by JK Franks
“Well, shit man, dat rules out juss about e’rything. Dem done most o’ the tricks in the bag. Force is what we always use, and it works. Whass so important ’bout dis damn boat?”
“Well, Gibson, that is a question I don’t have the answer for. Take it up with the imperial master when he arrives. For now, we have a job to do. It may come to grappling hooks. You two,” he motioned to a pair standing off together, “go find a way to start collecting what we need. Anything useful. Raid some of the homes and barns around here to get the stuff. The other possibility is to unlatch the doors instead of blowing them off. I don’t know how a hatch on a ship like this works. Find someone who might and see what would be needed to disable the latching mechanism. Lastly, let’s find an area above the waterline where the steel plating would be vulnerable to a small, focused blast—one that can be repaired, but that would allow us to access the interior, preferably near somewhere vital to them.”
One of the guys spoke up, “I can tell you where that would be. I worked in a shipyard back in my Navy days. Come up here to the road and I can show you.” They wandered up to where most of the other Judges were already gathered. The man pointed to a low spot near the stern as one of the ship’s most vulnerable spots. High above, on the bridge wing of the Aquatic Goddess, Bartos spoke into his radio.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Gulf of Mexico
Scott awoke to find Skybox watching him intently. The look was unnerving, especially coming from a special ops soldier.
“Did you fix coffee yet?”
“Yeah, pot’s by the stove, help yourself to breakfast, too . . . looks like you could use a good meal.” Skybox glanced to his right to look at the sunrise just peeking over the edge of the horizon.
Scott shook the morning cobwebs and fleeing demons from his brain. “How are you feeling?”
“Super, ready for my morning swim.” With that, Skybox rose and dove over the raft’s edge and into the water. With long, graceful strokes he headed toward the sunrise.
“Well, fuck,” Scott said as he gingerly moved to the far side and yelled after the man. “I didn’t save your dumbass just to watch you go and kill yourself.” If Skybox heard, he gave no indication. Whatever.
Scott heard a shout and then saw splashing. The man disappeared below the surface, leaving only empty ocean in his wake. Suddenly, Scott saw him shoot past underneath the water. He had hold of a sea turtle. The turtle seemed to be winning the battle as it dove deep, but soon Scott saw the man coming back up to the surface, the front edge of the turtle’s shell firmly in his grasp. He could see the grin on Skybox’s face ten feet below.
He burst to the surface and flung the turtle into the raft. Blood ran from a gash in the animal’s throat. “How did you—ho—”
Skybox now returned to the raft, took the knife and made quick work of butchering the turtle. He sheathed the blade and tossed it back to Scott.
“Sorry, I didn’t have time to ask for it politely.”
Scott was amazed at the man’s recovery, and his tenacity in capturing his prey. This man is a predator. Never forget that. He took a strip of turtle meat from the outstretched hand. He looked at it warily before popping it into his mouth. He swallowed without chewing. The taste and texture were not as bad as he feared: somewhat metallic and a bit like undercooked veal. His raging hunger also helped him stomach the gruesome scene before him.
Skybox took several bloody, dripping pieces of meat and began chewing with a look of extreme satisfaction. Clearly, this was not the worst meal he had ever had. “It’s a little gamey, but it tastes pretty good, right? Not a traditional southern breakfast, I know. Scott, tell me something. Why were you with that SEAL team?”
Scott swallowed another strip of raw meat. “How do you know I wasn’t one of them?”
“I’ve been in the military all my life. I can spot a soldier. Even in the sandbox when tribesmen would try to trade with us or offer to sell information, I could usually pick out the ones that meant us harm. Don’t get me wrong, man, you can hold your own in a fight. You moved faster and realized my weaknesses quicker than most, and you’re certainly a survivor, but you’re not a soldier.”
Scott wasn’t sure if he should feel complimented or insulted. “My . . . community has had a good working relationship with the Navy. Despite some reservations about the mission, they wanted me to come along. I was the only person who knew one of the people in the lab.”
“Oh, Gia,” Skybox said, raising his eyes to Scott’s.
