by Todd Tucker
She reminded herself that she was still in command of an Alliance submarine. She’d been watching the waterline carefully, and while only the nose of the sub still stuck out of the water, it no longer appeared to be sinking. She had to summon help somehow, even with radio disabled. Maybe she could launch the emergency beacon, draw in help from the Alliance. She had two billion dollars’ worth of technology under her command, nuclear missiles, torpedoes, the most advanced submarine in the world. Surely she could thwart three rubber boats.
The boats landed on the island, and she lost track of what was happening until the action began to center on the distant control tower. She heard the sharp staccato cracks of rifle shots. That sound stopped and was replaced by something lower, more powerful.
Suddenly there was a change in the air. The random swooping of the drones over Eris turned into a direct flight.
Toward her.
She’d observed enough drone attacks to recognize what was about to happen. Somehow the radius had changed, she realized, putting the Polaris in the killing zone. Without thinking, she executed a perfect swan dive off the side of the Polaris, into the ocean. The cool water braced her, gave her clarity of mind she hadn’t had in days. As she came up to the surface, she was already swimming fast, athletically, toward the rocky shore of Eris. The bombs exploded behind her, finishing off what was left of her submarine.
She found her rhythm quickly, swimming strongly toward shore, breaking through the waves. It was five miles to the beach. A long swim in open, choppy ocean, but she was strong, the all-time record holder on the Alliance obstacle course. The swim took her back to her training, when everything seemed so clear and her talents so valued. Every second stroke, she took a breath, and she could see bombs dropping in front of her now, too, exploding all over Eris Island. She herself must be inside the killing zone, she realized, but a lone swimmer was, at least for the moment, a lower priority target. As she powered through the waves, she felt indestructible.
* * *
Pete looked cautiously out the window as Carlson’s crew was swarmed by drones.
At first, the drones assessed the immediate threat, bombing Carlson and her men. They threw themselves to the ground, but there was nowhere to hide on the rocky bluff. Bombs fell all around them. They were close enough that Pete could see them screaming, but he couldn’t hear them over the constant roar of the exploding bombs. Some of the Typhon crew rolled into the crevice, driven either by gravity or by an instinct to seek some kind of shelter.
Simultaneously, a formation of drones headed toward Polaris. Pete saw Finn wince as the first bombs struck his ship. They poured their bombs onto the boat, then formed a beeline back to the island to reload. The Polaris held up bravely as bombs poured onto her, but eventually the top of the hull cracked, and smoke poured out as more bombs poured in. The drones were in a frenzy.
And then, suddenly, Polaris was gone, replaced on the ocean surface by a black slick of oil and a layer of bubbles as the ship’s air banks cracked and exploded.
The drones returned their attention to Eris Island.
They began targeting the pallets of bombs, which exploded with such power that the concussion almost knocked the men down in the control tower. What glass remained in the windows was shattered. Pete covered his face with his hands and felt flying shards of glass cut his knuckles. Alarms went off in the tower as bombs dropped close by; Pete saw one indicator saying that the main tower door was breached, compromised by a series of nearby blasts. But the tower itself stayed safe as the drones focused all their energy on targets outside the ten-foot radius. Pete noticed, fascinated, that the drones were prioritizing the larger pallets of bombs first, then going after the smaller ones. The island was soon blanketed in explosions.
Pete saw a smoke cloud in the distance, on the south side of the island. His heart sank as he realized that the old buildings of the medical detachment were being destroyed. Whatever remained of the group’s quest for a cure was being bombed into shreds.
It was over quickly. Soon, the island was overflowing with quick-moving, unarmed drones. Pete could practically read their primitive little minds. They were without bombs, with no chance of rearming, having destroyed all their own munitions. They quickly went into self-destruct mode.
They all picked targets, what few structures were left on the battered island, and flew perfect swan dives into them. Only the ten-foot circle around the tower was safe. Some drones flew into the sea as well, spotting some target of opportunity, a piece of flotsam from one of the sinking submarines.
It took thirty minutes before the bombs stopped falling. It seemed much, much longer as they sat and listened and absorbed the sound from a thousand bombs through the broken windows. Pete remembered reading about artillery barrages in World War II that had gone on for days. He didn’t know how men could ever endure that kind of noise for so long without going insane.
His ears rang so badly that it took him a minute to realize it was over. He stood up slowly, and McCallister did the same.
Outside the windows, the island was smoking from a thousand craters, large and small. But no drones flew overhead.
The quiet was breathtaking.
“Everybody OK?” said Pete. He stood all the way up, carefully.
“I’m all right,” said Finn.
“Me, too,” said Stewart, although Pete could hear otherwise in his voice. The old man didn’t get up.
“Admiral?” Peter walked to him.
A dark patch of blood spread across his uniform. “I don’t think it’s anything serious.”
“Are you shot?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Broken glass. Hurts like the devil, and lots of blood, but I’ll be fine.”
Pete looked closely into the admiral’s eyes, looking for false bravado. While his body was bloodied, his eyes were steady and calm. Considerably calmer than Pete felt.
