The RHIB engine started with a fine-tuned purr. Duke pulled the line off the bollard, waved to Jonesy, and eased the inflatable boat into the bay, heading to the Sass.
One down, Jonesy thought, casting an eye toward the wharf, and the sound of gunfire.
87
Seaplane Wallbanger
15.011457N 176.315874W
The USCGC Polar Star appeared over the horizon, floating like a four-hundred foot long, eighty-three foot wide, red, grey and white football. It was, Jim thought, one of the greatest sights he’d ever seen.
“Tell me you’re not planning to land!” Clarence Duprovnik gasped, through the doorway between the forward compartment and the cockpit, ruining Jim’s moment.
“We’re not planning to land,” Harvey lied. “Now do shut up and sit down, please,” he added in a calm and pleasant voice. “Or I’ll have Mister Barber toss you out of the hatch.” He smiled at Jim, then glanced over his shoulder at his nemesis from Johnston Atoll. He winked, and Clarence seemed about to reach in and throttle their one and only pilot.
“Happily,” Jim said, grabbing the clutching arm. “Sit down,” he added, not sounding the least bit pleasant. Clarence returned to the compartment.
“Well done, sir,” Harvey said.
“One of these days, you’re going to have to tell me what you did to make him hate you so much,” Jim said. “On second thought,” he reconsidered. “I just remembered I don’t care.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Harvey said, beginning the descent toward the icebreaker. “You care deeply, but you hide your feelings.” The Englishman didn’t look at him, but he might as well have. His words sounded like an imitation of Jim’s wife - except for the masculine British accent. “You really shouldn’t you know. Might drive you insane.” He did look at Jim, then. “Like me.”
“Shut up and fly the fucking plane.”
They touched down with a slap and that odd, hollow sound Jim was all-too quickly becoming used to - kind of like the noise an aluminum row boat with an outboard makes if you run it too fast and start wave hopping. The ocean itself was smooth - not quite glass, but pretty close - with not much wind. This was a good thing as they were approaching on the leeward, or downwind side of the Polar Star. Ships like icebreakers, and buoy tenders, were constructed with round, rather than pointed bottoms, which made them roll in any kind of beam or broadside wind or sea. If the ship rolled into the Wallbanger, they wouldn’t need a burial ceremony.
Even with the almost non-existent wind, however, Harvey stood well off from the ship. This was by design and of necessity.
“Seaplane Wallbanger, this is United States Coast Guard Cutter Polar Star, Channel Sixteen. Over.”
“As if it might be someone else?” Harvey joked, zeroing the throttle, but leaving the engine running.
Jim picked up the VHF radio. “Polar Star, this is Wallbanger,” he said, craning his neck to see the high Bridge through the co-pilot’s window. “We need to go to visual signalling. Over.” He reached beneath the seat and withdrew the two red and yellow semaphore flags. He flipped open the overhead hatch and lurched to a standing position. All those hours in the air, and his legs had gotten stiff.
He gave one last glance at Harvey, “Hope I still remember how to do this shit,” he said, and climbed up and out of the airplane. He heard and ignored their radioed plea for explanation. It would have defeated the purpose to have to spell it out - verbally, at any rate. Physically, spelling it out was exactly what he’d be doing.
Semaphore (now called flag semaphore, because apparently there’s also a computer geek term using the name) was developed in the Nineteenth Century to facilitate communication between ships or groups of people close enough to see, but far enough to make talking or shouting impractical. Using the flags, attached to sticks, a person could spell out words, using hand positions, to whit: A or Alpha puts the right hand at forty-five degrees and up, Bravo, at ninety degrees, Charlie at forty-five and down, Delta with the left hand straight up, then Echo, Foxtrot and Golf on the left side. Then it got tricky, since the person needed to use two hands to form the rest of the letters. This had Jim hoping he wouldn’t somehow be passing Bob-Bob’s recipe for Beef Stroganoff, rather than conveying the message they’d flown over several hundred miles of open ocean to convey.
He took a deep, steadying breath, and began.
