by PJ Manney
Talia changed her feed to HOME media, scanning news, social, any content with the hashtag #SouthFlorida. Local media was a flood of images and catchphrases. The poor flocking to the ports were compared to pigs in dirt, monkeys in trees, rats fleeing a ship, terrorists with bombs, thieving bums, foreign immigrants. Anyone whose skin was darker than whatever constituted “white” to other whites was accused of being lazy or evil. She flipped through quickly. Her eyes watered.
Tom sat in a console next to her. “You okay?”
She was silent for 6.3 seconds, her eyes never leaving the screen. “Never thought I’d have a reason to come back. Too many memories of a shitty life. You know, even though I was forced to run, I couldn’t wait to escape. These were my people, and yet, it wasn’t my place.”
“Is that how you convinced Steve to stay on board? Because you knew he’d be needed back where you both came from?”
“He’s a sucker for real people in need. And his people?” She tried to smile at the irony, but it didn’t reach her eyes. The tragedy ahead of them was stunning. “Neither of us could imagine not trying to help. How can any country in this century do this to its own? No less ours?”
“You think our country is special,” said Tom. “It’s not. Except for pockets like New Orleans and South Florida, the South didn’t treat all their citizens like citizens. And it’s not our country. Not anymore.”
“But it is.” She waved at the millions determined to leave at whatever price they could manage. “They tried to live within its rules, and they’re punished for it. The state claims allegiance and demands obedience. But it gives nothing but pain in return. There’s no social contract. How could this have happened?” She stared glassy-eyed at the screen.
Tom knew it was a rhetorical question. She’d been fighting the culprits for years, and one cause of this humanitarian disaster was his fight with Carter. Tom believed it would have happened eventually anyway, but probably not so soon.
Although no one wanted to believe it, civilization’s veneer was paper-thin. The smallest change could burn it away and reveal the chaos underneath.
“You focus on the refugees,” said Tom. “I’m going to focus on Carter and the club.”
Talia nodded. The console beeped. She pressed the receiver button.
“CAS Theodore Roosevelt calling Zumwalt . . . ”
CAS meant a California ship. This was the former USS Theodore Roosevelt, an old Nimitz-class nuclear-powered supercarrier, designed for naval aircraft and personnel. There were newer and larger carriers, but none could accommodate as many people nor remain at sea for six months without visiting a port. With its nuclear engine still intact and another ten years of fuel, the ship had plenty of good years left in her.
Talia jumped on the com and struggled to sound upbeat. “Zumwalt here. Hello, Rough Rider, so good to hear back. How far away are you? And remember, talk to me like I’m an idiot.”
The communications officer laughed. “Eleven hundred nautical miles. Arriving tomorrow, oh-nine-hundred hours.”
“Thank God,” she said. “I don’t know how much longer they’ll hold out.”
“Captain Curtis says to say, ‘Anything for Talia . . . ’ I’m not allowed to comment.”
“Tell Geoff I’m more grateful than he’ll ever know. How many does he think you’ll take?”
“We can manage seven thousand back to San Diego. They’ll sleep in rotation on tables, in the halls, and maybe on deck, depending on weather, but we’ll go for it.”
“Governor Woods will still let them in?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Far as we know, California is ready for them. But don’t worry. We’re not called the Big Stick for nothing.”
Talia and Tom could hear laughing on the other end of the call. California maintained its home ports’ naval fleet under the condition that the fleet had some autonomy for humanitarian missions. No smart governor was going to disturb that agreement. And Governor Woods had already publicly stated that California would accept SSA refugees.
“But ma’am,” Rough Rider continued, “we do anticipate an issue entering Port Everglades. I understand you know this area well?”
“Yes. What’s the problem?” asked Talia.
“Satellite and drone images show that the army of the South has infiltrated South Florida and taken it over. No battles. Just rolled right in and stopped outside large encampments, like Port Everglades. New Orleans is next. At the mouth of Port Everglades, there’s a naval surface warfare base, as well as a coast guard base. The naval base was mostly for requisitions, but the coast guard could be a problem. Dover Air Force Base is sending us reconnaissance. There’s unusual weapons movements near the port, but also near the northern borders of the SSA. Also, you gave us info about Winter d’Eon. We shared it with Dover. They’ve spotted someone in Fort Lauderdale matching her biometrics. They’re nervous as hell.”
