The Last Town (Book 6): Surviving the Dead

by Knight, Stephen

  Sinclair reached into the cup holder in the divan’s armrest. He held up a crystal tumbler half-full with dark liquid. “I did, indeed.”

  Corbett turned the flat-screen monitor toward him. “I’d drink up, if I were you.”

  Sinclair’s eyes bugged when he saw the image, then pointed Norton’s camera at it. “Good Lord,” he said. He then ruined the shot by taking a large hit of cognac. Corbett tried to smile, but failed. He looked out the window again, watching the runway trundle past as the Gulfstream accelerated. In a few moments, it was flashing by as the big jet went faster and faster. Stenches closed in from the sides, and the plane’s wide, upswept wings were actually passing over them as the jet hurtled down the runway. Then the nose rose, and Corbett was pressed against his seat belt and shoulder harness as the jet roared into the sky at an unusual angle. Over the bellow of the engines, he heard startled gasps from the rest of the passengers. A child began to cry. There was a muted thump as the landing gear retracted, then some whines as the gearwell doors slammed closed. The climb angle lessened somewhat, and Corbett leaned forward. His seat was well aft of the wings, and he watched as the big flaps retracted setting by setting. With each evolution, the airplane settled slightly, which caused a small tremor of fear to run through the passengers. Corbett knew it was a normal effect, so he leaned back in his luxurious seat and turned the monitor toward him again. Paging through the displays, he called up the flight map. The Gulfstream was passing through three hundred knots airspeed and climbing out through eight thousand feet. The destination was Oxnard Airport, which wasn’t quite right, of course, but the navigation system could hardly be programmed to fly to a direct point over the Pacific. Just the same, the flight would last less than thirty minutes when the G650 made it to its max power cruise of almost six hundred fifteen miles per hour. Corbett watched the rising mountainous landscape slide past beneath the climbing jet. As much as the earth below might try, it would never be able to pluck the Gulfstream from the sky. Already, the airplane was flying higher than the peak of Mount Whitney. Single Tree, or whatever was left of it, fell farther and farther behind with each passing second.

  Victor …

  Corbett felt his eyes burn anew. He wiped them again, then slowly looked over at Suzy. She sat on the divan, face stoic as tears rolled down her cheeks. Crying in silence. Hailey touched her leg, letting her know he was there. Corbett was glad he was, and he hoped they would last for the rest of their lives.

  He picked up the satellite phone in the armrest beside him and dialed a number on its keypad. It was time to update Lennon.

  OFF THE COAST OF CALIFORNIA

  Norton watched while Lennon stepped into the galley and took the call on the satellite phone. He had the Argosy back on its anchors again, and the big yacht slowly rolled in the sea swells despite the dampening provided by the Naiad stabilizers. The Port Police dive boat was still out there as well, sitting several hundred yards away on its own hook. Several men in uniform were on its decks, watching the Argosy through binoculars. Norton wondered why they were so damned interested in his yacht, but at least they had stopped trying to communicate over the radio.

  To keep himself busy, Norton checked the yacht’s systems. Everything was perfect, and their fuel state was good. To ensure he retained as much fuel as possible, he only ran one generator, and that was mostly just to keep the batteries charged. The water maker had already shut off, as the boat’s holding tank was full. He realized he could use a shower, as the stress of the day had effectively wiped out whatever odor protection his deodorant had provided earlier in the day. He also wanted a cigarette, but there were none aboard the yacht.

  But wait a minute … He opened the chart drawers to the left of the helm station and rummaged through some of the old paper NOAA charts he had there. In the bottom of the second drawer, he found what he was looking for: a box of Logic e-cigarettes. A month past their expiration date and not likely to taste very good, he nevertheless tore one open. The battery of the first one he tried was dead, so he tossed it back into the drawer and opened a second package. The LED in the battery’s tip glowed blue when he pulled on it, and a flood of nicotine-laced water vapor flowed into his mouth and lungs. It didn’t taste half bad. Norton exhaled with a long sigh.

