by Mark Wandrey
West verified all the important switches were off before turning to tell Jeremiah to get out. He needn’t have bothered; his boss had bailed the second the helicopter settled to the deck. West felt a single semi-hysterical laugh escape his throat before he grabbed the handle and opened his own door. He needed to get Alison out of the back. However as soon as his feet hit the deck he found himself staring at a pair of shotgun barrels. One of the two wasn’t wearing a vest, but he had the most intense stance of the pair.
“Don’t move,” the man said.
“You aren’t military,” West noted. Even though the man had on NavCam, he didn’t have any insignia.
“Volunteer,” the man said. “I’ve killed a hell of a lot of infected and won’t hesitate to blow your brains all over the deck if you so much as lick your lips at me.”
“Easy,” West said. “Easy.”
“Ain’t you never seen a wave off?” the man in the white vest came over and asked. Like the gunmen, he kept his distance. West hooked a thumb back at the smoldering helicopter.
“With all due respect, I knew what it meant, but my helicopter didn’t.” The man grunted and gave West a half smile.
“Mr. Trucker, will you please have these people inspected for bites? Especially the loud one in the fancy clothes face down on the deck over there?”
“That would be Jeremiah Osborne, my boss.”
“The Jeremiah Osborne?” the man named Tucker asked. West nodded.
“He had blood on his clothes,” the guy with the Ping-Pong paddles said.
“Head injury from hitting it on the door.”
“More of your great flying?”
West rolled his eyes. “I have another injured in the back of the bird,” he said.
The man nodded. “Get a medical team up here to check these people out. I’m going to go talk to the pilot of the other helicopter and see if they corroborate the story.”
Ten minutes later, West was standing by the carrier’s tower as medics worked on Jeremiah and Alison. Jeremiah had a bad bruise and a couple of cuts. Alison was worse. She was still unconscious; the medic said her pupils were equal and responsive, so they’d decided she didn’t have brain trauma.
“Probably a concussion, though,” the medic said as she finished checking Alison’s pulse. “She took quite a hit going through that window.” Patty Mize came over, followed by the four other men from OOE who’d accompanied them on the mission.
“You okay, West?” Patty asked.
“Sure,” he said. “Not a scratch on me.”
“That was, without a doubt, the worst landing I’ve seen in my life.” West gave a little chuckle. “But it was better than the best crash I’ve seen.”
“You two the pilots?” asked a Navy officer who’d walked up.
“I’m Alex West, terrible lander. This is Patty Mize.”
“You two come with me. The captain wants to speak with you.”
“I’d like to come too.”
The officer looked at the speaker. “And who are you?”
“Jeremiah Osborne, president and CEO of Oceanic Orbital Enterprises. These are my employees.” The officer narrowed his eyes but nodded.
“Gentlemen,” Tucker said, “a lot of those who’ve come aboard have turned out to be armed. I need your weapons.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?” Patty asked.
“You will be forcibly searched, if necessary.”
“Fair enough,” West intervened. He slowly removed the gun from his kidney holster, checked the load, and handed it to Tucker with the action locked open. Patty did the same. Tucker looked at Jeremiah.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the executive said with an air of aloofness.
“Right,” Tucker said, handing the guns to the sailor with him. “Enjoy your visit.” The officer that had come down for them took them inside and gestured to a ladder. He gave Tucker an appreciative nod before following them up.
After going up two levels, they arrived at a hatch with two armed guards, who nodded to the officer and ignored the other three while opening the hatch. The room was a small conference room. An oblong table dominated the center with large LCD screens on the walls to either end. Straight ahead, opposite the door, was a logo. It was round with a picture of the carrier in the center. A nautical compass was on top, the signature of former President Gerald R. Ford below. Under the carrier was the motto ‘Integrity at the Helm,’ and CVN-78 on the bottom edge. An officer with the rank of captain sat at one end of the table, with “Gilchrist” on his chest. He didn’t stand as they entered.
“Captain,” West said as soon as he entered.
“Come in,” the captain said, “I have some questions I’d like you to answer.”
“Are we being detained?” Jeremiah asked. The captain looked at him.
“Commander,” he said to the man who’d led them in, “I thought I asked for the pilots.”
“This is Mr. Jeremiah Osborne.” The lights went on behind the captain’s eyes.
“Oh, now that makes a little more sense.” He looked at Jeremiah. “Mr. Osborne, we’re under martial law as decreed by the Commander-in-Chief, and you’re on a military vessel. You can sit down, or I can have you thrown in a cell.” He smiled coldly. “It’s entirely your choice.” The man who’d once been one of the most powerful businessmen in the world pursed his lips as he considered how reality had changed. The two guards outside the room looked at him, and he decided a seat at the conference table was desirable to a seat in a jail cell and took a chair.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Captain,” Patty said as she sat.
“Most definitely, thanks,” West agreed. The captain nodded to the two pilots. Jeremiah just grunted.
