Seed

by Michael Edelson

  Chapter 32

  Yael was difficult. They fought by day, made fierce love by night. She alternated between demanding that he stay and insisting that she come along, which was out of the question. He would not let her throw her life away along with his. In the end, he knew that she understood, and that she would not stop him. She had her shiva, he would have his vengeance.

  More than once, he almost called the whole thing off. It would be so easy to convince himself that this was bigger than him, that there was nothing that one man could do, and that a futile gesture was not worth his life. The worst part was that all those things were true, and yet when it came down to it, he couldn’t stop himself. He knew that he had to go, had to try to make things right. When he thought Yael had been killed, he had acted on pure instinct, fulfilling the need for justice, or revenge or whatever label best applied to what he had done. This was his essential nature, and he could not resist it, not then, and not now. He tried his best not to think about how much he wanted to stay and be with her, but to change his mind would be to become someone else, and that was the one thing he could not do, not even for her.

  It took nearly four days to get the boat ready. He had thought to take the big trawler, but Barbara did the calculations and the two hundred gallons of stale diesel in its tanks wouldn’t be nearly enough to get him the twenty five hundred miles to California. The old sailboat was a completely different matter. Its small twenty seven horsepower Volvo burned half a gallon an hour compared to the trawler’s four or five, and it’s maximum speed, seven knots, was only three knots slower than the larger vessel’s.

  Transporting the extra fuel posed a problem—the sailboat had a thirty gallon tank—until they re-tasked some nutrient powder canisters for the job. The powder was easily stored in other containers, such as equipment bags from the arms room. Once they got the mast up and repaired the rigging, the boat offered the added advantage of being able to rely on the wind should the diesel fail. Alex was no sailor, but he learned the essentials by sailing along the coast while getting ready.

  “I want you to tell them,” he said to Tom on the evening of the second day. He had just finished fighting with Yael, and she had stormed off to wait for him in his cabin.

  “Tell who what?” Tom asked.

  “The other colonies. Get word to them. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “Are you sure, Chief? It could cause big problems for those people. Maybe they’re better off not knowing.” It was a good point, but Alex couldn’t bring himself to deny to others what he and his team had worked so hard to learn.

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, and Tom sent the message out to every facility he could reach.

  “Godspeed, Chief,” he said when it was done.

  The time to depart came too soon, in what seemed like a blur of agonizing indecision and rushed preparation. He had already said his goodbyes to the others, sharing tearful embraces, and faced Yael, alone. She had ferried him to the moored vessel on their powerboat.

  “How do I say goodbye?” he asked, holding her tightly.

  “Don’t,” she pleaded, eyes full of tears. “You can still change your mind. This is a crazy idea. Or at least take me with you.”

  “We’ve been through this, Yael. So many times.”

  “Well not enough, dammit! You’re still going!”

  “Take care of the team,” he said. “Work with Barbara. Don’t be like I was with Max. Remember, if you two don’t agree and Tom sides with her, you have to go along.” It was the way he’d set things up—Yael in charge of the “military,” Barbara filling Max’s role, with Tom as a tie breaker if they ever disagreed. It wasn’t a perfect system, but with the three of them it would work, and work well. The only hitch was that not even Tom could reprogram the arms room without being in the arms room itself, and Alex proved impossible when Tom tried to teach him what to do. They had contented themselves with taking a bunch of rifles, ammunition and other supplies and storing them in one of the vacant cabins keyed to Yael’s DNA.

  “I will,” she said. “Until you come back. Then you will take charge. Got it?”

  “I love you,” he said. “More than I know how to say.”

  “And I love you. More than I know how to live without.”

