by Jeff Thomson
“That is correct, sir,” he said into the microphone. “Didn’t think it wise to discuss over the open radio waves, so I was holding off on informing you until we returned to base.”
“Quite right, quite right,” the moron replied, apparently not realizing that he’d just nullified Charlie’s reasoning. How the fuck did the idiot get elected in the first place? “My apologies, then,” he added. “Learned about it from a Mister Banks, here on the island. Interesting gentleman. Australian, I believe.”
Charlie looked toward Dirk.
“Chauncy Banks,” he said, sheepishly staring at the deck and shaking his head. “Married to that redhead with the big tits?”
Charlie knew the woman to whom he referred. Five of them had escaped Australia: Dirk and his wife, Banks and the redheaded bimbo, and another man, who was no longer alive, because Dirk caught him banging Dirk’s wife. The wife was dead, as well. And since Dirk had been the one to tell Charlie about the ship, Banks must know it, as well. But what to do about this latest development?
“And it just now became my problem,” Charlie growled.
“Sorry, mate,” Dirk said. “Didn’t think he’d even talk to Goddard. Said he thought the guy was an asshole.”
“He is,” Charlie confirmed. “Which is why I didn’t want him to know until it was a fait accompli. So much for that idea.” He brought the handset back to his lips.
“We are inbound presently, sir,” he said.
“Good, good,” Goddard replied. “And we are coming out to meet you.” Charlie hung his head. This was the absolute last thing he wanted. “Are there any survivors?”
Here was the sticky bit. His main goal in keeping Goddard from knowing until they arrived, was to give him time to come up with a way to explain why they’d had to kill so many of the other survivors. He hadn’t managed yet, what with one thing or another, and now he would have even less time than he thought. Great. Just fucking wonderful.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, looking to Hennessy in the barren hope that maybe he had the answer. No help there. And he doubted he could keep the remaining sailors from telling the tale. Time to pull something out of his ass. “Some, however, mistook us for pirates and resisted our attempt at rescue. Unfortunately, they did not survive,” he said, dropping the bomb all at once. The he added: “There were extenuating circumstances.”
“How so?”
He looked at Hennessy, as he scrambled in his brain for an acceptable answer. Still no help.
Then he had it.
“This vessel is sinking, sir,” he said. “Which made our time for salvage rather acute.”
“Yes, of course,” the drooling idiot replied, as if he had the slightest idea what Charlie was saying.
“We needed certain information about security protocols, which they were...reluctant to supply in order to begin salvaging while the ship remained seaworthy.” He paused, waiting to see if Goddard had any comment. He did not. “But just as on Palmyra, Force Majeure rules,” he added, meaning, of course, Eminent Domain, but the dipshit had no more clue what that meant, either. “...as you well know. So I took the steps I felt sure you would, had there been time to consult you first.”
He stared at Hennessy, trying to see if any of this bullshit made sense. The man showed him crossed fingers and shrugged.
“Of course,” the clueless politician said. “Force Majeure is clearly indicated.”
“Yes sir,” Charlie said, the tension in his chest easing slightly. “Unfortunately, we needed to use enhanced techniques to get the necessary information.”
“That is a shame,” Goddard replied, after a pregnant pause. Then he added: “I suppose it couldn’t be helped?” It came through the radio waves as a question, as if perhaps the man was attempting to justify it in his own mind.
“No sir,” Charlie replied. “And the remaining survivors aren’t convinced we are who we say we are. They don’t believe we represent the new President of the United States.” He released the radio handset’s key and looked at both Hennessy and the Aussie, then shrugged. “Appeal to his ego, and maybe his ass will follow,” he said, as way of an explanation.
“Well, then,” Goddard said, sounding puffed up and self-important even over the airwaves. “We’ll just have to convince them, won’t we?”
Charlie smiled.
108
USCGC Sassafras
Honolulu Harbor
“He needs to be relieved,” Peavey insisted.
