Three.
Black brought his left arm across, over his gun, which was pinned between them, elbow swinging to connect with the man’s head. The infected man’s head rocked back, and Black felt the skin on his hand tear. The pain became white hot agony. The elevator was slowing, and he manage to grab hold of the grenade and pull it free from the web harness.
Four.
All that mattered was the weapon. The crowded elevator was like an insane mosh pit. People were yelling, screaming, and fighting in indiscriminate fear. Black pivoted toward the door, the grenade held in his wounded hand, blood flowing over the weapon as the elevator came to a stop on the 20th floor and the door started to open.
Five.
He pulled back his arm to fling the grenade. Someone grabbed the limb, and he felt teeth sink into the elbow. Sergeant Black was about to scream when the grenade went off.
* * * * *
Chapter Eight
Afternoon, Friday, April 29
The Flotilla, 150 Nautical Miles West of San Diego, CA
“We need a goddamned land base!” General Rose thundered to a hapless Captain Mays.
“I understand, sir.”
“We’re sure Hawaii is a wash?” The captain rifled through a pile of papers on his desk. They’d finished moving onto his new command ship, the former Pacific Adventurer, now USS Pacific Adventurer. She’d been found abandoned nearby two days ago. Navy engineers did a quick once-over and pronounced her sea worthy, at which point General Rose had commandeered it. No one had complained. She was a 330-foot-long ship weighing in at just over 4,000 tons. According to the books, she could handle 1,000 guests, with a crew of 300. Rose had arrived at the flotilla with 233 military personnel from the hasty evacuation of Ft. Hood, and another 801 civilians. He took the Pacific Adventurer as his military vessel, and a civilian cruise ship (currently unable to make way under its own power) was serving as home for the civilians. She was sitting nearby with a sea anchor holding her relatively stable.
The Adventurer had several advantages. Multiple Zodiac boat decks, a helipad (currently home to one of his Apache gunships), and her larders were full, adding to the mystery of why she was abandoned and adrift. His provisions experts had just finishing going through the ship’s stores and found that 95% of it had been dated from before the crisis. The rest was going over the side. She’d even had full fuel bunkers, with a range of over 2,500 nautical miles. The last of their weapons and gear were being lashed to a former sundeck. It was crowded but suited him. Better than being a 5th wheel on a damned Navy ship. The admiral had been kind enough to loan him a nine-man skeleton crew to operate the vessel, headed up by a pimple-faced twenty-two-year-old Lieutenant, Junior Grade by the name of Sampson. He seemed to enjoy being called Captain Sampson.
Captain Mays finally found the report. His desk was in the far corner of the general’s command office, what had been the ship’s captain’s cabin, just aft of the bridge. There was a small ‘guest room’ in the rear that he now used as his quarters. The captain shared a bunk with another officer one deck down. Sampson hadn’t complained. If the other ships Rose had seen were any indication, it was still a step up.
“The Navy sent a recon flight this morning. They’ve just gotten confirmation that no organized military presence exists on the islands. Intel believes that the large amount of fresh fish consumed on the island made it a worst-case scenario. One of the airfields at Pearl is still being held, but the Navy is going to evacuate it this afternoon.”
“There have to be other islands,” Rose growled. Mays looked pained but just shrugged. He knew his boss wasn’t mad at him personally; he just hated no-win situations.
“There are,” Mays agreed. “But we don’t know where they are, and the Navy is too busy to help us.”
Rose grunted, turned in his office chair, and looked out the cabin’s window. He missed his huge office in Ft. Hood, but this one had its advantages. One was that an entire wall, about 10 feet of it, was a single massive pane of glass. Usually, all he saw was the multitude of ships that made up the flotilla. This time there were only a few ships bobbing at anchor, and all were smaller private ships. Of course, no sooner had he begun to enjoy the scene than a military ship sailed slowly into view. A white pointy bow with a red diagonal stripe followed by a superstructure and a single small deck gun. Coast Guard, he thought. That must be the Boutwell, the ship that had been here since the beginning. His thought process stopped in midstream. Coast Guard.
“Thomas?”
“General?”
“What’s the name of the young ensign in charge of that ship?” he asked and pointed out the window. His aide turned and looked.
“Lieutenant, sir,” he reminded him, “Lieutenant, Junior Grade Grange.”
“Get her on the horn and see if she has time.” He got himself to his feet with a grunt; his back was hurting again. “I’m heading for the boat deck for one of those Zodiac things. Shouldn’t be hard to catch up with her.” Outside, the full length of the Boutwell was now in sight. A thick cable trailed from its stern where the propellers were throwing up a huge spray, and the nose of a massive freighter was just coming into view. “Tell her I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
General Rose found several of his non-coms working on one of the Zodiacs and caught them completely off guard. He was practically in their midst when a staff sergeant realized it was the old man.
“Atten-shun!” the older non-com barked. The half dozen men instantly snapped to embarrassed attention.
“At ease,” Rose barked. “Any of you know how to drive one of these?” he asked, gesturing to the four inflatable boats tied to the side of the ship.
“I do, sir,” a private in his twenties answered right away.
“What’s your name, son?”
