by Jeff Thomson
Bill’s eyes flicked toward Amber. “Looks like we’re about to be back in business.”
Truth of the matter was, they hadn’t been all that busy since she - probably unwisely - signed off from the COMMSTA, after intentionally ignoring comms from the icebreaker. Mainly, they’d just been listening in on the Big Game being played out on shore, with deadly consequences. Now, it seemed, passive listening would become active participation.
“Roger, Sass,” Barber’s voice replied. “Expect company in about three hours.”
105
Rapid Response Boat
Honolulu Harbor
“I thought that went well,” Lane Keely said, as he pulled the RRB away from the Station Sand Island boat dock.
“Hey,” Jonesy replied, leaning against the stanchion behind the cockpit. He resisted the urge to sit for fear the evidence of carnage on his MOPP gear would permanently coat the interior with an ick-factor not easily forgotten. Blood, gore, bits of bone and brain matter gave better testimony to just how near a thing it had truly been, than any words could express. He looked as if he’d spent the last several hours break dancing through an abattoir. “At least nobody died.”
The statement and its potential for being completely wrong suddenly hit him like one of the zombies being run over by the Skull Mobile. “How’s Harold doing?”
“Alive,” Lane said, keeping an eye on Jennifer Collins as she piloted the boat toward the Sass. “Awake, and bitching up a storm, from what I hear.”
Jonesy heard the exhalation of breath from behind him, knowing full well the sound came from Duke.
They’d abandoned the truck and trailer at the station and piled onto the RRB, too heavily into the post-adrenaline crash to care about much of anything. But that wasn’t exactly true, now was it? They cared - they all cared - what happened to Harold. Jonesy was certain of it. And yeah, okay, concern for his condition wrestled with the relief of having gotten off the island with their skins and sanity more or less intact, coupled with exhaustion and soreness, and the general brain-dead feeling he’d come to associate with the aftermath of action, but Harold never strayed far from their thoughts, right? Right?
“Good,” Duke grunted. “Because when I get back on board, I’m going to kick his ass.”
There was the burly bosun he’d come to know and love - in a purely non-sexual, heterosexual, one-hundred percent platonic way that defended and insured their masculinity. Seeing Duke freaked about it had sent Jonesy’s world kind of sideways. Had he not been so goddamned busy trying not to be killed by zombies, it might have messed with his head, something fierce. But now that Duke was back to his normal asshole-ness, the world could continue spinning on its normal axis.
“Get in line,” Jonesy replied.
“He’s my flunky,” Duke protested.
“Yeah, but I outrank you,” Jonesy countered.
“And Peavey outranks you,” Lane said. “Pretty sure he wants to see you when you get back aboard.”
“Would a description of how tiny the rat’s ass I can give be considered insubordination?” Jonesy asked.
“Probably,” Lane agreed.
“Good thing I didn’t say it, then.”
“Does thinking it count?” Glenn Newby asked.
“Not in any legally binding way,” Greg Riley replied.
Jonesy considered the new guys. Pat Querec hadn’t said a word, and it appeared that neither Jennifer Collins, nor Sherman Malone were stupid enough to interject their own thoughts in the matter. McBride and Nailor were following their wake in the RHIB, and so couldn’t be reached for comment. Just as well. “I take it you have experience with our new First Lieutenant?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Querec said, breaking his silence.
“You’re not as dumb as you look,” Duke said, assuming his responsibility as the designated ass-kicker of Deck Force.
Jonesy scrunched down to peer through the cockpit windshield. The Sass loomed large, getting closer by the moment, and sure enough, CWO2 Peavey was standing at the top of the Acom Ladder.
Duke pointed to Malone and Querec. “Get ready to handle lines. Querec, you go forward.” They nodded their understanding and exited the cabin, as Collins pulled back on the throttle, slowing their approach.
“Left full,” Lane said. “And give it a jolt of reverse.” She did as ordered, swinging and slowing the boat to a reasonably good landing at the bottom of the Accommodation Ladder, facing out into the harbor.
“Deja vu,” Duke mumbled through his gas mask, pointing toward Peavey, hovering at the top of the ladder and glaring, looking quite a bit like the Asshole Lieutenant they rescued from the base.
