Omega Days (Book 4): Crossbones

by John L. Campbell

  “Blackbeard,” she said, letting the cat out of the carrier from where it rested on one of the chairs. The black-and-gray-striped animal meowed long and loud as she picked it up, then began to purr and rub its head against Liz’s chin.

  “Mommy’s got you,” she said, scratching the cat behind the ears. It leaned into the rub. “Now we really are shipmates.” She chuckled. “Yes, I’m happy to see you too.” She looked around her quarters. What was she going to feed him? Coast Guard galleys didn’t stock cat food, and she certainly hadn’t packed any in her sea bag. That was when she realized she had left her laptop in her Camry on the dock. Well, there was nothing to be done about it now, and it wouldn’t have helped feed her cat, anyway.

  “We’ll figure something out,” she said, as Blackbeard turned a circle in her lap and curled up, still purring.

  After several minutes there were two sharp raps on the door. “Come,” Liz called. Charlie entered, his broad, squat frame filling the doorway. He closed the door behind him and stood at attention in front of the table, eyes fixed on the bulkhead behind his sister. “Senior Chief Kidd, reporting as ordered.”

  In her lap, Blackbeard hissed and jumped down to hide under the couch. “Stand easy, Senior Chief,” she said, and her brother did, clasping his hands behind his back. “Are you wondering why you’re not in irons, Chief?”

  “It’s not because I’m your brother. I know that cuts me no slack.”

  “You’re alive because you’re my brother, Chick. I could have left you in that Hummer.” She gestured for him to sit. “We’ll talk later about what the FBI told me.”

  “Sis, I—”

  She cut him off. “Save it. We’ll talk about it later, because at this point it’s moot. The helicopter is another matter.”

  Chick leaned forward on the table. “What was I gonna do, let them take your ship away? Put you in cuffs right beside me in the back of that helicopter? Not gonna happen.”

  “Oh, you did it for me, did you?” She shook her head.

  “We’re at war,” he said, “and people die in war.”

  “Do not lecture me on war, mister.” The undeniable fact was that his actions had kept her in command, but at the cost of seven lives, men with families. Her crew had families too, though, didn’t they? And no matter what was happening to them back on land, they would want to know their loved ones were safe out on the water. Unfortunately she couldn’t provide the same reassurance to the men and women aboard. Seattle was in chaos. It was confusing and frustrating, made more so because her sense of duty was at war with her need to look after her younger brother, something she had once failed to do and that had exacted a heavy price on both of them. Am I still atoning for that sin?

  “My biggest worry right now,” she said, “isn’t downed helicopters or even that Navy destroyer out there. It’s the crew. They don’t know what to think, and that’s because of you.” She leveled a finger at him. “My XO is the Law Enforcement Division officer, the top cop on the ship, and he has some serious objections to one Senior Chief Charles Kidd not being in custody, much less being made chief of the boat.” She explained her decision and told him he would be running the deck division. That had been Charlie’s job aboard Klondike.

  “You’ll have next to no staff,” she said, “but you’ll still have to make it work.”

  Chick nodded. “We’ll be squared away, Skipper.”

  “Also because of what you’ve done,” she continued, “my crew is in turmoil and no doubt questioning my decisions. I’ll deal with that, but it leaves you as the only one I can absolutely count on to have my back. I need to be able to depend on you, Chick.”

  “Without question,” he said.

  “And you will not engage in further combat action without orders.”

  “I understand.”

  Two sharp raps came at the door, and Liz told the visitor to enter. It was Amy Liggett carrying two sidearm belts of Sig Sauers and spare magazines. Another was already belted around her waist.

  “That will be all, Senior Chief,” Liz said, standing and buckling on the weapon. Liz asked the young woman to find some food and water for her cat, and then all three dispersed, the captain heading for the bridge and what would be the longest watch of her career.

