“Mr. Allen? Are you all okay down there?”
“Yes,” replied Scott. “It got a little hairy for a moment there, but we have the situation under control with no injuries to our team, over.”
“Glad to hear it. But I have to remind you that we will not extract anyone who is injured by any of the infected.”
“That is understood,” confirmed Scott. He was glad he had told Mark and Clint to wash off all the blood. That alone might have resulted in their being left behind here.
The window washing platform did have a manual lever to lower it in case of power failure. As soon as Clint and Mark got there Scott explained that he would go down on the platform while the others waited to pull him back up. Scott removed the safety pin from the decent lever and slowly pulled the handle. The platform squeaked and started down slowly. As soon as a foot or so of the windows were visible Scott arrested the descent. He knelt down and squinted through the tinted glass. He wanted to keep the platform higher than any zombie could reach if it came charging at him through the glass. But there was no sign of any zombies inside.
At first he couldn’t see much at all, but then there was movement across the room. He tapped on the window and a figure approached cautiously. As it got closer Scott began to recognize the face. It was Blain, but he didn’t look too good. His eyes looked glazed and sunken. Was he a zombie? No, his look changed as he caught sight of Scott’s face and he gave a half-hearted grin and slight wave of his hand. He looked a bit burnt out, but he was not a zombie, yet. Scott banged harder on the window with the butt of his pistol, but the glass was tempered and didn’t break. He motioned Blain to stand back and fired a .357 hollow point into the glass. It shattered and fell away from the building towards the street below. Blain came forward again and asked, “What the heck are you doing, Scott? You blew out my window!”
“You want to get out of there alive, buddy, or what?” Scott replied smoothly.
“Hell yes!” he replied. “On that?” he pointed to the platform with slight trepidation.
“Unless you feel like jumping, but there’s no way you’re going to get past the gang of zombies on the stairs. We killed at least a dozen, but they just keep coming. This is the only way out now.”
“Okay,” Blain agreed hesitantly. “Wait while I get my wife and son. They’re hiding in the bathroom. I wasn’t sure it was you at first.”
“Go get them fast. And there’s no time to pack anything that won’t fit in your pocket. The helicopter won’t wait for us all day.”
“You got it,” Blain turned to hide his fears, get his family, and grab a few photos. Scott lowered the platform closer to the floor level and looked up to let Mark and Clint know he was almost ready. Blain returned with his family a few moments later. Scott was glad to see that his wife was wearing a baby carrier across her chest. Their son was really too big for it, but it would be safer to lift her and the child together, if they strapped the kid into it. He directed them to go first while he and Blain steadied the guide rope. There was a moment of hesitation when she looked down, but then the helicopter swooped by again and her expression of fear was replaced by hope. Mark and Clint took up the slack and hauled them up about twelve feet to the roof. Blain was a bit smaller than Scott, so he went up next. Then he helped Clint and Mark to pull Scott back up.
As soon as they were all on the roof, Scott pulled out the radio and requested extraction. The helicopter made one more close pass, clearly eyeballing the condition of the people requesting a ride, then settled down to a steady hover about a foot above the roof. Scott and the rest of them scrambled in and the Dolphin lifted off. Mission accomplished.
However, it was only a few seconds later that Scott noticed three more helicopters swinging into formation with the two Coast Guard Dolphins. One was a Navy Seahawk, similar to an Army Blackhawk with machine guns mounted in the open doors, another was a twin rotor Sea Knight with a similar configuration, including a gunner in the open rear ramp door, and the third helicopter was an intimidating Marine Corps Super Cobra that boasted a 20mm rotary canon under its nose. That helmet controlled chain gun was moving to cover them as the gunner turned his helmet to look their way. This could mean big trouble.
“Mr. Allen,” said the pilot over the intercom headphones that Scott had just put on. “We are being challenged by armed Navy and Marine Corps helicopters. They are asking about our mission and saying that we should divert to the North Island Naval Air Station on Coronado. How do you want us to handle this?”
“What will they do if we just fly out to sea?” asked Scott, not wanting to hear the answer.
“Unknown, sir,” replied the pilot. “But they certainly have the ability to blow us out of the sky and that is not my idea of a good time, sir. We have orders to assist you, but not to commit suicide.”
“Understood,” Scott affirmed. “Can you at least patch me through to talk with them before complying?”
“It’s worth a shot, huh, sir?” the pilot answered. “When you speak the voice activated transmitter will be active. Just remember that before you say anything you don’t want them to hear. Okay?”
“Roger,” Scott confirmed and waited a moment for the pilot to change the settings. Then he said, “Attention military helicopters on our six, be advised that these Coast Guard aircraft are on a rescue and extraction mission authorized by the Department of Homeland Security. Please return to your primary mission of defending uninfected civilians from the outbreak. Over.”
“Coast Guard helicopters in our gun sights, you will divert to North Island Naval Air Station on Coronado Island immediately for questioning. Failure to comply will be viewed as a hostile act per direct orders of ComCor, over.”