“Yeah,” Jonesy replied. “Remember what happened last time?”
“Practice, practice, practice,” Duke commented, giving the most inappropriate, yet fitting reply possible.
Jonesy - being the most senior person on the RRB - hopped onto the ladder first, following military tradition. Climbing the eight steps to the opening in the Buoy Deck’s side reminded him of just how far he’d been stretching himself over the last days and weeks.
How long had it been? And how much had he and the rest of the Sass crew been through? If the aches in his tired body were any indication, the answer was way too fucking long, and way too fucking much. What he wanted - more than anything - was a boiling hot shower (with Molly? No. Too much effort) and about twelve solid hours of sleep. Staring into the gas mask-covered face of CWO2 Peavey told him loud and clear that he’d be getting neither.
“You usurped my authority, Jones,” Peavey said - also loud and clear and over the comms channel. His failure to use Jonesy’s new rank did not go unnoticed.
Who the fuck says “usurped?” He thought, incredulous. He could already feel the anger building. “Did I?”
“I ordered you to get back to the truck!” He was standing right at the top of the ladder, blocking Jonesy’s path, and so blocking everyone’s ability to board the ship.
“Must have missed that one,” he replied, pushing forward. The idiot looked as if he were going to continue standing there for a moment, then seemed to notice the state of Jonesy’s MOPP gear. His eyes popped like a pair of golf balls, and he backpedaled away. Jonesy stepped onto the Buoy Deck and turned toward the superstructure, knowing full well where this conversation would go.
Part of the Enlisted Petty Officer Qualification Standards for Leadership covered when to praise and when to punish, along with how to do both. The gist of it was that you praised in public and punished in private. Anybody with a lick of sense should understand the simple axiom, but clearly, their new First Lieutenant didn’t. Just the simple fact of his broadcasting his bitchiness over the comm channel served as clue enough.
“Don’t you dare bring that nasty shit onto my Mess Deck,” Gary King warned, pointing to Jonesy’s bold fashion statement, as he tried - and failed - to enter the ship. Zombie Apocalypse Chic, he thought. It’s what everyone’s wearing this season.
“Sorry, man,” Jonesy said, and moved as if to swerve into the side passage toward the Port Passageway. But Gary stopped him from doing that, as well, and pointed toward the forward end of the Buoy Deck, below the crane, where Jonesy saw two charged fire hoses and DC3 Harrison Dodge - still looking a bit unsteady on his feet - waiting.
He pivoted - nearly crashing headlong into Peavey - and headed for the hoses.
“I’m talking to you, Jones!” Peavey barked. Jonesy happily ignored the douche-nozzle.
Dodge charged the hose’s nozzle, and high-pressure fog hit Jonesy like a needle-gun. He staggered back a step, but righted himself and leaned into the water. It blasted against his chest, but after the initial shock, didn’t feel that bad, actually. He stood facing Dodge for a few moments, then slowly started to turn in a circle, as the blood and bone and gore washed away from his battered body.
Peavey, he noticed, stood several feet away, in the middle of the deck, clearly not wanting to get any zombie bits on his
pristine uniform. One more reason to despise the fucker, Jonesy thought, as Duke joined him in getting sprayed.
Once the worst of it flowed away toward the nearest deck drain, he stepped out of the water, making room for Querec and Newby and Riley. Admittedly, they were nowhere near as covered in guts as himself or Duke, but it seemed to be a good idea to wash that shit off, rather than bringing it inside. He headed toward the superstructure, disdainfully ignoring Peavey, who watched him walk past.
“Don’t you walk away from me, Jones!” Peavey’s voice knifed through the earpiece. Interesting that the fuck waited till I was turned away before he said it, Jonesy thought. More like disgusting. The cowardly asshole....
This is what he thought, still retaining enough self-restraint not to say it out loud. The dickhead was, after all, technically his superior officer.
