The gunfire from the convoy stopped, as more robust firepower from the docks took over defense of the area. Two Abrams tanks flanking the entry to the docks thundered away at unseen targets. Their big cannons were ideal for obliterating large pockets of walking dead before they gathered in numbers that would be difficult for the tower gunners to handle. Machine gun nests were staggered in a half dozen towers inside a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. They rattled away at roving bands of zombies that approached the dock perimeter. Sniper groups sat on roofs scanning the area for lone wandering corpses that somehow made it through the defenses. The docks were—at least for now—the safest place in the city. Carl allowed himself to relax. Whatever was following them, could not get past the Naval Base perimeter – for now.
Sergeant Ramos plopped back down into the cab before closing the hatch to the gun mount. “What the hell was that all about?”
“Command has its head up its ass as usual.” Pam removed her helmet to let her short brown hair fall. She was a good-looking woman, in great shape, and possessing a self-assured confidence that commanded attention. Her technical knowledge, ready sidearm, and relaxed demeanor, made her equal parts librarian, geek, and action hero. She was the best communications expert in the convoy teams, and Sergeant First Class Harvey and Sergeant Ramos were both happy to have her on their team.
The convoy rolled to a stop inside an enormous warehouse stocked with people and supplies. Every driver, gunner, and support personnel of the six-vehicle convoy poured out of their Humvees. They were desperate to stretch their legs, eat, and grab a smoke. Harvey, Ramos, and Grace—familiar with the ballet of logistics around them—never ceased to be amazed at the organized chaos taking place. Civilians were escorted from the convoy and entered medical checkpoints, where they were thoroughly examined before moving on to a series of additional checkpoints. The exhaustive screening—in addition to ensuring no infected made it into the fleet—was designed to distinguish people with uniquely beneficial skill sets, from the rank and file who had little to offer the fleet outside of hungry mouths. Meanwhile, forklifts moved every imaginable type of supply onto ferries, destined to venture into zombie-infested waters to deliver precious cargo to the battle group and accompanying container ships off shore.
Mechanics, reminiscent of a NASCAR pit crew, instantly took to maintenance on every vehicle in the convoy with incredible efficiency. The lead convoy team stood wondering quietly, with everything going on around them, how the walking dead had gotten the better of the United States Military.
As usual, Captain Sheridan approached the group to give a de-briefing and issue new orders. “Good job, soldiers. Here’s your next rendezvous point, and...” Captain Sheridan glanced about his paperwork before handing two slips of paper to Pam. “…here are your acquisition orders.” His finely pressed uniform and intellectual-looking glasses were a sharp contrast to the three disheveled soldiers standing in combat fatigues.
Miguel sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Another run?”
“Cap, how many more of these we gonna do?” Protocol had long since fallen by the wayside, and Grace cut right to the issue on everyone’s mind.
“Another one down, Cap.” A mechanic covered in grease interrupted Sheridan’s reply. “There’s a police spike strip tangled in the suspension of number four. The axel’s warped… the transmission housing is cracked… hell… I don’t even know how it made it back here. It’s done.”
“A police spike strip?” Captain Sheridan looked the mechanic straight in the eye before turning to address Carl.
“I don’t know, sir. It’s pretty rough out there. Any cops trapped outside the DDC’s aren’t above doing whatever they can to hitch a ride…they get pretty pissed when we don’t stop,” Carl answered.
“Specialist…” Sheridan looked at Pam, addressing her question: “you’re going to continue to make runs until your vehicle is broken down, out of gas, out of ammunition, or the Admiral says we’re pulling out--whichever comes first. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Pam pretended to look over her new requisition orders.
“Get some chow and some rest. You’ve got two hours. Dismissed,” Captain Sheridan ordered. He softened. “There won’t be many more runs after this, and remember…you people are saving lives.”
Convoy 19 is available from Amazon here
Chaos Theory Page 22
