“Denial Protocol?” Greerson asked looking up.
“No, this was too selective, thorough but not professional. Denial Protocol focuses on major population centers and strategic routes. This was entire towns with no damage to any major roads,” Powell stated. “If there was infection present, then I could understand these methods. But, from all appearances, these locations were deserted in the days immediately following the outbreak or were seasonal resort towns.”
“Any ideas?” Greerson asked closing the file.
“None that make a bit of sense or that I care to entertain. Best guess, it’s a civilian group that’s doing it,” Powell surmised. “Worse case, it’s a group connected to your recent incident.”
Greerson grunted at Powell’s tactful word choice.
“We’ll be ready for them. Next time, and there will be a next time. I’ll have a broom on my mast and scalps on the bulkhead,” Greerson stated matter-of-factly.
They both knew that without a shipyard and time spent in dry dock; it would take longer than six months, more than likely a year or two to get the New Orleans back into full combat ready status. If ever. The sequential explosive concussions had popped welded seams and bulkheads. Frames and below deck spaces had been warped and twisted. Getting the ship back to Winthrop had been a damage control and engineering nightmare trying to stay ahead of the incoming water from all the below the waterline fractures.
“Of that, I have no doubt,” Powell commented.
The room was silent for several minutes as Powell adjusted the file folders on his desk as Greerson puffed on his cigar.
“Any news on your SEALs?” Greerson finally asked.
“Nothing since Site R informed me they were taking them for a priority mission,” Powell replied.
Greerson nodded knowingly.
“What do you think? Did they locate something important enough to warrant those boys going in?” he asked.
“Who’s to say? I don’t ask and they don’t tell,” Powell stated. Both captains shared a look, they had been in service long enough to know that whatever the SEALs did, few people would ever know about it. After all, what happened on mission, stayed on mission.
“Scouts report any sign of infected closer to JBLM?” Greerson asked changing the subject.
“No, and that has me worried. Cascade reports the same. No contact, no sign. Hell, it’s like they up and disappeared,” Powell commented shaking his head.
“We saw some at Anacortes, wandering around the refinery. Besides those few, nothing,” Greerson stated.
“That’s another odd event. We both know Seattle and all the other major cities north and south reported a large infected presence. Our problem is that we don’t know where those large numbers went,” Powell said.
“We salvaged one of the Fire Scouts from the New Orleans, in a couple of days it should be able to get up and give us some overheads,” Greerson commented. That UAV had only survived because it had been inside one of the CONEX containers at the far end of the hangar bay and shielded by the fires and explosions by other containers. It would have to be flown from CIC asPri-Fly had been heavily damaged as had the remote systems for the UAV.
“What about the Bronco’s?” Powell asked referring to the OV-10 reconnaissance planes. “Can you get them up at all?” Powell asked. Granted, the twin engine propeller planes were antiques, likely rescued from mothballs or recovered from a museum, but they were the only dedicated reconnaissance aircraft currently at their disposal since the other Fire Scout UAV’s had been destroyed when the hangar bay was hit.
“No,” Greerson said shaking his head. “We’d need an airstrip for that or a nice long section of highway. None of that’s available around here. Too many goddamn hills and trees in this area. Give me a few months, once we get my baby repaired, I can put her into the wind and we’ll get some decent overheads,” he stated confidently.
“Best I can do right now is put a Harrier or Osprey up once in a while,” he added. Not as often as he’d like until access to the aviation parts locker was cleared by the damage control and repair parties. Fuel wasn’t the issue, spare parts was the main concern. The more time on the airframes and the more maintenance intensive it became to keep them in the air. As much as he hated to admit, it was very probable that New Orleans would never be the ship she once was. Even if they could get her back out to sea, her air assets would be useless in a few more months without replacements.
Powell nodded then opened another folder.
“We’re looking good on consumables, fuel is no problem. Burgess is not all that happy with the ammunition, he wants more,” Powell said looking up at Greerson’s chuckle.
“Typical Marine,” Greerson commented. “When we get to JBLM, he’ll get it. Cascade informed us that there is plenty of ammo left at the ASP.”
“Oh yes, no doubt about that,” Powell agreed. “It’s just getting there. The current problem is moving through the Lakewood area. The streets are one big traffic snarl inside a large urban sprawl meaning more potential contact with the infected. Whether those things are there or not, it’s not a route I’d choose.”
Greerson nodded agreement. “I know this is a long shot, but what if we sent a unit around the peninsula along 101 through Shelton and down into Olympia? Cascade could send us intel on the I-5 corridor up to the fort,” the grizzled navy veteran suggested.
“They could. But, when they moved from JBLM they dropped several of the freeway overpasses,” Powell stated. “There is another option. Steilacoom. There’s a small ferry dock there that used to service McNeil Island. If we could secure that area, we could put some boots on the ground. Maybe even stage some Ospreys there to shuttle supplies back and forth. From that town it’s just a small road trip to North Fort and from there they could access the rest of the installation. If we could do that, and coordinate our movement with Cascade, then both forces could join up and sweep the base.”
“Yes, that might work,” Greerson agreed.
