After an hour, with the Ginger Girl making a healthy twelve knots, the lookout yelled out, “Whales ho!” and pointed to the north-northwest. In the distance, a small geyser of water separated itself from the chop of minor whitecaps, followed by another. The whale’s means of breathing was, unfortunately for them, a great white flag that drew in their pursuers. Beyond the whales stood a man-made forest that rose from the sea: wind turbines, thousands of them, dotted the horizon and disappeared over its edge. They had been placed there before Omega, after a hard fought philosophical war between green thinking futurists and oil addicted presentists. For America, or what was left of her, they were much of the lifeline that kept a society dependent on electricity alive. They were also strictly off limits to anything but navy shipping.
Sanders let his binoculars fall to his chest and spoke to Dean from the side of his mouth, “Awful close to the line, Cap.”
“Mmm,” was all Dean replied, then turned to the helmsman, “Ten degrees to port and hold your course, Mr. Burrows.”
“Aye, Cap.”
Sanders yelled out to the crew who handled the sails, “Coming ten to port, close-hauled!”
The Ginger Girl’s deck slowly tilted to the right as the men brought the sails in tight, keeping the same airflow over what were really inverted wings while the boat beat to windward. Just like an airplane, which gets its lift from the vacuum created at the top of the airfoil, the Ginger Girl’s sails pulled forward in an effort to fill their own vacuum. At such a tight angle of sail to the wind, the speed of the ship bled off with the less efficient arrangement, giving Dean just what he wanted, a direct path to the whales while not over shooting them.
“Prepare the boats, Mr. Sanders.”
Sanders called out to the harpoon crews who were already getting one of the two skiffs hanging off the starboard side ready to lower. Each boat had a team of three men - two to pull the oars and a third as the harpoon man. As the schooner bore down on the pod of Right whales, the lines holding the sails were released to reduce the speed further and the deck crew lowered the first skiff with its hunters aboard. As the skiff hit the water, the lines holding it were released, and as the two men at the oars pulled hard, the pod dove out of sight. The Ginger Girl pressed on and the second skiff was lowered, with the hope of boxing in the big mammals when they surfaced next.
Jamesbonds Boonmee was a small man in stature, but made up for it in muscled bulk. Ten years before, his parents had made the unfortunate decision to visit family in Virginia. The FND-z epidemic was beginning to germinate in Florida, and was only weeks from exploding into a national pandemic. As members of a nomadic seafaring people, the Boonmees were considered sea gypsies (or “chao lei” - in Thai) who made their livelihood fishing off of and around the island of Phuket. Jamesbonds’ auntie Nim had made the rare choice among her people to live abroad, emigrating to America, getting a degree at Georgetown, and finding work in hospital administration at Walter Reed. Auntie Nim had saved hard and had finally sent for her family so they could see where she lived and discover the amazing country that was America. Days after the Boonmees arrival, there was a sudden ban on international flights to and from the U.S. Later, in the madness that became the evacuation of Washington, twelve-year-old Jamesbonds had become separated from his family, never to see them again.
The Harris’ had been on a family spring-break cruise when the news broke of multiple Cain’s outbreaks, and they had sailed to Annapolis to try and find more of their kin who lived there. Instead, they found chaos. A failed search for family had them scrambling to get to their 40-foot sloop. They cast off with hundreds of desperate people charging the docks, swamping other fleeing boats. Once safely out into open water, they were surprised to find Jamesbonds hiding under their inflatable dingy. Taking pity on the orphan, they brought him to their home on a small islet attached to the greater island of Jamestown Road Island. The residents there destroyed the bridges to their sanctuary and survived most of the madness that befell the country. In the face of growing hunger on the overcrowded island, Jamesbonds became somewhat of a savior, putting his vast skills at fishing to work to feed the Harris’ and many of their neighbors. It wasn’t quite enough, but it kept them all from starving.
