by Jeff Thomson
And these guys - these poor, crazy bastards - had been dealing with this all day, every day, while she was comfortable and happy in her ignorance onboard the Star. Of course they were nuts. She’d be completely ‘round the bend, as her father used to say.
“I thought we killed them all,” the man in the passenger seat - Chief Jones - commented, as if making polite conversation.
“Obviously not,” the big brute of a driver replied. “Ooh! There’s another one!” He exclaimed, jerking the steering wheel to the right. The centrifugal force slammed her into LCDR Sagona, who - in turn - slammed into the other kid - Greg-something.
She couldn’t look away, as the big truck smashed into a naked and emaciated woman, who went spinning off to the left, in a grotesque parody of a blood-splattered pirouette. Carrie shuddered. Swan Lake, this was not.
The Sassafras came into view, beyond a stand of trees. It looked so normal. It could have been any average day - a fine Coast Guard Day, as the joke went. But it wasn’t. Average had left the building, and normal had resigned in protest.
They pulled to a stop, adjacent to the Buoy Deck. One look at the heavily armed man standing at the head of the gangway said loud and clear that this was as far from normal as it could get.
122
The Wardroom
USCGC Sassafras
“It will not work,” Professor Floyd barked. “We cannot accommodate these people. We cannot treat these people. And most important of all, we cannot create enough vaccine to ensure these people don’t turn homicidal.”
Maybe not, Molly thought. But you might make me think long and hard about beginning a killing spree with a certain microbiologist.
The wardroom was crowded. LCDR Wheeler sat at the head of the table. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. It had been her seat, her responsibility, her ship, her crew. Now it was his. Uncertain whether to resent him or pity him, she chose instead to reserve judgement.
LT Amy Montrose sat at his side, with CWO2 Peavey slumped in the chair opposite. He still fumed about what he perceived as Jonesy’s insubordination. Molly thought her (what was he: shipmate, lover, friend...?) colleague had shown remarkable restraint. After all, the whining incompetent still had a working jaw.
Christopher Floyd sat beside him - and what a pair they make, she thought. A pair of assholes, that is.
The Aircraft Commanders, LCDR Sagona and LT Scoggins, sat next to Peavey, across from John, and the newly-arrived (and exhausted-looking) Jim Barber. Lane Keely and Glen Newby sat next to them, across from ET2 Scott Pruden (rescued from the Comm Center), Duke and Jonesy. Molly, herself, sat at the foot, her knee occasionally brushing Jonesy’s.
This was due to the extreme overcrowding, of course. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it, she thought, struggling to hold down the flush that seemed to want to invade her face.
Poor Sam, her brain added. The “talk” they’d had on the Flying Bridge had been heartbreaking, and uncomfortable, conflicted and empathetic, with the knowledge of their shared feelings at once drawing them together and pushing them apart. Their relationship, which had always been strong, and affectionate, and loving, had changed, possibly forever. The loss saddened her.
Now, however, was not the time to be thinking about it.
Two carafes filled with coffee, and two more filled with water sat on the table, alongside the laid out charts of the Hawaiian Islands and Honolulu Harbor. She topped off her two-thirds full cup with coffee, to giver her something to do with her hands and something to drag her thoughts away from her cousin and the damnable Mr. Socrates Jones.
A street map of the city lay directly in front of Wheeler, who seemed to be dealing with a struggle of his own. His, though, appeared to be directed at their resident Mad Scientist.
“I appreciate your insight, Professor,” he said slowly, his voice just this side of deadpan. No sarcasm there, she mused, sarcastically. “But the fact remains, we’re going to start rescue operations immediately.” He looked toward the pilots.
“We’re ready to go, sir,” Sagona said. Scoggins agreed with a thumbs-up.
“The Professor makes a valid point,” Peavey countered. “What are we going to do with them?”
Asshole! The word flashed to the forefront of Molly’s brain. Maybe it was unkind. Maybe it was unprofessional. Maybe. But she didn’t think so.
“The fact we can’t vaccinate them poses a serious security problem,” the whining bastard continued. “We’ve more or less secured the base,” he said, seemingly unaware of the ironic nature of those words coming out of his mouth.
