The scaling up of the prototype testbed to accommodate the reactor had created more internal space, but it wasn’t that much space. In the end, the engineers ran the feeds side-by-side along the passageway leading from engineering to the turret mount. That wiring, along with all the other lines routed along that path, ran along the ceiling for ease of inspection.
It was a tight fit, and if they used the design in the future, they could always shift things around to be able to create room. It was a prototype, after all—no need to worry about the long-term.
Over eight years of hard use, the USS Jack Lucas had stood up to the test. The best engineers the survivors could find, whether they be military or civilian, had contributed to the task. Marines had given their lives on missions to salvage critical replacement parts, and when they couldn’t find parts, they’d custom-machined them.
The rail gun trunk lines were thick enough, and stiff enough, that they kept themselves in the same place over the years, with support from periodic brackets. That stability had led one of the succession of engineers who’d kept the boat running to take a shortcut. While replacing a much smaller cable, one solely responsible for carrying communication signals from the CIC to the engine room, he’d tossed it on top of the line dedicated to the port rail gun instead of snaking it through the designated, padded supports.
That had been six years ago. The engineer who’d taken the shortcut was long dead—bitten, fittingly, due to his own carelessness on a salvage run.
The Lucas had covered a lot of miles over that time. Cable run inspections were a boring but frequent part of maintenance duty. This wire, though, was out of sight and unnoticed. And every time the ship heaved in the ocean or fired a shot in anger, the wire twisted, just a bit—sanding fine layers of insulation off one by one, until the outer shroud exposed the hair-thin fiber optic lines within, and their own insulation began to rub.
It was a bad design, with no redundancy, and would have been caught and corrected after the shakedown cruise.
Today, luck ran out.
The last layers of insulation parted, bare fiber rubbed on the rail gun trunk, then gave way.
And all at once, the computer-driven controls of the scientific marvel lost connection. Automatic diagnostics sensed the break. Programmed to protect vital systems from overload, electrical cutouts activated, and the power flickered throughout the ship. Manual resets worked for moments, then kicked in again when communication failed.
In engineering, the source of the fault was evident—a main data bus signal loss. The system even helpfully identified the segment of wire that might be the problem—except for the fact, of course, that the line was in the wrong place. A work crew sprinted the length of the corridor, searching for the communications line, only to find that the bracket segments that should have cradled it sat empty.
In the CIC, the relayed shout of the chief engineer’s warning filled the void left by the sudden cessation of the supersonic crack of rail gun fire. Lights flickered. The live-data display screens went out. The array of drone operation systems flickered and went out as one, then blinked back on as battery backups kicked in. In some instances, the recovery was too late, and cries of dismay filled the room as controls lost sync. A trio of drones went Dutchman, refusing remote commands.
Captain Wilhite clenched a fist and resisted the urge to slam it into the nearest console. “You heard the man, Ensign, get all available engineering hands in there, pronto! Pull them off battle stations if need be. Weps, Nav, Comms, I need a status report.”
“Rail guns are down, showing fault on port barrel—” The scream from the Nav station cut Repko off.
“Captain, engines have auto-reduced to all-stop. They’re not responding to helm control, ma’am!”
Wilhite could feel it in the bones of the ship. The low-level thrum of turbines had ceased, signifying that neither the ship’s propellers nor station-keeping thrusters were turning. Unless they could get control back to those systems, they were at the mercy of the waves.
Her blood went cold, and she glanced at her watch. Not yet noon.
The tide’s coming in.
Chapter 34
April 3, 2026
Lockheed Skunkworks
Z-Day + 3,089
When they’d arrived, the city around them had been more faded and sand-scrubbed than post-apocalyptic. Back home, Pete had grown accustomed to the signs of civilization rotting away. Here, the desert air acted as a preservative, and if he squinted, he could have convinced himself that he was in some long-abandoned factory town rather than a once-booming community.