  “What the hell is that?” Lennon asked, walking back to the pilothouse. “I thought you Hollywood types only smoke Cuban cigars that get smuggled into the country.”

  “Never really cared for them,” Norton said. “So what’s the poop?”

  “Jet’s on its way. Should be here in about twenty-five minutes or so. About thirty souls on board.” Lennon sighed and looked at the rolling Pacific. “We’re going to have to move fast to get those people out of the water. Can’t count on the jet not breaking up, so we’re going to have to get to the crash site as quickly as we can.”

  “Did everyone make it aboard?” Norton asked.

  Lennon nodded. “Everyone who could. Don’t worry, Norton. Your people are all there. The old man has eyes on your parents and the girl.”

  Norton nodded and took another hit off the Logic. At least that part was done. He turned back to Lennon. “What about your people?”

  “My family is accounted for,” Lennon said. “We should come off anchor in about fifteen minutes or so, and get the tender back in the water.”

  Norton pointed at the dive boat, slowly rolling between three- to five-foot swells. “We could ask those guys for a hand.”

  Lennon considered that for a moment. “Think they would?”

  “They’re cops. They might want what we have, but I don’t think they’re going to just stand around and watch a jet crash and sink without trying to help out.”

  Lennon rubbed his chin with one hand. “Okay,” he said after a time. “Call them and explain things to them,” he said as he stepped toward the gangway that led below decks.

  “Where you going?” Norton asked.

  Lennon turned back and gave him a frosty glare. “I’m not about to try and save my family and boss while wearing a polo shirt and board shorts.”

  Norton chuckled and picked up the radio handset. “Dive Boat One, this is Argosy on sixteen. Over.”

  “So Argosy, you say a Gulfstream jet is going to ditch in this area. Is that correct? Over,” Bay said into his radio. Reese and some of the other cops had listened to the last transmission from the Pacific Mariner yacht several hundred yards away, and it was a humdinger. Reese didn’t know what to make of it, other than to think it was a bunch of old, rich, white guys trying to mount some half-assed rescue operation. How they’d roped in a bunch of Marines was a question he didn’t have the answer for, so he could only suppose whomever was on the jet was some sort of über-VIP.

  “Dive Boat, that is correct. We anticipate the jet to arrive in about two-five minutes. We’re still coordinating how it’s going to play out, but the jet should be in the drink shortly thereafter, presuming they don’t need to dump fuel to lower the landing weight. Over.”

  “Roger, Argosy. So you want us to pitch in and help out, is that it? Over,” Bay said.

  “Dive Boat, that’s your call. We could probably use the help, but if not, you might want to clear the area. No telling where the jet will wind up once it hits the waves, and if you’re not interested in giving a hand, you probably don’t want to become a potential target. Over.”

  Bay looked around the bridge of the dive boat. “Anyone believe this?”

  “Too stupid not to be true,” Plosser said, leaning against the pilothouse’s aft bulkhead. “I mean, it’s going to be pretty easy to verify if a jet doesn’t drop out of the sky. Then and again, I wonder why we’re giving a fuck?”

  Bay looked at the taller man. “We’re still cops,” he said.

  Bates rolled his eyes. “Dude. Seriously?”

  Bay looked at him and frowned. “We’re still cops, Bates.”

  Plosser pointed to the south, where a plume of smoke still rose into the air from the general vicinity of th
e Port of Los Angeles. “Yeah, and your beat is about nine miles that way.”

  “Look, let’s help out,” Reese said. “We’re here, and we’ve wasted a couple of hours already. No one’s going ashore today, and we can recon later. If the guys on that boat are really prepping for a recovery mission, we can lend a hand. Right?”

  Plosser spread his hands. “Hey, whatever you guys want to do. Just trying to get the lay of the land.”

  Bates stirred from his position on the opposite side the bridge with a weary sigh. “Okay, Connor. Let’s just do it,” he said. “Whoever’s going to be crashing a jet into the drink at this stage in the game has got to be some sort of high-level VIP. I’m thinking government. Someone we might regret not assisting later.”

  “How so?”