Molly had never been prone to violence - recent events notwithstanding - and even her training in Krav Maga was defensive in nature and athletic in practice. It tended to give her a more aggressive edge sometimes, but she usually managed to keep that at bay. Usually. Now, however, she wanted to set it free and pummel the idiot into the Wardroom carpeting.
“I’m not convinced,” LCDR Wheeler replied. He’d come down, leaving LT Montrose in charge of the Bridge. It seemed prescient to Molly, as if the man just knew Peavey would so something stupid. Something else stupid, she mentally corrected. “From what I observed,” he continued, “Chief Jones did exactly what needed to be done.”
“Which is more than I can say for you,” Molly said, unable to resist piling onto the complaining First Lieutenant.
Wheeler could have rebuked her for it - maybe even should have rebuked her for it - but instead, remained silent.
“And you should have been relieved yesterday and stripped of all rank,” Peavey countered to Molly, bringing himself that much closer to a punch in the head.
“That will be enough, Mister Peavey,” Wheeler said, his New England-accented voice even and calm, though Molly could sense the growing anger underlying the facade. “No one is being relieved,” he said, pausing for effect. He stared at the Warrant Officer for a long moment, then added: “Yet.”
Peavey stood like a stunned duck, his head swiveling between Molly and Wheeler, his face growing steadily more red.
Molly had heard plenty of horror stories during her days at the Academy about officers put in positions of authority without the necessary internal mechanism that made a good leader. Humans weren’t, as a rule, natural leaders. Psychologically speaking, they tended to fall into three categories: Leaders, Followers, and Independents. There were subsets, of course - this not being a black or white world, in spite of society’s best efforts to make it so - but in filling the basic human need to categorize everything into nice, neat packages, those three tended to fill the bill, as it were.
Whatever the thing was that made one person a leader instead of a follower, he didn’t possess it. He, however, thought he did, and that was the problem. That made him dangerous.
The not black or white world included a subset of humanity convinced of their own superiority, in spite of all evidence to the contrary. The Coast Guard was pretty at good weeding those out - mainly, she suspected, because with such a small talent pool from which to draw, they didn’t have the luxury of absorbing them into a system designed to lessen the impact of such people. But of course, that was before Pomona. The plague turned minimal manning into a way of life.
“I suggest you see to it we’re ready for the next phase,” Wheeler said, dismissing the man by pointedly turning away and facing Molly. “Ms Gordon,” he began.
“Sir,” she replied, doing her best to hide the wicked delight that wanted to force her lips into a wide smile.
“Perhaps you can talk to the Chief...?”
There was a loaded command, if ever she’d heard one. Her heart skipped a beat or two, as her mind flashed on the realization of just where Jonesy was at that particular moment: the shower.
Wheeler scanned the compartment, taking in the debris Jonesy left when he stripped off all his recently-blood and gore-covered gear. “And perhaps you can return his weapons. I do believe we’ll be in need of his services sooner, rather than later.”
109
USCGC Sassafras
The Flying Bridge
That is so gross! Samantha thought, as t
he carnage on the north end of the Container Port came into view. Bodies lay everywhere. Okay, that wasn’t true. That wasn’t what made the scene so thoroughly disgusting. There weren’t bodies - at least nothing vaguely reminiscent of Mrs. Bernicke’s Human Anatomy class at her old high school, in Astoria. There were pieces, chunks, fragments, and bloody, mangled piles of what may or may not be destroyed human flesh covering the concrete of the pier and the approach road to where the bridge used to be.
Seeing the jagged gap in the middle of the bridge, with chunks of concrete and protruding rebar pointed every which way, sent a stab of physical pain through her heart and straight to her gut. Dan McMullen died there. Jonesy could have died there.
He didn’t, she reminded herself. He’s still alive, still being brave and taking risks and acting as if he’s trying to get killed - but alive, nonetheless.
