“We have four Russian subs bracketing the fleet,” Kent explained. “They’re locked and loaded.”
“Oh, wow,” Theodore said. “That’s bad?”
“To say we’re in a tight space is an understatement.”
“What do they want?”
“Our asses?” the Bataan captain suggested.
Theodore shot him a surly look. More obviousness, navy style.
“There are two reasons we aren’t dogpaddling right now,” Kent said. “One, we’ve deployed the squadron’s modest ASW capabilities.” He saw Theodore’s eyebrow go up. “Anti-submarine warfare. The other is that the top dog in the subs is willing to talk.”
“Really? I thought Russians weren’t chatty when they want to fight.”
“It’s a unique situation,” Kent said. “Russians and Americans haven’t exchanged direct hostilities in a very long time. Anyway, his name is Captain Chugunkin.”
“This is fascinating,” Theodore said, “but why does it concern me?”
“Chugunkin is here because he thinks we created Strain Delta.”
“Absurd,” Theodore said. “The virus is light years ahead of any technology on Earth.”
“Convince him of that.”
Theodore laughed out loud, shaking his head. It took him a second to realize Kent wasn’t laughing. “You’re not kidding.”
“I’m deadly serious.”
“Admiral, how is this Chugunkin going to be convinced by me?”
“Because I know the man, at least by reputation. He is not your average sailor. If you’ve ever read The Hunt for Red October, he’s a lot like Ramius.”
“In the book, Ramius was considerably less rash,” Theodore mused.
“Yes, if you can imagine a real captain acting like the movie? However, our real-life Russian is convinced we started this even in the face of logic. Will you talk to him?”
“Sure,” Theodore said. “How?”
Kent gestured toward a console where a microphone on a stand waited. A chair had been placed in front of the console for Theodore to sit in.
Theodore nodded and moved to the console and sat down. He closed his eyes for a second and took a calming breath. He was a scientist, an astronaut who’d never been in space. But he wasn’t cut from the same mold as Neil Armstrong or Jim Lovell. He wasn’t a former test pilot. He might have had the right stuff, but not that kind of right stuff. But he could at least try.
“Doctor, we’re perched on the edge of hostilities. I know you aren’t comfortable with this…”
“I’ll try,” Theodore said. “It would help if Dr. Gallatin and Dr. Curie were here.”
“They’re on their way. We don’t want to wait, though.” Kent nodded toward a technician and spoke. “Captain Chugunkin.”
“I am waiting,” a strong voice responded.
Theodore was surprised by how little Russian accent the man had. He was quite understandable, which made Theodore wonder more about him. Maybe Kent would elaborate later.
“Sir, I have with me Dr. Theodore Bennitti.”
“The name is familiar.”
“Captain Chugunkin, I am…or rather was…the Director of Space Colonization at NASA. You know what NASA is?”
“I am aware. Why are you now speaking to me?”
“Captain, you must surely understand that the United States has nothing to do with Strain Delta?”
“Your CDC was the first to name it. And, here, I find a large squadron of warships underway with a purpose. Admiral Kent is unwilling to share your mission. The conclusion is difficult to doubt.”
Theodore narrowed his eyes. The man spoke as if the conclusion had been presented to him, not as though he’d come up with it himself. While he was considering this, his friend, Dr. Albert Gallatin, was escorted into the CIC. The heavy man looked out of breath and was staring around with the same amazed look Theodore must have had on his face a short time ago. He waved to get Albert’s attention. Albert was alone.
“Captain Chugunkin, I’d like to try and help you understand what has happened and what we, as a species, are facing.”
“I am listening.”
“A moment please?” he asked.
“I do not have all day…” the distant Russian replied.
A sailor moved another chair over, and Albert ponderously and gratefully lowered himself into it. Theodore leaned over and gave him a quick crib notes version of what was going on. Albert’s face got even redder as he listened.
“Where is Curie?” Theodore asked.
“He…couldn’t…come…” Albert said between huffs.
