by Noah Mann
Forty Four
Schiavo stood before us. Lieutenant Angela Schiavo. Acting in the official capacity which had been thrust upon her. And which she now openly embraced, with joy and the barest hint of emotion.
“We’re taking you all back home,” she said.
Martin looked to me, tired relief in his eyes. It was just the two of us representing Bandon at the briefing Schiavo had called after receiving a reply from her superiors. Two each from the other three enclaves that had been forcibly evacuated were in attendance as well, and would certainly report back to their friends and families the welcome news.
“I’m authorized to apologize on behalf of the President of the United States,” Schiavo told us. “This should never have happened.”
Still, this announcement did not set back the clock. Not everything could be fixed by an expression of regret and a one way ticket home.
“What about those who died?” Perkins asked. “What good does an apology do them?”
He had a hundred and twelve people looking to him for answers. People who’d been dragged across the desert from Yuma and shoved onto a commandeered freighter. They’d left the Arizona border town with a hundred and fifty. Thirty eight of his friends and neighbors had been lost in the Russian attack on the Vensterdam as it neared Skagway. Souls that never should have been put in that kind of jeopardy in the first place.
“They’re in a better place,” Reinhardt said, her words drawing a harsh look from Perkins.
“Bullshit,” Perkins said.
Schiavo focused on the man challenging her. The joy she’d felt just a moment before was gone. What rose in its place was the calm certainty of a warrior. One who’d been tested in battles her superiors couldn’t have envisioned a scant few years ago.
“The Yuma group will be dropped off near Santa Barbara,” Schiavo told Perkins. “From there you’ll be taken by Army transport helicopters back to your community.”
Perkins looked away and shook his head. He’d lost more than he should have. More than any of the groups had.
“The Bandon folks will be dropped first on the way south,” Schiavo continued. “San Diego last. And the Edmonton group will be taken home by a contingent of Marines that will be arriving soon by air. A quick refueling stop in Fort Nelson and you’ll be home in time to start up hockey season.”
Reinhardt laughed lightly, the expression of joy more than welcome.
“So you’re dumping us right back into the hell you kidnapped us from,” Perkins challenged Schiavo. “That and some apology by proxy is supposed to suffice?”
The man seethed. Openly. The veins in his neck bulged. His teeth bared. Were there not a room of people who would intervene, I was fairly certain he would have attacked Schiavo at that moment. Defusing the moment, the emotion, seemed an impossible task.
I was wrong.
“You won’t be dropped off and forgotten,” Schiavo told Perkins, looking to each and every one of the representatives next. “You will be regularly supplied.”
“Supplied?” Reinhardt asked. “What does that mean?”
Schiavo almost chuckled.
“More than even I would have thought possible,” the lieutenant said. “I’ve been informed that stockpiles of many of the things we’ve all become accustomed to are ready to be delivered. MREs, canned staples. I’ve also been told that there was a concerted effort to maintain large herds of livestock in secure facilities. Most have survived, and every community will be getting an allotment of animals to allow breeding and, eventually—”
“Steaks,” Martin said, smiling.
Schiavo smiled back at Martin, the expression of joy more than just reflected. It seemed shared. Between the two of them.
“We can hope,” Schiavo said.
The rage that had risen in Perkins settled as he took in what the lieutenant was sharing.
“There are animals,” Perkins said, having some difficulty believing what he was hearing. “Animals?”
“Yes,” Schiavo confirmed. “And, apparently, a way to feed them. I don’t know how. The message I received was from Washington, and it had some detail, but I’m sure there’s a lot still to learn. But, the bottom line is, when you reach home, you’re not going to be left to fend for yourselves. We’re going to help.”
The mood in the room was subdued. But not sad. It was the kind of sudden quiet that came when a great dread had passed.
“Just how will the people going by sea be moved?” Danforth asked.
“Well, if an idea that Eric here had pans out, you’ll all be enjoying a Spartan cruise south on the Northwest Majesty. If, for some reason that isn’t possible, Navy transports will handle the move. I’m hoping it’s the former, because the Navy can’t get here for another sixty days.”
“If the cruise ship can be used?” Danforth asked.
Schiavo didn’t have any real idea. There were dozens of moving parts to the operation. But someone had already begun imagining those parts working together in harmony.
“Two weeks,” Martin said. “I think we can get done what needs to be done in that time. I’ll talk to the ship’s crew and try to nail down a more concrete timeline.”
Two weeks. Fourteen days. And we’d be on our way.
“I think, unless there are any questions, your people might want to know what’s going to be happening,” Schiavo said, looking to Reinhardt as a low, rhythmic rumble began to rise in the distance. “Sounds like the ride for the Edmonton group is just about here.”
A quick exchange of hugs and offers of appreciation ended the gathering, those in attendance filtering out in quick succession.
“You handled that well, Lieutenant,” Martin told Schiavo once Perkins had left the room.
“You’re not going to fix his world,” I said. “No one can.”
“I know,” Schiavo said, flashing an almost uncomfortable half smile at us.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” I asked her.
“Apparently it’s Captain, now,” she said. “That was part of the message.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “Right?”