“Freeze!” Hana Moody suddenly burst through the door. She rapidly trained a pistol from Pete and the admiral to Finn, and back again. Her eyes stopped briefly on the admiral, confused by a stranger in admiral’s shoulder boards. Incredibly, Pete saw in her eyes deference to his rank. Her weapon looked foreign; Pete realized she must have scavenged it from one of the dead Typhon marines.
“Jesus Christ, Moody, how did you—?”
“I rushed to the door of the tower. Stayed pinned against it while you got the drones to do your dirty work.”
Her soaking-wet clothes were torn, her face dirty and bloody. As loud as it was inside the tower, Pete couldn’t imagine what it must have been like on ground level during the barrage.
She steadied the gun at Pete, but hesitated to point it at the admiral. “You’re all prisoners of war,” she said.
From the other side of the tower, Finn laughed out loud. “Our war is over,” he said. “You can put that thing away.”
“You’ve betrayed the Alliance,” she said. “And I’m going to see that you pay for it.”
Finn then did the one thing that guaranteed the most viscerally angry reaction. He laughed at her.
With a guttural cry of rage, she fired. Her aim was off, perhaps due to unfamiliarity with the Typhon gun, and she hit Finn in the shoulder. He spun to the ground with a grunt.
She trained the gun on Pete, the only man now standing in the tower. “Have you got anything to say?”
“I’ll do whatever you want,” said Pete, trying to exaggerate the panic in his voice. “But we’ve got to help the admiral!”
Her eyes darted to Stewart. “What’s wrong with him? Who is he?”
“He’s been hit!” said Pete, trying to add to her confusion and doubt. “They shot the admiral!” He knelt down as if to aid him.
As he did, he reached in his pocket.
Moody looked away, just for a moment, to the graying admiral covered in blood. Maybe she thought he could be her ally, a supporter of her crusade for the Alliance. Even wounded, he was the portrait of high-ranking dignity, with his gray
hair and weathered face. Maybe she thought Pete and Finn had taken him prisoner up there in the tower. Whatever she thought, his presence was enough to distract her for just a moment. It was long enough for Pete to withdraw his nine-millimeter pistol, and fire a shot.
He hit her in the thigh. She spun around even as she was trying to raise her gun, but Pete fired again, this time hitting her square in the chest. She stared at him, stunned, eyes wide open, but still on her feet, still with the pistol in her hand.
Pete stood, took a moment to aim, and fired a third shot, into her chest.
She fell to the glass-covered carpet of the tower floor, dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
They waited a full day in the tower, watching the drones trickle in and kill themselves on the island. They ate a little from the well-stocked bunker in the basement beneath the tower, slept a little in the two cots, taking turns on watch upstairs. They dressed the wounds of the admiral, picking out the pieces of broken glass that had lodged in his chest and scalp. Finn’s wound was more serious, but the bullet had exited his shoulder cleanly, and they dressed and bandaged him as best they could.
They dragged Moody’s body onto a landing in the stairwell, for lack of a better place, and covered it with a green tarp that barely covered her.
At sunrise, Pete wandered upstairs to find the admiral staring out at sea.
“Anything?” he said.
“No.”
“Think we should venture out?” said Pete.
The admiral nodded. “It’s probably safe now. Haven’t seen a drone in hours.”
He turned and leaned against the console that still glowed green with the shortened radius that kept them safe from any drones that might still be alive. “But now that we’ve got a second,” said the admiral, “let me ask you a question. Why are you here?”
Pete had to think for just a minute. While his memory had come back, it was still hazy, as if operating in a lower gear. And so much had happened.…
“They sent me here,” he said, “because of the flu.”
“Is it that bad?”
“They say it is,” said Pete. “So here I am.”
“They evacuated all the doctors a few weeks ago … it was entirely classified, of course. I managed to stay behind while they left. I figured they were taking the vaccine with them.”
“They didn’t survive the trip. So they sent me.”
“Sent you to stop one epidemic…”
Pete raised his hands to indicate the airfield, scattered with the wreckage of a thousand drones. “And I stopped another.”
“Maybe you’ll stop both,” said the admiral. He reached under his coat and pulled out a thick manila envelope that he’d been hiding. “I went down there and looked around after the medical team left. Found this on a desk—pretty sure somebody wanted me to find it.”
“What…” said Pete, as he took the envelope.
Across the front of it, in large red letters, it read: THE CURE.
* * *
The three men made their way out onto the island, explored on foot. The drones had performed well until the very end. No structure was still standing except the control tower, protected by that green electronic circle that Pete had inscribed around it. He’d left it there, just in case, and the three men kept a wary eye on the sky. But Pete had a feeling that all the drones were gone, the word spread by dancing drones and self-destruct sequences under way all over the Pacific.
They came upon the bluff where Carlson had made her last stand and scrambled to the top.
A number of weapons were scattered across the bluff. Finn picked one up.
“Grenade launcher,” he said. “They almost got us with this.”