88
USCGC Polar Star
15.011457N 176.315874W
“If you can’t do this, I’m going to pull your qual,” Master Chief Wolf growled into BM3/OPS Greg Reilly’s ear as they stood on the Signal Bridge.
Like the Sassafras, the Signal Bridge on the Star was half-a-deck above the Bridge, and half-a-deck below the Flying Bridge, where it effectively served as the roof of the Chartroom. Unlike the Sass, the Signal and Flying Bridges on Polar Star were really, really big. Couldn’t exactly play football on them, but at eighty-three feet wide, there was more than enough room to accommodate the crowd of people who joined them to watch the festivities, as it were. Amy Montrose stood among them, not quite, but almost holding her breath in anticipation of this latest development in the odd adventure of a zombie apocalypse.
A large, bearded man, clad in civilian clothes, stood upon the wings of the seaplane, holding two semaphore flags. He was waiting, she knew, for Greg Reilly to signal with his flags the readiness to receive. But first things first.
“Wallbanger, this is Polar Star,” CWO4 Vincenzo said into the commco. “We need to confirm the identity of the man standing on your wings.”
The other man - the Englishman - claimed the wingwalker was a retired Coastie, but saying so and being so were two different things. Yes, this was a zombie apocalypse, and so yes, the normal rules could be stretched to fit the circumstances, but they were still a US Military Vessel, in spite of all the other service’s hackneyed jokes about puddle pirates and such, and so certain protocols needed to be followed - or so Captain Hall said, and he was the Captain, so the rules would be followed.
The Brit’s voice came up on the radio. “He is retired Senior Chief Boatswain’s Mate James Barber.”
“Barber?” Vincenzo said, squinting into the early morning light. “Sorta looks like him. But I can’t really tell with that beard.” He said to the Captain, then into the commco: “If that’s Barber, ask him what happened in New Orleans.”
Amy watched as the Englishman stuck his head through the plane’s upper hatch, spoke a few words to the man on the wings, then popped back inside. “He said, and I quote: If that’s Bobby V up there, tell him that if he makes me talk about New Orleans, I’ll make him talk abut Thule, Greenland. End quote.”
The Warrant Bosun laughed, nodding. “That’s Barber, alright,” he said.
“Let’s see what he has to say.” Captain Hall addressed both the Master Chief, and the young navigator-turned signalman.
Reilly unfurled the semaphore flags.
“Don’t fuck up,” Wolf said.
The young man took a breath and gave the two-handed signal for Kilo - Invitation to Transmit.
“CAUTION - PERIOD,” he called out, translating the signals as he read. “UNFRIENDLY - EARS, - LISTENING - PERIOD. RECOMMEND - YOU - PROCEED - TO - MIDWAY - PERIOD. WE - HAVE...” his voice trailed off. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed.
“What, God dammit?” Wolf yelled in his best Master Chief voice.
Reilly looked at all of them, his eyes stopping when they got to the Captain. He smiled. “They have vaccine.”
89
Medical Clinic
Midway Atoll
“Don’t touch anything!” Christopher Floyd snapped, as Clara Blondelle strolled around their laboratory. The woman would have hissed like a cat, and looked as if she might, but then seemed to realize how absurd and...suspicious...it might be.
Stephanie Barber didn’t share her mother’s distrust and distaste for the woman. She didn’t like her, exactly, because women like her gave all women a bad reputation, but that was abs
urd. Okay, Clara was a slut. Not quite Stephanie’s way of seeing the world, but understandable, by a matter of degrees.
The term slut - though a pejorative - essentially meant the girl liked sex. Liking sex was natural. Stephanie liked sex - quite a lot, thank you very much - but she didn’t consider herself to be within the accepted definition. She could be slutty, if she wanted, and had been on more than one occasion. In the right crowd, her current ensemble of cutoff shorts and a halter top would be verging on trailer trashiness, but it didn’t make her a slut. If Clara Blondelle fell under that category, it was because of the way she used sex to get what she wanted, but even that was something of which any woman with brains could be found guilty.