She nodded and sat in the chair that had once supported a clerk at the store’s register.
“I’m not sure what a promotion means these days,” she said. “I’d have a company with that rank in the old world. I have six men.”
She paused, realizing she’d made a mistake.
“Five,” she corrected herself.
And they were men. One and all. And they respected the hell out of their leader. They would die for her, or kill for her. That I knew. That I’d seen firsthand.
The sound of the aircraft approaching rose, an odd whup whup whup that seemed more helicopter than plane. Schiavo noticed my curiosity.
“Ospreys,” she said. “Big tilt rotor things. Flies like a plane, lands like a chopper. They always look like a child’s toy to me.”
“How soon will Reinhardt’s people be leaving?” Martin asked.
“First light,” the captain said. “They’ll be the first to see their home again.”
Schiavo quieted, some hint of dark realization in her pause.
“I never will,” she said, looking to Martin and me. “See home again.”
I might, I knew. If I ever decided to venture inland from Bandon to explore what had become of Missoula. But that possibility was fraught with the realities of what I might find. And what I did not want to find. I feared the place I’d called home would exist only in memory for the remainder of my days.
“Well, then I hope you find someplace to call home,” I said to Schiavo.
She accepted that wish I’d offered with a quick nod and a smile, but said nothing, her attention shifting to Lorenzen as he came through the front door.
“Didn’t the message say four birds were coming in?” the sergeant asked.
“Yeah.”
“There are five,” Lorenzen said. “They’re setting down on the airport apron right now.”
“Are they bringing any
troops?” I asked.
“Yes,” the sergeant answered. “They’ll offload Marines to secure Skagway and points south.”
“Five, eh?” Schiavo wondered aloud. “I should probably go check with the pilots on the discrepancy. If you’ll excuse me...”
“Of course,” I said.
“We’re going home,” Martin said as he watched Schiavo leave. “Home.”
“I know,” I said.
It had always been our plan, our goal, to bring those who had been taken back to Bandon. But with no idea how that eventuality would transpire, the reality of it, when flavored with all that we’d been through, with all that we’d overcome, was all the more sweet.
“Do you think...”
I didn’t finish the question that had risen. Instead I found myself fixed on Martin. He stood where he was, still looking at where Schiavo had been. If this was junior high, this might have been an appropriate moment to pass him a note asking if he liked her.
But this was far from that very innocent time. This was the real world. The new world. A place where subtlety did a disservice to things that could be as fleeting as they were wondrous.
“She’s a good leader,” I said to Martin, and he nodded, still looking off to the door. “A nice person, too.”
“It seems that way,” he said, swallowing hard, some self-consciousness rising as he finally looked my way. “I’m going to go let everyone know about the plans.”
I smiled and nodded at his avoidance.
“Okay, Martin,” I said.
He left the room where the news had been delivered, and when he was gone I realized that I stood alone in the hollow silence. The solitude, which some people sought, especially in the old world, unnerved me now. I wanted to be with others. I wanted to feel life around me.
I left the room and walked out into the world that echoed with screams of joy. The news that we were all going home had begun to spread.
Forty Five
I came out of the briefing to crystal daylight showing through great billowing masses of white clouds. The blue sky beyond them was as brilliant and pristine as the Montana skies I missed. Beneath them, in the distance, I could see the squat grey bodies of the Ospreys just landed at the airport, engine housings at the end of each wing tipped so that their slowly spinning rotors were horizontal to the ground. Marines were offloading in single lines, fully equipped, at least three dozen in total it seemed.
But they did not come off of the last aircraft which had arrived. It sat slightly away from the four others, rotors not spinning down, but rather idling. As if its stay was to be brief.
“Everyone is going nuts,” Elaine said, coming up behind. “Nothing’s getting done down at the pit for the next few hours.”
“To be expected, I guess.”
We stood and watched the Marines march slowly from the airport toward town. Schiavo met them about half way and seemed to be conferring with the unit’s commander after he stepped out of the column.
“Still a lot of work to be done,” Elaine said.
“Yeah,” I agreed, my gaze again finding the lone Osprey sitting away from the others.
“What is it?”
“That last aircraft over there,” I said, pointing. “Did you see anybody come off of it?”
Elaine shook her head.
“I think it landed a couple minutes before the others,” she told me. “One flew over the pit ahead of the others. Maybe whoever was onboard was already off by the time you came out.”
“Yeah,” I said.
Elaine puzzled at my fixation on the lonely aircraft.
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” I said. “No. It’s just odd.”
It was. To me. But for the life of me, I couldn’t put my finger on why.
“Hey,” Elaine said. “Look down there.”
I did. Right where she was gesturing. Spontaneous celebrations had broken out on the main street through Skagway.
“This is a good thing,” she said. “Let’s go join in. Enjoy the moment.”
I smiled. But I had another idea.
“You go,” I said. “I’m not sure Neil and Grace have heard yet.”
Elaine accepted my alternate plan. She gave me a quick kiss and headed down toward the revelry. I watched the Marines enter town, and I watched the fifth Osprey for a moment more before I started walking to where Neil was staying.
