by Greg Dragon
She took several deep breaths, wondering if she was making the biggest mistake of her life. Hell, there’s an old Corps saying, she thought. “The worst plan executed quickly and violently is better than the best plan no executed at all.”
Far better to do something than to do nothing.
Facemask and regulator on, she hoisted herself up to the railing, looked at the water thirty feet below, and launched over the rail like a gymnast. Balling up, she wrapped herself around the rucksack, holding her hands to her face to shield the delicate apparatus from the impact. The sea struck her like a cold wet fist, and she fought to stay out of sight below the surface, fought to get the mouthpiece settled and clear it of water. For a moment she just floated beneath the waves, recovering her breath.
Then she began the long swim.
She navigated by lights from the ships. At first she steered by the brilliant glare of the bright cruise ship behind her, easy enough to see through the water above her head. All she had to do was keep going directly away. A half hour later, when she couldn’t see it any more, she cautiously broke the surface to get her bearings and adjust.
Her stomach already complained; she rolled over on her back and pulled a plastic coffee can out of a rucksack pocket, gulping down the cold spaghetti and meatballs packed inside, shoving it into her mouth with her fingers. It was the best she could come up with for eating on the trip; she hoped she had enough food to last. A half-liter of water followed.
The surface swim seemed interminable; even with the fins, she estimated it would take four to six hours to reach the LPD. The critical variable was the hunger, the thing she'd had to learn to live with and manage for the last two days. How often would she have to stop, how much would she have to eat – would her food and water run out? She laughed to herself at the idea of being thirsty in the ocean.
Eating every thirty minutes, she burned calories at a prodigious rate.
The answer came after three hours. Ingraham was far to her rear; she had bypassed it by a good mile, having no desire to be spotted and caught. It appeared that no one had even considered the possibility that someone would swim away from their floating prison, particularly not in the direction of their captors. But now she’d eaten the last of the food outside the waterproof bag. It looked like about an hour to the LPD. She wished she could ditch the scuba tank, but she might need it when she reached the ship.
A half hour later her gut demanded food again, and she didn’t have anything accessible to give it. If she opened the waterproof bag, she would flood everything inside with seawater – the food and her uniform in particular. She clamped down on the discomfort, bringing the discipline of a lifetime of triathlon training into play.
Pain is just weakness leaving the body. No pain, no gain – no pain, no brain. Pain is a feeling, and Marines don’t get issued feelings.
Two hundred yards from the stern of the LPD, the starving wolverine in her belly cramped her up completely, curling her into a fetal ball. She ground her teeth, pushing through the pain. She put her head under water and screamed. She pounded her thigh, trying to distract her nervous system.
Looming above her, the ship showed nothing except for its navigation lights. Uncramping just enough to propel herself to the stern, she hoped that someone didn’t pick that moment to look out into the dark water and see her in the moonlight. She forced her legs to push her closer, finally rounding the corner.
The well ramp had closed.
She groaned, fighting the cramps and starvation. Pulling out a water bottle, she drank, hoping the fluid would ease the sensations. She cursed herself for not thinking of putting something with nutrition in the containers – protein shake, orange juice, anything.
Milk would have been ideal. I’m such an idiot.
Lesson learned, if she lived to remember it.
The cramping eased for a moment. Looking around she found a steel rung inset into the stern. More rungs led up the side, and she measured the climb with her eyes. Fifty feet, maybe. No way would she make it, especially not with the gear. She closed her eyes for a moment, hanging on grimly. Ketosis soured her breath as her body scoured her bloodstream for something to metabolize.
Only one choice. She had to get to the food inside the waterproof bag.
Levering herself painfully up on the first rung, she sat on it and wrapped her left arm into the one above. Clinging on crudely, she forced her right hand’s cold knotted muscles to open the rucksack strapped to her belly, then the bag inside. She grabbed the first food packet she encountered. Greedily she stuffed crackers into her face. A feeling of relief and well-being spread like a drug; she could almost follow the sugars through her veins as they reached outward from her insides, quieting her screaming tissues.