Tom nodded to Talia.
“Please send whatever information they’re willing to share,” said Talia. “Could the SSA hurt your ship?”
“Ma’am,” said Rough Rider, “if fired upon, I believe we would hurt them more than they could hurt us, but you know what they say about assumptions.”
“Any word on the Ocean Harmony?” asked Talia. The Ocean Harmony was the biggest cruise ship in the world. Its regular capacity was six thousand passengers and twenty-four hundred crew. In a wartime scenario, it could be commandeered and converted to carry at least ten thousand troops. Maybe more. Talia was hoping to board at least twelve thousand, including crew, for the trip back to San Diego.
“Captain Curtis said he’s working on Captain Alessandro right now. One moment, ma’am,” said Rough Rider. They muted transmission for six seconds, then came back. “Captain says Alessandro’d have to go AWOL with a two-billion-dollar ship, find a thousand crew, and set sail against his company’s and President Conrad’s orders. It’s mighty unlikely. But it’s sitting in Port Everglades waiting to be boarded if Alessandro says yes.”
Tom sent Talia a private message: Tell them I will help with that.
Talia repeated the message.
“Don’t know how that would work, ma’am,” said Rough Rider, “but we’ll be there to help, too, if they do.”
“Thanks, Rough Rider. Give Geoff and your crew my best.”
“He says ‘right back at ya,’ ma’am. Rough Rider out.”
She sat back and turned to Tom. Her forced smile dropped. “So how do you think we can convince a cruise-ship line, the president of the SSA, and the captain and crew of the biggest ship in the world to do what we want?”
Tom leaned forward and took her hand. “By telling them it’s not happening.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Tom had studied Fort Lauderdale and Port Everglades in 3-D via satellite views and a multitude of security cameras he had hacked into. With countless superimposed snapshots, a multilayered image coalesced. Like a cubist painting exposing all the subject’s sides at once, it revealed the simultaneity of time. His experience was no longer linear. As time stretched, space compacted, allowing events that had occurred over the days to play out all at once. Suns rose with a variety of intensities and hues, shown bright and cloudy at their height, and set, revealing a tight patchwork fabric of moons, stars, clouds, and darkness. People occupied many locations at once, some passing through, others frequent visitors.
Cameras on the Zumwalt focused on different parts of the city. The monitors and domes showed the team the new Fort Lauderdale as they approached. Storefronts were closed and boarded up along city blocks. For Lease signs hung on almost every commercial space. Streets were dirty, and sidewalks were covered in trash.
The big, white high-rise hotels were empty of vacationers. Temperatures averaged one hundred degrees, with unbearable humidity. Squatters occupied most rooms. The police would clear them out, only for more to figure out a way over, under, and around the fences and barbed wire. Beaches had disappeared under the rising sea. Blue-green algae b
looms choked the entire Florida shoreline, clinging to the first-floor walls of once luxurious buildings. Soon, ocean currents would destroy the foundations and even the squatters would have to evacuate.
A tent city of over one hundred thousand people huddled around Terminal 18 at Port Everglades, home of the deepest cruise-ship berths in the world. Refugees were forbidden by the state governor from sheltering inside the Fort Lauderdale Convention Center, so they made do wherever they could. Tens of thousands of refugee tents looked like colored candies on asphalt-gray trays. Parking structures were repurposed as open-air apartment buildings, with tents set up close but haphazardly, as befitted an emergent, unorganized process. They filled parking lots, streets, grassy areas between storage tanks—anywhere that might remain unmolested, even for a short while. They stopped at the fences that ran along Eisenhower Boulevard and Southeast Nineteenth Avenue. The docks themselves were barricaded, with gates manned by a small battalion of local law enforcement officers armed with leftover military gear for which they had little training. Sound cannons and laser-heat arrays intimidated refugees and kept them in place while making the LEOs feel secure.