We, my well-formed backside, she grumbled to herself. Jonesy had done it. Jonesy and Duke and Gus Perniola, and Frank Roessler. And Harold Simmons, who was still on bed rest. And Jeri Weaver. And Lane Keely.
And Dan McMullen.
A good man died clearing this base.
And that slimy fucktard had the gall to include himself on the list? I don’t think so.
She was about to voice this opinion - this fact - when Jonesy spoke up.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his eyes flicking toward hers for the briefest of moments, as if he sensed her own thoughts.
“Of course it matters,” Peavey snarled.
“No it doesn’t,” Jonesy replied, not looking at the man. His focus went, instead, to the head of the table, and LCDR Wheeler. “The professor might be right,” he said. “This might be impossible, but what difference does that make?” He shrugged. “Everything we’ve done since the day we bugged out of this place, has been utterly, completely, abso-fucking-lutely impossible from the word go.” His eyes drifted over the assembled brain trust. “But it hasn’t stopped us.”
“That’s because we’re crazy,” Duke said, sotto voice, as if he were trying to keep his comment between himself and Jonesy. Or, at least, that’s what Molly thought he was trying to do. If so, it didn’t work. Everyone heard it.
“Maybe,” Jonesy replied, nodding. “Probably,” he added. He shrugged again. “The fact remains.” He scratched at his unkept hair with both hands, as if he were trying to squeeze all the thoughts, all the sights, all the memories and horrors and nightmares of the past several weeks, into a suitably-sized ball that might fit inside his skull.
“You’ve done a remarkable job,” Wheeler agreed.
Jonesy waved away the compliment. “We’ve done our job,” he said. “The job we always do. The job we’ve always done.” He chuckled, almost to himself - though that was functionally impossible, given the crowded room. “I’ve said it before: we intentionally go where no one in their right mind has any business going. That’s the job.” He locked eyes with each person in turn, landing finally on Peavey. “And yeah, okay, we’re in a zombie apocalypse. So what?” Again with the shrug. “The job remains the same.” He gestured toward the row of three portholes and the nightmare beyond. “Those people need to be rescued. That’s our job. No matter what.”
“You have to go out, but you don’t have to come back,” Lane Keely said. His voice was soft - not quite a whisper - but everyone heard it.
“Bullshit!” Peavey snapped. Of course he did.
“Let’s not go there, if we can possibly avoid it,” Wheeler said.
“We cannot vaccinate those people,” Floyd reiterated his protest.
“Maybe not,” John said, speaking up for the first time. “But after all this time, if they were going to get Pomona, wouldn’t they have already gotten it?”
“That’s a valid argument,” Amy Montrose spoke up, pointing to Molly’s uncle.
Wheeler looked to Floyd. “Well, professor?”
The mad scientist scowled, and folded his arms across his chest, but he couldn’t escape the logical conclusion.
“Okay, fine,” he said finally. “But what about all the other diseases? Cancer and diabetes, and hepatitis, and who knows how many others?”
“And AIDS,” Peavey chimed in.
“What about them?” Molly asked.
Floyd glar
ed at her as if she were an idiot child.
“I’m serious,” she said. “This has been going on for how many weeks? How many months?”
Jonesy nodded, clearly catching the direction of her argument. “How long could their medications have lasted with no power? With nothing to keep them cool?”
“And nowhere to refill the prescriptions,” Molly added.
Jim Barber - ever the blunt force conversationalist - nodded. “Odds are those people are long since dead.” He spread his hands in a palms-up gesture, dismissing the professor’s objection. “Game, set, and match.” He rubbed at his washed-out face. The dark circles under his eyes looked like the rims of two black holes. “But as for the vaccine, and your argument about there not being enough equipment here on base,” he added, addressing Floyd. “There’s a hospital in Lihue, just down from the Walmart. Their resident doctor tells me the place has the Scanning Electron Microscope you need. And we should be able to retrieve it - with a little help.” His gaze turned to Jonesy, who visibly slumped, and gave out an audible groan.