“As you might know, my name is Captain Gilchrist, and I’m the commanding officer of the Gerald R. Ford. We were not officially on the fleet register when the pandemic broke out. I didn’t even have a full crew. We were conducting sea trials of our new electromagnetic launch and recovery systems, as well as other classified defense components.” Jeremiah looked more interested now. “So when everything went to shit, we pitched in as best as we could. That ended up being the safe landing of that huge plane you see out there.”
“Whoever landed that is one hell of a pilot,” West pointed out.
Gilchrist looked chagrined and shook his head. “He’s Air Force, actually.
“Can I ask why you’re suddenly steaming south?” West asked. The captain stared at the big logo on the wall for a minute and seemed to be thinking about it, then he spoke again.
“A joint Navy/Marine operation is underway to take and hold Naval Air Station Coronado.” All the new arrivals looked surprised. “We were under orders to accomplish this by the Commander-in-Chief.”
“The president is alive?” Jeremiah spoke up.
“Yes,” Gilchrist said with a terse nod. “She’s been aboard an E4 for almost a week now.”
“What’s an E4?” Jeremiah asked.
“Airborne command center,” the captain explained. “It looks a little like the 747 used for Air Force One, without all the creature comforts, and a full combat war room with all the trimmings. She’s been in the air waiting for the situation to stabilize. Unfortunately, it hasn’t. Certain protocols were enacted to minimize collateral damage, and that so disrupted communications that we cannot gain contact with other military units.”
“How have they kept it in the air that long?” Patty asked.
“Refueling tankers. They’ve been dispatching them out of Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii. They lost Pearl a couple days ago, just before Admiral Tomlinson came over. Hickam fell this morning. The E4 is capable of remaining airborne up to a month, but without refueling it can’t. Three C-130s full of servicemen and dependents and two tankers got off the ground before Hickam fell. They have maybe five more hours before tanks start running dry.”
“So that’s why you had helicopters checking out Catalina,” Patty said. The captain nodded.
“We’ve been desperately trying to find an offshore option and failed. The Navy Auxiliary Field on San Clemente is partially blocked. We have a small team there working quietly and will have half the runway to land the C-130s in a couple hours…”
“But no way you’re getting the E4 down in that small a space,” West said. The captain sighed and nodded.
“That’s correct. Some genius on the president’s staff aboard the E4 came up with Coronado, so here we are.” A junior officer came in, saluted, and handed the captain a red folder. He opened it and glanced at the first page. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time you answer some questions. Can you tell me what the fuck is in the back of your helicopter that looks like a nuclear bomb?”
* * *
“Reactor One offline!” the technician in the CIC barked. Admiral Tomlinson spun in surprise.
“What do you mean offline?” The CIC lights and every computer flickered and went out, then came back a second later.
“It just went offline, sir. Reactor Two is maintaining the load.”
“Someone go find the captain,” Tomlinson ordered. The Reagan’s captain had left a few minutes ago to get the report of an outbreak of Delta and hadn’t returned yet. “In the meantime, call engineering and find out what’s going on.” Hoskin’s brows knitted. If they were taking a reactor offline, the watch commander should have called them immediately. Something was wrong.
“Engineering doesn’t answer,” a sailor reported.
“We can’t locate the captain,” another said. Tomlinson cursed. Though he was a flag officer, this wasn’t his ship. He couldn’t give operational orders. The deck shuddered as an aircraft was recovered several decks above them.
“Send a runner to locate the—” he was cut off by the sound of a gunshot outside. In all his years as a naval officer, he’d never once heard a gunshot aboard a vessel he’d served on. It was loud and reverberated through the metal. All the talking in the CIC stopped instantly as the echo seemed to go on and on.
“Halt!” was heard through the open hatch of the CIC. “I said halt!” BANG! Another shot, this time much louder. The sailor who’d yelled stuck his head in the hatch and yelled one word. “Infected!” then slammed the door. The nearest sailor dogged it.
“Sound General Quarters,” Tomlinson ordered, and to hell with the chain of command. “Get me Captain Nelson on the Carl Vinson. Inform him we have an outbreak underway.” The hatch reverberated with shots from the guards outside, and then screams. “Add that we have an extreme situation.”
“Reactor Two is shutting down!” The admiral turned his head and saw all the electronics begin to shut down as the on-demand steam plant quickly lost flow. This time, they didn’t come back, and the blue tinted emergency battery-powered lights came on.
“Did that call go out?” Tomlinson asked.
“No sir,” the radio operator sounded on the edge of panic. “I didn’t get a response before we lost comms.”
“How many birds did we have in the air?” The controllers had flashlights out and were using them to read the grease pencil marks on the plot boards.
“Thirty-nine.” Tomlinson looked at the sailors trying to reach out to the various sections of the ship via the sound-powered phones. Screaming could be heard over one speaker.
“God help those pilots,” Tomlinson said. In the dim CIC, nobody noticed a radar technician slump forward onto his dark screen. He’d only come on duty a few minutes ago. He’d considered himself lucky to grab three chicken salad sandwiches from a tray that was passing by before he came on duty. He brought one to his supervisor, and another to a pretty young PO2 who’d just transferred to the Reagan a week before they’d sailed. They were just as sick as he was.