Lined up along the docks, the enormous hulks of oversized cruise ships blotted out the skies, casting great shadows on those standing closest to them. Each was a self-contained town on water. But those floating hamlets were empty of people. Terminals 16 to 22, where the largest cruise ships docked, once transported their passengers through the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico. Passengers had lived fun-filled days and enjoyed sparkling nights, warm beaches, an endless supply of food and alcohol, live entertainment, and mixed reality centers where they could pretend they were someone or somewhere else. With humanity, the grass was always greener.
After the Major Tom revelations, when the troubles started, the cruise ships had come back to their home ports to shelter at dock, manned by skeleton crews awaiting a more buoyant economy. But that had taken longer than most companies had anticipated. The skeleton crews now knew that any day, their meager pay would stop completely. As they stood on the decks, eyeing the crowds nervously, Tom could read their expressions and body language: tense faces, crossed arms. They were as full of fear as the refugees.
The biggest ship of all, the Ocean Harmony, lay alongside Terminal 18 like a giant horizontal high-rise, covered by balconies and a festive paint job. Talia planned to load over twelve thousand onto the ship, with first choice to former passenger-ship employees and navy and marine veterans who knew how to run such a behemoth. It was a small percentage of the refugees, but Talia hoped to provide an example that others could follow. The refugees would need more than one reliable lifeline out of the social disaster that President Conrad and his followers were creating.
The CAS Theodore Roosevelt steamed along the Stranahan River, into Port Everglades’s Lake Mabel. It slowed outside the breakwater, awaiting permission to dock. The Zumwalt followed closely behind.
Captain Curtis called via a rarely used encrypted frequency. He didn’t hide concern. “I never let anyone order my ship who isn’t my commander. You sure this will work?”
“No,” admitted Tom. “But we won’t get in otherwise.”
“Last time I was here was for fleet week,” Curtis mumbled. “A lifetime ago.”
Captain Curtis’s communications officer called into the harbormaster using an old-fashioned radio receiver. “This is the CAS Theodore Roosevelt, accompanied by the CAS Zumwalt. Rough Rider calling for docking and repair privileges for both.”
“Far from home, Rough Rider,” said the harbormaster. “Don’t usually take naval vessels.”
“Understood. We’re returning from humanitarian mission in Haiti. Dominican drone hit communications relay. Only radio working—and barely. Would like to get home sooner than later, but with full communications capability. Zumwalt offered help, but they need it, too. Hoping either local yard or Orlando might sell spare parts.”
“Why not Norfolk?” asked the harbormaster. “And what about your spares?”
“Ran out,” said Rough Rider.
“Please send yours and Zumwalt’s logs, Rough Rider.”
“Done. Also sending permissions code from Captain Garvey of the Zumwalt. Should help with processing.”
“A moment to check with Southern Naval Command. Hold steady, Rough Rider and Zumwalt.”
“Will do.”
With Dr. Who and Veronika’s help, Major Tom had created a fake itinerary, along with ship’s logs and damage log for both ships. He knew they would be scrutinized.
They waited for 5.63 minutes.
“Welcome, Rough Rider and Zumwalt. Terminal 22 for TR, 25 for Zumwalt. Sending instructions and permissions for both captains.”
“Thanks. Rough Rider out.”
Because they had to appear to have communications problems, crew on both ships sent confirmation messages via signal lamp in Morse code.
“I guess Veronika’s ID chips and programming do work magic,” Talia said.
Ruth pursed her lips like a kissing fish. Her eyes blinked rapidly. “Less her chips. And more our data.”
Back on the encrypted frequency, Tom contacted Captain Curtis. “Can we limp more? We don’t look disabled enough.”
Captain Curtis paused in thought. “Yeah, that was too easy.”
“We’re on guard,” said Tom. “And we’ve got a lot more convincing to do.”
On the bridge of the Zumwalt, Ruth paced and twitched. She hadn’t sat in hours, the movement hypnotic. Ruth had proved a remarkably accurate bellwether, and they all had learned to pay attention.