When, exactly, did her internal dialogue start using words like nonetheless? It didn’t fit, didn’t sound right, wasn’t her. But maybe it was. Maybe it did. Life had taken a turn for the truly bizarre since the days she’d spent not paying attention in Mrs. Bernicke’s class. Everything had changed. So why should it come as some great surprise that she’d changed - was changing - as well?
Nonetheless...
Here she was, on lookout - as always. And sure, Molly (bitch) made her father escort her below, while she was doing a terrible job of shooting at zombies (only, she wasn’t, and you know she wasn’t), but as soon as the conniving man-stealer left to go... (defend Jonesy from that idiot, Peavey) ...whatever it was she went to do, she’d gone right back up there. Why? Because this was where she belonged. This was her place, her station, her billet, her job in the scheme of this Grand Endeavor.
When did she start using words like Grand Endeavor? Doesn’t matter.
There she stood, with her face covered in a foul-smelling gas mask to keep from gagging on the even more foul-smelling air, staring at the results of 25mm carnage caused by people she actually liked. They weren’t testosterone-fueled Neanderthals, like so many characters were in fiction and the movies, they weren’t knuckle-draggers, weren’t immune to the effects of the death and destruction they were creating with every move, every moment of their day, every effort of their exhausted bodies. They were good people, friendly people, nice people, who were - nonetheless - killing for a living. They were lifesavers, whose job it was to kill some in order to save others.
She brought the binoculars to her plexiglass-covered eyes and scanned the apocalyptic Honolulu skyline. The people - survivors - were still on the rooftops, still watching the horror being played out for their benefit. They were waiting with what had to be growing impatience. They were waiting to be rescued. They were probably starving, possibly sick or injured, certainly afraid. And they were watching the people whose job - whether those people wanted the job or not - it was to do the rescuing.
She could imagine what was going through their heads. What are you waiting for? They had to be asking. Why haven’t you come for us yet? Never pausing to consider the price being paid by the people they were waiting for.
McMullen died here. Jonesy could have died here.
Jonesy...
Her heart twittered, fluttered, threatened to start dancing the Watusi. Man of her dreams, her desires (gulp), her fantasies of a future happiness after this was all over. And when would that be, exactly? No answer. No clue.
Never, if Molly - Miss Perfect - had anything to say about it.
“Chrys-Samantha-mum!”
She spun, shocked out of her reverie, knowing who it was before she completed her turn:
Jonesy...
She’d have done a double-take, if she hadn’t already been surprised. A filter mask covered his mouth and nose, instead of the behemoth gas mask she wore, and his gorgeous hazel eyes hid behind sunglasses, thankfully sparing her the possibility of swooning. Instead of a uniform, he wore a Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned and flapping in the breeze, showing off his incredible six pack abs, and white board shorts over tennis shoes. The effect might have made her swoon anyway, if not for the supernova heat of embarrassment coursing through her veins.
Jeez, Sam, you’ve got it bad, she thought.
“Hey cupcake, how’s it going?” He said, smiling with his voice.
“Uh...” she sputtered. Smooth.
“Anything spectacular going on, or are you just enjoying the ambiance of the place?” He asked.
“Uh...”
He climbed the three steps from the Signal Bridge to the Flying Bridge and joined her at the rail. His proximity threatened to make her spontaneously combust.
Get it together, Sam, she cautioned her inner freakazoid. She really needed to stop babbling. The only saving grace was the fact the mask concealed her drool.
“Molly tells me you’re really doing well,” he said. “With the watches and stuff, you know.”
“Lot to learn,” she managed to squeak without sounding incoherent.
Molly...
“You’re smart enough,” he said, his hidden eyes giving her a once-over appraisal. “Love your bold fashion statement.”
She looked down at herself, saw the jeans and plain, green tee-shirt. There hadn’t been any uniforms in her size, and she hadn’t had either the time or the energy to do laundry, between the books her dad made her read and the watches and training sessions she’d been getting from just about everybody. These clothes were the last clean ones she possessed, and so the jeans were ragged, and the shirt had a dime-sized hole in it, just above her navel.