  “I’m not going there to die, Yael. That thing can reach almost a mile out, and I’ve been practicing.” He eyed the big Barrett that they had set in the boat’s cockpit on top of his Dragon Skin vest. “Besides, depending on what I find, this will most likely just be a recon mission. Maybe I’ll scout the facility, decide that there is nothing I can do, and come back to get the rest of you.” He wasn’t lying just to make her feel better, but there was something about what he had told her that didn’t feel right. It was the truth, as far as he understood it. In all likeliness, there wouldn’t be much he would be able to do alone. And yet, in the pit of his stomach he harbored the certainty that he would never come back for any of them, that he would complete the mission on his own or die trying. And he wasn’t sure why.

  “I know,” she said. “It’s all I have left. I’ll wait for you. As long as it takes.”

  “Give me two months,” he said. “Then move on. Live your life.”

  She grimaced. “My life. I’ve already lost everything—everyone—I’ve ever loved, except you. And now…”

  “I’ll come back, Yael,” he said. “If there’s any way, no matter what, I’ll come back.”

  He kissed her, fiercely, tasting the salt of her tears, then climbed over the side and onto the sailboat, his new home for the estimated fourteen day trip to California. She gave him one last long look and gunned the throttle, leaving the sailboat rolling in her wake.

  *

  At first he spent his time worrying that the diesel would give out and he would have to put to use what little he’d learned about sailing. Eventually he decided to raise the sails despite the motor, when the wind was right, to help it along and save fuel. After a day of that, he felt brave enough to kill the diesel while the sailing was good, which firmed up his confidence in the craft to the point where he stopped worrying. He had about forty gallons more than the trip was supposed to take, and if he cut his consumption by sailing as much as possible he might even have enough for the trip back.

  Living on board the boat wasn’t terrible, once he got past his seasickness and the fear that came with knowing there was nothing but a hostile empty ocean for an ever increasing number of miles all around him. When he first lost sight of the coast he had to fight panic and the urge to turn around for what seemed like hours, but eventually he adapted.

  The thirty two foot cruiser had once been nicely appointed, and though it was neglected and run down, it was still comfortable. His greatest challenge was loneliness and boredom. Once he figured out how to use the windvane—a type of mechanical autopilot that maintained a constant angle to the wind—the boat practically sailed itself with occasional minor adjustments. The boat’s GPS still worked, making navigation a breeze, and keeping an eye out was pointless as he had the ocean pretty much to himself. He occupied his time with fishing, though even that proved a poor distraction. It seemed as though the moment he cast out a lure, something bit.

  The weather was fair for the first few days, but towards the evening of the fourth, the wind picked up and the sea became choppy, then violent. The wind howled and rain beat against the fiberglass deck. Nervously watching the flashes of lightning all around him, he remembered what Barbara had said to him.

  Sailboats can’t sink unless the hull breaks on a rock. If they flip over they’ll pop right back up unless you’re dumb enough to leave the hatch open in a storm. The worst that can happen is the rigging will fail and you’ll lose your mast.

  “That sounds pretty fucking bad right now,” he said to himself. “Especially if it falls on my head.” At that moment, a particularly bright flash off the left side—the port side—made him fearful of touching the stainless steel wheel.

  “She never mentioned lig
htning strikes,” he grumbled, wondering what would happen if the mast were hit—it was pretty high up there, at least fifty feet. Not daring to leave the helm until the storm subsided, he spent a terrifying night fighting the wind and waves. In the morning the storm blew over, and after setting the windvane, he enjoyed the first uninterrupted sleep he’d had since he set foot aboard the boat.

  The days passed slowly, and he spent most of his time looking back instead of forward. The hardest part was resisting the impulse to go home. Panic was replaced by doubt. What sort of fool’s errand had he set for himself? What was he trying to accomplish? He could picture Yael standing on the beach, looking out for the boat, hoping he would turn it around. Fighting the urge to do so became almost unbearable. Every time he came close to giving in, he reminded himself that the people in that facility had killed his family, and Yael’s family. Everyone’s family. That gave him the resolve he needed.