In direct and overt response to the weasel, Jonesy removed his helmet, pushed back the MOPP hood, removed the firefighter’s hood, and yanked the offending electronic device from his ear. The sudden influx of air on his sweat soaked head felt cool, so he completed the transformation by also removing his gas mask (once safely inside and walking down the passageway). “Fuck that feels good,” he said aloud, adding emphasis to the first word for Peavey’s benefit, and letting the mask, hood, and helmet dangle in his hands as he headed toward Officer’s Country.
Passing the ladder leading up to the Cabin and Bridge, with Peavey following and still (presumably) whining over the comm channel (since the dipshit still hadn’t removed his own mask), Jonesy vaguely noticed someone coming down, the clomp of their feet clanking on the steel treads. He ignored it. Too tired, and becoming entirely too pissed off.
Did the asshole actually think he could come on board, with no experience in current operations, no clue as to what this new world had become, and spout off like a blowhard, while demonstrating his own incompetence and cowardice, as he had in failing to direct the crane to offload the barrels of Napalm? Did he really believe, for one second, he could do that and still be taken seriously?
Jonesy turned, still dripping, crossing through the Wardroom Vestibule, past the officer’s staterooms, and into the Wardroom itself. If they were going to have it out, this was the place to do it. Dropping the helmet, mask and firefighter’s hood onto the table, he turned again and faced the man.
Tired didn’t begin to describe how he felt: worn out, worn thin, world-weary and saddle-sore, aching in every bone, every muscle, every sinew, every synapse in his brain and every fiber of his being. He was exhausted, and this fucktard wanted to get pissy. Well, fine, he thought. Give it your best shot, motherfucker.
“You are relieved of duty, Jones.” The sheer stupidity of the edict, more, perhaps, than anything else could have, left Jonesy dumbfounded.
In the first place, Dick-breath couldn’t relieve him, since Jonesy was in OPS, and Peavey ran the Deck Force. And in the second place, who the Hell else were they going to get to do this crazy shit?
Molly appeared in the doorway, her face livid. She opened her mouth to comment, but Jonesy waved her to silence, trying, as best he could, to convey: I’ll handle this.
He stared at the fucker, who was now struggling to remove his gas mask, and botching that, as well. Jonesy waited, outwardly patient, while inwardly trying to resist the urge to kill the son of a bitch.
“You are relieved of duty,” the dumb fuck said again, having finally managed to pull the mask from his face and hair.
Jonesy stared at him for another moment, then nodded. “Fine,” he said. “Have it your way.”
Pulling a chair out from the table, Jonesy stomped one foot onto it and started ripping at the duct tape that covered the top of his boot, where the MOPP suit tucked inside. Ragged strip of tape dropped to the floor, treated material yanked from the boot, the other foot, the other taped leg, the other hem and the other boot. Dive knife from one calf, Bowie knife from the other, one thigh holster, and another. Clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk onto the wooden table.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Peavey barked, his mouth working like a grouper.
Jonesy didn’t answer. Backpack removed and dropped next to the knives and guns, the kukri machetes clanking against the thigh holstered forty-fives. Harness pulled free, twin nines in shoulder holsters dangling and clunking next to the backpack. Tactical gloves, over nytrile gloves pulled free and dropped. Zipper pulled, a painful shrug, MOPP suit dropped to his ankles.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Peavey asked again. “Answer me, dammit!”:
He bent to yank the suit over his boots. A twinge of pain sliced through his side. He ignored it. He stepped away from the pile, feeling several pounds lighter. The uniform beneath it all was soaked with sweat and steaming slightly in the cool, conditioned air.
He stared at Peavey, trying with his eyes to convey just how far past caring he’d gone. Molly, standing behind the idiot, caught his eye. He winked.
“I quit,” he said, then without another word, left the Wardroom in search of a shower.
106
Medical Clinic
Midway Atoll
“Here’s the last of it,” Stephanie Barber said, setting the tray of ampules down onto the stainless steel table.
“Brings the total to one hundred and sixty-three doses of the Primary,” LTjg Sam Bonaventura - in all his unassuming deliciousness - said, consulting the list he’d been keeping. The military loves killing trees, Stephanie mused.
One of the greatest miscalculations in history was the one which stated computers would make America a paperless society. The first ones to throw that assessment out the window had been the military, who discovered, or decided, or somehow came to the conclusion that everything - abso-fucking-lutely everything - needed to have paper backup.