  Bates shrugged. “Might be someone with resources. Or someone with a line to someone else who does have resources. And if it’s government, then we definitely need to be on hand.” He nodded toward the big yacht. “If those guys really are jarheads, then something big is up.”

  Bay rubbed his whiskered chin. “Yeah, maybe,” he said, his tone definitely unenthusiastic. He watched the big yacht slowly rolling in the sea. One of the uniformed Marines still stood on the vessel’s aft deck, SAW in hand, while another stood aft of the fly bridge’s overhang. That one had a grenade launcher on his rifle, and he maintained a loose firing stance. Reese had been told by Plosser that the dive boat was still well within the grenade launcher’s effective range.

  Bay brought the radio handset to his mouth. “Argosy, we’ll pitch in. Where do you want us? Over.”

  As the Gulfstream G650 began its initial descent, the remaining members of Corbett’s security team walked the cabin. They opened footrests and removed life vests and pulled the lifeboats from beneath the two divans on the aircraft. Everyone was advised that their seat cushions were suitable for flotation, and that the overwing exits should be the primary means of egress. The main cabin door would only be opened if the plane’s occupants could get clear fast enough.

  Corbett pulled his own life vest out of his seat’s footrest and handed it to Suzy. “Put this on, please. When you’re outside of the aircraft, inflate it by pulling that T tab, there.” He pointed to one of two red tabs dangling from the bottom of the vest.

  “What about you?” Suzy asked. Her voice was flat, but her eyes were dry. She was already over crying for her uncle. Corbett wondered if she hated him.

  “I don’t need it,” he said simply. He looked over as Sinclair ejected the memory card from Norton’s camera. He pulled a plastic baggy from his vest and slipped it inside. “Not going to record the big event, Jock?”

  Sinclair shook his head. “I doubt I’ll have time, and in case I don’t make it, I want the evidence preserved.”

  “Evidence of my transgressions against all humankind?” Corbett asked, even though he no longer gave a damn.

  Sinclair seemed to think about that for a long moment. “You have done some questionable things, Barry. But this might be a set of circumstances where the ends justify the means. I’ll have to let others make that determination.” He paused for a moment. “But personally, thank you for everything you’ve done. From both of us,” he added, looking significantly at Meredith.

  She nodded. “Yes. Jock’s right. You’ve done more than your fair share of saving lives, Mister Corbett.”

  Corbett leaned back in his seat and shook his head. He heard the security team advising everyone with swivel seats to turn them so they were facing the rear of the plane. Children were transferred from forward-facing seats to those that faced the tail. Corbett looked out the window beside him. The Pacific was coming into view, cold and steel gray. To the south, the great metropolis of Los Angeles was revealed beneath a haze of smoke from fires which still burned. The air looked thick and heavy and full of death. It was probably more lethal now than it had been in the sixties, when pollution was at an all-time high. As he watched the hillsides surrounding the San Fernando Valley roll past, a stream of vapor shot out the rear of the wing. The pilots were dumping fuel.

  Any time, now.

  “Sir?”

  Corbett looked up. One of the security men stood at the partition that separated the VIP area from the main cabin.

  “What is it, Stillson?”

  “We’re about five minutes out. We’re in contact with Mister Norton over the VHF, and we’re headed toward his GPS coordinates.” The guard looked down at Corbett and frowned. “You need a life preserver, sir.”

  “I’ll be fine. Is the cabin secure? Everyone briefed on escape procedures? Who’s going to pop the exits?”

  “Myself and Holgan, sir. You really need to get a life preserver, Mister Corbett.”

  “Get lost, Stillson. I’m not putting one on, and that’s that. I know how to swim, and the rafts are in position.”

  “Sir—”

  “That’s enough!” Corbett shouted. “Get the hell away from me! I’ve done what I can! Look after these other people, and leave me alone!”

  The guard clenched his teeth. “I’ll be right here, sir,” he said after a long moment.

  Corbett turned and looked out the window, ignoring everything and everyone, a prisoner of his own thoughts and crushing regret.