Pete bent down and picked up two bandoliers. “Are these the grenades?” They looked like very large shotgun shells, each with a bulbous nose.
“They are,” said Finn. He took the two belts and counted up the remaining shells. “Twenty-two left,” he said. He put the belts across his chest. “Let’s see what else they left behind.”
“Over here!” said the admiral. He was at the edge of the bluff, pointing down into the crevice.
When the waves ran out of the space between the bluff and the island, they revealed a grisly sight: almost the entire Typhon force, their bodies broken and twisted. Pete saw movement and thought for a moment that someone had somehow survived. Then he realized that the bodies were covered in thousands of tiny crabs, busily consuming their dead flesh.
“Let’s drag Moody’s body out here with them,” he said, remembering how she had treated his friend Ramirez.
* * *
On the other side of the island, they came over a rise to the remains of a low-slung building that still smoldered.
“What’s this?” said Finn.
“The medical research facility,” said Stewart. “What’s left of it.”
They climbed a hill, from which they could see water in all directions. Waves crashed on the south side of the island, and seagulls dived around them. Each time a gull’s shadow crossed the ground, Pete caught himself flinching.
“Now what do we do?” said Finn.
“Everybody will realize soon that the drones are gone,” said Pete. “There are people that have been waiting for this moment. To seize the island.”
“Will this end the war?” said Stewart.
“It’s been over,” said Pete. “I’m convinced. Both militaries have all been driven underground and underwater for so long; they’re decimated. Nobody wants to fight anymore. Nobody has for a while now. I’m sure there will be negotiations, bad intentions and good, but the war is over. We just destroyed the only weapon system that was still functioning.”
“Will they call us traitors?” said Finn. “Saboteurs? For destroying it all?”
“No one needs to know,” said Pete. “Both sides were here; now both sides are gone. We’ll say they destroyed the drones while fighting each other. I’m the expert on drones, I’ll explain how it’s possible.”
“Will that work?”
Pete sighed. “It’s close enough to the truth. I can live with it.”
The men thought that over for a minute and continued to look at the sea.
“So what now? We stay here and wait for somebody to come get us? What if the enemy gets here first? What if it’s another one like Carlson? Or Moody, for that matter?”
Pete shrugged. “I’m not sure we have any choice. We’re stranded.”
“Maybe not,” said Stewart.
He led them down a path to a small inlet on the rocky side of the island. A heavily reinforced concrete shelf hung over it. “Come on,” he said.
The admiral was surprisingly spry given his age and his injuries. Pete had to help the wounded Finn down the path.
At the rocky edge of the water, they could look into the dim pen to which Stewart had led them. Inside was a perfectly white Navy cutter.
It was pristine. The water lapped gently against the hull. Black X’s had been painted against the side.
“We kept one here for additional trials with the drones,” said the admiral. “We never needed to use it because the drones worked so well right out of the gate. But it’s a perfectly seaworthy boat, with two full tanks of diesel fuel and room for all of us.” Pete noticed a large tank against the back of the bunker, and pointed.
“Extra fuel,” said the admiral.
Finn walked over to the boat and pulled himself with his good arm up the small ladder that led to its deck. He had a huge smile on his face.
“Admiral, I’ll be your XO.”
“No, you be the commanding officer,” said Stewart. “I’ve been thinking about retiring.”
* * *
They spent two days carrying all the food they could from the tower to the boat: powdered milk, powdered eggs, canned vegetables, canned beans, and hundreds of tiny boxes of cereal. Whatever the impact of the war, thought Pete, the Alliance’s Frosted Flakes production had remained strong throughout. On the way back
, they each carried a five-gallon plastic container of diesel fuel and positioned it in the control room.
They also practiced with the grenade launcher that had been salvaged from Carlson’s team. The thing was supremely well designed for war: tough and easy to use. With no instructions of any kind, all three men were soon shooting it accurately, until they were down to the last six grenades. They judged Hamlin to be the best shot.
That night, they decided to rest, and leave at dawn.
* * *
The sun was coming up as Finn started the twin diesels. They had tested them out the day before, and they required some minor work. Pete could see pure pleasure in Finn’s eyes as he worked on some last-second adjustments, his shirt off.
“You just going to stand there while I work?” said Finn.
“I’m an aeronautical engineer,” said Pete. “Can’t help you.”
Finn rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re second-in-command now.”
He gave a hand to Stewart to help him on deck, and then Pete untied the two lines that held the boat to the small cleats inside the pen.
“What will we name her?” asked Finn. “A ship needs a name.”
“How about Polaris?” said the admiral.
“No,” said Pete. “That boat was unlucky.”
“You got a better idea?”
“Pamela,” said Pete, without hesitating, and they all nodded in agreement.
“Are we sure there are no drones out there?” asked McCallister.
Pete nodded. “As sure as we can be. They must be self-destructing all over the place by now. And all of the ones within range of the island have probably made it back by now and self-destructed.”
“Who do you think will get here first when they realize the drones aren’t a threat anymore?”