The smoke and fire from the south put the lie to that sentiment. He scanned the burning line with his binoculars and prayed that the fire had stopped because there was nothing left to shoot.
The wind shifted, smoke parted, and teeming movement shattered that illusion. “Shit.”
Onward they came, over the rubble of fallen buildings and through smoldering fire. Intent, united in purpose and still headed toward the warehouse.
The skin on the back of Pete’s neck crawled. He handed the binoculars over to McFarlane. This isn’t right. They don’t act like this.
The leading edge was still a mile away, and Pete could hear intermittent secondary explosions from the spreading line of fire. They should have been milling about, confused by the noises and flashes. Even the stage twos that had breached the walls back home were still distracted by noise.
“I don’t think we’ve got enough bullets, Major.” McFarlane handed the binoculars back and let his fingers stroll over the buckles of his magazine pouches.
“I’d trade every one we’ve got for more time, Top.” Pete keyed his radio. “Ferris, how we looking?”
“Making progress, Major. Lift bag is holding pressure, we’re about to try the diesel now. Twenty minutes.”
Pete eyed the approaching horde. Gonna cut it close. As soon as he replied to Ferris, his radio chirped in his ear. He recognized the voice even through the corrupted digital signal.
“Icarus Actual, this is Lucas actual, how copy?”
“Slightly garbled, Captain.”
“Copy. We’re trying to boost the signal, but we’re using handhelds. We’ve suffered a catastrophic system failure. We’re dead in the water. Eyes in the sky are down and we have no offensive capability.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Major.”
Pete stared south and worked his jaw wordlessly. “Understood. Choppers?”
“They’re still a few minutes out. It’s going to be fifty to sixty minutes before we can get them back your way. I don’t even know if we can get the fuel pumps working.”
“Hold them back, Captain. We’ve got an alternate option. That’s too long to wait for the choppers, anyway. We’re going to be up to our ass in zulu well before then.”
Wilhite’s response was long in coming. “Copy. If the situation changes, I’ll let you know, Major.”
“Out,” Pete let off the transmit button and muttered, “A little fire support would be nice.” He glanced to the side. McFarlane’s kept his face composed, but his fingers were still doing the tap-dance across his chest. I wonder if he even notices that he’s doing it.
“Needs must, Major.”
“That they do, Top. That they—” Pete leaned forward and squinted. At this range, and through the smoke, he couldn’t identify what it was that had caught his attention other than the patterns of movement. He raised the binoculars and fixed them on the lead edge of the horde. After a moment, he realized what his instincts had told him, and he silently passed McFarlane the binoculars.
It didn’t take McFarlane long to peg to what Pete had noticed. He cursed under his breath. He turned to stare, and this time, his implacable face showed signs of fear. “They’re splitting into two groups,” McFarlane said, his tone questioning.
Pete gave him a single, sharp nod. “They’re going to attack us from both sides.”
April 3, 2026
Lockheed Skunkworks
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Z-Day + 3,089
TThe bees were back.
Charlie had thought the sound an aftereffect of the helicopter flight, but he’d begun to realize that it was something far, far worse.
The Marines lined up along the wall murmured in dismay as the horde marching toward them split into two separate lines. Charlie didn’t have to be a military genius to know that splitting their forces and defending multiple points of attack was going to be a lot more dangerous than holding a single defensive line. He switched his new rifle to his left hand and scratched at the healed wound on his side.
It was obvious now, what he was hearing. He was hearing them. For whatever reason, the nanomachines in his blood were picking up on whatever form of communication the zulus used. And considering the precise, almost military maneuver the horde had executed, the worst was yet to come. Maybe it was a hive mind, or the zulu equivalent of Pete was in charge down there, but one way or another, they weren’t facing the same old, predictable enemy any longer.
The worst part was, the longer he listened to the faint buzz, the less it sounded like bees and the more it sounded like words.