That luck turned when Jamestown had been liberated before the infected population in greater Rhode Island had been eradicated. Suffering from malnutrition, Jamesbonds had been transferred to a field hospital outside of East Providence. Days later it came under assault from a pocket of roaming Fiends. The creatures were destroyed by the well-armed hospital staff, but not before several people had been attacked and infected. While he lay weakly on a hospital bed, seconds away from having his throat torn out by two rabid females, a doctor ran in and shot the ghouls down. Alas, he had gotten a fair amount of their spittle in his screaming mouth and that was that: He was immediately treated with the new drugs, which arrested the disease, but doomed him as a carrier.
With the salty spray of a breaking whitecap dousing his face, Jamesbonds found himself at the bow of the whaling skiff, harpoon in hand. With exceptionally well trained eyesight born from diving for fish as a youth, he could see the shadow of a Right whale off their port side rising to the surface. “Left! Come left, my friends! Pull hard!” he called out to the oarsmen.
The rowers drove their oars into the sea, the port man pulling harder and deeper to turn the boat. Making sure that his feet were firmly placed under the webbed strapping on the deck, Jamesbonds leaned out over the bow and raised his harpoon. Ten yards ahead, the whale broke through, its white callosities giving the animal the appearance of a rising rock. A spout of breathy seawater rained down upon the men. The rowers too pulled with greater urgency. They had but a few seconds before the animal dove again.
Spying the point just before the whale’s spout, in the general area of the brain, Jamesbonds heaved the gear with all his might. A spool of heavy nylon line spun out from the bucket between his knees. The fiercely pointed object plunged into the top of the whale, driving its tip at least two feet into the animal’s thin skin, thick blubber and muscle. At the moment of impact, a short fuse was ignited on a grenade-like charge just behind the spear tip. The grenade went off just as the whale’s body heaved at the unexpected assault. Shrapnel fired deep into the beast, shredding much of the brain. At eight times the size of a human brain, there was much neurological damage, but not enough to stop the big mammal’s muscles from connecting with its final instinct, to dive.
As the harpoon line spun out to its end and snapped taught to its mooring, Jamesbonds ran to the stern of the boat to counter the weight of the impending heave on the bow. At the same time, the rowers had spun around in their seats and heaved back on the oars. The bow of the boat pulled down into a crossing wave, sending six inches of water across the deck and over their feet. The skiff moved forward as though on its own for a hundred yards or so and then slowly came to rest.
The second skiff attempted, but failed to spear another Right and the pod dove out of sight.
Long seconds ticked by as the schooner jibed about and with the wind now behind her, she came back for her skiffs. Jamesbonds and the rowers remained braced for another yank. Instead, a great dark gray mass broke the surface to their left. The cetacean’s tail gave one last jerk and then it laid still. A large oily blood bloom covered the water around its once graceful head. The harpoon flopped over as the whale rolled onto its side.
The men on the schooner cheered with the men on the skiffs. The oarsmen patted Jamesbonds on the back then rowed to take charge of the kill. In the distance to the North, a high speed Coast Guard interceptor was coming directly toward them. By the time the schooner had stopped alongside the dead whale the interceptor was hailing via radio and a loudspeaker. “This is the USCGC Vigil. Keep your bow pointed to the wind!”
Captain Dean turned to Sanders with a one-sided smile, “Guess we crossed.”
“Guess so.”
Dean turned to Burrows, “
Continue maintaining point to wind as the Coast Guard suggests.”
“Aye, Cap.”
Dean called down to the recovery crew who where using gaffes and rope to tie the whale along side. “Quickstep it people. They’re going to tell us to go home. We want to keep our prize.”
In moments, the Coast Guard boat came to a halt approximately fifty yards off the Ginger Girl’s port stern. A sailor stood on her bow aiming a deck mounted fifty-caliber machine gun while several others leveled assault rifles at the schooner. Her captain lifted the loudspeaker mic to his lips, “Our radio interceptors identify this ship and her crew as infected persons living on the isle of Nantucket. You have crossed the boundary allowed for your vessel. You are fishing illegally in U.S. waters. You will release the catch and return across the boundary forthwith.”
