“And as far as power goes,” he continued, “I got a small generator after the last hurricane scare, and the Coasties”—he nodded to starboard where the Coast Guard patrol boat was moving along with the ship—”are hooking me up with some of those solar panels of theirs. That was my pilotage fee for getting you out of here.”
“Cheap at several times the price,” Hughes said.
Ewing grinned. “Glad you feel that way, because I’m looking for a little contribution from you too. How about a case of coffee? We can’t grow that.”
“Done,” Hughes said.
Conversation lapsed as they both studied the river ahead, the silence broken only by occasional helm orders from Ewing. Then the pilot walked out to the bridge wing to study the bank a bit more intently and returned to the wheelhouse.
“Okay,” Ewing said, “it’s going to get a bit hairier from this point on. In half an hour we’ll be going into Battery Island Turn, which means a ninety-five-degree turn to port, and I have to keep enough speed on her to maintain steerage way or the current will set us hard into the bank.”
Half an hour later, Matt Kinsey stepped on to the bridge to find Fort Caswell to starboard as Pecos Trader cleared the channel, her bow pointed toward the open sea.
“Thank God,” he heard Hughes say as Captain Ewing nodded in obvious agreement.
Kinsey looked toward the open sea and his mouth dropped open. Spread out in the nearby anchorage were a dozen ships of various sizes and types. “Damn, would you look at that,” he said.
“Make’s sense,” Ewing said. “The port’s been closed, what, eleven days now. It was unusually empty when the blackout hit, but there had to be inbound traffic, and here it is.”
“Tanker outbound, tanker outbound,” the radio squawked, “do you have a pilot aboard? This is the container vessel Maersk Tangier . We urgently require a pilot—”
“Tanker outbound, tanker outbound, any pilot aboard tanker outbound. This is the container vessel Hanjin Wilmington ,” broke in a Korean-accented voice. “We at anchor and I claim priority—”
“US Coast Guard vessel with outbound tanker,” said a Greek-accented voice, “this is the bulk carrier Sabrina , inbound with thirty thousand metric tons of wheat. I have a fuel emergency with less than twenty-four hours of fuel remaining. I must proceed to berth or have a bunker barge immediately.”
The chaotic calls increased as more of the ships at anchor spotted the outbound tanker and pressed their claims for attention. Hughes reached over to turn down the volume on the VHF radio, then shook his head in amazement.
Wheels turned in Kinsey’s head.
“What do you think about that?” Hughes asked.
“I think,” Kinsey said, turning toward Ewing, “Captain Ewing here just started the first successful ‘post blackout’ small business, and Chief Butler and Major Hunnicutt just got several shiploads full of early Christmas presents. We just have to sort out what’s waiting out here and pass the word back so they can tell Captain Ewing here what they want first, and where. You okay with that Captain Ewing?”
The old pilot shrugged. “I don’t know what’s in the containers, but I see another tanker and also at least two bulkers, and they’re likely full of grain. I can’t see leaving stuff out here that might feed or otherwise help people. It’ll take a few days, ‘cause we can only do daylight transits, but with the Coasties help, I can likely find at least a couple of other pilots. We can probably get all this stuff inside in a week or so.” He paused. “Thing is, I expect at least a few more ships will show up, especially northbound grain cargoes from South America, as they’re normally two weeks or more in transit.”
Hughes nodded. “Well, we’ll leave that for you and the guys in Wilmington to figure out.”
Ewing returned his nod as a slow smile spread over his face.
“What are you grinning about, Captain?” Kinsey asked.
“Just realizing I won’t be running out of coffee anytime soon,” Ewing replied.
An hour later, after a rough assessment of the ships at anchor and a radio exchange with Wilmington, Kinsey and Hughes stood on the bridge wing and watched the Coast Guard patrol boat pull away from the ship’s side, bound for the Greek bulk carrier Sabrina .
“Distributing raw grain is going to be challenging,” Hughes said.
“They’ll figure something out,” Kinsey said, “and it’s a lot better problem to have than trying to figure out how you’re going to survive with nothing.”