“So much for my beauty sleep,” he said.
“You need it,” Duke said - again in an unsuccessful sotto voice.
“Bite me,” Jonesy coughed, to mild laughter.
Wheeler ignored the asides, and waved the idea away with a downward motion of his hand. “That’s for later,” he said. “For now...”
“Rescue Ops as before,” Jonesy said.
Floyd scowled, Peavey blustered, but neither raised any more arguments. Wheeler scanned the room one last time. He stood.
“Let’s go.”
123
Sassafras Bridge
Honolulu Harbor
“Are we ready for this?” Wheeler asked, pacing the Bridge. Amy Montrose could see he was keyed up, dialed in, and stressed out, and she didn’t blame him one little bit.
This latest operation was going to stretch multi-tasking well beyond the level of absurdity. They had crews in the RRB, and on the Assateague, to provide support, emergency response, and - if necessary - cover fire to the ground teams. There were three of those. The Medical Clinic, which - in spite of Professor Floyd’s objections to the contrary, would still need to be available for first aid and triage; the Comm Center, which at the moment was the only readily available source of electricity - which needed to change, if they were to have any hope of this apocalyptic cluster fuck working - and they would need OS2 Winkowski to resume her place, monitoring the radios and trying to make sense of everything going on, as well as informing the Polar Star, which would - of course - take over tactical command when they arrived, sometime in the morning; and finally, in the Mess Hall, for the obvious reason that they needed a place to put who knew how many survivors.
The helos, with the addition of Chief Jones to provide security with all those weapons he carried, would start with the buildings around the Aloha Tower, which was the closest point to the base. They had limited fuel, until the Star arrived, and so limited time in the air. They needed to maximize what they had.
Amy didn’t envy them, one bit. Theirs would be the hardest job, by far.
On the Bridge with herself and Mistuh Wheeluh (she really needed to start calling him Captain) were LTjg Molly Gordon - also pacing, also keyed up and stressed out, and Amy couldn’t blame her, either - and BM3/OPS Rees Erwin, who was there simply to act as an Indian amongst all the Chiefs. CWO2 Peavey (thank God) was down on the Buoy Deck, doing...whatever he was doing. Wheeler sent him there, she suspected, because he didn’t want the man on the Bridge, buzzing around like the annoying gnat they’d come to know and loathe.
Their job was to monitor, watch, wait, and listen in, as the rest of their band of misfits got on with the job of saving people’s lives. Anyone suggesting this made them utterly useless would probably not be accused of crazy talk. Maybe insubordination, since this was the command structure, after all, but not crazy talk.
Wheeler was the Captain, and so in charge of this three ring Circus from Hell. Molly Gordon was the Operations Officer, and, therefore, responsible for the operation, itself. Erwin was their gopher, and would no doubt be called upon to do any number of things. And Lieutenant Montrose...? Fifth wheel, thy name is Amy.
“Cutter Sassafras, Cutter Sassafras, this is Coast Guard 6585, Channel Two-One. Over.” LCDR Randy Sagona’s voice came over the radio, loud and clear.
Wheeler looked at her and smiled, then reached for the handset.
“Show time...” He said, then keyed the mic and announced: “All teams, commence operations.”
124
CG 6585
The Ball Field
“Roger, Sassafras. Launching at this time,” LCDR Randy Sagona said into the VHF radio.
Jonesy, in the rear compartment, with ASM1 Ronny Wallace, the Rescue Swimmer, and AT2 Fred Colson, the Flight Engineer, arranged the harness holding him into the seat, so the straps weren’t crushing all the crap in his other harness (9mm pistols, spare magazines, his Bowie knife - on the handle of which he’d carved the name David, just to be an asshole - and the twin kukri machetes strapped on either side of his assault pack, which carried even more spare magazines, as well as nylon line, four mag-lights, two water bottles, and a Halligan firefighting tool), as well the Thompson submachine gun (with still more spare mags) over his body armor, underneath which he wore his uniform and full MOPP Level 4 gear. All he needed was old-fashioned, lead-weighted , diving gear, complete with brass diving helmet, to turn him completely immobile.