Men had all the advantages in society, and it had always been thus. The one tool - the one power - women possessed was that they had what all (or most) men wanted. The question was where to draw the line - on both sides. If a man pushed beyond the line, he’d be guilty of harassment, or assault, or rape. If a woman did it, she would be labeled with the proverbial scarlet letter, and looked down upon in derision and disgust by just about everyone.
So Stephanie understood it. But in the end, there was no getting around reality. Clara Blondelle really was a slut.
“Just thought I’d like to help,” the woman said, sounding a bit like Mae West. Is that a test tube in your pocket?
“I thought Teddy was teaching you to sail,” Stephanie said.
“He was,” Clara replied. “But John left him with a list of things to do, and helping me wasn’t getting it done,” she explained. “So I came over here to offer my services.”
What services might those be? Stephanie mused, then mentally chided herself for such cattiness.
“And what, pray tell, do you think you can do?” Floyd asked, his voice dripping with skepticism.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, running her finger along one of the stainless steel tables. “I could do inventory, or something.”
Why does that make me suspicious? Stephanie thought, as a tiny alarm bell began it’s warning cry inside her head.
90
USCGC Polar Star
15.011457N 176.315874W
“You seem in better spirits,” a female voice asked behind Lydia. She didn’t jump, exactly, but it was a near thing.
Turning, she saw Titsy McGangbang - sorry, Tara McBride - smiling at her. The woman leaned in, her breast obvious, as it squashed itself against Lydia’s shoulder. “Been clicking your mouse?”
“What?” Lydia asked, moving away to one side. Most of the crew were gathered on the flight deck to see the seaplane. Word of vaccine had spread like a viral Youtube video. Everybody wanted to see the people who brought such great news. For that matter, everybody wanted to see Youtube videos again, and memes and even nasty comments from the scourge of online humanity called Trolls, but wanting it wasn’t going to make it happen. The seaplane, on the other hand...
Tara smiled and flicked the first two fingers of her hand. She winked. “Been having some personal time?”
The blood rushed to her head - and...other...body parts - as she remembered the girl’s suggestion about how to improve her morale. Give yourself a really good orgasm. Then get on with it.
Her mind backpedaled away from the idea, as her body did the same, separating herself from Tara. “That’s none of your business,” she said, feeling lame even as she did so.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” the girl grinned at her, then promptly changed the subject. “Do you think it’s true?”
“What?” Lydia blurted, her brain suffering whiplash at the rapid turn in the conversation.
Tara nodded toward the seaplane. “Do you think they really have vaccine?”
“I...don’t know,” she answered. This was true. She had no idea. Nobody did, when it came right down to it. But if it is true... The ship began to move away from the seaplane.
“Looks like the Captain believes it,” Tara observed. “Looks like we’re getting underway.” Tara turned to her. “Where are we going? Do you know?”
Being in the Ship’s Office all day, and thus where the Executive Officer - the ship’s number two man - was all day, had its advantages. No other place on board, with the possible exception of the Bridge (or the Wardroom - the Wardroom mess cook always got the inside scoop) had closer access to command decision-making, and thus a direct pipeline to the real plan - that elusive information so many in the crew claimed to know, but so few actually did. Lydia was one of those few.
“Midway,” she said.
91
Seaplane Wallbanger
Midway Atoll
“So why is Midway going to be any better than Johnston?” Clarence Duprovnik demanded. Jim was beginning to see why Harvey didn’t like the bastard. As to the other side of it - or the reason for the feud - he still hadn’t a clue, but his give a shit level kept going down, down, down, with every bit of whining from their new refugee.
“We have five star accomidations, a world famous chef, hot and cold running hookers, and it’s where we’re going, so shut your bloody gob and sit down,” Harvey replied in his typical cheery manner.
Jim looked at him. He nodded. “Well put.” If I’m not careful, he thought, I might start liking this guy. The plane bounced as they hit the water, right square in the middle of the Entrance Channel. “Nicely done,” he said.
“Thank you,” Harvey said. “I do try.”