  • • •

  Moses Thedford didn’t get to make his call to the bridge, and didn’t get the hatch to the passageway open before the creature that had been a Klondike survivor was on him. His last conscious thought, as blood shot from his severed artery and the creature worked in deeper with its teeth, was that he should have stayed in the Bronx.

  There were four of them in the compartment now, three Klondike men and Moses, his dark skin already turning ashy. Two of the creatures stood facing different bulkheads, a third wandered back and forth in the narrow space between the beds, and the thing that had been Moses stood with its arms limp at its sides, head cocked over, swaying and staring at the hatch. Occasionally there would be sounds on the other side, and Moses would let out a croak, but for the most part he was still, staring at the steel oval that kept them in this room.

  It would be hours before one of Moses’s dead hands finally came up slowly and reached for the handle.

  • • •

  Many had called it the Emerald City and Gateway to Alaska, a place known for its jazz, poetry, alternative music, its iconic Space Needle, the Seahawks, and the Mariners. With 3.6 million people in the metropolitan area, Seattle’s real estate was among the most expensive in the country, in part due to the high-paying corporate presence of Amazon, Microsoft, and an assortment of biomedical companies. It was a diverse, tolerant, progressive city.

  It was dying fast. Many of those millions of residents would be dead by the end of the day, and that number would multiply exponentially as the plague spread. Uncontrolled fires began devouring neighborhoods and quickly spread to the thousands of square acres of dry forest waiting at the city’s outskirts. Before long, a heavy smoke would hang in the streets, but it would only impair the living who were trying desperately to get out. Smoke didn’t bother the dead.

  On the bridge of Joshua James, Liz and Boomer plotted their course north. They would maintain flank speed and steam directly up the sound, putting as much distance between themselves and the Navy destroyer as possible. On that topic, Boomer gave a soft-spoken opinion.

  “They must have bigger problems. They should have been all over us by now. How hard would it be to launch a Navy helo out of Everett and put a torpedo into our side?”

  Liz grunted noncommittally. The same thought had occurred to her, and so she had privately taken aside Petty Officer Vargas, the man now in charge of their electronic warfare system down in the Combat Control Center. Her orders had been to have the twenty-millimeter CIWS loaded, and use the fire control radar—when it decided to work—to track, identify, and target any aircraft within their threat radius. If an airborne attack was detected, Vargas was to be standing by for the order to engage. If a Navy helo did come at them, her intention was to spot it and destroy it before it could put a torpedo in the water.

  Getting easier and easier to kill U.S. helos, isn’t it, Liz?

  She went back to the chart, noting that their course would take them up beyond Kingston, and then they would bear northwest for a time past Whidbey Island, continuing through Puget Sound. A right turn would take them into Possession Sound, the home waters of the Navy base at Everett, which wasn’t an option. Their northwest course would eventually put Marrowstone Island off their port side before they finally turned west into the open water of the Salish Sea and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Joshua James would slow then, approaching the Coast Guard Air Station at Port Angeles cautiously, monitoring radio traffic and perhaps sending in an SRP for reconnaissance.

  “I estimate five hours if all goes well,” said Boomer.

  “Which we know won’t happen,” Liz replied, “but it’s a plan for now.”

  Beyond the thick bridge windows, the sound had grown even more
chaotic. At nearly 10:00 A.M., the surface traffic was dangerously congested with vessels of all types, most disregarding all water safety rules in their race northward. Liz found her ship in the center of a waterborne rush hour, and no sooner had Boomer given his time estimate than she had to order the cutter to slow, keeping pace with the vessels around them in order to avoid a collision. It might not be a bad thing, she realized. Perhaps Joshua James would become lost in the clutter.

  Many ships tried to radio the Coast Guard vessel or signal from their decks, but Liz ordered radio silence and gave no response. In another life, even yesterday, she would have been communicating and working to bring order to the madness. But this was a new life, and though her heart ached to help the frightened civilians all around her, it wasn’t safe to bring any of them aboard a ship that might be attacked by the U.S. Navy at any moment. The other consideration was that she didn’t have enough stores or clean water to support her crew, much less refugees. No, for now she had to carry on. Things would be different after they resupplied at Port Angeles. Then she would come back here and start saving lives.