Hughes nodded, seemingly distracted.
“Why so glum?” Kinsey asked. “The river transit’s behind us and we’re ready to head south.”
“Just thinking ahead,” Hughes said, “because when we get to Texas, we’re going to be the one’s out at the mouth of the river with no pilot.”
Mayport Naval Station
Jacksonville, Florida
Day 11, 1:00 p.m.
Sergeant Joel Washington squinted against the midday sun and looked out across the growing ranks of temporary shelters rapidly transforming the former golf course into a sizable town. Mayport had been tight on housing anyway, and with families of the shipboard sailors now required to live within the base perimeter—also in temporary shelters—there’d been no choice but to expand the base, and the adjacent country club had been the logical choice. They’d set up portable toilets and shower facilities as well, with a pump providing salt water from the inlet in unlimited quantities anytime but with a three-minute fresh water rinse available twice a week. Most of the members of the newly formed Special Reaction Force preferred to combine the two, so twice weekly showers had become the norm. Combined with the heat and humidity of north Florida and the increasing stench of the portable toilets, personal hygiene (or lack thereof) contributed greatly to the growing ‘ambiance’ of the camp.
Washington flicked a bead of sweat off his forehead. It didn’t help that the new black uniforms could double as solar collectors, and he wondered for the hundredth time what genius had decided black was a good color for operations in the southern US in the summer, or anytime for that matter? Then again he strongly suspected the color was chosen to intimidate rather than conceal, for despite the recruitment pitch about ‘serving the nation in time of crisis,’ there was growing awareness among the newly recruited that the SRF were meant to be shock troops—insurance against civil unrest. The recent word the assignment was permanent rather than temporary as promised hadn’t been well-received among the ‘volunteers,’ but no one had chosen the ‘honorable discharge’ option, or at least any ‘takers’ had been removed quietly. The consequences of being disarmed and dropped into the growing refugee population, far from friends or former comrades, didn’t bear thinking about.
He heard distant whoops and laughter and turned toward a yet to be developed area of the golf course, where several men had stripped to their skivvies and were using one of the former water hazards as a swimming hole. That was technically against standing orders, but discipline was considerably more relaxed in the SRF than it ever was in the 101st Airborne and he was quickly learning to pick his battles. Maybe an alligator would eat their asses, he thought, and turned a blind eye to the swimming hole before he ducked into a shelter. He stood in the comparative gloom, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Corporal Neal Long was bitching as usual.
“I been eatin’ this garbage five days now, and I haven’t had a decent crap in three,” Long said, staring down morosely at the contents of an MRE spread before him.
“Meals-refusal-to-exit, dude,” said the man seated next to Long, with a shake of his head, “and it ain’t gonna get any better unless you can score a few of those chili mac meals. Those things will set you free.”
“And they distribute them like one in ten or twelve and every swinging dick in this camp is gonna hoard them, Gibson, so the ‘chili mac exit strategy’ isn’t exactly a workable solution. And besides,” Long said, “this is bullshit. In a camp this size there should be a kitchen and dining tent. Even you jarhea
ds are that civilized.”
Gibson shook his head. “When I left Lejeune, they were already running out of regular chow and switching to MREs, and it’s the same thing here. I talked to some of the fleet Marines on the ships here and they told me the same story. Only difference is the galley squids heat up all the packages at once and set ‘em out for the guys to grab when they go through the chow line.”
“And you should be glad you have it, Long,” Washington said from his spot near the entrance, “so quit your bitching. There are a lot of folks out there going hungry.”
Long sighed and looked back down at the food packets. “I know, Sergeant, but some of this stuff is just nasty.”
“Washington’s right,” said Grogan from where he sat on the opposite side of the shelter. “Save all the nasty stuff. Just give it a couple of more weeks for reality to set in good and you’ll be able to trade it for all the ‘fugee pussy you want.” He grinned at the men on either side of him. “Ain’t that right, boys?”