  Norton kept the Argosy in one place as well as he could. They’d been able to establish contact with the jet over the VHF radio and had looping with the dive boat as well. The plane still had to offload fuel in an attempt to make the ditching more survivable, but Norton had his doubts that would do much good. It was getting later in the day, and the sea state was starting to destabilize a bit. While it had been pretty smooth sailing for the majority of the day, the barometer was falling and the winds were picking up. The swells, which had been perhaps five feet in height before, were inching more toward seven feet with twelve seconds between each rise. The winds were still relatively light at around fifteen knots, but they would likely increase with the barometric pressure. Winds as high as thirty-five to forty knots wouldn’t mean much for the Gulfstream, but that was in flight. When trying to land in a deteriorating sea, the winds could make all the difference.

  “So if you had to ditch, how would you do it?” Lennon asked, almost conversationally as the Argosy’s bow cleaved through a seven-foot swell.

  Norton had been wondering that himself. “I’d look for a decent swell and either try to land on it, or right behind it. That would mean a crosswind landing though, and that’s going to be kind of tough. Remember, airplanes are designed to land on runways, not water.”

  Lennon said nothing, just looked out the windows at the ocean. The tender was already in the water and was tied up behind the larger vessel. The dive boat had its rubber-hulled inflatables in the water as well. Everyone was ready to go.

  Norton transferred the controls to the flybridge station. “Let’s do this from the topside. Visibility is better up there.”

  “Understood.” Lennon followed him to the gangway, and Norton sprinted up the steps. He pushed open the flybridge door and hurried to the helm station and grabbed ahold of the big stainless steel destroyer wheel. He’d left the engines in idle, and the boat had already started to drift. He advanced the throttles a bit, giving the yacht enough thrust to push through the next swell.

  Thunder roared, and he looked up in time to see Corbett’s silver Gulfstream G650 rumble past at about one thousand feet. Even though it was more than a mile out, it was still trailing fuel vapor. Its flaps were up, and he made the airspeed to be in the vicinity of two hundred knots. The plane was just shy of being exactly one hundred feet long, so at that speed it seemed to be flying ridiculously slow. That it wouldn’t be slowing down much more for the ditch was unsettling. Norton clenched his teeth. His throat felt dry, and his hands were suddenly slick on the stainless steel wheel. Lennon stood beside him and watched the jet fly past. Neither man said anything.

  “Hey, those guys weren’t kidding,” Reese said, watching the big airplane lazily rumble past. He and
the others stood on the dive boat’s short bow, clutching the railing as the catamaran rose and fell with the sea.

  “What the hell is it doing?” Renee asked, shielding her eyes from the late afternoon sun. “It looks like it’s leaving a trail of something.”

  “Probably toilet water,” Plosser said.

  “It’s fuel,” Bates told them. “They’re offloading fuel so the jet isn’t so heavy when it hits the drink.”

  “Can it float?” Reese asked.

  Bates shrugged. “Only if it doesn’t break apart. If it does, we’ll probably just wind up fishing out bodies.”

  Reese snorted. “Or zombies.”

  Corbett looked out the window and saw the boats. He had already been informed that another vessel had joined the recovery mission, a boat from one of the Los Angeles police agencies. That was fine by him. The more the merrier, and the truth of the matter was, the people on the jet would need all the help they could get. The Gulfstream banked into a turn and made another pass by the waiting vessels. Then another, and another, still venting fuel into the air.

  After almost ten minutes of circling, the vapor trails disappeared as the pilots closed the fuel dump valves.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain. We’re ready to put it down. At this time, you need to get into your brace positions and stay there. I’ll let you know when we’re about to touch the water. Those without seats, try and brace yourselves as well as you can, with your backs pressed against any bulkheads. Stow everything that’s loose and could fly. Parents, keep a firm hold on your children and ensure they’re all facing the rear of the aircraft.”

  A titter of fear ran through the cabin. Corbett felt it, too. Not because he was afraid to die, but because so many of the people on the jet were unlikely to make it.

  The jet turned once again, and then the engines lowered into idle. The Gulfstream began to sink.