April 3, 2026
Lockheed Skunkworks
Z-Day + 3,089
The diesel started, chugged for a few seconds, and settled into a smooth rhythm that sounded so sweet it almost brought tears to Ferris’ eyes.
Getting the engine working was a major milestone, and the thing was in the air. Getting it from point A to point B was going to be the tricky part.
A massive pair of swivel rings were set into the concrete, lining up with two points on the Orca’s fuselage. When Ferris and his team had begun the process of filling the lift bag with helium, tethers between the two had kept the craft from floating away as it became more and more buoyant. While that was to the good, it also created a problem. If they wanted to attach the harnessed cargo containers to the lift points on the bottom of the hull, they had to move the Orca up and over.
Up wasn’t so hard. The experimental craft already strained at the lines holding it to the floor. In the end, it came down to muscle power and leverage. They looped lines through the attachment points closest to the corners, secured coils through anything they could find that was heavy enough or secured to the floor, and heaved it over. With the sling load secure, the Orca was still ready to fade into the sky. With the generator charging the vehicle’s electrical system, they had but one problem remaining.
They held their discussion in the spacious command center of the craft. It was a bit tricky getting out of the crew access and down the stack of containers, but it was doable.
“We cut the lines, sucker lifts off and keeps going.” Niles finished wiping his hands off on a rag and tucked it in the back pocket of his coveralls.
“Which is great for us,” Ferris agreed, “but crappy for the Marines. Agent Guglik, can you slow our ascent down with the engines? Hold altitude?”
She cursed under her breath. “Being honest? No way. They may have claimed the controls are like a Black Hawk, and yeah, they’re similar. Maybe if I had a couple of weeks of practice. In an hour? I’ll be doing good to keep us from slamming into the roof on the way up. I was hoping to get some altitude under us as a buffer.”
“Happy thoughts, Spork,” Niles said. “It’s not like you can crash the thing.”
“Not helping,” Ferris muttered. “Okay, so we need to do a two-stage ascent. Let the lines out enough that we can drop the rear hatch onto the roof. Marines get on board, we close the hatch and let the lines out the rest of the way. It’s not going to go up fast, not with the cargo containers, but if we can goose it with the turbofans…”
“Two sets of lines,” Niles mused. “Let the short set run out to get us to that height, then we blow the last set with det cord.” Ferris raised an eyebrow, and he explained. “What if the line gets tangled or hung up? Then we’re hanging there like bait on the hook. We’ll get swarmed.”
Ferris didn’t have to think about it for long. “I like it, let’s get it done. How are the batteries looking, Guglik?”
“Ten percent. This little flashy-indicator thing says it needs to be at thirty before it’ll let me fire up the engines. After that point, the generator can keep up with the drain on the batteries. At our current rate of charge—call it fifteen minutes.”
Little flashy-indicator thing? Ferris kept his face blank as he gave Guglik a look. It was a good thing Harris was down on the floor of the warehouse. He didn’t know if he’d be able to keep from wrapping his hands around the man’s neck. “Are we good, Agent?” He kept his voice calm and slow.
She caught the tension in his voice and turned around in the command chair. “Look, I’ve not gotten the formal training, but I’ve got experience. And yeah, I mean, we walked away from the landing. And I think they got the helicopter fixed at some point.” She shrugged. “It’s like you said. It’s not like I can crash the thing.”
Ferris gave Niles a look. The other man swallowed and mouthed, “At some point?”
April 3, 2026
Ventura Pier, Ventura, California
Z-Day + 3,089
The groan of the Navy ship coming aground sounded like the death moan of some primordial beast, come to rest in the shallows.
Eight years of constant disappointment had worn Nick down to the point that his only external reaction was to sigh and toss his hammer into his tool bag before he turned to look south once more.
When the ship stopped firing, they’d all assumed that the crisis going on further inland was over. The pier folk had gone back to their tasks—tending the garden beds, washing clothes, and other chores. Nick and Louie had begun the process of repairing a leaky roof on one of the shacks.
