter Two
National Military Medical Center, Bethesda, Maryland.
Inside the female head – what the Army would call a latrine – Jill pulled her eight-point cap from her cargo pocket and her neck wallet from her panties. Looping the packet of ID, money and cards back over her head, she then shrugged on the utility tunic she’d swiped from a wounded fellow Marine’s ruck. “Raznowski” read the name tag, with a corporal’s insignia. A little big, but it would have to do.
That was probably the worst thing about this whole exercise – to steal, even if she thought it necessary. She consoled herself with the belief that it should be reported lost or damaged in transit and replaced by the Corps.
After strapping her prostheses up tight again, she stepped out of the stall and washed her face and hands, checking her appearance. Good enough for a cursory glance, and one more Marine in a military hospital was likely to go unnoticed. Sliding out into the hallway, she turned and walked quickly for the stairs.
Eight floors later she wobbled to the bottom on her false legs. She’d done the last four flights parallel-bars style, with her hands on the rails, pausing as others walked by, nodding and smiling and hoping they did not inquire too closely.
After tightening the bindings up again, Jill opened the door to the lobby. It bustled with people, with the smells of the coffee kiosk in the corner and fresh bread from the sub sandwich franchise along the wall. It was all she could do to ignore her increasing hunger and not get in the line for a foot-long, but there was no telling how soon they might start looking for her. After an internal struggle, she simply walked out.
The first and most important order of business was to get lost, so she stumped carefully over to a waiting base shuttle bus and got on, not caring where it went. There had to be something to eat somewhere.
The bus made several stops on the base, then drove out the gate. She could see Humvees with M2 .50 calibers mounted, guarding the entrances, and long lines of vehicles waiting to get in. Fortunately, they did not seem to be checking the outgoing vehicles – yet. Though martial law and a state of national emergency had been declared just days ago, the national capital region was still sorting itself out.
Traffic felt light outside the installation, even in the middle of a weekday, and there seemed to be a cop or an MP vehicle parked at every intersection. Jill wondered what they thought they were securing against – more “terrorism,” presumably.
Given that she had witnessed the deliberate murder of three thousand people on the cruise ship, she wondered about the nukes in West Virginia and Los Angeles, and the lengths people in her own government would go to control secrets.
Thinking of LA brought another wave of grief and fear for her family. She’d grown up on some tough streets, been part of a gang until she’d joined the Corps. With her mixed-Latina looks, she’d never quite fit anywhere – until the Marines taught her what it meant to be a warrior, and serve something greater than herself.
Though there were at least fifteen million people in the greater Los Angeles area, and perhaps only – only! – half a million casualties from the nuclear detonation, she couldn’t shake the terror that almost everyone she loved in this world might be dead.
Maybe they’re all right. She kept telling herself that.
Jill resolved to try to call them as soon as possible, then discarded the notion. From what she’d heard, on the television in the ward and the radio on the bus, anyone showing “unusual medical symptoms” was being detained and quarantined. A call to her family might lead back to her or, more importantly, throw suspicion onto them. As a military police member, she knew the securi
ty mentality well; anyone associated with a suspect was automatically under suspicion.
No, she’d not make that call. Better to have them believe she’d died on the cruise ship. Maybe Gaona’s inquiry and the records associated with it would get buried under an avalanche of more important things for the overstretched military to do.
The bus she rode pulled up with a squeal of air brakes and she looked up from her musings to see a Metro station. Getting off, she settled her cap on her head and looked around, searching for any sign of something to eat.
A burger place beckoned at the end of the block, but her stumps were already screaming inside her badly fitted prostheses. She looked longingly toward the fast food, then thought about the long ride home to Quantico. Her healing body wanted food every hour, needed it really – with this thing that was going on inside her.
“Can I help you, Corporal?” a voice at her elbow asked. Jill turned to see a tall, staggeringly handsome Army captain, in neat utility uniform with a holstered sidearm. He glanced at her chest, but she was used to that in uniform – that’s where her military name tag resided. His read “Muzik.”
It certainly isn’t my huge rack, she chuckled to herself, not with a triathlete’s low body fat. She saluted sharply, and he returned it automatically, raising his eyebrows expectantly. God, he’s gorgeous.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. Have to take a chance here. She reached down to thump on her artificial right leg, then the left. “Just got released and haven’t totally got the hang of them yet.”
His brow furrowed with sympathy. “That sucks. IED?”
“Mortar round. Iraq.”
“I thought we were pretty much out of there?”
“I’m an MP, and we’re still helping with their police. ‘Troop withdrawal’ doesn’t include trainers. Those poor local schmucks get it from all sides. Glad to be home.” The truth came much more easily than any lies, and Jill found herself glad to talk with someone.