  His only truly pleasurable pastime, and one he indulged in at least once a day, was target practice with the Barrett 50. Alex was no sniper. The greatest range at which he had been trained was three hundred meters, which was the standard distance that an infantryman was expected to be able to hit a man sized target without the aid of telescopic sights. He had never been much for hunting, but he had owned a bolt action rifle before joining the army and enjoyed long range target shooting with a scope. In Upstate New York, long range meant a couple of hundred meters at best, though his targets were usually small, sometimes as small as bottle caps.

  Without the slightest trace of environmental guilt, he would toss a piece of junk he’d packed for this purpose over the side, and then use a laser range finder to gauge its distance. Once it was far enough away, he would put the fifty caliber rifle on its bipod, aim, adjust for the wind and elevation, and fire. At first, his shots were way off. Fortunately, the big splashes the rifle made allowed him to see exactly where he had hit—provided it was within the scope’s field of view—and by the tenth day, he was able to hit a drifting target the size of a man’s torso at over a thousand meters off of a moving boat. He knew he should be adjusting for the Coriolis effect—the difference between the Earth’s rotation and the bullet’s flight path—but he didn’t know how to do that and it didn’t seem to make much of a difference. All in all, not too bad, and it would do just fine for what he was planning.

  According to the GPS, he was progressing slower than he had estimated, mostly due to his fuel saving measures. By his rough calculations he would make landfall in California in a total of sixteen rather than fourteen days. On the flipside, he was consuming more fuel than the half gallon per hour the engine was supposed to burn. Not much more, but it was enough to mean he would have to sail most of the way back. The engine was old, and he was fortunate that it worked as reliably as it did.

  On day eleven, an alarm buzzed. He had no idea where it was coming from until a quick check of his instrument panel revealed that the engine was overheating. He had the sails up, so he reduced the throttle to idle and got the checklist that Barbara had made for him.

  “Exhaust water,” he read, then looked over the transom to see if there was water spurting out of the exhaust pipe. The diesel was raw water cooled—an impeller pump sucked sea water through heat exchange passages in the engine and pumped it back out to sea with the exhaust. As long as there was water coming out of the exhaust pipe, the system was operating normally. There was, so that was one item out of the way.

  “Oil pressure,” he continued. Looking at the gauge, he noticed that it was in fact very low. He killed the engine, then went below to check the oil level. Almost empty! He had found his culprit. Checking the bilge, he found it full of oil. He had a leak!

  After waiting an hour for it to cool completely, he started the engine again, then went below with a flashlight. He found the source of the leak—oil was dripping from the air filter cones. He removed the cones and watched the engine at work at various throttle speeds. It was spitting oil, probably from combustion pressure leaking through scored piston walls or worn rings.

  He killed the engine again, then searched all the numerous storage compartments for spare oil. This was something he should have checked for before setting out, but he had been too preoccupied.

  He finally found four one quart bottles in a small nook under the alcohol burning stove. The motor took two bottles to bring it back to an acceptable level, which solved his overheating problem. Experimenting with various throttle levels, he found that if he kept the motor below 1500 RPM it didn’t spit any oil, at least that he could notice, which was good enough. This close to his destination, the resulting decrease in speed would add less than a day to his trip, and he still had his engine. Not too shabby for someone who didn’t know anything about boats.

  On the morning of the seventeenth day, he spotted the coast. It was cold and foggy, reducing visibility to under a mile, which didn’t give him much time to figure out how to get to shore. There was no way to beach the sailboat, its keel was four and a half feet under the water, which meant he had to find a safe place to anchor and take the folding rowboat he had found on the trawler ashore. The boat was small, which meant several trips to bring his gear, and he only had the one oar.

  Just as he was about to start looking for a sheltered anchorage on the GPS map, he heard the growl of an outboard motor and saw a boat headed towards him. He didn’t have binoculars, so he took the Barrett and looked through its scope. A powerboat was rapidly approaching with two men on board, both wearing camouflage fatigues and carrying M4 carbines. Soldiers, and they were headed right for him.