Scott offered a small laugh before taking another bite. “Actually no. DJ. He’s my niece’s boyfriend. I had no idea Gia was part of it.” Quickly he realized he may have said too much.
“Ahh,” a look of recognition crossed Skybox’s face. “Kaylie.”
Scott stopped eating, “He told you about my niece?”
“He loves her, he missed her. She does sound like a great girl. I’m sorry, Scott, but I was there for a long time. I’m also trained to get information. I could see the girl was the way to get DJ talking, so I used it. I like the kid, but honestly, not all my intentions were honorable. Too many years of training and subterfuge.” He winked, still chewing loudly.
“But you guys were in the same lab. It’s a Praetor facility after all. What would he know that you didn’t?”
Scott watched Skybox’s eyes become more alert at the mention of Praetor. Even the name must be protected information, then. He paused to take another bite and a red dribble of blood ran down his chin. “Oh, nothing really, just a habit of mine I guess. I wanted to know where they were with the Chimera virus. If they knew how bad conditions were back on the mainland. I suppose I wanted to ease my mind about how responsible The P-Guard was for all this shit.”
“P-Guard?”
Skybox looked at him before answering, “Praetor. Our command doesn’t often use that name. We refer to ourselves collectively as P- Guard or the Guardians.”
“Like the Praetorian Guard?” Scott asked.
Skybox gave the briefest of nods. “Our organization is probably not what you think. We may stay hidden, but we’re not some cabal or shadow government. We’re just patriots. The group has been at work a very long time taking care of America and most democratic countries in the world.” He looked like he had said more than he should have.
Scott was full and somewhat repulsed now by the meal. He decided to change the subject. “Chimera? That’s what you’re calling the pandemic?”
Skybox nodded, “Good as anything I guess. The doc didn’t seem to think it was a virus, though, nor a bacterial agent. Said it was something in between—a chimera.”
He wiped his chin and briefly seemed lost in his memories. “We—I—lost an entire battalion to the damn thing in Pakistan.”
Scott didn’t have fond memories of Praetor soldiers, but he didn’t wish anyone harm. “Shit, I’m sorry man. So, it really is that bad?”
“Scott, it’s truly terrifying. I’ve never feared an enemy. But that bastard disease will end us. Well, the ocean will probably end us, but you know.”
“Skybox, do we have any chance of being rescued? I mean, do you have, like, a secret tracking device you’ve activated, or something?”
“Not a chance in hell, bud. I did have a tracker, but they removed it at the lab. Said it would screw up the MRI test. I’ve seen your Navy friends looking the last few nights, but their search grids are in the wrong direction. If my guess is accurate, the storm blew us pretty far north, and we’re now drifting closer to the Gulf Coast, maybe within a hundred miles of land. I’m guessing Louisiana or Mississippi, but you may know better than me. That’s not so close, but it is attainable. We could be close enough to save ourselves.” The soldier eyed Scott again. “You look to be in good shape, Scott. You a runner?”
“Cyclist. It’s not going to be an easy stretch to get across the pull of the North Atlantic Gyre.”
“The gyre? Oh, yeah, the offshore current . . . It goes west to east out here, doesn’t i
t?”
Scott had to think for a moment, “Yeah that sounds right, although the hurricane may have disrupted that.”
“True. Well, help me get this tarp over us so we don’t bake in the sun all day.”
The two men worked together to attach the canopy to the raft for shade. They also rigged up a solar still they found in the raft’s supplies. The device was a simple system of clear plastic pieces that used the sun’s rays to evaporate seawater. The droplets of fresh water collected on the clear plastic and drained down into the now empty water bottle. During the heat of the day, it produced a few ounces per hour: just enough for them to survive. They did still have two tins of water in the survival kit, and Scott had two full Nalgene containers in his bag. Skybox cut the remaining turtle meat into long strips and lay them on the canopy to dry. “Turtle jerky,” he smiled. “Hope we don’t attract seagulls.”
“Yum,” Scott said only slightly sarcastically. “By the way, Skybox, thanks.”
“For what?”
