The Demon Plagues

by David VanDyke

  “Dear God, is he worried about more strikes?”

  “More than normal? I’m not sure, but I think he’s concerned about nukes again.”

  Elise rubbed her eyes. “Damnit. You don’t know how lucky you are to be with Larry every day.”

  “Oh sweetie, yes I do. Why don’t you pack up the kids and come on up here? Yours and ours can keep each other company, and if you’re at a slowdown, I guess I am too.”

  “Liar. You have a dozen irons in the fire besides the bio program.”

  “Yes, and nothing going right. We have to somehow eliminate the threat of these strikes on our facilities. Doesn’t do any good for research when the staff is worried they could be vaporized on ten minutes notice.”

  Elise shook her head. “Thank Cass and her intel network we get that much warning. You’re right, you’re so right. Okay, I accept. We all need a break, and if I can’t go visit DJ, I might as well come see you…that didn’t come out right.”

  Shawna laughed, booming. “It’s all right, I get it. Let me know when you’re on the road. I’ll have the guest room made up; the kids can bunk together."

  -4-

  Aboard the mini-sub, Kelley’s face had taken on a sickly sheen in the glowstick’s light; funny that the Eden Plague didn’t seem to cure seasickness. Some people got it, and some just didn’t.

  “Oh, please don’t puke, MG,” pleaded Gunnery Sergeant Jill ‘Reaper’ Repeth. “It stinks bad enough in here already. The air scrubber system can’t handle it, and neither can I. You want to set up a Stand By Me chain reaction? Doc, we got any compazine?”

  Doc opened up his medbag, dialed the pressurized injector for a medium dose, handed it to Kelley, then pulled another one out. “Here, and some diazepam to take the edge off.”

  Kelley shot himself up, then leaned over with a groan and pillowed his head on Major Muzik’s massive thigh. The major rolled his eyes, ignoring the amused looks. If you couldn’t take some invasion of personal space on this mission, you were in the wrong place.

  Repeth smiled at Muzik’s discomfiture, then looked around at the team, checking them off in her mind.

  Colonel ‘Spooky’ Nguyen, commanding: a legend in the special ops community even before the Eden Plague rejuvenated him. In the field, you had better be looking right at him or he’d fade from your vision. She’d heard his English used to be bad, but there was no trace of that anymore. He sounded like a Brit now. Claimed the Eden Plague had cleared his brain.

  Major Roger ‘Rock’ Muzik: deputy lead, deadly with or without any weapon. Big, perfectly muscled, an Adonis in the shower. She’d looked. While Jill knew she was as dangerous with her hands as any other FreeCom trooper, Muzik made her – and everyone else – look like a flailing child in the dojo. Everyone but the Colonel, anyway. They all loved to watch those two go at it.

  Master Chief Petty Officer Owen ‘Doc’ Fitzhugh, Master Corpsman. Pale skin, black hair, eerie green eyes, what they called ‘black Irish’ descended from transplanted Iberian stock. Even with the Plague, it was always good to have a skilled medic along. He was also gifted with machinery and electronics, a true tinkering polymath.

  Chief Petty Officer Michael ‘Machinegun’ Kelley: incongruously caf￩-au-lait Creole mix. UD, underwater demolition, which combined with his studies this last year meant he knew how to take apart and put together just about any system on the submarine, as well as use scuba and welding gear.

  Petty Officer First Class Sean ‘Bitzer’ Bonnagh, ruddy and ginger. Bubblehead, formerly of the Royal Navy. If the mission didn’t crash and burn first, his task would be vital - driving the boat. She hoped he’d studied the Ohio class subs well enough to transfer his knowledge from the UK’s Vanguards.

  Lieutenant William Harres, nuclear engineer – powerplants and weapons both. Slim, tall, black, fine-featured, of Maasai descent: He didn’t have a nickname with this team, as it was his first mission.