Theodore nodded and spoke into the mic. “Captain Chugunkin, another scientist has joined me.” Theodore gestured at the mic, and Albert spoke.
“Captain, I am Dr. Albert Gallatin. Do you recognize my name?” He struggled to control his breathing as he spoke.
The line was quiet for a long moment before an answer came. “You were the president of America’s CDC?”
“Director, yes, sir.”
Albert was still trying to even out his breathing and having a difficult time. Theodore examined him and felt concern growing. Albert was not a young man, and his excessive weight wasn’t helping.
“The fact that you are with a military task force does not help dissuade me of the belief your government created this plague. Why exactly are you both there?”
“The same as you, sir, and the same as everyone today: surviving.” Albert was not breathing as hard and was able to concentrate better. “Tens of millions, maybe hundreds of millions, are dead in the United States alone. The idea we created this thing on purpose is simply ludicrous.”
“Do you deny your government has created virus to kill?” Chugunkin demanded in righteous anger.
“No more than you can deny your government has done the same,” Albert countered immediately. “The CDC has never been involved in this. In fact, we have advised against it at every turn as it represents not only a risk to foreign armies, but to the world at large.
“Captain, do you understand the nature of Strain Delta, which is what we call the virus?”
“I am neither a scientist nor a virologist.”
“Under whose definition of this virus are you operating?” The captain did not immediately reply.
Theodore spoke up. “Captain, we all operate under the control of government at one level or another. NASA answered to both congress and the president. The CDC is under the Department of Health and Human Services, so it is also controlled by congress. Who is controlling you, sir?”
Theodore purposely left out the fact that there was no congress or president anymore. He didn’t think the information would help the situation. He had a theory about what was going on with the Russians, though.
“The Russian Republic Navy answers to the chief of staff, and through him, to the president.”
Theodore looked at Admiral Kent and frowned. Kent gestured to the radio operator who pressed a button, then said aloud, “Muted.”
“What are you thinking?” the admiral asked.
“There is no Russian government. I think he’s running on autopilot.”
“You might be right, but how does that help us? He’s in charge of a lot of firepower and, probably, nuclear weapons. His boat is likely the Severodvinsk, their newest nuclear fast attack ship. Our ASW believes the others are an Akula and two Victors. But one operator is pretty sure his returns matched a Delta IV, a nuclear missile boat.”
“I think we tell him we’re leaderless.”
Kent’s eyes narrowed. “This is high stakes poker, doctor. You’re suggesting we show our hole card.”
“I’m suggesting we all recognize the rules we’re playing under.”
Kent’s jaw muscles bunched, and his mouth became a thin line. “Okay, I don’t see our situation getting any worse. We either start shooting, or we don’t. Play your hand.” He gestured to the radio operator who opened the channel again.
“Captain Chugunkin, this is Bennitt
i again.”
“I continue to listen but am, so far, unmoved.”
“Sir, you should know we are likely in the same boat. There is no functioning US government we are aware of. The last known president died two days ago in a plane crash off San Diego, California.”
“Your frankness is appreciated,” Chugunkin replied.
“We’d appreciate the same in reply.”
The pause was even longer this time. Theodore wondered if the Russian was discussing it with his fellow officers or if it was an internal argument. Maybe a representative of his surviving government was on board, giving orders?
“We are indeed in the same boat, Mr. Bennitti. There is no more functioning Russian government. Shortly after this plague was identified, all naval assets already at sea were ordered to remain at sea. Those in port were ordered to leave, but not many made it, so we are mostly submarines.
“Before our government completely ceased to function, it was decided you Americans must have released the plague. No logical reason for this was given, as it was apparent you were suffering as greatly as anyone else. I know, for a fact, the plague appeared all over the planet at roughly the same time. Still, we were ordered to find surviving assets of the United States and destroy them.”
“Are there nuclear missile submarines involved?” Albert asked.
“I cannot say,” the captain replied. Admiral Kent’s mouth became even thinner, something Theodore would have thought impossible.