  Off the starboard bow, a sport fisherman got too close to a maneuvering freighter and they collided. Fiberglass shattered and the sport fisher went under as the big, rusty ship plodded on. Yellow spots appeared in the water as life jackets bobbed to the surface.

  Joshua James steamed north without slowing.

  NINE

  The Ediz Hook was a curving sliver of land extending into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. It sheltered a deepwater harbor for the small town of Port Angeles, boasting a population of only twenty thousand, resting in the shadow of the Olympic Mountains. The town had an airport and a ferry service to Victoria, British Columbia, and other than a small tourism trade, it survived because of industry: logging, oil tanker berthing, and commercial fishing. It was also one of the last American communities before this part of the world turned into either Canada or the Pacific.

  Port Angeles held little interest for Liz Kidd, who was standing on her bridge and observing the view ahead through binoculars. It was the Coast Guard Air Station out at the tip of the Ediz Hook that drew her. Air Station Port Angeles was a logistical support center for several cutters operating in the area and would have just what Joshua James needed. Liz had served on a small cutter here once, back when she was a young lieutenant, junior grade, and she knew the base well. Getting in quietly, however, would be impossible. They had company.

  Slowing down to mix with the flotilla of vessels trying to escape the Seattle area had masked their transit—no officials, including the Navy, had discovered them—but the reduced speed added three hours to their journey, causing them to arrive just after 6:00 P.M. Most of the smaller craft around them had peeled away toward marinas hours ago, thinking to find safety on one of the many islands in Puget Sound. The biggest ships, the tankers, freighters, and containers, steamed on around the cutter, eventually angling either toward Canada or out to sea. A dozen vessels, private craft as well as two commercial fishermen, followed Joshua James at a close distance, no doubt believing the cutter would lead them to a safe harbor.

  As Liz ordered her ship to a dead stop, two miles from the air station, the tiny flotilla with her did the same, drifting into a staggered line off her port and starboard, expectant faces looking toward the big, white Coast Guard vessel. Liz had long since stopped listening to their radio calls for information.

  “Nothing in the slips,” Boomer said, standing beside her with his own binoculars. The pier that served the air station was completely empty of Coast Guard vessels, or any others for that matter. “Nothing on the runway, and the helo pad is empty too.” From here they could even see into the open, cavernous aircraft hangar. The three MH-65 Dolphin helicopters stationed there were gone.

  Every coastie is out doing their job today. Except me. Liz keyed the radio mic. “Air Station Port Angeles, this is Coast Guard Cutter seven-five-four. Acknowledge.”

  No response, and sorting through the chatter on the Guard channel told them none of it was coming from the air station. Still, she tried to raise them several more times, each time with negative results.

  “Helm,” she called, “ahead seven knots, come to zero-two-zero.” The helmsman steered the vessel toward the air station as twin diesels pushed Joshua James through the water. Most of the small craft around her took that as a positive sign and raced ahead to the marina at the edge of the small town to the left. They didn’t have much choice, Liz knew. Most would almost be out of fuel by now. One of the two commercial fishermen didn’t like the look of it all and turned north to strike out for Canada, but the second hung on and followed the cutter.

  Liz summoned her officers and section heads, handed the conn off to Mr. Waite, and gathered her people at the back of the bridge for a quick meeting.

  “I’m going to bring us alongside the long pier,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Coseboom will lead the shore party.” She looked at the man. “While you assemble your team, I’ll draw you a map of the base so you won’t get lost. Priorities are food, water, arms, and ammo, collecting any coasties you find. If you can make a second trip, some of the contractors will go with you so we can identify and obtain any systems equipment they need.”