“PFC Trey Gordon, sir!”
“Okay, PFC Gordon,” Rose said and pointed at the Coast Guard cutter now slowly pulling away with its huge burden. “Take me over to that boat.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Private,” the staff sergeant said with a dubious look on his face, “you sure you can take care of the general?”
“Absolutely, sir. I’ve been driving boats since I was five!” The staff sergeant chewed his lip then turned to a corporal.
“Hagger, go with the general and the PFC.”
“That’s not necessary, sergeant,” the general said with a shake of his head. “Just going for a little trip.”
“Afraid I must insist, General. There are too many uncertainties around here, and you’re the only command staff we have.”
The general was about to complain further, then relented. He hadn’t gotten as far as he had by ignoring a sergeant’s wisdom. The PFC and the corporal manhandled the inflatable boat into position. The PFC adjusted the controls for a minute, then, with a surprisingly loud roar, the big 150-horsepower Mercury outboard came to life. Grey smoke billowed away from it, and water spurted out the back.
“Sure this is safe, PFC?”
“Oh, absolutely sir. The Zodiac has three separate flotation zones, which are made from treated rubber. They’re almost impossible to sink.”
“You better hope so,” he said as he not-so-gracefully got aboard. The younger man looked concerned and swallowed. Good, a little fear was a fine motivator for a kid his age. In a minute, the PFC was behind the boat’s steering wheel, while the general and corporal were seated. The staff sergeant handed the corporal an M4 carbine, which the man checked and then stood on its butt stock between his legs, barrel pointed up.
“Everyone ready?” the corporal asked. The other two men indicated they were, and the boat took off like a missile.
“Holy shit!” The general gulped; it reminded him of the time an Air Force general had talked him into riding in a goddamned F-15. In seconds they were going at least 40 miles per hour. “Do you have to go this fast?” he yelled over the racing motor.
“Better to skim over the waves than crash into them,” said PFC Gordon. H
e looked and saw some of the waves were a couple feet tall. They did indeed seem to just be blasting through most of them and riding between others. Still, the shit-eating grin on the young soldier’s face left Rose wondering just how much of that was true.
The cutter was now almost a mile away as they took off after it. The PFC quickly caught up to the rear of the freighter, which was on a long cable behind the cutter. The pair of ships were going maybe five knots. The PFC changed course slightly to go around the freighter, which proved to be a lucky move.
“Heads up!” Corporal Hagger barked. An instant later something crashed into the water just feet to their right, between the racing Zodiac and the freighter. Another explosion of water and spray doused everyone on the boat. The general looked up, his eyes wide in shock.
“Holy fucking Jesus shit!” the general bellowed and unconsciously leaned away from the freighter’s deck. High above them were dozens of the ship’s former crew. Many were laying on or under the railing, howling and reaching toward them. Others were busy climbing the railing to jump toward the Zodiac far below.
“Get away from the damned freighter!” Corporal Hagger yelled and brought his M4 up to his shoulder. “Firing!” The general hunched over between his own legs and covered his ears just as the corporal began firing single shots. As the PFC changed course, the general heard more bodies hitting the water. Gratefully, these were increasingly further away. After a brief time, they were too far from the freighter for even the craziest infected to make a leap. Though, as the general watched, one who’d been on the observation wing just off the bridge leaned over to see them, backed up, and made a running leap. He’d been much higher off the water than the others. When he hit the ocean’s surface, still a good 20 feet short, it was face-first with a sickening slap. The general craned his head backward to see the body float back to the surface.
“They’re bat-shit crazy,” he said. The corporal safed his rifle and yelled at the PFC. “Stay well clear as we pass the bow.”
“Yes, Corporal.” The zombie high-dive act had taken some of the wind out of the kid’s sails.
It only took another minute to pull alongside the cutter, where several Coast Guard sailors were waiting. They’d tossed a huge cargo net over the side, and it was swirling along in the wake.
“You have got to be kidding me,” General Rose said, then cupped his hands to yell at the crew above. “Can’t you stop?”
“Not while towing,” the oldest of the men yelled back down, “it’s tricky to let something that big go slack on us.”
Rose turned to the PFC. “Get me over there, son.” The young man looked dubious, but when a general says he wants to do something, even if it seems like a poor idea, you do it.
It turned out to be easier than any of them had thought. The cutter, despite the efforts its engines were putting out, was only moving at a few miles per hour (knots, the general reminded himself), so even as they bumped up against the side, it wasn’t very hard. The general grabbed the big knotted rope net and started climbing. He hadn’t done anything like this since basic training, going on forty years ago. The corporal had slung his carbine and was right behind him. What did he think? That he could catch all 220 pounds of the general if he fell?
By the time he reached the railing and four pairs of hands grabbed him, the general’s arms were shaking with fatigue, and he was almost soaked from the salt spray. The corporal reached the deck a moment later, looking far better off for the climb.
“I guess I ask for permission to come aboard?” the general asked, surveying the unfamiliar rank insignia. All four men and one woman saluted.
“Permission granted,” the oldest man among them replied, dropping his salute after the general returned it. “I’m Senior Chief Petty Officer Howell, sir. You can just call me ‘Senior Chief,’ if you want, sir. I’m ranking NCO on the Boutwell.”