Washington crossed the floor to loom over Grogan and glared down at him.
“That’s SERGEANT Washington, Grogan, and leaving aside how despicable that statement was, you seem to forget there’s a ‘no fraternization’ policy in effect. You stay the hell away from civilians except in the line of duty. You got that?”
Grogan rose to his feet and looked Washington in the eye with an expression just short of a sneer. “Well, ‘Sergeant,’ I believe if you’ll check, you’ll find that ‘no frat’ rule is for regular troops, not us. And since the only pay we’re likely to get in this wonderful new world is a place to bunk and these crappy MREs, I reckon we have to take our fringe benefits where we find them. And FYI, ‘Sergeant,’ me and the boys here”—he nodded at his two companions—”have been with Rorke through a lot of shit shows, and I can tell you from experience he don’t sweat the small shit as long as it keeps the troops happy.”
“Yeah, well, you take orders from me now, and I take mine from Lieutenant Kinsey, so you better get used to it,” Washington said.
“And you better tell that prick Kinsey to lighten up,” Grogan said, “or someone might roll a surprise into his quarters some dark night.”
Washington’s face hardened and he shoved his nose an inch from Grogan’s.
“Did I just hear you threaten an officer in front of witnesses, Grogan?”
Grogan shrugged. “Just sayin’ we live in dangerous times,” He grinned. “But if you’d like to bring me up on charges, go ahead. I’m pretty sure I know how that would play out.”
Washington stood dumbstruck by the blatant insubordination, and Grogan took a step back and moved toward the shelter exit.
“Come on, boys,” Grogan said to his two companions, “let’s go take a swim.”
Quarters of Captain Quentin Rorke
Mayport Naval Station
Jacksonville, Florida
Day 11, 9:00 p.m.
First Lieutenant Luke Kinsey closed his eyes and sighed as the breeze from the room air conditioner washed over him, then opened them to look at the remains of what was the best meal he’d eaten in a week—or maybe ever—spread out on the table in the flickering light of half a dozen candles.
“That was a fantastic meal, thank you, Maria,” he said, as across from him, Maria Velasquez beamed at the compliment. As always, she looked as if she were about to step in front of a camera, and Luke marveled at her ability to maintain her appearance in the chaotic hell the world was becoming.
Beside Maria, Rorke reached over and covered her hand with his on the white linen tablecloth. “My Maria is a woman of varied and remarkable talents,” he said, and Maria’s smile widened.
“And,” Rorke said, as he grinned and disengaged his hand to top off Luke’s wineglass, “notwithstanding Maria’s outstanding culinary talents, I suspect the air-conditioning added to our enjoyment.”
“How’d you manage that, by the way? Friends in high places?” Luke asked.
Rorke laughed. “Or low places. There are two units, actually, and they were already here when we moved in, one in each bedroom. We just relocated the one in the second bedroom here to the living/dining room area. The generator’s big enough to run one of them at a time and still keep the refrigerator cool, as long as we opt for candlelight.”
“Which is more romantic anyway,” Maria added, leaning over to nibble on Rorke’s ear.
Rorke turned his face toward Maria’s for a light kiss, then turned back to Luke.
“An unanticipated benefit of taking over navy enlisted quarters. We have AC and the regular officer’s housing with big central units don’t,” Rorke said. “I was also able to scrounge a big propane grill for the garage. We just crack the garage door when we’re cooking.”
“So these units were empty?”
Rorke shrugged. “Rank has its privileges, Kinsey. You know that. The enlisted dependents who lived here were relocated to the temporary structures closer to the docks. It’s been decided Mayport’s going to be the main SRF base for the Southeast, so things have to be restructured a bit. We’ll need officer’s quarters, and housing inside the wire is tight. These units are now designated as housing for captains and above, which brings me to why I asked you to dinner. One of them is yours if you want it.”
Luke said nothing as Rorke gazed at him in the flickering light.
“I’m not a captain,” Luke replied.