They heard a shout from the compartment behind them. It seemed Mr. Duprovnik hadn’t gotten to his seat before landing. He sat, instead, upon the hard aluminum deck.
:”Oh dear,” Harvey commented, not sounding the least bit contrite. “I don’t believe he’ll want to fly with us again.”
“I’m all broken up about it,” Jim said.
“As you should be.”
A large, uncontrollable yawn escaped him. They’d been putting in an awful lot of air time, that was for sure. It was going to be nice to hit the rack.
“Wallbanger, this is True North,” a woman’s voice came through the radio. Sounded like Marcie Gordon. He picked up the VHF microphone.
“Go, True North.”
“John called, said he would like you to offload the refugees, then fuel and head on up to Kauai.” Jim’s heart - and his dream of some solid rack time - sank like the Titanic. “Seems the good doctor needs more...specimens.”
92
USS Paul Hamilton
12.493106N 165.521408E
One nine November Echo six three two seven Charlie Golf nine-nine-five Delta Uniform Tango six STAR, STAR one-one-three EXECUTE. The number/letter combination swirled around in his head, but he didn’t know why. Odd...
Lieutenant Commander Lawrence David Woodruff had lost his mind. He was sure he’d left it somewhere, but he couldn’t - for the life of him - remember where. He’d gone looking for it...he didn’t know how long ago it was, but he remembered...what?
There was a lot of noise. Yes. Lots of popping and banging and screaming. Yes. There was screaming. He remembered that, for sure. Why? Why would anybody be screaming?
People screamed for fun, but this wasn’t enjoyable. No, not at all. Not one bit. No, sir.
Sir? Why did that ring a bell? Ding!
People screamed at prize fights. Had there been one? Didn’t seem likely.
He looked around at his surroundings. Couldn’t see anything. Too dark. Somebody forgot to pay the light bill. He laughed. He found this extraordinarily funny. Something wasn’t quite right, though. A sound. He heard...humming. Not the keep-a-song-in-your-heart type of humming, but the electrical kind. The kind you heard when you were standing next to the refrigerator, or when you were on...a ship?
Was that where he was?
I, Lawrence David Woodruff, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic.
Where had that come from?
Something else popped into his head. POP! Anchors Aw
eigh! What was that all about? Sounded like...The Navy? Was he in the Navy?
His stomach grumbled. It had been doing that a lot, lately. Well, then, if he was in the Navy, then someone needed to talk to the cooks. The service could definitely use improvement. Such sub-standard performance might be acceptable for the enlisted people, but not for an...Officer?
Aye, aye, sir!
He was an officer! Yes. He knew he was. And he had something important to do, something vital. But what was it?
Did it have anything to do with one nine November Echo six three two seven Charlie Golf nine-nine-five Delta Uniform Tango six STAR, STAR one-one-three EXECUTE? Was that why it kept dancing around his head? Because it was important?
But why? One nine November Echo six three two seven... What the Hell was it? It sounded like...a code? Yes. A code. But for what?
Well, lots of things had codes. ATM machines had them. His was... Couldn’t remember. Couldn’t insert any more numbers into his head. Might mix up one nine November Echo six three two seven Charlie Golf nine-nine-five Delta Uniform Tango six STAR, STAR one-one-three EXECUTE, and that would be bad.
But why would that be bad?
Because the code was vital.
Why?
BOOM
He tilted his head toward the sound, like a dog might. He used to have a dog, he thought. A Golden Retriever named one nine November Echo six three two seven Charlie Golf nine-nine-five Delta Uniform Tango six STAR, STAR one-one-three EXECUTE.
No. Wait. Couldn’t be. Who’d name a dog that? A crazy person.
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM,,,
Gunfire...
The word popped int his head, and he knew, for one, brief second, that he was correct, and that it was significant - vital.
Why?
Because he had sworn to defend against all enemies, foreign and domestic. And because one nine November Echo six three two seven Charlie Golf nine-nine-five Delta Uniform Tango six STAR, STAR one-one-three EXECUTE, was the nuclear launch code.
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 2): Zombies In Paradise Page 21