All in all, a typical Friday.
Silent and nervous about what the new development implied, Nick and Louie resumed their vigil on the south side of the pier. There wasn’t much to see on the ship itself. Despite the groups of sailors running around on deck, the vessel was pretty much silent—at least from where Nick stood—but the zombies reacted as though they’d heard a dinner bell. The leading edge of the horde rushed into the surf. Most of them were too wobbly to make it more than a few steps before falling down. If they tried to get up, he couldn’t tell, because the ones behind kept pushing forward. “Looks like a messed-up version of one of those Black Friday videos from back in the day,” he mused. The face-planted zombies had formed an impromptu dock of flesh and bone. The footpath out of the surf ended after ten feet or so, but the process was repeating itself, and the path crept toward the stricken Navy ship.
“Hell of a lot funnier than that,” Louie pointed.
Nick shifted his view and cursed under his breath as he saw the group heading their way. The zombies at the back of the horde had no noise to orient on, and no movement on the ship to draw their attention. As they trickled away from the larger mass in ones and twos, it was just their luck that they fixated on the people on top of the pier.
There were more than enough to pile up under them to gain access or just plain knock the place down.
He’d seen all he needed to see. It was time to go.
“Fishin’ time,” he said to Louie, and the other man gave him a nervous nod. “Let’s gather them up.” The two men split up. Nick walked toward the sea end of the pier, while Louie headed toward the beach end.
Everyone else had stopped working to take in the creeping disaster to the south. Despite his own fears, Nick kept his voice calm as he moved to each of his fellow survivors.
When he got to Amber, he almost broke. She saw the look on his face and knew what was coming before he could even say it. “Time for a little day trip, hon,” he managed. “Let’s be quick about it.”
Nonplussed, she gave him a slow nod. She’s a rock, Nick marveled. There were times when he felt like a poser, having these people hold him up as a leader, but Amber had an air self-assurance that he himself leaned on. If she believed in him, how could he not believe in himself?
>
“Is this it? Or do you think we’ll be able to come back?”
“This is it.”
April 3, 2026
Aboard the USS Jack Lucas
Z-Day + 3,089
“Give me the good word, Lieutenant Butler.”
The ship’s chief engineer—or ChEng—looked exhausted. Allen Butler was of average height, balding, and otherwise unassuming in appearance. He made up for his anonymous visage with a mind that was sharp as any Captain Wilhite had ever known.
He sighed, then spoke. “I know what the problem is, it’s not a difficult fix, but we can’t find the damn data bus wire. It’s supposed to run in one of the main support tracks, but it’s not there. We’re tearing into the hub controls at either end to start tracing from those ends, but it’s going to take time.”
“How long?”
Butler spread his hands in frustration. “An hour? And that’s literally the best guess I can give you, Captain. I’m not doing any Scotty engineering padding to make myself look like a miracle worker.”
Wilhite sagged wearily into a chair and resisted the urge to mop the sweat from her forehead. Even though the electronics were all off, CIC was turning into a sauna from lack of air circulation. “Anchors still locked up, COB?”
The chief’s typical frown deepened. “It’s hydraulic, it’s supposed to be redundant in the event of a power failure. They won’t budge, Captain. Even tried taking a cutting torch to the spindle to see if we could feed one of the bow anchors out manually. No joy. When they added that second turret, they changed some of the systems around. We’ve had power all this time, I never thought to try paying one out on backups to see if it would work. Maybe if the engineering boys had a couple of hours to track down the problem. . .” He trailed off. Butler nodded in agreement.
For the first time in eight years, her ship was failing her. Oh, there’d been issues here and there, but they’d been able to overcome them. Did we rush this? Should we have taken more time, gotten more vessels involved? She shook the second-guessing away, it was doing nothing for the situation. “Understood,” Wilhite said. “Okay, people, we need to create time. What are our options to keep zulu off us until—”
A Place Called Hope (Z-Day Book 2) Page 36