  Boomer nodded.

  “Deck division,” she said, looking at her brother, “will mount the fifties and provide cover to the operation.” Then she looked at Amy, now going on twenty-four hours without sleep. “Engine room and propulsion needs to be standing by to get us off that pier fast.”

  Everyone said they understood.

  Liz looked at Boomer again. “If you encounter the dead, remember that head shots put them down. I want this operation executed fast and without casualties, people. You have your assignments.”

  The officers and brand-new section heads dispersed, and Liz moved to her quartermaster. “I want to get into that harbor and then come about to one-eight-zero before approaching the pier, so we end up bow-out to sea.”

  The quartermaster watched his digital charts and gave commands to the helmsman, and Joshua James moved into the sheltered waters of the Ediz Hook.

  • • •

  Lieutenant Commander Coseboom was bright, and he had a quick, tactical mind. He and his shore party had been on the base for only a few minutes before it was clear to him what had happened. The crisis erupted in Seattle, and Air Station Port Angeles sent all three of its birds and every vessel they had south to assist, emptying the base of all but administrative and service personnel, and probably a tiny security detachment.

  Like everywhere, the dead appeared in the small town across the water, and the civilian population, those that hadn’t gotten out on boats, packed the road that traveled the length of the hook, passing through the bird sanctuary and seeking refuge on the only military base around. There would have been no way to hold them back; the base gate was nothing more than a sentry box and a pair of wooden traffic arms.

  The dead followed the exodus.

  And caught them.

  Air Station Port Angeles now crawled. Through the spaces between buildings, sluggish figures could be glimpsed moving in large groups along the runway. Others, many in uniform, staggered across the closer lawns and parking areas.

  “We’re moving to Warehouse One,” Boomer told the eight men with him, “fast and quiet.” Only he, Chief Newman, and a bosun’s mate were armed, and the bosun held their lone M16 rifle.

  An ocean wind blew across the base, cool and salty, making the colors snap atop the flagpole in front of the administration building. The shore party had run down the cutter’s gangplank, sprinting down the pier and onto the base itself, angling to the right down a paved access road. Boomer took the lead, a forty-caliber Sig in his hand and a pack on his back, carrying a pair of bolt cutters.

  Two corpses in mechanic’s coveralls stumbled across a strip of grass and onto the access road, moving to meet the running shore party. Boomer stopped twenty-five feet from them, took the Sig in two hands, and fired three
times, putting them down. The shots echoed across the quiet base. He’d seen enough during the Klondike rescue that the sight of other Coast Guardsmen in this condition—or shooting them, for that matter—caused him no hesitation. As his captain had said, the head shots put them down, and they didn’t get back up.

  The map Liz drew for them led the party to a warehouse about midway between the far helicopter hangar and the pier behind them, positioned right on the access road. Boomer hauled on a big sliding door mounted on rollers, running it open while the bosun’s mate pointed the M16 inside. The lights were on, and nothing appeared to be moving among the high steel racks packed with crates. Forklifts were lined up to one side of the high-ceilinged space.

  The officer looked at Chief Newman, who was also holding a Sig. “You know what we need. I’m taking three men and heading to the armory.”

  “Copy that,” Newman said, pointing at the forklifts. “Take a couple of those.” Parked beside the vehicles was an airport-style tractor attached to a string of flatbed carts, something to service large aircraft out on the runway. “I’m using that,” the chief said.

  Boomer gave him a thumbs-up and ran for a forklift.

  • • •

  Liz used her binoculars and tracked her shore party until they reached the warehouse. A radio to keep her in contact with her men now hung on one hip. On the forward deck below, her brother had mounted a fifty-caliber on the port side and was loading it with a belt of heavy rounds. He yanked back the charging handle to arm the weapon and pointed it toward shore. Three other fifty-cals would also be aiming at the base now, positioned at intervals down the length of the port side. She hoped they wouldn’t have to use them.