“Okay,” Tomlinson said a few minutes later when they’d been unable to contact anyone outside the CIC, “I am officially taking command. We need to get someone down to the reactor space and—” He was cut off when the radarman screamed and leapt onto the man sitting next to him. It took a moment in the gloom for anyone to realize what was happening, and even when multiple flash lights lit the scene of screams and spraying blood, more people raced to get away than to help the man being attacked.
“Who’s armed?” Admiral Tomlinson bellowed over the din. “Who has a sidearm?” He was still trying to find out when the next sailor, a female radio operator, snarled and jumped at the admiral’s throat.
* * *
Commander Michael “Shrek” Gorski, the VFA-14 squadron commander, was near the end of his glide path to land on Reagan for the fourth time that day. He was completing a tanker hop that had been somewhat complicated, so as CO, he’d elected to take it himself. When the rain-reduced visibility was factored in, it had only made sense to do it himself.
He’d taken off with full internal tanks, joined with two other Super Hornets and topped them off, then returned home with just enough fuel to make it. The logistics of keeping more than 30 aircraft in the air was daunting.
“Camelot One Zero One,” the approach controller radioed, “contact approach on two three seven five.”
“Roger, switching,” Gorski said and turned the knob that automatically changed the radio to the proper frequency. “Camelot One Zero One, checking in passing Angels 1.0.”
“One Zero One, we have you passing 900 feet,” the controller replied. After a brief pause, he added, “One Zero One, call the ball.”
“One Zero One, Rhino ball,” Gorski replied as he eyeballed the landing area. The meatball was a series of lights on the port side of the flight deck. The angled lights were visible in different directions to allow pilots to judge their landing approach. He saw a line of green datum lights and a central light called the meatball centered between them; his glide slope was optimal.
A few seconds later, the meatball went out.
“What the fuck,” he said, adding power as he keyed his mic. “This is Camelot One Zero One. I’ve lost the ball. Repeat, I’ve lost the ball.” Nothing. He had no choice. He raised his gear and climbed out back up to 1,200 feet. As he passed the carrier, it was obvious the carrier’s screws were no longer turning; Reagan was dead in the water. The chatter from the rest of the planes orbiting was picking up in worried intensity. He glanced at his fuel indicator and ran the numbers. Under 15 minutes.
* * *
“It’s not a nuclear bomb,” West told the captain.
“No shit,” the captain said and flipped through the file. The three seated with him at the conference table could see the pictures. He wasn’t making any real attempt to hide them. It was obvious he’d had the contents of both helicopters examined, and the alien ship had been given intense scrutiny. “Well, it is radioactive. I only have one NBC specialist, and she says it’s not giving off any neutron radiation, so she agrees; it’s not a bomb.” He read from a page. “She says it looks like some kind of ship.” He looked up at Jeremiah. “Is this a prototype or something?”
“Yes!” Jeremiah said, a little too eagerly. Gilchrist’s left eyebrow went up slightly.
“Then why were you out at Catalina Island getting attacked by infected?”
Jeremiah mouth dropped open, but nothing came out. West took pity on him.
“We ran a suborbital flight test,” West explained. “We launched two weeks ago, and only just found the thing.”
“And you go looking for it in the middle of the end of the world?”
West shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“It’s really expensive,” Jeremiah offered lamely. West tried not to cringe and largely succeeded. Gilchrist was about to ask something else when an officer ran in and leaned over to whisper something to him.
“What?” he demanded before the man had finished. “Completely?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said.
“How many are in the air?”
“More than thirty, Captain. The worst has less than ten minutes left.” Gilchrist jumped to his feet and headed for the door.
“Captain, what’s going on?” West asked.
“Security will escort you to the pilot’s ready room just off the flight deck.” He turned to West. “We’re bulldozing your fucked-up helicopter into the water.”
“What?” Jeremiah barked. “That’s a rental!”
“You’re not getting your deposit back,” Gilchrist said on the way out. Tucker was there again, the shotgun slung over one shoulder and a pistol on his hip.
“Will you folks come with me, please?” West and Patty got up right away, but Jeremiah delayed.
“I think we should stay right here until we find out what’s going on.”
“You do that,” West said. “I hear this new class of carrier has nice jail cells.” Jeremiah grumbled under his breath but followed nonetheless.
Tucker and the sailor assisting him took the group to a more utilitarian sort of conference room. This looked more like a theater with rows of seats facing a stage, LCD screen, and a small lectern. Their four employees were there drinking coffee, including Alison.
“Hey!” West said and hurried over to her. She sat in one of the chairs, holding an ice pack to her head. “How you doing?”
“Well enough,” she replied, a little blurrily. “They X-rayed my head; no serious damage. I got some painkillers, and here I am.”
“You remember what happened?”
“Nothing after the infected jumped on the helicopter and started pounding on the window.”
“Yeah,” West said, “things got a little crazy after that. I’m glad you’re okay. We’ve been through a lot together.”
“And at light speed,” she said with a thin smile. He hardened his face and shook his head slightly. She gave him a curious look, and he looked pointedly at Tucker and the sailor with him. “Uhm, okay…” she said and gave a little shrug.