  Chapter 33

  Their boat was a rigid inflatable with two powerful outboards, the kind used by the Coast Guard for intercepting drug runners. It was pretty big, about twenty five feet long with a wide beam and an enclosed pilothouse. One of the soldiers was in the enclosure, driving, while the other was out on deck near the bow, looking at Alex through a pair of binoculars. The soldier noticed he was watching him and reached for his carbine.

  “Not like this,” Alex pleaded. “At least give me a fucking chance!” Why would they patrol the coast? They thought they had killed everyone who was a real threat to them.

  The boat was cutting through the water at an impressive speed and would be in rifle range in seconds—Alex had no time to lose. He reached for a magazine, stuck it in the Barrett, then chambered a round and looked into the scope, trying to sight in on the outboards. One hit from a .50 caliber bullet would easily disable one of the motors, perhaps even both if he got the angle right. Then he could deal with the men on board at his leisure. But the boat was moving very fast, and making the shot would be extremely difficult.

  When he panned across the front of the boat, he noticed something odd. The soldier on the bow was holding his rifle over his head, pointing at the sky. There was something white tied to the barrel, flapping violently in the wind generated by the boat’s movement.

  A white flag?

  The soldier was waving the rifle side to side. Alex hesitated, not sure about what to do. Prudence dictated he fire anyway, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger. He was a killer, that much was certain, but he didn’t think of himself as a murderer, and killing men who were trying to signal a truce would be murder. He tried not to think about what he had done to Max and his goons, and what that meant for that particular aspect of his self image.

  He set the big rifle down and picked up his M4, holding it at the ready as the approaching vessel slowed and pulled up alongside. As their boat got closer, Alex noticed the captain’s rank insignia on the man in the vessel’s bow, along with the “US MARINES” on his pocket. He had Asian features and a small black goatee, which was against regulations. Or rather, it used to be.

  “Captain Meyer?” the man called out over the diminishing gurgle of the outboards as the boat slowed to keep pace. Alex throttled back his own engine, reducing the ambient noise even further.

  “Yeah,” Alex said testily. “Who’s asking?
”

  “Captain Takahashi,” the man said. “Formerly Sergeant, United States Marine Corps, currently New Tomorrow Facility 079-A, in Southern Cali. Not quite Hawaii, but it has its charms.”

  Alex wrinkled his brow, confused. “You mean you’re not from the…um…government?” He felt stupid saying it, but he didn’t know what else to call them.

  “If I were,” the man said with a grin. “You’d be dead.” He looked down at the Barrett. “Or I’d be dead. And since no one is dead…”

  “Right,” Alex agreed. He exhaled slowly, relieved.

  “My friend,” Takahashi said, pointing to the pilothouse. “Is Captain Linnard, formerly Corporal Linnard, US Army. Now he’s with 089-B in Washington state.” Linnard was a tall dark haired man with bright blue eyes. He waved at Alex from the pilothouse, then came out and walked over to stand next to the much shorter Takahashi.

  “How do you know who I am?” Alex asked. “You couldn’t have read my name tag, my rifle was blocking it.”

  “We were expecting you,” he said.

  “Expecting me? How?”

  “Your friend, Tom, we’ve been in contact with him. Ever since he sent out word about what’s happened.”

  “Tom?” Alex asked incredulously. “That fucking guy blows my mind sometimes. You said ‘we,’ did you mean you and Linnard? Or are there more?”

  “I think it’s best if you just anchored this thing, grabbed your gear and came with us. It’s easier to show you.”

  “Not until I know what’s going on.”

  “Tom said to call you ‘Chief’ and to tell you that you could trust us,” Takahashi explained with a shrug. He was of average height, but looked tiny standing next to his companion. Linnard wasn’t overly muscular, but neither was he particularly slender. He towered over Takahashi like a bear standing next to a wolf.