“For not killing me, for starters. You obviously could have. You’re built like a freakin’ tank. But thanks for saving me, for finding the raft and for being honest with me.”
Skybox waved a hand nonchalantly. “No problem, man. You seem like a good guy, and to be honest, I don’t remember grabbing the raft. I think I remember seeing it, or something, blow past me in the storm. I thought I saw it a few times in the distance after that, but I don’t recall ever going after it.” He shuffled a bit and looked uncomfortably out to sea. “I can’t say I’ve been completely honest with you.”
Scott laughed, “Great. So, I’m infected?”
“No, I’m just not permitted to talk about certain things. If I wasn’t reasonably sure we’re going to die out here, I wouldn’t be telling you anything at all. I can’t even tell you exactly why I fought to get away from you guys.” He leaned over the edge and tried to spit but nothing came out. “Training, I guess. From what I have been hearing the Navy is the enemy and I am a soldier. Escape and evade.”
Scott nodded, having pretty much assumed that.
Skybox continued, “Honestly, I have my own questions about the Guard, particularly its role in the development and outbreak of the disease. Suffice it to say I’m not at liberty, even now, to disclose everything to you or anyone. I’m still seeking answers. I’ll be honest when I can but try and understand when I can't.”
“I do understand. How did you get started with them? Were you a SEAL?”
“Give me that knife again, I’m gonna gut you for that slur,” he joked. Scott was starting to like the soldier. He wasn’t a bad guy; that much was clear. “I was Army, the only true branch of military service.”
“Green Beret? Delta?”
“Delta Shadow Force. I was a Ranger, briefly, before joining Special Forces. That was before Uncle Sam decided he needed me elsewhere. You ever hear of Jawbreaker or Operation Blue Sky?”
Scott shook his head.
“Well, my buddy, Tommy, and I were paired up in a CIA operation after 9/11. We were part of a covert team of elite special forces called Jawbreaker. Our mission was to go after Bin Laden. Contrary to what the president said, there was no “dead or alive.” They wanted him dead. We were choppered into the Panjshir Valley of northeastern Afghanistan. We didn’t get him . . . turned out he was already in Tora Bora, or maybe Pakistan by then, but we did wipe out most of the Taliban.”
“How many of you were there?”
“By the end, there were about 100 of us in Jawbreaker. The Taliban were nasty fucks. The shit they did to women and kids, anyone that believed differently, well…it was atrocious. It wasn’t hard to win the hearts and minds of the locals. We used cash to buy cooperation and intel, and then we waged an unmerciful war on ’em. To be honest, we never really looked that hard for Bin Laden. His level of mischief was practically nothing on the scale of depravity we were witnessing. It was an odd time. I think the organization started to see the usefulness of a group like us. My pay started coming from the CIA instead of the Army. Over time, I received orders from a string of civilian contractors. Eventually, I was re-tasked with a different command level and given my call sign—the only name I would ever use from that point on. I was technically still military and had access, valid ID and multiple ranks to use when needed, but I was also . . . different. We—I could finally be effective.”
“What about your buddy? What was his name? Tommy?”
Skybox’s expression took on a troubled look. “Tommy was the most impressive soldier I ever knew. His callsign was the Magician. He couldn’t shoot worth a damn, but hand-to-hand, with improvised weapons or knives, he was truly lethal. Damn, he was something.”
“He didn’t make it?” Scott asked.
Skybox dropped his eyes and gave a gentle shake of his head. He struggled with talking about it, especially to people who had never been there…couldn’t understand. “We were wrapping an op when the Humvee we were riding in hit an IED. We had no idea about those back then. I had minor injuries, but Tommy, well he was very nearly dead. Massive head injury. He was evac’d out immediately, and the medics managed to stabilize him. Went into surgery in Germany later that day and they saved his life, but he was never the same. They keep him alive on a regiment of serious meds for the pain and brain trauma, but that’s about it.”
“Sorry, man, that’s terrible,” Scott said. “No one knows what you guys did.”
Skybox shrugged. “Some do, but that’s part of our code. Don’t draw attention to ourselves, just do what has to be done.”