“You make the whole post-apocalyptic gas mask thing look good,” he added.
Now he’s just making fun of me. Her mortification was complete.
But still, here he was, standing next to her, and they were alone - albeit surrounded by the wreckage of human civilization. Beggars can’t be choosers.
“There you are!” A woman’s voice sounded behind them. She knew that voice, had been hearing it most of her life.
Molly...
Her cousin stood halfway up the ladder from the bridge, also wearing just a filter mask. Maybe they were both getting used to the awful stench, although Sam couldn’t imagine how that was possible. If not for the rubber and plexiglass, she’d be projectile vomiting, she just knew it - and wasn’t that an attractive look, guaranteed to catch the eye of any guy?
BARF. Kiss me, baby.
The woman - her nemesis, her competition for the heart of the man she loved, had always loved, would always love - climbed up the rest of the way onto the Signal Bridge and leaned on the lower rail. Samantha’s prickly heat of embarrassment and awkwardness, and swooning potential, turned slowly cold into anger.
“Hey, Sam,” her cousin said in a friendly voice.
Sheep in wolves’ clothing, she thought, maliciously.
Molly, who had stolen the heart of this man. Molly, who had snuck into his room in the middle of the night and coerced him with her body. Molly, who had always been there for her, waiting, silently, patiently, for the opportunity to stab her in the back.
She seemed to survey the outfit Jonesy wore, her own uncovered eyes not hiding the smile beneath her filter mask.
“New uniform regs I wasn’t aware of?” She asked.
“I quit, remember?”
Samantha snapped him a look of pure incredulity. Quit...? What...?
“No you didn’t,” Molly countered.
“I seem to recall saying those exact words,” he replied.
“Yeah,” Molly said. “But that was just for Peavey’s benefit. A bit overly dramatic, don’t you think?”
Peavey. That idiot. Samantha had seen the exchange on the Buoy Deck when Jonesy returned from his latest heroic exploit, rescuing the world once again. And the useless...she couldn’t bring herself to even think the foul language necessary to describe the fool and his incompetent handling of the Napalm offload. But that same moron immediately launched into a tirade Sam could hear even from her lofty position, probably a hundred feet away.
“No,” Jonesy disagreed. “I think it was an outstanding performance, worthy of the Golden Globe, the People’s Choice Award, and one of those MTV astronauts, at the very least.” He pantomimed holding up a statue. “I’d like to thank the Academy...”
“Very funny.”
“I thought so,” he agreed.
“Seriously, though, I’ve got a couple of the new guys cleaning your gear,” she said, ignoring the theatrics. “We’ll have to get you a new MOPP suit, though. That was pretty disgusting.”
“But I quit,” he protested.
“Shut up,” she replied. “You did not.”
Leave him alone, Samantha thought. Bad enough her cousin was manipulating the poor guy’s emotions. Now she was trying to get him killed. “You just want him to die, don’t you?” She snapped, with enough venom to surprise even herself.
The two of them gaped at her. Their expressions behind the filter masks were difficult to gauge, but her cousin’s eyes said it all. Samantha needs a straightjacket...
“Sam?” Molly said, the caution in her voice sounding like a foghorn. Warning! Dangerous lunatic teenager ahead!
Then Jonesy did the thing she wanted most and dreaded beyond all capacity for her overstretched emotions to take: he pulled her into a one-armed hug.
“Am I missing something?” He asked.
Molly gave a darting glance from Samantha to Jonesy. She stared at Sam a moment (probably trying to decide how best to rip my heart out again), their eyes meeting, holding, then darting away, and then she turned to Jonesy and said: “What you’re missing would fill a warehouse.” She looked at Sam again, apparently trying to smile with her eyes. “You and every other man on the planet.”
Jonesy raised one eyebrow, in that infinitely rakish way he had. “Is this an estrogen issue?”