A rumble went through the ship, a vibration felt rather than heard. Grinding and clanking sounds startled her, originating from somewhere very near. She hastily sealed up the waterproof bag and slipped back into the water, just in time.
Light blazed above where she had just rested, and she slipped the scuba regulator back in her mouth, breathing tank air. The great dark slab of the well ramp laid itself rapidly down onto the surface of the water nearby, forming a smooth transition for hovercraft inside to leave the ship.
A moment later an enormous dark shape swept by just feet from her, an LCAC hovercraft shoving her downward with tremendous force, spinning her like the undertow at a riptide beach. As quickly as it had come, it was gone, off into the Atlantic night, and the ramp began to rise again.
This was her only chance. Her legs pumped, driving the fins against the sea with all of her strength, aiming for the joint at the base of the ramp, from the side. There was no time to worry about being spotted; she had to get out of the water and on board.
She rolled over the enormous hinge and into the wet well. There was only three feet of water inside, and as soon as the ramp closed it would drain. She swam sidestroke in the shallow water, pushing herself up against the side rail, and then wormed her way forward. She was still hidden by the seawater, the dimness and the looming machines, but soon she might have nowhere to hide.
It’s good to be good, but sometimes it’s better to be lucky. She got lucky.
The only person in sight was a sailor sneaking a smoke, facing into the corner opposite her across the vast open space. Parked vehicles hid her exit from the water, and the noise of the starting pumps covered any sound she made as she dragged herself up the access ramp. She climbed onto a ladder – nautical terminology for any stairway aboard ship – and upward into one of the compartments tucked up along the walls. Once out of sight, she just breathed for a few minutes, resting after her ordeal.
Dry and safe enough, she ate her fill, stripped off the wet suit, and changed into her uniform. On a ship this size, one more Marine would be almost anonymous. The trick would be when to make herself known, and to whom.
This was as far as her planning had carried her.
Her MOS, Military Operational Specialty – until she lost the legs – was 5816-3RT, Military Police Special Reaction Team member, similar to civilian SWAT. The problem with such a small specialty was that her circle of contacts was limited. 3RT people tended to keep to themselves. She hoped to either find someone on this ship’s 3RT she knew, or just depend on the tight-knit community to shelter her in the face of her unlawful actions. Still, there were some violations that could be ignored by the loyalties and traditions of the service; she hoped that unofficially rejoining a deployed unit would qualify.
She slipped the prostheses on last, grimacing as she strapped them tight. Another four pain pills and a gulp of water, and she was on her feet. She stowed her gear behind a stack of firefighting equipment and hoped it wouldn’t be noticed.
Down into the enormous ship she tottered, holding onto railings and moving slowly. Sweat broke out on her brow, and she fended off two concerned inquiries with explanations of recovering from food poisoning. She didn’t like the way the people looked at her; she had c
hosen that illness as an explanation precisely because it was neither unusual nor contagious.
These people seemed on edge. She realized the crew must have been told the same lies about a deadly disease aboard the cruise ship, and they were jittery. Maybe going to the 3RT wasn’t the best choice. She suddenly realized whom she might be able to trust – by law, custom and regulation.
Five minutes later she was leaning against the chaplain’s door. She hoped he would be a calm, sensible sort that could keep his mouth shut. If she were lucky, she would get a Catholic priest. Priests had reputations for keeping confidences, and closing ranks. For this, she needed someone unshakeable.
The door opened to show a pleasant, pink, thirtyish face attached to a short, chubby body with dirty blonde, collar-length hair. She stared at the Navy Lieutenant’s bars on the right lapel of the woman’s combat cammies, and the cross on the left, disoriented by preconceptions. Her name tag read “Forman.”
“May I help you?” Lieutenant Forman’s accent exuded culture: New England – Boston perhaps, or Maine. It reminded Jill strongly of Katherine Hepburn, before the quaver, or maybe a Kennedy.