  Ditto Commander Ann Alkina, liaison from the Free Australian Navy. Wide-set cheekbones and a squashed nose betrayed her Aboriginal blood, but her eyes and petite build spoke more of Asia. If the Colonel was spooky, Alkina seemed a dark spirit. She seldom smiled and her eyes missed nothing. If Doc hadn’t assured them she was a Plague carrier and had passed all the psych tests, Repeth would have worried about her being…well, off. But the Aussies had insisted on one of their own coming along, and had assured the Colonel she could keep up. The team’s four weeks of hard training in Venezuela had proven that.

  Finally, herself. Both feet lost to an IED, now regrown by the blessings of the Plague, contracted aboard a cruise ship just before Infection Day. With nothing better to do but think, she cast her mind back ten years.

  ***

  Infection Day Minus One.

  Jill Repeth, Sergeant, United States Marine Corps, stared out over the rail of her upper cabin balcony aboard the cruise ship Royal Neptune. The object of her gaze was the frigate USS Ingraham, keeping station to windward at about two nautical miles distance. Beyond, hull up on the horizon at perhaps twelve miles, was a Landing Platform/Dock amphibious assault ship, probably the USS Somerset. It was this ship that held her frustrated attention.

  She lowered herself down from her hold on the railing; she had been perched there with her hands taking all her weight. Settling into the comfortable deck chair, she picked up her small 5X optical binoculars. She cursed herself for not bringing her 18X electronic monsters, but she hated to carry a month’s pay around on a Caribbean cruise.

  The LPD leaped into view, the angled, radar-deflecting planes of its superstructure identifying it as one of the most modern ships of the US Navy. She was familiar with the type, having served a Fleet Marine Force tour on her sister ship, the USS Arlington.

  Twelve miles. Just sitting there for the last two days.

  Food aboard the cruise ship was getting low; Jill had recognized the impending problem as soon as they had been detained. She had taken pains to smuggle everything that would keep back to her cabin and stash it in anticipation of making a break, but her stock would run out shortly, and there was no sign of them being allowed to land or disembark.

  She was hungry all the time.

  The announcements aboard ship had said they were quarantined because of a ‘dangerous disease’; that dangerous disease had apparently cured cancer, blindness, even old age among those aboard, and had started to regrow her legs.

  She looked down at the strange pink skin down there, contrasting with the tan that ended just below her knees. The nubs couldn’t bear her weight without excruciating pain, and they wouldn’t fit her prosthetics anymore, so she had used the wheelchair service a lot. Reaching down to scratch the itchy growth, she pushed aside thoughts of why it had happened, or even how, and concentrated on what she had to do.

  Night was starting to fall over the Atlantic. Making her final preparations, she wrote a letter to her parents in Los Angeles, leaving it addressed on the table for the steward to find. She ate as much as she could hold, and put the rest into the waterproof bag, along with her combat uniform, her wallet and ID, and the jury-rigged prostheses. She had ripped the expensive electronic guts out of them and she now had something that she could use, if barely. Padded with pillow-stuffing and cut-up blankets, they strapped onto her stumps and allowed her to stand, even walk gingerly, as long as she could take the pain, and look somewhat normal in her uniform.

  A bottle of ibuprofen went in as well, and a few other odds and ends. Then she sealed it up and put it in her rucksack. Wet suit on next, a stylish blue and green never intended for clandestine work, but it was all she had. Then the scuba gear she had brought to use – she thought – for recreation, her combat knife, and a rucksack strapped in reverse to sit over her belly. Lastly the swim fins, reconfigured to fit her regenerating stumps.

  Levering herself up to the rail, she looked out between the slats at the two ships, now visible mainly by their navigation lights. Earlier she had seen hovercraft embarking and disembarking out of th
e combat well at the back of the LPD. Now she could see a strobe and running lights from a helo landing on the flight deck at the rear, one of a continuous droning above and around the ships. She had seen Hornet and Lightning naval fighters high overhead earlier in the day, so there was a supercarrier out there somewhere too, running combat air patrol.