“Who would have thought that we’d be in this position just a few months ago?” Powell asked.
“Back when the world was somewhat normal, getting supplies was never this involved.”
***
Port Winthrop had never been designed to be totally self-sufficient. When it had been in operation, supplies came from a variety of sources, some brought in from outside locations and others by local vendors. Now with those supply chains extremely limited and borderline non-existent, Winthrop had to support itself, a task that was something the personnel at the installation were slowly coming to realize. Already, work was being done to create garden space inside the walls. Using the earth moving equipment from the Naval Mobile Construction Battalion motor pool, the sport’s fields had been cleared in preparation for next year. It was too late to start planting for this season as winter was already making its presence known with wind, rain and cooler temperatures. Greenhouses had hastily been built with the limited materials on hand and hope was high that the seedlings that were started there would last through the coming months.
As much as Powell and Greerson were hesitant to do, they both knew that rationing of the remaining food stocks was a course of action that would have to be seriously considered.
***
Interlude
Far out in the Pacific Ocean, a small string of islands rested. What had once been a popular vacation spot was now a death trap. When the infection broke out on these land masses, there had been nowhere to run, the airports shut down, the hotels and cities became clogged with frantic citizens fleeing. But to where when surrounded by the ocean? The remaining military personnel had no choice but to fortify what they had before realizing it was too little, too late. The vast majority of the residents and tourists succumbed to the mindless, infected masses that swarmed the islands. Escape and evade was one option. But, where does one go when surrounded by the Pacific Ocean?
A few resourceful individuals took to the seas; some sailed to the other islands, Ma
ui, Kauai, but to no avail, the infection greeted them soon after they landed.
One small group of military personnel, residents, and tourists happened upon a naval vessel still tied to the pier. This vessel was not in the main US Navy shipyard, Pearl Harbor. In fact, it wasn’t even listed as an active ship anymore. It had power, light, even a water distillation system. Inside, they found weapons locked behind glass display cases although some of the cases were already empty as obviously someone had been there and taken what they needed. But, instead of a random smash and grab, these cases had been pulled away from the bulk heads and unlocked. The glass was virtually untouched and if anything, looked to have been recently cleaned. While most of the weapons had been removed, there were still enough left to augment their own small supply. The ship was immense and easily secured once they detached the gangways. Exploring the vessel at length, they encountered a small group of survivors. This group, older, wiser, were discovered in the engine spaces playing cards and drinking beer. The majority of this new group used canes to help them walk, aids to help them hear and wore garrison caps with ship names embroidered on them. They used colorful language and nautical terms that were difficult for the other survivors to understand. The new arrivals and the old salts stayed distant from each other, forming groups until one of the grizzled old men stepped forward and announced that they had to work together or they would all die. The veterans organized them into work parties and deck watches. They soon fell into a comfortable routine and devised a plan to sail the ship that had become their home somewhere else, somewhere safer.
***
Chapter 9
Site 18, COG facility
Thousands of miles away in a secure, underground facility known only to a few as Site 18, a different sort of meeting was taking place.
Major General Thaddeus Augustus Lee Royd late of the US Air Force was discussing matters with his executive officer.
“I hear rumors, Forrester. Rumors that the Unbelievers are attempting to organize, to make order out of the blessed chaos,” Lee Royd stated without question, his face red and sweaty, his massive girth barely contained by the Roman style toga he wore. He had been weeks away from a medical retirement due to psychological issues when IT happened or what he called a divine intervention akin to rapture. Had the infection not happened, he would have faded into the obscurity of an exclusive mental facility. Colonel Charles Forrester just nodded. Forrester stood out, not just because his eyes were black like obsidian, totally devoid of life and predatory, his face pale, almost anemic, but because he was well over six feet in height without his combat boots on, fully dressed as he was in tactical gear, he towered over average height people.
“The heathen masses are slowing down our brethren. We must stop them from delaying God’s work. Who are they to attempt to stop the holy cleansings? God’s minions are walking the earth. Their mission is righteousness. They cannot be delayed in ridding the earth of all the unbelieving hell spawn! The mission is just, his might unstoppable. His will be done.” Lee Royd bowed his head to the desk top, clutching the wooden cross he wore on a long leather thong around his neck with both hands. Finally, after several quiet moments of pseudo prayer, he raised his head up to stare at the ceiling then opened his arms wide.
“Thank you Almighty God for you have shown me the way to destroy the heathens!” he spit out in an imitated southern drawl taken from his favorite televangelist.
“Colonel, do everything in your power to prevent them from disrupting God’s divine plan. Where our brother Josiah failed we shall succeed,” Lee Royd stated, his demeanor, speech patterns, and mannerisms totally changed from that of a televangelist to that of a relatively normal person. “Now leave me so I can meditate on the plan God has shown me.”
“As you wish, sir,” Forrester did a deep bow and retreated from the room, his mind trying to decipher what Lee Royd had meant with that last statement. He knew that Lee Royd was a crazy as a shithouse rat, but he had some kind of charismatic way about him that the men and the women of this group, were mesmerized with.