Now she supposed it didn’t really matter. Pomona had left fewer people than there were trees.
“Think it’ll make a dent in the number of unvaccinated survivors?” she asked.
He nodded slowly, shrugged, and gave her the half-smile that was threatening to make her swoon. “About the size of a pea,” he answered.
Okay... She wasn’t really about to swoon. Her heart wasn’t palpitating, her breath wasn’t coming in bodice-heaving gasps, she wasn’t about to faint dead away into his strong and welcoming arms. She might want to, it might feel really nice, and the fantasy did have its charms, but no.
She was lonely, she was horny (and wouldn’t her father just love to learn that little tidbit?), and Sam Bonaventura was three feet away. Tempting... Oh, my, yes, it was tempting.
And there wasn’t really a whole lot for them to do, now that the latest batch of specimens her father and Harvey Walton delivered had been, shall we say, used up. So why not? Why not rip that nice uniform shirt right off Sam’s reasonably muscular chest and throw him down onto the gurney, conveniently located at the other end of the lab? Why not have a little fun?
The door popped open, and Teddy Spute walked in.
That’s why, she thought.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
107
M/V Point of Order
7.712553N 162.997803W
“Point of Order, Point of Order, this is Corrigan Cargo III, Twenty-one-eighty-two. Over.”
“What the fuck are they calling us for?” Blackjack Charlie snarled, staring at the tiny speaker on the Bridge control console. He’d told those fucking idiots on Palmyra to maintain radio silence till they got back from picking up the Hamilton. He’d been clear about it, concise about it, so abundantly unambiguous any moron could have understood. Well, their little band of pirates would be short one radio operator, just as soon as they returned to the atoll.
Hennessy picked up the handset, offered it to Charlie. “You take it,” Blackjack said, not trusting himself to restrain the temptation to start screaming.
“Go Corrigan,” Hennessy said into the microphone.
“The President would like to speak to your Commanding Officer,�
��the man replied, his voice sounding more formal.
“Ask and you shall be answered,” Hennessy said, his own voice dry as Death Valley.
Okay, so now he knew why the idiot broke radio silence. Maybe he wouldn’t have to kill the stupid fucks, but then again, they were supposed to keep that dipshit, the Honorable Henry David Goddard, in check, satisfied and preoccupied with his self-important status as defacto Leader of the Free World. He’d made that clear - abundantly, perfectly, don’t-fail-or-I’ll-gut you clear before he left for this salvage operation.
Hennessy shrugged, seeming to sense the internal argument. “Don’t blame them,” he said. “Guy’s supposed to be the President, right? Push comes to shove, how do you say no to him?”
By putting a bullet in his skull, Charlie thought. Breathing a sigh that sounded an awful lot like a prolonged Fuuuuck, he motioned for the handset.
“Point of Order Actual,” he said, using the radio term for designating the speaker as the man in charge. “Go Corrigan, Over.”
“Good afternoon, Charles,” Goddard’s pompous voice sounded through the speaker. “Seems like there should be Presidential music to accompany this, doesn’t it?”
What the fuck? He said to Hennessy with his eyes. The other man shrugged, also at a loss. “I’ll get right on that,” Charlie said, adding a delayed, “sir,” for good measure. He hated having to play along with the walking fruit bat, but the pain in the ass’s part in this Grand Endeavor was yet to come, and it would be important. He sensed this, rather than knew it with any certainty, but almost all of this was new territory - to everyone, and not just him - so he had little choice but to trust his gut. It had gotten him this far. He could only hope it got him just a little farther.
“What can I do for you?” Charlie asked. “Sir.”
“I’m given to understand you’ve salvaged a US Naval vessel,” the pompous ass said, and sent Blackjack’s world swirling right down the toilet. The fuck wasn’t supposed to know about it yet. Charlie didn’t want him knowing so that the idiot didn’t make some Presidential decree on his own before Charlie told him what that decree should be. Leaving the guano-brained politician to make up his own mind was the last goddamned thing he wanted or needed. The assholes he’d left in charge on Palmyra knew that. They knew they weren’t supposed to tell the fucker anything.