* * *
My friend stood on the front porch of the house staring out toward the town and the harbor beyond, sounds of joy reaching even this far.
“You’re missing one hell of a party,” I said as I joined him on the porch.
“Sounds like it,” he said, looking to me. “Someone from San Diego ran by shouting like the town crier.”
“So you heard.”
My friend nodded, his confirmation subdued. More than that, actually. It was almost as if some doubt had risen within.
“Home,” he said.
“Yeah.”
Across the rooftops of what passed for Skagway’s downtown, the engine and rotor noise of an Osprey grew louder. Just one. The aircraft rose into the air, higher and higher, its rotors tilting forward. It gained speed and banked, in full airplane configuration now, and flew over the town, threading its way through the peaks to northeast.
It was the lone Osprey that had seized my interest, gone now. Why it had come with the rest a mystery for now.
“How is Grace?” I asked, glancing toward the house.
Neil watched the aircraft for a few seconds more until it was completely out of sight beyond the sharply sloped mountains.
“Resting,” he said, smiling as he faced me now. “Doc Allen wants her lying down every few hours.”
My friend looked preoccupied. Worried, even. There seemed to be little of the relief or joy that he’d expressed since we’d freed Krista. I supposed he was entitled to swings in his mood with all that was on his plate. A wife carrying a child he’d not known of until reuniting with her. A step daughter, as loved as any flesh and blood offspring, in danger but now safe. The journey home still to come, with memories of the perilous trek we’d made here fresh in his thoughts.
“She’s going to be fine,” I told my friend.
He accepted that assurance with a tepid nod.
“You okay?”
“Life is funny, Fletch,” he said to me. “Even in this world. We had a place in Bandon. A home.”
“We still do,” I reminded him.
“Yeah,” he agreed, but with vague concurrence.
“We’re going to get there, Neil. Schiavo said we’re going to be supplied. They have actual livestock they’ll be bringing to us sometime after we’re back.”
He seemed to brighten a bit at hearing that. By a degree or two.
“Real food, Fletch. That will be...something.”
I began to wonder if my friend was suffering something not very different than what was affecting Grace. Stress, fatigue, worry. It had come like an avalanche and receded like a tsunami racing back to sea.
“You need a rest, Neil.”
To this he nodded, the gesture true.
“I am tired.”
“Go spend some time with Grace,” I said. “If you need a break later, Elaine and I will watch Krista for a while.”
My friend smiled at the offer. At my concern.
“You’re my best friend, Fletch.”
“Right back atcha,” I said.
Neil gave me a quick, friendly pat on the shoulder, then went inside to be with his wife and daughter. I left the house and walked back into town and joined the celebration.
Forty Six
We sat on the dock, the four of us, relaxing while Krista played with a pair of girls nearby, and while three dozen men and women worked on the far side of the bay, as they had for a full week now, attaching pumps and fat hoses to the half-submerged Vensterdam. With some luck, and an equal amount of effort, the transfer of fuel from the grounded cruise ship might begin to her bret
hren within days. And then, with a bit more luck, and some divine grace thrown in for good measure, the Northwest Majesty’s engines would rumble to life again and we’d be on our way to Bandon.
On our way home.
I did think of it as that now. In the time before we’d set out from there in search of the almost mythical tomato plant, the town, and those who called it home, had begun to seem too much a place stuck in neutral. A place hoping for the best without taking steps to ensure its long term viability as a sanctuary for survivors.
But that had changed. That doubt I harbored had been ground down on our journey to Cheyenne, on our trek to and from a living hell. Bandon now did not seem like home—it was home. My home. And Elaine’s. For as long as she’d have me.
I wanted to return there, with her, with all who’d been spirited away. I wanted to stay there. I wanted a life there. Because I believed we now had a chance to turn things around. If not for the whole human race, then at least for what part of it had found safe harbor in the seaside town.
“You cannot be thinking serious thoughts,” Neil said, catching me off guard.
“What?”
He tipped a swallow of beer back and smiled, his hand laced with Grace’s. They sat close, in patio chairs pushed together, his gaze probing me. Knowing that I’d drifted off into some musing of a serious nature.
“It’s all good, Fletch,” he said, no slur in his words, but a warm glint in his eyes from the building buzz. “No more worries. We top off the tanks in this bad boy and head for home.”
“We?” Grace pressed him. “We, especially you, aren’t on that wreck over there covered in grease and oil so the tanks can be topped off.”
“It’s a collective effort,” Neil said, accepting her ribbing with good nature. “Whose idea was it?”
My friend extended his finger toward me and raised his beer.
“Fletch,” Neil said. “The man of the hour, the week, the year. The man with the plan.”
Elaine leaned close and kissed me on the cheek, soft, warm, and quick.
“He’s not wrong,” she said.
One of the first teams aboard the Vensterdam had located which fuel tanks hadn’t been punctured and polluted with seawater. A team that followed them in had stumbled upon fifty cases of beer, far past its ‘sell by’ date, but with a dip in the harbor’s water to chill the bottles, our small group was enjoying its first ‘cold one’ in a long, long time. And maybe the last for the foreseeable future.