Actually, it wasn’t that bad. Or, more to the point, he was used to it. He just wasn’t used to being strapped in while wearing it all. Thankfully, his twin forty-fives (with more mags) and dive knife were all attached to his legs, and thus, not encumbered. Whether or not he’d be able to stand (let alone walk) with all that shit remained to be seen.
Quit whining, he said to himself, as the HH65-D helicopter lifted off, and headed toward the skyline of Honolulu. It wasn’t his first helo ride.
The original HH65-A, developed in 1979 by the French company, Aerospatiale, and dubbed the Dauphin, was, from all accounts, an excellent aircraft. Unfortunately, when the Coast Guard, under the auspices of some governmental regulation, or another, requiring such-and-such a percentage of everything built for the military to be Made in America, placed a different engine, and/or different avionics, or whatever administrative dipshit-edness it was, and renamed it the Dolphin. The rank and file of the Coast Guard had a couple of other names for it. The first, was Tupperwolf - a bastardization of the title of an old TV show, called Airwolf, starring Jan Michael Vincent and Ernest Borgnine, because the things were made out of plastic - or so it seemed. The other name - and the one Jonesy preferred - was Whistling Shitcan, because of the noise of its engines and the fact that the helos would fall out of the sky if you looked at them too hard.
The HH65-B, finally launched in 2001, attempted to address the problems of the Alpha variant, and failed. The HH65-C (2004), did some stuff with the tail rotor and made it marginally better, although, at the same time, they added a weapons package to it, with an M240 machine gun, and a 12.7mm anti-materiel rifle (for blowing rudders off of drug boats trying to escape), which added weight, and made the thing fly like a concussed duck. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but in any event, in 2011, they upgraded it again into the bird in which Jonesy now flew. The HH65-D was in the process of, itself, being upgraded to the HH65-E, when the zombie apocalypse happened, and ended the governmental fumbling with what had originally been a damned nice aircraft.
All this rumination as to the relative merits of the helicopter was, in Jonesy’s estimation, so much tap dancing through the cemetary, because they were headed toward incontrovertible proof of the apocalypse, which he did not need. Not even a little bit. Really.
The plan for this joy ride was for them to find a suitable rooftop, preferably with survivors, then lower himself and ASM1 Wallace down on the hoist, where Wallace would then go about the task of getting those survivors off sa
id rooftop, while Jonesy provided some degree of insurance that the evolution wouldn’t be interrupted by a gang of pesky zombies. Lather, rinse, repeat. Several hundred times. The 6583, with LT Scoggins and their usual air crew would then lower their Rescue Swimmer onto the same roof, so they could concentrate the effort. Jonesy, and the two Swimmers were to remain in place, as the two helos flew back to the base to offload their rescued cargo.
It looked really good on paper, and sounded pretty good inside his head, but being in the middle of a city full of those pesky zombies, combined with the devastation wrought by the Pomona Virus, and everything that came after, and sprinkled with a hefty dose of Murphy’s Fucking Law...? Jonesy’s thoughts weren’t exactly filled with puppies and bunnies.
There were a wide variety of buildings to chose from - both with and without flat rooftops. Those without were problematic, at best. Hoisting was a dangerous proposition in the best of circumstances, but without a flat platform from which to work, it would be damned-right insane. Which didn’t mean they wouldn’t try it, anyway. Because of their limited fuel, however, they wouldn’t be trying any of that shit today. The people on those rooftops were going to have to wait for the arrival of the Polar Star and their fuel tanks.
“That looks like a likely candidate,” LTjg Jacob Vastic said, from the co-pilot’s seat, pointing toward one of several highrise buildings just inland from the Aloha Tower.
It was a glass and steel, multi-tiered, blue and white structure that dwarfed its neighbors. Groups of people stood waving on three of those tiers. Jonesy tried to get a count, but the sweeping approach being flown by Sagona made accuracy impossible. A shitload, was all he could safely say.
Question was, would they be able to get them all off today, or would they have to subject some of those poor bastards to the heartbreaking reality of having to wait until morning? Time would tell.