Dean called out to his crew, “Keep working everyone.” He picked up a cone shaped hailer that was mounted behind the helmsman and stepped to the stern. “Good morning. Nearly finished here. On our way as soon as we’ve recovered our boats.”
“You will recover your boats, Captain, and release the whale.”
“Thank you, but we need to keep the whale.”
A sailor handed the Coast Guard captain a note. He paused a moment to read it and then spoke back into the mic, “Captain Dean. You are in violation of the quarantine agreement between infected persons and the United States of America. By rights, we can sink your ship with all aboard. You have one minute to release your catch and be on your way.”
Dean crossed his hands behind his back, letting the hailer hang from his wrist. He turned to Sanders, “What do you think? You’re good judge of a sailor’s tone. Is he bluffing?”
“No, sir.”
“No.” Dean paused and scratched his beard. “They’re scared of us and rightly so. Please ask Mister Kneedham and Mister Kile to prepare the persuaders.”
Sanders got on a walkie-talkie and spoke to someone below decks. Some of the crew had stopped working and looked to Dean for guidance. He smiled at them, saying, “Don’t stop, people. We need that whale much more than they do.” He turned and raised the hailer back to his lips. “We’ve got folks starving and in need of lamp oil. You’ll please excuse the crossing of the line. Thrill of the hunt caused us to lose our bearings.”
The Coast Guard captain stepped out from behind his windscreen, still holding the mic. “You have ten seconds to cut that whale loose, Captain or we open fire.” He started counting down.
Dean sighed. “All right, Mister Sanders.”
Sanders spoke into the radio again. Suddenly the windows opened on the lower stern revealing a M242 Bushmaster chain gun. Mr. Kneedham trained the heavy weapon on the interceptor while Crewman Kile revealed a second gun at center deck. Rather than for threatening the Federal Government, the guns were meant as a deterrent to pirates. Desperate times equaled desperate gambles and even the uninfected might attack a Halflie ship to kill her crew.
The attitude of the Coast Guard crew changed dramatically.
Dean spoke again through the hailer, “We’ll be on our way in just a moment. Again, I apologize for missing the line. We will endeavor to not let it happen again.”
The Coast guard captain could be seen consulting with a few of his crew before speaking into his mic, “We can have a Navy destroyer intercept you within the hour. You will follow my order.”
“Again, I apologize Captain. We both know that the U.S. government doesn’t have the fuel for such fool errands. You’re bluffing. Now please leave us be. We’ll be on our way in five minutes.”
The Coast Guard captain smartly chose to argue no further. Instead, they stayed on station until the Ginger Girl got back under way and followed her to the invisible boundary that separated the healthy from the Halflie and kept watch until the schooner’s hull dropped below the horizon line.
Back at Nantucket Harbor, a celebration was waiting for Dean and his crew. Great cauldrons were set to fire for rendering the blubber. Butchers waited with sword sized knives at the landing, ready to receive the beast that would provide them all with food and oil for a little while longer. Nantucket had one fortunate aspect to offer its exiles: In the years prior to Omega, the island’s residents had privately invested heavily in offshore wind turbines. Though several of the great machines had stopped working due to storm damage and a dearth of parts, there was still plenty of electrical generation to keep the island working and warm. Light bulbs, on the other hand, were a luxury and difficult to come by. With the limited trade allowed between the colony and the mainland, more often than not, whale oil was used in traditional kerosene style lamps. With the bright burning oil, a home was warmly lit at night and often during the day as a counter to the ceaseless overcast.
With oil being so precious and chances good that the Rights would still be in the neighborhood, Dean planned to have his ship back out on the hunt the following morning.