“Senior Chief,” the general said and offered his hand. “Lieutenant General Rose, III Corps.” It was a warm, strong shake.
“Pleased to meet you, sir. Sorry about the climb.” The general grunted and waved it off. He glanced over the side and saw that the PFC had tied off on the net and was just riding alongside, presumably waiting for the general to climb down after his meeting. To hell with that, he thought, then shrugged.
“Where’s your captain, Senior Chief?”
“She’s on the bridge, sir. Pulling that beast is a handful. Follow me please?”
The senior chief took him through a hatchway on the side of the superstructure and they climbed up several decks via ladders that made the ones on the carriers look like superhighways. The general quickly wondered if there was a weight restriction for the Coast Guard. He’d put on a few pounds, hard not to commanding a desk at 60 years old, and each hatchway made him slow and angle himself. The chief before him seemed to flow up the ladders. It was like watching a cat go up the stairs.
Finally, instead of going up, they went forward and into the bright light again. The Boutwell’s bridge had excellent visibility. Heavy four-feet-by-four feet armored glass panes were bolted into the steel bulkheads in a slight forward curve, then angled backward to catwalks on either side. Rose could see a huge portion of the flotilla out there, including three of the supercarriers and one of the Marine’s little amphibious carriers. It was easy to spot because it was so much lower to the water and was alive with helicopters coming and going. The Marines were in it up to their necks trying to maintain security on the flotilla. There was an outbreak every few hours. The civilians weren’t keeping to the food and water discipline worth a shit.
“General on the bridge,” someone called, and everyone in the space came to attention at their stations, but he noted with an appraising eye that none of them took their hands away from instruments to salute. In the center of the bridge was a padded chair like a bar stool, high enough to see over the control consoles before it. The woman who’d been sitting there turned to look at him. She looked to be in her mid-20’s, attractive, wearing the blue/green camo the Coast Guard often used on duty. She had her black hair in a short ponytail that poked out from under the blue ball cap with the ship’s name and number embroidered on it.
“At ease,” the general said and saluted the ship’s master. “Lieutenant General Rose,” he said.
“Captain Grange, USCGC Boutwell,” she said and held out a hand, but didn’t leave her station either. The general took a few steps and shook it. “Welcome aboard, sir.”
“Captain? I thought my aide said you were a Lieutenant, JG?” She smiled with that smile you have for someone from a different armed service who didn’t know the rules.
“That’s my official rank, sir,” she said and indicated her single silver bar on her epaulets. “However, the officer in command of a ship assumes the title of ‘Captain,’ regardless of their rank. The old skipper was a lieutenant commander and wore what you would recognize as a major’s oak leaf.” The general chuckled and shook his head.
“Slight drift to starboard,” one of the bridge crew said.
“We have a mega yacht out of position,” another said, “five degrees off the port beam.”
“Sound the horn,” Grange said, and the ship’s horn blew a long note. “Comms, get whoever is conning that pleasure palace on the horn and tell them to get out of the way, or I’ll just let that scow behind us run them down.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“General, I’m sorry I can’t offer you some coffee in the ward room, but as you can see I’m busy playing bumper cars with Commander Adama’s rag-tag fleet here.” The general cocked his head slightly, and she grinned again. “Inside joke, sorry. What can I do for you, sir?”
“What exactly are you up to now?” he asked first.
“Admiral Tomlinson has us on replenishment detail. Finding chow for the flotilla, mostly.” The general nodded toward the ship they were towing.
“And all the crazy fuckers on that ship?”
“The Marines will deal with that,” she said,
“though I hear you capped a few of them when they tried to bonsai onto your boat.” He grunted and smiled a little. “We might have to try something like that to reduce their numbers. But you wouldn’t be here if you just wanted to know that, right?”
The general nodded and took hold of a railing to keep from over-compensating for the ship’s swells as he described the situation, both tactical and logistical. It took him a few minutes, during which time he was interrupted twice. Once with an update from the engine room on how the power plant was handing the towing duty, and again from comms to say the yacht was moving out of the way. When he’d finished, the captain nodded in understanding.
“I see your point, General. We can’t hide on the water indefinitely.” Outside, a Marine helicopter shot past, low to the water and its passenger area stuffed with soldiers all carrying weapons. “Too many issues, not the least of which keeping everyone fed.”
“And above the surface,” Rose added. She grunted in agreement.
“So, what can the Coast Guard do for you, sir? Not that there are many of us Coasties left, mind you.”
“We need an island.” The young officer lifted an eyebrow in curiosity.
* * *
Andrew almost lost a chunk of shin as he barely hurdled the last knee-knocker coming out onto the deck of the Gerald R. Ford. The call over the 1MC public address system had said a single engine prop plane was coming in for a landing. As the only non-naval aviator on the carrier at the time, he was racing up to see what he could do to help. As he cleared the doorway, dodging sideways to avoid a pair of men in bright red jackets racing toward the landing area, he heard a surprisingly familiar engine sound.
Turning Point (Book 2): A Time To Run Page 8