“What’s wrong?” Talia asked Ruth.
“They allow us in?” said Ruth. “I know. We sent false data. But I agree with Curtis. T-t-t-t-too easy.”
Tom had to agree. But they had committed to his plan, and now they would see it through.
Guided by tugboats, the two ships slowly made their way to Terminals 22 and 25 as the harbormaster had assigned them. Tom, Veronika, and Talia in side-by-side domes on the Zumwalt bridge.
“It’s time,” said Tom. “Ready?”
Veronika nodded and typed commands. First, she completed her hack into the Southern Naval Command’s port cameras. She replaced their views with computer-enhanced versions of her own. Major Tom did the same with the Miami law enforcement cameras distributed in a five-mile radius from their ship. From the police and the military’s point of view, the CAS Theodore Roosevelt and the Zumwalt were doing exactly as they had promised: lowering their gangplanks and preparing a handful of people from each ship to disembark for parts.
In fact, their gangplanks did lower in time with the manufactured images. The longer and more closely their fake images replicated reality, the longer they had to pull off this stunt.
Talia received an encrypted call from Captain Philippe Allesandro of the Ocean Harmony. Without asking his permission, she shared the audio transmission with the Roosevelt and the Zumwalt.
“Is this Ms. Brooks?” asked the captain.
“Yes, Captain Allesandro. Thank you for calling back.”
“Hard to ignore you when you’re next door.”
“We’re here,” said Talia. “Are you on board the Harmony?”
“Arrived yesterday. The company wants her away from this situation, in a safer port that can handle her size. We’re trying to determine exactly where that might be.”
“Can you help us?” asked Talia.
“You realize the bind I’m in?” asked Allesandro.
“Yes, we do.”
There was a long pause from the captain. Finally, he said, “This makes me sick as anyone. Can you guarantee it’ll work?”
Talia closed her eyes and lied. “As much as is possible. We’ll fill the Harmony first and get you on your way. And we have right on our side.”
“Don’t lecture me on ethics!” barked Allesandro. “I’m responsible for all the people aboard the biggest ship in the world. Your . . . heroics,” he spat, “are meaningless to me.”
Talia looked crushed. “Keep an eye on what he does,” Tom said softly, “not what he says.”
Within five minutes, crew members had removed the upper and lower barriers to the gangway and opened the doors of the Ocean Harmony. Two officers stood at the bottom of the gangway and gave a subtle thumbs-up signal.
“Captain Curtis,” Tom voice messaged, “please post your personnel to vet sailors. It’s your call who gets assigned to which ship.”
“On their way,” said Curtis.
Meanwhile, Tom signaled to the crew members loitering at the barricades, indicating that they should open some gates and tell the refugees to walk, not run, in a line toward the Ocean Harmony. Other crew members were to occupy the nearby LEOs with false communications proving they had permission to take on refugees for transport. That would keep some occupied for a while.
“Can I let him know?” asked Talia.
“Sure,” said Tom.
Talia called Steve. “Hey, baby, set up the medical station aboard the Harmony. I’m sure we’ll have a lot of folks who haven’t seen a doctor in too long.”
“On my way,” he replied.
“He’ll be happy to work finally,” she said to Tom.
Miss Gray Hat’s facial-recognition program was loaded with every identity known to them, friend or foe. A pop-up diverted Veronika’s attention from the slow stream of refugees. “Tom,” she said. “Look.”
Through a nearby law enforcement camera, Tom watched an aged, open-topped convertible Jeep Wrangler, probably hijacked from some poor refugee family, slowly making its way to the edge of the crowd. The contented face of the driver made Tom shiver: Winter. A body-sized canvas bag filled the back seat. She parked the car, climbed in the back, and hefted the bag upright. Opening the zipper at the top, she revealed a head with chestnut hair, pale skin, and a dimpled chin.
Ruth gasped. “He has our robot?”
Winter shimmied the bag off, found the power button at the robot’s neck, and turned it on. The head animated. Eyes blinked and looked to Winter for approval. A smile broke out on the silicone face.