CHAPTER THREE
The Ultimatum
Captain Dean could smell it as the Ginger Girl moved quietly on a light breeze through a dense fog over calm water. He’d always had it: a nose for trouble. As a young Seal, he had been promoted quickly during combat tours. His keen senses and consistent ability to make rapid and smart decisions had gained him great trust. This was no less true on his schooner; where even at a relatively young age for a captain, he received deep respect and unwavering faith from his crew. The sound of multiple approaching engines confirmed his intuition and he found himself hating his proverbial nose. The omni-directional nature of sound in fog made it nearly impossible to detect which direction the boats were coming from. The near idle setting of their RPMs told him that they were closing in on his ship and that whomever was driving didn’t want to smack into the heavy planking on its sides. The engine noise was deep and as he and helmsman Burrows turned their heads, listening in opposite directions, the sound moved through the air like an old hi-fi stereo recording: first left, then right, then both left and right as the sound split onto both sides of the Ginger Girl.
“Hold steady, Mr. Burrows. The Navy is about to pull up nice and close.” Dean looked over to his first mate. “Rest easy if you please, Mr. Sanders.”
“Pissed them off I guess. So much for not wasting oil.” Sanders raised his voice just above the level of the approaching engines. “No silliness, lads. Professional seamen.”
Two high-walled battleship gray Navy frigates appeared through the gloom. Steel canyon walls gently closed in on either side, cutting off the light breeze that had been carrying the schooner forward. The sails fell slack and the old wood of her hull creaked with the gentle swell. Several officers backed by armored up Marines leaned over the port rail of the starboard frigate. A Naval commander, spoke up. “Permission to tie up to you Captain Stewart.” It was a purely rhetorical request.
Dean smiled grimly. “Granted.” He turned to Sanders and nodded.
Sanders called out. “Right. Look lively. Stow the sails. Boonmee, Cinders, be ready to receive lines and raft up.”
As the crew got busy an Army colonel spoke from between the Marines. “Colonel MacAfee, Captain Stewart. Permission to come aboard?”
“We are a Halflie crew, Colonel. Not mad, but highly infectious.”
“Understood. I’ll take the proper precautions. I’m sure none of your crew intends to bite me.” The man was covered from feet to neck in heavy camouflage leather and wore a battle helmet. He snapped on a surgical mask. He would be pretty safe.
“We don’t bite visitors, sir. However, I can’t guarantee that someone won’t accidentally sneeze. Infection can enter through the eye.”
“I’ll take the risk.”
Dean thought the man either overly brave or a fool, the two positions being roughly the same. A grappling net was hung from the side of the frigate and the Colonel quickly scrambled down onto the Ginger Girl’s deck walking straight up to Dean. He held out a gloved hand. “Stewart Dean, Dusty MacAfee. I’m an admirer of
yours. Is there somewhere that we can speak in private?”
Dean settled them into the cozy but cramped navigation/officer’s room. “I’d offer you a brandy, but I only have some island bathtub gin. I can’t guarantee that there isn’t a trace of Cain’s on the glassware.”
Colonel MacAfee removed his mask and smiled. “Captain Dean, I’m not here to empathize with your plight or talk of rogue behavior from a ship full of cast outs. I’ve come on behalf of our government. I have a mission for you.”
Dean looked at the man for a moment with an arched eyebrow then cleared his throat. Colonel, I am no longer a citizen of the United States.”
“Nonsense. You’re just an American who has ended up with one of life’s shittier deals. You have never been anything but an exemplary soldier. Your country needs you, your crew as well.”
“I don’t speak for my crew - outside of their duty as members of this whale hunting operation. When back on shore they are their own man or woman.”
MacAfee leaned back in his chair, letting the anxiety that he rightly felt, loosen from his neck and shoulders. “How is Nantucket doing with electricity?”
Children Of Fiends - Part 1 Winter Is Passing: An Of Sudden Origin Novella Page 3