As soon as Forrester left and secured the door, Lee Royd moved to the adjoining room, as he did this, his demented mind filled with ideas and the beginnings of a plan on how he could remake the world into what it should have been all along. A world ruled by its rightful leader. A world where he led the righteous along the one true path. His path. The path where only his seed was used to spawn a new race.
He would have to call down the wrath of God on those that didn’t follow the path. But first, he would have to attend to one of his flock who was waiting for him in his private chambers. He would start on seeding his new race with her tonight then work on another one tomorrow night. He had all the time in the world.
Forrester walked the halls of the complex, the people he passed almost visibly recoiled from his presence as he strutted towards the communications center. Pushing past the startled soldier who snapped to attention and smartly saluted, he moved inside and grabbed the first comm tech he found.
“You. Worm. Send out a message to Cicero. Tell him to do anything to slow down or further delay what the unbelievers are doing. Whatever needs to be done, he is to do it.” Pulling the shaken man closer to him and sneering in his face. “Do you understand?”
“Y.. Y.. Yes sir I do.” Forrester let the man go and wiped his hands on the back of the man’s uniform shirt before leaving the comm section. The tech let out a breath of air and mentally thanked himself that he had already used the restroom facilities or he might have voided his bowels.
***
Chapter 10
Dupont Federal Center, 60 miles South East of Idaho Falls
Deep within the bowels of the Dupont Federal Center, a shadowy figure moved down a deserted hallway lit by low wattage bulbs. A passkey enabled access to the power generating room and finally to the small pebble bed reactor that powered the facility. Fingers typed a set of instructions into the keyboard in front of the engineer station, one quick mouse click and it was done, his entry and actions into this secured area would never be discovered. The figure shut down the monitor, stowed the keyboard back under the desk on its sliding tray before looking around the room to make sure nothing was disturbed or out of place, then quietly closed the door behind him.
Cicero walked unhurriedly past the elevator bay to a storage room that he unlocked then quickly stepped inside. Once there, he looked around making sure nothing was disturbed before he pulled a large duffle bag from one of the maintenance lockers. Inside was a SADM, Special Atomic Demolition Munition. These devices were commonly referred to as ‘backpack nukes’ and had been originally conceived as a device to aid in large scale construction projects on the order of something the size of the Panama Canal, other uses were soon found. This one, generations beyond the first crude models, was not on any records as still being active. The manifest it was contained on showed it to be decommissioned, disassembled, and stored at Los Alamos.
He set the timer, closed the device and placed it back inside the locker. Stepping into the hall, he locked the door and proceeded to the elevators with a purposeful stride but not in a hurry although there was a spring in his step. At the elevator bay, he pressed the button to call the car. He noticed that for the first time in a long time, he was truly happy; heart rate was up, face flushed with excitement and he was fighting to keep a broad smile from creasing his face.
Staff Sergeant Milton, Thomas A, was assigned security patrol ‘D’ level, the furthest level down just above the power room. He was bored with this duty. Having just passed the Special Forces ‘Q’ Course including the ‘Robin Sage’ training prior to the known world ending, Milton had been at Fort Bragg awaiting orders to an operational detachment when the orders that did arrive assigned him to Project Blue Light. Blue Light was a program he had never heard about and when he asked some of the older NCOs about it, they clammed up or gave him blank stares.
Resigned to the fact that he was in a dead end position, not likely to
see any action, he did his job, never deviating from procedure or taking any initiative, he thought of the project more like Project Tidy Bowl; one blue flush and your career’s over. Lost in thought, he wandered the semi darkened hallways, checking to make sure none of the unauthorized civilian personnel were down here looking into the weapons, food, and ammo that was stored on this level.
In actuality, the real reason was to make sure that storage rooms weren’t being used for clandestine sexual encounters. As he entered the power level from the stairwell, he thought he heard a door close from further down the hall, just around the ‘T’ intersection. Quickening his pace, he heard footsteps and the ding of the elevator. Rushing around the corner he came up short when he saw that it was one of the operations officers. Snapping off a salute, he greeted the officer.
“Evening sir,”
“Evening, sergeant,” The officer returned the salute and then pushed the button again to call the elevator. Milton thought that was a bit redundant but then he wasn’t an officer.
The officer looked a little nervous, a fine sheen of sweat coated the man’s face; he appeared to be flushed almost as if he had been working out. Milton couldn’t help but grin thinking that the officer had been getting his ashes hauled by some civilian hottie from the operations room. At least he hoped it was a female; this was still the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ modern action army when it came to sexual liaisons. Not like there weren’t plenty of women available; Milton had his eye on a cute redhead that worked in the inventory control section.
“Sir, do you have a pass for this level?” Milton thought to ask, maybe his attention to detail would get him out of this shit assignment.
Maybe he would be noticed and put on one of the upper levels. That and it might seem official so as not to draw attention to the officer’s obvious discomfort getting caught almost with his pants down. Inwardly, Milton snickered, a silly grin tried to form on his face, which he hid by bringing his hand up to stroke his mustache.
Up From the Depths: Book 4 Movement to Contact Page 10