“You will be if I say so,” Rorke said. “We’re growing daily and will be at brigade strength within two weeks. I’ve been given the brigade and a promotion to lieutenant colonel.” He smiled at Luke’s expression. “Yeah, we’re going to do things a little differently in the SRF. I’m skipping the whole ‘major’ thing.
“Anyway,” Rorke continued, “I’ll need company commanders. I want you to be one of them.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re smart, and you follow orders, most of the time anyway. You have a natural leadership ability. So presuming I can make sure you understand the new realities, I think you’ll be an asset,” Rorke said.
“What new realities?” Luke asked.
“That it’s not getting any better, ever, and in fact, it will get a whole lot worse,” Rorke said. “That the only ones who will prosper, or even survive, are those strong enough to take what they need and defend what they take. People are beginning to see this as The End of the World as We Know It, but that’s not quite correct. It may be the end as far as YOU knew it, or as most people knew it, but it’s pretty much business as usual for me and the men who currently form a big part of this force. We’ve been soldiering in shit holes all over the world for a lot of years. Places where we make the rules. We made large sums of money and then came back to civilization to enjoy it, but it turns out that was all just a dress rehearsal for the real thing.” He grinned. “I’ve been training for this my whole life, I just didn’t know it.”
“I don’t know,” Luke said, after a long pause. “I’m not sure I accept your ‘realities,’ and even if I do, I signed up to help people, not exploit them.”
Rorke’s face hardened. “But you did sign up, and as you’ve probably figured out by now, this is a bit like the French Foreign Legion, only your hitch is forever. The only way you get out is being stripped of weapons and dropped among the ‘fugees to fend for yourself. And if you stay, I can not only promote you to captain, I can also bust you back to private. So it’s up to you to decide what kind of life you want.”
Rorke motioned to the remains of the meal as he continued. “Where do you think that chicken and the fresh vegetables and the tomatoes for the salad you just ate came from? And what about the wine, and the generator running that air conditioner, and the gasoline running it? I’ve had a dozen of my guys out scrounging from the beginning, and I don’t care where they find stuff or who they take it from. They take a share and pass on half to me, no questions asked. Then as long as they follow my orders, I protect them, no matter what they do. And as long as I meet the objectives set out
for the SRF, FEMA doesn’t give a damn either.”
Luke said nothing.
“Well, what’s it gonna be, Kinsey? I only make an offer once, and there are plenty of people to take the job if you don’t. So you don’t get to ponder it or think on it or sleep on it. I want your answer now. In or out? Captain or private?”
Luke sighed. “I guess I’ll go with captain.”
Rorke’s face split into a grin. “Excellent choice,” he said, turning to Velasquez. “This calls for a celebration. Break out the good stuff.”
She nodded and moved to a sideboard, bringing back a cut-crystal decanter full of amber liquid and three squat glasses, then poured an inch of whiskey into each glass and set them within reach.
“A toast,” Rorke said, raising his glass, “to Captain Kinsey.”
“To Captain Kinsey,” Velasquez echoed, and raised her glass.
It was the first of many toasts—one of Luke’s new duties was apparently to be Rorke’s drinking buddy. The decanter was quickly drained and replaced by a full bottle of whiskey of equal pedigree. By the second hour, Rorke was starting to slur his words a bit and Velasquez was openly groping him beneath the table, as well as occasionally stretching her leg out to run her toes along Luke’s calf. They were both outdrinking him two or three to one, but he was definitely feeling the alcohol.
“… couldn’t believe they could be so frigging stupid,” Rorke said. “I mean, it’s like a mercenary leader’s wet dream. FEMA collects all the trained single guys motivated enough to volunteer and then just gives them to me. I get to decide to keep them or not, and anyone I can’t turn into a follower gets a one-way trip to ‘Fugeeville, courtesy of FEMA Air. It’s a brigade now, but I’ll have a regiment in two months, and in a year, an army. I’ll be unstoppable, and all I gotta do is make nice with FEMA while they build, equip and feed my army.”
Under a Tell-Tale Sky: Disruption - Book 1 Page 14