Scott gave the pilot a questioning look and mouthed, ComCor? Commander of Coronado? Scott knew that the titles and acronyms of military commands had changed a lot in recent years. There was no longer a Strategic Air Command or CINCPAC, but he was at a bit of a loss to debate military command structure nomenclature, so he fell back on another new group of acronyms that might still carry the day here.
“Our mission is authorized by DHS, FEMA, and CDC. We are engaged in a high priority extraction operation authorized by the highest levels of the National Command Authority. Do not attempt to interfere or detain us. Millions of lives could be at stake here.”
“No go, Coast Guard,” came the sharp reply. “You will land at North Island, or we will force you to land in less friendly territory. Follow the Sea Knight or prepare to take fire.”
There was a crackle over the headphones and the Coast Guard pilot said, “I didn’t think these bastards would take it this far, Mr. Allen, even though they were getting pushy when we were in port a few days ago. But they can blow us out of the sky, if we disregard their demands. I think we have to comply, at least for now. But I’ll get on a secure channel to the Stratton and inform Captain McCloud of this development.”
“Please do,” said Scott as he turned back to face his companions. The Dolphins obediently banked to follow the Sea Knight over Banker’s Hill and down towards San Diego Bay with the Cobra and Seahawk following close behind. Coronado was only sixty seconds away. Scott took stock of the situation and wished for a moment that Blain had been trapped in another city, anywhere but here. Why had the military that was supposed to protect them suddenly become their greatest threat?
*****
Coronado was brimming with activity. Navy ships, including two helicopter assault ships, a white hospital ship bearing a big red cross, and a nuclear powered aircraft carrier were lined up along the bay side of the island. More Navy ships, ranging from frigates and destroyers to cruisers and landing ship docks, rode at anchor in the bay. The ongoing Battle of Coronado Bridge was evident by the continuous tracer fire. The Amphibious Base on the near side of the island displayed constant movement of men and machines. Unlike the rest of San Diego, the streets of Coronado were filled with moving cars, trucks and buses transporting troops and refugees. The runways of the
North Island air base were lined with warplanes and military helicopters. It was clear that the Navy and Marines had consolidated their position here. As Scott viewed the scene he hoped that they were massing their forces for an attack that would sweep the zombie hordes out of the entire city, but then he realized that this consolidation was probably more of a defensive move. Coronado was defensible. The rest of San Diego, with the possible exception of Point Loma, was not.
The Dolphins followed the Seahawk across San Diego Bay and it became obvious that their destination was the nuclear powered super carrier. Scott saw the big number 70 on the island superstructure and was pretty sure that was the USS Carl Vinson. It was the same ship that had thrown the body of Osama bin Laden into the drink after he was killed by Navy SEALS in Pakistan. Scott wondered briefly if they were getting into the habit of throwing bodies overboard.
“Coast Guard helicopters, you will land on the numbers and remain in your aircraft until the deck crew secures them,” said a voice on the radio. “Leave any weapons you are carrying inside the helicopter and follow your escort to the debriefing room.”
Scott turned to Blain and said, “Sorry about this, Bliz, old buddy. Looks like we got you out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
“Being prisoner on an aircraft carrier full of armed sailors and Marines has got to be better than being trapped in a penthouse with hundreds of zombies pounding on the door,” Blain replied with half a smile. “Thanks anyway, bro. At least you saved us from that.”
“Don’t give up hope yet everyone,” Scott spoke out loudly. “I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve and I don’t think these Navy guys will turn out to be half as bad as the monsters we just fought.” As he finished that meager pep talk the helicopter flared to a soft landing on the deck of the USS Carl Vinson. Moments later they found themselves surrounded by heavily armed Navy SEALS who politely, but firmly, extracted them from the Dolphin and marched them towards an open hatch in the superstructure.
The atmosphere aboard this ship was tense, but disciplined. Sailors, SEALS and a few Marines moved quickly and purposefully about their duties. There was no idle chit chat in the passageways. Scott’s group, along with the Coast Guard pilots and crew from both Dolphins, were escorted swiftly to a room that looked sort of like the first class section of a jumbo jet. It held about fifty padded reclining chairs in rows facing a lectern and wide screen display. Scott recognized it as a squadron briefing room. He motioned his companions to take seats in the first two rows before anyone could suggest differently. Scott himself sat front and center.
They didn’t have to wait long for their hosts to arrive. Less than a minute after sitting down a door opened in front of the podium and four military officers walked in. The first two were Navy captains. The third was a Marine Corps General. The fourth and obviously most senior was an Admiral. They all walked to center stage and took a moment to gaze silently at the new arrivals. Seconds later the door opened again and sailors hurried in with chairs for the officers. Clearly there had not been time to set a proper stage for this event. Scott took a little encouragement from the fact that his own chair looked a lot more comfortable than the ones provided to the big shots in front of him.
