The screen comes to life with Stevens on the other end.
“I suppose you know that we’ve lost the eastern grid,” Gettins begins.
“I heard. We’ve managed to secure the western power plants; they’re now supplying their own power to keep the cooling ponds in operation. I have technicians at each plant to monitor them, along with a platoon of Marines and choppers in case they need to extricate quickly. The forces from Schriever will be returning tomorrow afternoon. At least we were able to get satellite control, or we’d be in more trouble than we are now,” Stevens states.
“True enough. But, we’re under the clock like never before. The nuclear plants will have transitioned to emergency power, giving us four hours, eight in some cases. Once those plants completely lose power, we have a day until some of those spent rods start going critical. I’ve given the order for the Sixth Fleet to steam south with all possible speed, and the order has also gone out recalling our forces from inland. I just hope we have enough time to get far enough south,” Gettins responds. “It looks like we’ll be a consolidated force in a couple of weeks; I’m sending us around South America, far enough from shore so as to not be affected by any radiation spillage, and then we’ll join up with you.”
“We’re left with a lot fewer options. We can’t take Seattle or San Diego. Hawaii is out as well for the same reasons. That leaves us with the western section of Mexico, western Canada, or Alaska. I suppose there’s Antarctica or some remote South Pacific island. Any way this goes, without adequate port facilities, I see us having to leave the ships,” Stevens says.
“We’ll continue to look at options while we make our way to you. I’m sending three Marine companies to you. One to pick up missile crews; the second and third will be going after the two power plants required to isolate the western grid. Will you be able to support them?” Getting inquires.
“We’ll find room. We currently have four months of supplies without having to resort to rationing. Once we gather the western forces back together, I’m going to pull back from the coastline, rotating skeleton crews on the island. There’s no need for us to keep more there until we know which direction we’ll be taking,” Stevens says.
“OK. Oh, I’m also sending you the quarantine cases we have on this end. I can’t take the risk of having them aboard any of our ships,” Gettins says.
“We have a quarantine set up on the northern end of Whidbey, which we’ll maintain until everyone is medically cleared,” Stevens responds.
“Okay. Consider the companies op-conned to you as of now. I’ll have the details sent your way once we finish here.”
“We’ll be on the lookout for them. Godspeed.”
“If that’s anything close to light speed, I’ll take it.”
* * * * * * *
Nuclear Power Plant
October 20
“Listen up. It looks like we’ve lost all of the power plants. So, as of now, we’ve been re-tasked to go after the stranded missile crews scattered across Montana, North Dakota, Nebraska, and Colorado. We’ve been op-conned to the Seventh Fleet, so we’ll be heading west following that. The Sixth Fleet is making their way south and will eventually join forces with the Seventh. We’ll rejoin them once they arrive in the west. There are choppers inbound that should be arriving shortly, so set a perimeter and hang tight,” the company commander briefs. “Once they get here, we need to beat cheeks out of here, so I don’t want any lollygagging.”
“Sir, what about her?” Jennings asks the platoon commander.
“As far as I know, she’ll be coming with us. The captain said that all of the eastern quarantine cases are being transferred to the west. As for us, we’ll be finding a location to the west of here to hold up for the night before heading out at first light,” the lieutenant answers.
“It’s going to take us a while to get to the west coast,” Jennings comments.
“It will, but it’s my understanding that some of the supplies at Whiteman are coming with us. At least those that aren’t needed to extricate the forces at Whiteman and Grissom.”
Nodding, Jennings walks back to Emily, telling her that a helicopter is coming to pick her up to take her to a bigger place.
“Am I going to be with you?” Emily asks.
“No, I have to be somewhere else. But, you’ll be safe, I promise,” Jennings answers.
Emily nods, but is once again losing someone she’s come to like. However, her relief that she may have finally found the security she’s been searching for alleviates some of her disappointment.
Jennings hears the faint thunder of helicopters shortly before he can pick out the black dots materializing over the tops of the trees. The choppers quickly grow in size, looking much like the helicopter attack in the movie Apocalypse Now as they streak over the treetops. Many of the transports have large fuel bladders slung underneath, others resolve themselves into gunships. One transport parks off to the side, the rotors turning in a blur and the late evening sun glinting off the windshield.
Jennings helps Emily with her stuff, walks her over to the running chopper, and sees her seated inside.
“You take care, Emily.”
“Will I see you again?” Emily asks.
“With any luck,” Jennings answers, turning to exit the helicopter.
“I don’t feel very lucky,” Emily states.
“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
Chapter Ten
Middle of Montana
October 23
Jennings steps out of the helicopter, dust stirred by the rotors whipped in all directions. He’s only partially thankful for his protective gear as it keeps the dirt out of his hair and ears, but he’s so tired of wearing it 24/7. The brief respite in the meal tent set up at Whiteman was far too short; the memory of it seems like a dream. The past days have been a whirlwind of landing at remote launch control facilities to pick up missile crews and their corresponding security personnel.