Scott took the small, collapsible paddle out of the bag and began assembling the parts. “I’ve run into some of your fellow soldiers—Grayshirts—before. They didn’t seem too helpful.”
“Good idea,” Skybox said, gesturing to the paddle. “And I didn’t say we were helpful, I said we do what’s needed. Often, it’s a cold and brutal business. What’s important to us is the mission. We get total information and command authority on our assignments. We may not know anything about another team’s mission even a few miles away. Our command structure is siloed—purely vertical and autonomous.”
“So, who do you work for?”
Skybox had been prying the shell free from the sea turtle’s carcass. He looked up and paused at the statement. “We work for the government. We work for you.”
“I don’t think you do,” Scott said with an edge to his voice.
“Why would you say that?” Skybox responded.
“I worked with the government, I have—I had high-level security clearance. Never once did I hear even a whisper about you guys until shit went down. You’re not under any military, defense or homeland security program I’m aware of.” Scott didn’t want to reveal what he knew about Catalyst, but he was beginning to realize he likely knew more than Skybox did.
Skybox paused for a moment before responding with assurance. “We’re not military in the strict sense of the word. When we were operating with CIA direction, we were their paramilitary division, but we outgrew that role. Our mission parameters kept expanding and the war on terrorism, in particular, gave us a more global footprint. We have a civilian command group. Within that, they have the ability to embed us into, or remove us from, almost any friendly military force in the world. I’ve trained with French, Israeli and British Special Forces, among others. We have great training, excellent assets and a really shitty retirement plan. Few of us make it to that age anyway. We are a tool, Scott. Nothing sinister, nothing more than that.” It sounded to Scott as though he’d learned those words by heart.
“That sounds like the script for a recruitment video, Skybox.” Scott was using the stubby paddle to row the raft in a northerly direction . . . he hoped. “It’s bullshit. Don’t get me wrong, I admire much of what you guys have done. You were the only ones with a plan when our sun fucked us, but let’s face it, Catalyst isn’t about winning hearts and minds or solving problems. Shit, it creates problems.”
And there it was. Scott had
not meant to reveal it—not that secret word—but he had. It was out there. He concentrated hard on paddling, half expecting a knife to the back. When he looked back, Skybox was using the turtle shell as a paddle on the other side. He looked up at Scott and nodded once.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
USS Bataan, Gulf of Mexico
Todd looked out over the well deck of the USS Bataan. Several of the search craft were returning, their reports having come in earlier: no survivors and no bodies. He was holding the side of his head, fighting off a wave of nausea. The misery he felt at losing his friend was compounded by the effects of a mild concussion from his fight with Skybox. Now he had a report from home that the Messengers had shown up and the path of the hurricane would make landfall somewhere near Harris Springs. His world was falling apart, and he was standing here unable to do a goddamn thing.
“Sir?”
Todd looked up, his pain momentarily subsiding. The taste of bitter bile still lingered in his mouth.
“Sir, are you okay? Would you like me to get you to sick bay?”
“Huh? Oh, no, no . . . I’ll be fine.”
“Very good. I came to let you know the CO is ready to meet with you. If you are up for it, I mean.”
“Sure, finally. Please lead the way.”
He was led through the confusing passageways to the war room where Commander Garret and Captain Harris were studying numerous charts. “Come on in, Todd. You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, sir, I wanted to ask you about air support for Harris Springs. We talked a few weeks ago about it. The group calling themselves the Messengers are beginning to show up. I spoke with my people back on the AG, they are in a defensive lockdown and expect the attacks to be imminent.”
Garret’s face took on a troubled look, “Ahh, yes, the infamous Messengers. You say some of them have arrived—but not all?”
“Yes, my people say that the lead group is there, the ones they call the Judges. They are supposedly the very worst of the bunch. Several hundred so far, but not the main group. Some of my team managed to rescue Scott's brother from them. He was pretty badly injured but says they were beaten back—possibly by Catalyst forces—when they marched on Memphis. Apparently, after that, they turned south, and now they are targeting Harris Springs. We have no idea how many remain alive, but the estimate is that there could be up to five thousand.”
