“You,” Scott replied.
“What?”
“Did you fuck up?” He countered. “I’m just an innocent bystander.”
“You fu–“ she started to yell, but he cut her off with the raised hand of a traffic cop.
“I’m kidding,” he said. “I’d have done the same damned thing.” He shrugged, frowning. “That asshole wants to abandon us for another couple weeks.”
She shook her head and let out a half laugh/half scream.
“So why’d you do it?” He asked.
“Because she’s right out there,” she replied, waving in the general direction of the harbor. “And like you said, Polar Star’s a couple weeks away.” She shrugged. “I’m backing her play.”
Scott Pruden grinned. “Let’s hope she knows what she’s doing.”
142
USCGC Sassafras
Honolulu Harbor
“Ma’am?” Bill Schaeffer asked, laconic as always.
“If push comes to shove, you were just doing what I told you,” Molly said, hoping like Hell she hadn’t just done something monumentally stupid.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, the picture of innocence. She gave him a single raised eyebrow in response. He pointed to the bank of radio equipment lining the bulkhead. “We had a radio malfunction.” He tossed to hands into the air in the universal sign of WTF. “Never seen anything like it.”
She smiled, nodded, slapped him on the shoulder, and headed for the door.
142
Medical Clinic
Midway Atoll
“There is no fucking way I’m getting on that helicopter,” Stephanie Barber said, purposely not looking to see if her father had a reaction to her F-bomb.
LTjg Zack Greeley looked genuinely sorry. She did not give one single shit. “Ma’am,” he said. “The Captain said we were to bring you to Polar Star. That is what I intend to do.” His eyes flicked toward her father, then returned to her. “We can do this easy or hard,” he said, in a calm, but firm voice. Kyle Rogers, the Survival tech, took a step toward her. “The choice is yours.”
Her father - as she knew he would - begged to differ, by pulling the .45 from his shoulder holster and pointing it at the co-pilot’s head.
“No,” he said, pulling the hammer back with his thumb. “The choice is yours.”
Harvey Walton chortled with unrestrained enthusiasm. “Good show!”
Zack froze. Kyle froze. Her father said: “Think long and hard about your next move.”
143
USCGC Sassafras
Honolulu Harbor
“So what’s our next move?” John asked. He’d been disturbed by her report of the conversation with Polar Star, but Molly knew him well, and knew he had her back. His words just proved it.
The entire crew - Bill Schaeffer included, for once - were back in the Wardroom. John, Gus, Lane, Frank and Jeri Weaver sat on one side of the table, Bill, Duke, Harold, Dan McMullen, and Gary King, sat on the other, with Socrates Jones at the foot. He smiled at her. Molly stood at the head, gazing at all of them and trying to keep the tears at bay.
Samantha had wordlessly accepted her request to keep an eye on things from the Bridge. Her cousin had been cold and aloof - almost hostile. Molly hadn’t a clue what that was about, but the girl’s feelings - whatever they were - barely appeared on the list of priorities now facing the Commanding Officer of the Coast Guard Cutter Sassafras.
She pondered the title for a moment. She was their Captain. They were her crew. And - to a man - they were behind her one hundred percent. She bowed her head and faked rubbing her temples so she could wipe the gathering moisture from her eyes. She breathed in, let the air out slow.
Show time.
“I take full responsibility for our next move,” she began. “The Commanding Officer of the Polar Star - who outranks everybody, and may very well be Commandant of the Coast Guard, for all we know - has ordered us to wait for them to arrive.”
Harold coughed into his fist. It sounded like fuck him. Duke slapped his shoulder, but in a good-natured, rather than his usual punitive way.
“I have no intention of doing so.”
“Goddamn right,” Jonesy said, slapping his palm against the table.
“At best, it will take them a week to get here,” she continued. “At which time, they will not all have received the vaccine primer, making them highly susceptible to the virus.”
“That is correct,” Christopher Floyd interjected from his position on the couch, having - as usual - separated himself from everyone else. “It is possible the virus has burned itself out,” he continued. “But I wouldn’t want to bet my life on it. And if it still exists anywhere,” he said, waving his hand toward the portholes. “It would be in a city, like Honolulu.”
“Thank you,” she said, acknowledging him with a nod.
“So what’s the plan, Skipper?” Duke asked.
“We’re going to do what we set out to do,” she said, taking them all in, making sure they were all with her. They were. “We’re going to retake our base.”
To Be Continued...
About the Author
The author, a fourteen-year veteran of the USCG, served as a navigator on four different ships and as SAR Controller at two Group Operations Centers. He is currently employed as an over-the-road truck driver, which has not been the most conducive writing environment, and yet, he has managed to write the majority of his first novel, You’re Never Ready for a Zombie Apocalypse, using his steering wheel as a desk.
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