After leaving the power plant, the armada of helicopters flew to a remote location for the night. The next morning, they set off to pick up the crews from the control facilities in the northeastern Colorado/southwestern Nebraska area. They’d set down at one site, pick the crews up, and then the force would head out to the next one, visiting all fifteen facilities before heading back. Yesterday, they headed up to North Dakota to do the same. Today, they swung west from their laager point to finish their assignment with the crews across the plains of middle Montana.
With each stop, Jennings climbs out of his nylon seat to get some blood flowing into his legs. This one is no different. He steps away from the swirling dust, feeling the grit of the small compound crunch beneath his boots. The scrub grass and bushes inside of the tall security fences topped with razor wire have an unkempt look compared to the smoothly tilled ground surrounding the facility. The housing and kitchen structures within belie the shabby nature of the compound; they are well kept, just as he’d expect from an Air Force facility…even a remote one. He understands that they’d want to disguise the place by allowing it to grow naturally, to limit any military footprint, but the housing within the scrub bushes seems to actually draw more attention.
Jennings knows that the more important part of the site is hundreds of feet below ground, where the control center sits. Turning his gaze once more across the vast plain, he wonders what the local farmers thought about plowing around such a facility.
Surely they knew what it was, he thinks, looking at the mountains in the distance to the west, their snowcapped tops a glistening white in the late afternoon sun.
He also wonders where the ten missile silos associated with the launch facility are actually located. There isn’t a thing in sight that alludes to their whereabouts. Shrugging, his thoughts venture elsewhere.
Numerous helicopters hover over the neighboring fields, rotor wash kicking up small tornadoes of dirt. Gunships prowl the perimeter, waiting for the pickup to be complete. The transports they brought for the crews and
attending security forces quickly filled, and the helicopter carrying Jennings has to cram on the two remaining crew members from this last site, the security team having already boarded another chopper. Once they’re complete, they’ll journey to yet another remote field to settle in for the night. Tomorrow, they’ll begin making their way west, reaching the Seventh Fleet in two days.
Jennings sees the two Air Force officers emerge, having made their way to the top from their underground control facility. They’re dressed in protective gear and have been isolated, the ventilation system protecting them from any virus that may have made its way to the remote location. Likewise, the security team has worn their protective gear since the first outset. Jennings can’t imagine wearing the outfit continuously for weeks on end. As the two officers meet with the lieutenant, Jennings makes his way over to them.
“Lieutenant, the system has been secured and the generators shut down,” a major reports.
“Aye, sir. I apologize for the cramped quarters, but it’s the only ride in town,” the platoon commander quips, gesturing with his hand for the major to step up the ramp.
“It’s a far cry better than being stuck down there,” the major returns.
With a last look at the circling armada of helicopters, Jennings enters the chopper and sits next to the major. The roar of the engines increases and the helicopter lifts off to join the others. The chopper bounces in turbulence created by the wind flowing across the mountainous terrain to the west, creating waves of air—much like a boat in heavy swells.
“Sir,” Jennings nods toward the major by his side.
“Sergeant,” the major returns. “So, tell me, is it as bad as we’ve been told? We’ve been a little out of the loop.”
“Probably worse than you’ve been told, sir. As far as I’m aware, the entire world is infected. The Navy is really the only viable force left, with a fleet on the west coast and one in the east…although that one is relocating to the west,” Jennings answers.
“Relocating? That’s a little difficult to do with an entire continent in the way. Last I heard, ships had a very hard time navigating across land.”
Jennings chuckles; “Yes, sir. The plan to shut down the nuclear plants failed before we really began. So, they’re end-rounding it around South America. We poor unfortunate souls were left behind to come pick you up…sir.”
“Well, I’m mighty glad you did, Sergeant. I was getting tired of kicking Captain Reynolds’s ass at chess. So, is there something set up out west, then? Did they manage to secure a safe location?” the major asks.
“Not that I’m aware of, sir. As far as I know, they’re still looking at places to go. I heard they tried to get to the supplies at the naval base near Seattle, but didn’t have enough firepower to secure the installations. From what I hear, the numerous infected in the surrounding areas are keeping the air contaminated, so they can’t maintain a permanent presence. However, that’s all hearsay. We’ve been concentrating on things at this end, which as I mentioned, didn’t go so well,” Jennings comments.
Jennings notices the major’s eyebrows rise beneath his mask.
“Sergeant, is there a way to get in touch with the admiral?”
“I’m certainly not privileged enough to have his ear, sir. You might want to ask the captain when we stop for the night. If there’s a way, it’ll be through him,” Jennings responds.
* * * * * * *
USS Blue Ridge, off the coast of Washington
October 23
Admiral Stevens leans against the railing of the port side wing of his command ship. The waters of the Pacific glisten in a perpetual dance from the moonlight streaming through a break in the clouds. Dark shadows plow through the swells, their bows creating curling waves of white as the fleet negotiates its way off the coast. Below, he hears the swish of waves against the hull and the occasional crash as the bow hits the waters just right. Overhead, the clouds surrounding the wide break are lined in silver, the stars behind barely visible in the bright moonlight.