“Yes, ma’am. Permission to enter?”
“Of course, Sergeant.” The chaplain stepped back, then closed the hatch behind Repeth as she gingerly tottered in. “Please, sit. Are you ill?”
Jill sat. “No, my prostheses are giving me a bit of trouble.” She reached down to thump on her boots, bringing forth a decidedly artificial sound.
“Ah. Well, here we are. Coffee? Tea? Soda, or some juice?” She gestured at a compact coffee maker that sat upon an equally tiny refrigerator. “Privileges of the ministry.”
“Juice would be great, and if you happen to have anything to eat…I missed chow.”
Forman slid a tin of shortbread cookies off a shelf near her feet, opening it and setting it on the desk within reach, then pulled out a cold can of orange juice for Jill, a coffee cup for herself.
“You have the look of someone with a lot on her mind.”
Jill stuffed two cookies into her mouth, drank the juice in one pull. She gazed at Forman from under lowered eyebrows. “You don’t know the tenth of it. But before I go on…how confidential is this conversation?”
“As confidential as you want it to be.”
“And what if I told you I had done something unlawful? Would you stick to that?”
Forman sat back, blowing on her hot coffee, contemplating. “Are we talking capital crimes here?” She smiled, obviously only half joking.
Jill stared, intent. “I don’t think so. Mostly just Article 92.”
“Failure to obey a lawful order. I can tell you then with ironclad certainty that my lips are sealed.” She took a drink of her coffee, made a face. “It’s this ship’s water. I ran out of bottled a while back.”
Repeth took a deep breath. “All right. I choose to trust you.” A pause. “I am not assigned to this ship.”
Forman’s eyebrows flew up in surprise, and she sat forward, putting her chin on her fist. “Really? That’s a new one, not that my military career is particularly long or distinguished. Do tell.” Her eyes sparked with the cheeky joy of shared secrets.
Jill shook her head angrily. “Ma’am…six hours ago I was looking at this LPD from the railing of that cruise ship you have under quarantine. I just swam twelve miles, I’m hungry, and I’m not in the mood for girl talk. And there is no disease aboard that ship. At least, nothing…nothing bad.”
Forman opened her hand to drum her fingers on her own cheek, staring into Jill’s eyes, as if seeking truth. “Dear me. Dear me. Sergeant, I never thought to say this, but I am at a loss. What do you want me to do?”
“Ma’am...I haven’t a clue. But I’m exhausted. I need food and rest, and I’m holding my head up by sheer willpower. Is there somewhere…”
“On a ship? We both know that every space is spoken for. You might be able to join the crew as a transfer in and get away with it for a few days…”
“Just let me eat and sleep, then I’ll be able to think straight. Please?”
Forman pondered for a moment. “Take my cabin.” She gestured to a door in the back of the tiny office. “No one will disturb you. I can sleep in my chair if need be. I’ll go get some food to go from the mess.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Jill stumbled to the cabin’s bunk, falling asleep as her head hit the pillow.
The wolverine in her guts woke her up. Faint light from the open office door illuminated food cartons next to the bunk. She wolfed down their contents – sandwiches, fruit, potato chips, milk – then rolled over and went back to sleep.
A long black time later, a giant club struck the ship like a gong, throwing Jill out of her bunk and onto the deck. She yelped as the impact twisted her wrist, then again as she put her weight on the prostheses. She gave up and went back to one hand and two knees, crawling along the heaving deck to the doorway.
Chaplain Forman sat on the deck as well, holding her head. She would have a nasty shiner soon, above her right eye. The two women stared at each other, and then Forman clawed her way to her seat behind the desk as the PA came to life.
“Now hear this, now hear this. General Quarters, General Quarters, all hands General Quarters. Condition Zebra.” They felt the ship get under weigh, the sound of the screws churning at flank speed, maximum revolutions.
“I have to go to my station in the infirmary. You stay here!” Forman pointed severely at Repeth with an emphasizing finger.