“Captain,” Albert spoke again, “do you believe we did this?”
“How am I to know such things?”
“We know quite a bit about Strain Delta,” Albert continued. “We know more than we did before our government fell. After we were picked up by this squadron of ships, we continued to put the pieces together. I began to quickly believe the virus was not of terrestrial origin.”
“Are you saying it’s from Mars?”
“No, but not from Earth.”
“How can you prove such a thing?”
“First, based on its makeup. The virus isn’t one virus, it’s a series of them which mutate when they come in contact with each other. Further, it’s not alive as we know it. It is actually a microscopic machine; a nanovirus. Infinitely small, infinitely complex, and just as infinitely mutable.”
“Doctor, this is so fanciful, I do not know how I can believe it.”
“I have one other piece of evidence. We have an alien and its ship. We believe they are responsible for Strain Delta.”
“Bozhe moi!”
“God had nothing to do with this,” Theodore said.
“Admiral Kent, do you believe this?”
“Faced with a live alien and its ship, I see little choice,” Kent said. “So, Captain, in light of these facts, I believe your orders to engage us are based on flawed data. I see two courses of action going forward. You go ahead and attack, at which point my ASW assets will probably destroy you, though not before you sink several of my ships. Or, you come aboard, we show you our evidence, and we see about charting a course to save humanity instead of killing more of it for no reason.”
The radio was quiet for only a second. “Please inform your stealthy, anti-submarine aircraft to not fire on us. I am surfacing. We should talk more.”
Kent turned to Theodore and slapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Bennitti, remind me never to play cards with you.”
Theodore finally took a breath.
* * *
Afternoon, Friday, May 3
HAARP Research Facility
150 Miles West of San Diego
Dr. Lisha Breda leaned over the railing to watch her crew carry equipment down the small dock attached to the rig’s leg and onto the ship. She turned and walked back into the rig, her home for so many years, and sighed.
“You okay, ma’am?”
She turned and saw Jon Osborne, whom everyone called Oz. He’d been responsible for keeping HAARP’s supercomputers operating. He’d also assisted in programming them to decode and understand the alien virus. Strain Delta was talking, only they couldn’t understand what it was saying.
“Yeah,” she said. “You packed up yet?”
“I have all the data archived on SSD arrays, in pelican cases. Joseph and his logistics people are taking care of them.”
“What about the computers? They should be on board by now.” Oz looked sheepish. “We need those computers; they might be the last supercomputers in the world.”
“The last slides of brain material are being scanned,” he said and grinned. “The geeks in the electronics shop cobbled up a multi-frequency emitter and receiver. Maybe Strain Delta is communicating on a wavelength we haven’t checked.”
“You’ve got a few more hours before the ship is ready,” Lisha reminded him. “Robert Boyer says he’ll need some time to change out the filters on the ship’s generator.”
“I’m surprised the old tub still floats,” Oz said.
Lisha smiled. “It’s a small port freighter. One that’s delivered a lot of our equipment. Has its own cranes and stuff. Designed to operate in places where the big container ships can’t or there’s no infrastructure.”
“If you say so, ma’am.” He gestured toward the ocean. “What about the name? Helix?”
It was Lisha’s turn to look sheepish. “I kinda like it.”
“I wonder about you,” Oz said and headed for a ladder down to the computers.
Lisha walked down to the floor where all her principle research had taken place. Most of the equipment was gone, crated and loaded. The time to leave her home had come. They needed mobility in this brave, new world. Sitting still made them easy targets.
Her three heavily armed lunatics, the Zombie Squad as they called themselves, agreed with her. She’d been horrified to find out that Oz, Robert, and Joseph had a small arsenal of guns stashed away on the rig. But they used them for hunting and skeet shooting when not working. There was no strict rule against it. Maybe it was an oversight on her part. Considering what had happened, maybe not. The three had used their guns to clear the ship they were using as a new home.