“Welcome aboard the Carl Vinson, or as we like to call her, the Gold Eagle,” began the Admiral. “I’m Admiral Gerald Winchester, Commander of the Third Fleet and overall commander for the defense of San Diego. This is General Butch Barstow, commanding the Marine First Expeditionary Force from Camp Pendleton. Also with us are Captain Jacobs, commanding officer of Naval Base Coronado and its component bases, and Captain Andrews who leads our Emergency Preparedness and Consequence Management Response Force. He’s the one who’s actually trained for handling apocalyptic events. Not much of a joke now, is it?
“If I understand the situation correctly,” Admiral Winchester continued. “Some of you are from the ship that I instructed the Stratton to escort here. Somehow, you seem to have either taken over the cutter or convinced her officers to disregard my orders. In fact, they have already escorted your ship past San Diego. So who and what do we have here?” It was an open ended question that Scott did not feel compelled to answer yet. He even motioned the others to keep quiet and simply smiled back at the Admiral, which was something he might have hesitated to do before winning the lottery, quitting smoking, and spending a few uncomfortable days in a dentist’s chair. It had the desired effect on the Admiral.
“You, sir!” bellowed the Admiral as he glared and pointed at Scott. “Who are you?!”
“Commodore Scott Allen, at your service, sir,” replied Scott as he stood up to show his respects.
“Commodore?” yelled the Admiral in an even angrier tone. “In whose navy?”
“Not the navy, sir,” Scott responded. “I’m operating under specific authority of the CDC, FEMA, and the Department of Homeland Security in command of a rescue and recovery flotilla. We have a mission that may prove vital to national security.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded the Admiral.
“I have a letter of safe passage right here,” said Scott as he reached for the waterproof pouch in his inside vest pocket. “As you will see, it is signed and stamped by the highest authorities.” He passed the letter to a sailor, who passed it to Captain Andrews.
“What kind of crap is this?” asked the captain as he read the letter, then passed it to the Admiral.
“It’s quite authentic and can be easily verified,” Scott explained calmly. “Captain McCloud of the Stratton already received confirmation from Homeland Security, which is at the top of his official chain of command. How else do you think I could enlist the Coast Guard to provide assistance?”
“And why was it so important to rescue this family from San Diego?” Captain Andrews pressed suspiciously as he pointed towards the Fords.
“To our official mission? Not at all. To me? Extremely,” Scott answered honestly.
“Explain yourself, Commodore,” commanded the Admiral with measured disdain.
“These are my friends,” stated Scott evenly. “I had the ability and duty to save them. So I did. If I fail to return, my ship and crew have orders to continue the mission. The Stratton will support them.”
“That’s quite noble, Mr. Allen,” said the Admiral. “But stupid. You could have easily been killed or infected, or even shot by mistake. But now that you are here, you can tell me exactly what your mission is and order your ship to turn around and come back to San Diego. We’ll decide how best to accomplish your mission, if it is indeed so important.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do either of those things, Admiral,” replied Scott earnestly.
“The Hell you can’t!” blurted Captain Andrews.
“Well, I won’t,” Scott clarified. “That would compromise the safety of my ship and jeopardize the success of the mission. And I should probably inform you that before we left I installed explosives on the engines of the Sovereign Spirit, as well as scuttling charges, with orders to disable or destroy her before relinquishing command to any other authority.” That response evoked looks of true outrage.
“What are you implying?” asked the Admiral in a deadpan tone of controlled anger.
“I think you know, Admiral,” replied Scott evenly. “Your invitation to bring my ship to San Diego was nothing more than a spider inviting a fly to dinner. Granted, you didn’t know that we have a vital mission to perform, but the fact remains that you were planning to commandeer my ship and throw me, my family and friends on the beach. Do you deny it?”
“Hell no!” exploded the Admiral. “I don’t deny it! You’re damned right I would take your ship if I thought it would help me save more lives. And damn you for being too selfish to see the logic of my position. I’ve been given a mission from Hell! I’m watching millions of Americans turn into monsters, that turn more people into monsters, and all of them have no other mission than to eat the rest of us alive! I’ve got hundreds of thousands of refugees to care for and nowher
e near enough resources to do it. Your ship could house or transport over a thousand of them at a time. And I understand it has other assets that could be useful as well. So you damned well better get with the program, commodore!”
“I’m sorry, Admiral,” Scott said. “I really can’t agree with you. You have all the assets you need right here: An aircraft carrier and assault carriers, amphibious landing ships, troop transports, not to mention tanks and armored personnel carriers, helicopters, hundreds of thousands of guns, plus thousands of sailors and Marines to use it all. You have a secure base and you should be able to wipe out every zombie in San Diego County, but instead you have pulled back into defensive positions and abandoned most of the civilians that the President ordered you to protect. I don’t see how taking my ship will make the slightest difference to your chances for victory or survival here. Whereas my ship can make a real difference for many other people, if you simply allow us to continue our mission.”
“You insolent bastard!” thundered the Admiral. “I can’t decide if I should have you thrown in the brig or dumped in the refugee camp to see what it’s like for the people I’m trying to protect here! Captain Andrews, place these traitors in irons!”
Voyage of the Dead - Book One Sovereign Spirit Saga Page 21