An hour of sweat later the chaplain returned, teeth clenched. “The scuttlebutt is your cruise ship just exploded. Lost with all souls. One of the corpsmen said they saw streaks of light from the sky, then it just vanished in a fireball. Someone should be court-martialed. The Ingraham was a lot closer than we were, and has been gravely damaged. Their wounded are being medevacked to us. I have to get right back.”
“You know what this means, don’t you, ma’am?”
“It means the U.S. government just murdered three thousand innocent people because they thought they were sick. They must have been extremely frightened to do something like that. Though perhaps they have a right to be. Terrorists just detonated two nuclear weapons on U.S. soil: one in Los Angeles, another in West Virginia.”
Sergeant Repeth gaped in shock. “Nukes? Los Angeles? What the hell is going on? Just what…” She trailed off, stunned.
“Something rotten in the state of Denmark, methinks. I have to go.”
Jill just raised a shaky palm as Forman left, not looking. She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes, damning her leaking tear ducts. Los Angeles. Her whole family was in Los Angeles, her parents and her little brother and uncles and cousins...
She waited as long as she could, until the ship secured from General Quarters and the watertight doors and hatches were allowed open and the ship slowed; they must have gotten word they were not under attack after all. She wondered why the two naval ships had not been told to move away before they sank the cruise ship.
Her first concern was more information. She also needed more food, and to move the illicit gear she'd stashed back in the compartment. Angrily she shook her head, throwing the tears off, wiping her eyes with her sleeves. She stood up, gritting her teeth against the pain, and strode out into the passageway.
The ship blurred busy around her, sailors and Marines scurrying about with extreme sense of purpose. The amphibious well filled with people checking landing craft and gear, loading armored vehicles aboard the huge hovercraft, chaining them down to hardpoints on the decks. She saw live ammunition being hoisted into the tanks and personnel carriers.
The commotion hid her, just one uniform among hundreds, hurrying about a task. She climbed the ladder to the compartment where she'd hid her gear, using mostly her upper body strength, and then struggled back down with the rucksack, everything stuffed inside it.
“Hey, let me give you a hand.” He was smiling, handsome, cheerful and dark. She saw Staff Sergeant’s stripes, and
“Gaona” printed on his name tag.
“No, I got it.” She grimly struggled on.
“Come on, Sergeant. You know, chivalry isn’t really dead.”
“With all due respect, Staff Sergeant, you can stow that shit where the sun don’t shine. I pull my weight.” At that moment, the jury-rigged prosthesis on her left leg failed her, twisting sideways under the pressure of walking down the ladder steps. She would have fallen had he not caught her, setting her gently on the deck, along with her rucksack.
He looked at her lower leg, then her face, then back again. “You should be screaming about now, so I’m going to guess that’s not your real leg. I mean, that’s…” Confusion showed on his visage.
She bit back her embarrassment to growl, “It’s a prosthesis. I need to re-secure it. Just help me get out of everyone’s way.”
Accepting his support, she hobbled a few yards on one leg to a spot against the bulkhead. Once there she pulled up her trouser cuffs and began redoing the bindings. “Thanks, Staff Sergeant. But you don’t have to do any more. I’m good.”
Pursing his lips he nodded, then shrugged as he pointedly read her name tag. “Okay, Sergeant Repeth. I’ll see you around.” His tone was playful.
She watched him walk away. Just as good-looking from this angle, and he knows it. Oh, Jill, give it a rest; not the time for the libido to act up. Funny, she’d been feeling friskier the last few days. Maybe it was from the…the whatever-it-was that was fixing her legs.
Boot and straps again secure, she stood back up and hefted the rucksack down the passageway toward the chaplain’s berth. After dropping that off, she made her way to the nearest mess. The galley crew was in full swing, and she loaded up on everything she could, demolished the whole tray, then did it again. She didn’t think she could get away with a third; one of the mess ratings had looked at her strangely the second time through. Fortified, she stumped down the passageways to the other enlisted mess and went through the line there too.