The military had forbidden ‘ship hopping.’ Lisha was sure they meant taking an occupied ship, not an empty one. There hadn’t been anyone still in possession of independent thought on the ship they took, only a dozen zombies. At least, that’s what Oz had told her.
They wouldn’t have killed non-infected, would they? Her face screwed up as she considered. Ultimately, Lisha decided it wasn’t worth worrying about. She’d never know either way. She’d done her own share of ethically questionable things.
A dull thumping sound made her sigh. She slowly turned her head to look at the locked door. Not all of her research had been loaded. Lisha walked to the door, her footfalls echoing strangely in the nearly empty room. She suddenly remembered coming onto the decommissioned drill rig. It looked a lot like it did now, maybe oilier. It smelled like sweat and grease then. Now it smelled like death.
She unlocked the door with her code and pulled it open. Thud, thud, thud. The same rhythm and timing, always. On the far side of the ancillary lab was a section that was walled off with an inch of plexiglass. There weren’t bloody smears on it anymore, but the glass was showing deformities.
“How’s the mutating coming?” she asked. Grant Porter had once been a brilliant biologist. Then Strain Delta had come to HAARP via some freshly caught fish. Sushi was a favorite among her crew, but once Strain Delta went global, the Japanese delicacy had become a death penalty. They all carried the airborne variation of the nanovirus. There was also a waterborne one and one that was carried in the bodies of the infected. If you drank the water, the airborne one mutated into the active version. Or, if you got bitten by someone who was infected, you joined them.
Grant was the only ‘survivor’ among those initially infected. Most of Lisha’s personnel had succumbed and had to be dumped into the ocean. She’d have learned a lot more about the virus if the better part of her team hadn’t turned into zo
mbies and had to be dispatched. Grant had been subdued, and she’d used him for experiments to analyze the virus. Then she’d gone much further.
At one point, she’d removed half his brain for samples. That should have been the end of Grant Porter, even as a zombie. But they’d stitched his head up anyway, just out of curiosity. His virus-controlled brain had rebooted itself, and he’d been on his feet in hours. With half a brain.
Lisha walked closer. Grant stopped pounding on the glass and looked at her. His eyes conveyed a profound desire to reach her. He held up his hands toward her. Or rather, what used to be hands. They had no flesh on them. Instead, they were hardened bone and closely resembled sledgehammers.
“Amazing,” she said, shaking her head. “Simply amazing.”
Grant snarled and lunged, his face smashing into the plexiglass, pulping his nose and spraying blood. She took an unconscious step back in surprise. Grant lowered his head and rammed harder. The plexiglass, weakened by hours on end of pounding, split with a crack like a gunshot.
Even with half a brain, the creature formerly known as Grant seemed to grasp the meaning of the crack. He raised both hands over his head and brought them down against the plexiglass with devastating force. The bones in his hands cracked, and the plexiglass sheared along the break.
“Oh, crap!” Lisha cried and turned to run. She made it two steps before she tripped over a bundle of cables which had been attached to a mass spectrometer. Lisha crashed to the deck, crying out in pain, as her face smashed in to the metal grating of the floor. Doing her best to ignore the pain, she rolled over. Grant was forcing himself through the huge crack in his supposedly impenetrable cage.
He’d been naked since the brain surgery. After all, there was no need to clothe a zombie. As he squeezed through, the sharp edge of the glass took his skin off like a razor. Blood spurted and his skin curled away to reveal the yellowish fat and muscle underneath. Lisha shook her head in disbelief. She’d seen the infected incur incredible injuries with no reaction, but somehow, this was different.
She pushed herself up with her hands and moved backward, crab walking as fast as she could. Grant fell through the broken glass in a pile of mangled skin, fat, muscle, and blood. In an instant, he was on his feet, slipping in his own bloody mess. You’re not going to make it, she realized. Lisha rolled over and tried to get up and run at the same time, not really succeeding at either. She ended up falling face-first through the door into her former laboratory.
Turning Point (Book 3): A Time To Live Page 11