As he waits for Gettins to respond to his call, he wonders whether they’re pushing up against a wall that won’t ever come down. They’ve met with one failure after another; the inability to take the entire Kitsap Naval Base and losing the nuclear plant battle, effectively losing the entire eastern part of the nation. The fact that the infected will also succumb is of little importance. That part of the land has been denied to all of humankind for a very long time. However, with the news that he’s received, there may be a bright spot in all of this.
* * * * * * *
USS Mount Whitney, Atlantic Ocean
October 23
However hard he stares at the printed satellite overlays, they don’t change. Admiral Gettins sighs, looking at the numerous hotspots flaring across the eastern United States. Overlaid plots indicate wind patterns and radiation spread in large ovals radiating out from the nuclear power plants where their spent fuel rods have gone critical. This was the very scenario he had been hoping to stave off, but they came up eight days short. His only relief is that it appears that much of the farmland of the Midwest will be spared.
Until Yellowstone erupts, he morbidly thinks. I actually wouldn’t be surprised to see that happen.
Glancing at corresponding overlays of the rest of the world, Europe and Asia are gone as well. Even though some of the countries didn’t have reactors—banned them, in some cases—the fallout from neighboring countries eliminates them from consideration as life-sustaining regions. With the exception of South Africa, the African continent remains mostly radiation-free, as does Australia, New Zealand, and most of the South Pacific. Only the northwest sections of South America and the western seaboard of Mexico remain uncontaminated…along with the western United States, for the most part.
There were several surprises as the satellite began detecting radiation emanating from several storage facilities and some plants they didn’t know about, specifically in the panhandle of Texas and parts of New Mexico. As long as they can keep power to Hanford in Washington State, they should be able to keep the western environment relatively clean. There will be some residual fallout from Asia, but the prognosis is that it will be minimal and not life-threatening.
At least we were able to recover our forces, he thinks, remembering the hustle to get the Marines and supplies inland back to the ships.
That was a mass exodus and orderly chaos.
Well, perhaps not that orderly.
The Marines and technicians were immediately pulled out of the power plants when the lights went out, dropping them back to the forward deployment bases at Whiteman and Grissom. The helicopters were quickly refueled, the equipment and soldiers picked up and flown back to the intermediate bases. Luckily, they had foresight to leave the supplies in place just in case an event of this magnitude occurred. Another quick refuel, and the vast armada lifted off to meet the fleet steaming south. They lost some equipment in the process for the sake or expediency, but were able to recover all of the aircraft, Marines, and crew. That was the most important piece. Tents, trays, spare boots, and other gear were replaceable—combat aircraft, Marines, and sailors weren’t.
Gettins pulls one of the pictures from under the others, looking upon the debris left at Whiteman, covering the ramps, some blown into the outlying fields. Vehicles are parked haphazardly as crews race to the helicopters. The twenty-four window given wasn’t exact, but the men and women ashore worked as if they had mere minutes before the gates of hell opened.
“Sir, Admiral Stevens for you,” a sailor says upon entering the conference room.
“Patch it through.”
“Aye, aye, sir. It should be on your screen in about ten seconds.”
“Stevens,” Gettins says when the call is connected. “To what do I owe this pleasure? We weren’t supposed to talk until morning, or did I miss something?”
“No, you’re correct, sir, but this couldn’t wait. I actually have two things,” Stevens says, pausing.
&nb
sp; “What? Are you going to tell me or is this going to be a guessing game?” Gettins asks.
“No, I was just considering which to start with. Our forces from Schriever Air Force Base returned yesterday and I was going through the after-action reports. It appears that we picked up the head of USAMRIID; one Colonel James Koenig. He’s currently in quarantine, along with several others we transported back. I’ve only briefly spoken with him on the line, mostly to confirm his credentials. He’s the real deal, so apparently we now have a microbiologist who is quite knowledgeable of the ARES Virus,” Stevens briefs.
“How knowledgeable?” Gettins questions.
“He created it, or so he says. Or, engineered it? I don’t know the vernacular. Anyway, I’m inclined to believe him,” Stevens answers.
“Wait. The reports we received before the bunker went dark were from some major. Didn’t he claim to be the head of USAMRIID? What was his name?” Gettins asks, pulling a thick folder from the side and beginning to rifle through it.
“Major Skier, sir. I already looked at the reports because I remembered the same thing. So, here’s the kicker. Koenig left his post when he saw what was happening, and came to the conclusion that it was too late and there was nothing he could do. He grabbed his wife and they fled west, leaving this Major Skier in charge,” Stevens says. “He freely admits it. As a matter of fact, he volunteered the information.”
“A deserter,” Gettins mumbles, letting the information sink in, his thoughts going through the myriad ramifications of having such expertise onboard and weighing it against one of the worst things a military member can do—go AWOL.
“Apparently,” Stevens replies. “He does say that his boss, a General Hague, basically gave him leeway to do it. She apparently told him ‘Godspeed’ or something like that when he indicated that he wouldn’t be joining the bigwigs at the bunker.”
ARES Virus (Book 3): Phoenix Rising Page 13