  She took several deep breaths, wondering if she was making the biggest mistake of her life. Hell, there’s an old Corps saying: ‘The worst plan executed quickly and violently is better than the best plan not executed at all.’

  It was far better to do something than to do nothing.

  Facemask and regulator on, she hoisted herself up to the railing, looked at the thirty feet to the water, and launched over the rail like a gymnast. Balling up, she wrapped herself around the rucksack, holding her hands to her face to shield the delicate apparatus from the impact. The sea struck her like a cold wet fist, and she fought to stay out of sight below the surface, fought to get the mouthpiece settled and clear it of water. For a moment she just floated beneath the waves, recovering her breath.

  Then she began the long swim.

  She navigated by lights from the ships. At first she steered by the brilliant glare of the bright cruise ship behind her, easy enough to see through the water above her head. All she had to do was keep going directly away. A half hour later, when she couldn’t see it any more, she cautiously broke the surface to get her bearings and adjust.

  Her stomach was already complaining; she rolled over on her back and pulled a plastic coffee can out of a rucksack pocket, gulping down the cold spaghetti and meatballs packed inside, shoving it into her mouth with her fingers. It was the best she could come up with for eating on the trip; she hoped she had enough food. A half-liter of water followed.

  The surface swim seemed interminable; even with the fins, she estimated it would take four to six hours. The critical variable was the hunger, the thing she'd had to learn to live with and manage for the last few days. How often would she have to stop, how much would she have to eat – would her food and water run out? She laughed to herself at the idea of being thirsty in the ocean.

  Eating every thirty minutes, she burned calories at a prodigious rate.

  The answer came after three hours. Ingraham was far to her rear; she had bypassed it by a good mile, having no desire to be spotted and caught. It appeared that no one had even considered the possibility that someone would swim away from their floating prison, particularly not in the direction of their captors. But now she’d eaten the last of the food outside the waterproof bag. It looked like about an hour to the LPD. She wished she could ditch the scuba tank, but she might need it at the other end.

  A half hour later her gut demanded food again, and she didn’t have anything accessible to give it. If she opened the waterproof bag, she would flood everything inside with seawater – the food and her uniform in particular. She clamped down on the discomfort, bringing the discipline of a lifetime of triathlon into play. Pain is just weakness leaving the body. No pain, no gain – no pain, no brain. Pain is a feeling, and Marines don’t get issued feelings.

  Two hundred yards from the stern of the LPD, the starving wolverine in her belly cramped her up completely, curling her into a fetal ball. She ground her teeth, pushing through the pain. She put her head under water and screamed. She pounded her thigh, trying to distract her nervous system.

  Looming above her, the ship showed nothing except for its navigation lights. Uncramping just enough to propel herself to the stern, she hoped that someone didn’t pick that moment to look out into the dark water and see her in the moonlight. She forced her legs to push her closer, finally rounding the corner.

  The well ramp was closed.

  She groaned, fighting the cramps and starvation. Pulling out a water bottle she drank, hoping the fluid would ease the sensations. She cursed herself for not thinking of putting something with nutrition in the water bottles – protein shake, orange juice, anything. Milk would have been ideal. I’m such an idiot.

  Lesson learned, if she lived to remember it.

  The cramping eased for a moment.Looking around she found a steel rung inset into the stern. More rungs led up the side, and she measured the climb with her eyes. Fifty feet, maybe. No way would she make it, especially not with the gear. She closed her eyes for a moment, hanging on grimly. Ketosis soured her breath as her body scoured her bloodstream for something to metabolize.

  Only one choice. She had to get to the food inside the waterproof bag.

  Levering herself painfully up on the first rung, she sat on it and wrapped her left arm into the one above. Crudely clinging, she forced her right hand’s cold knotted muscles to open the rucksack strapped to her belly, then the bag inside. She grabbed the first food packet she encountered. Greedily she stuffed crackers into her face. A feeling of relief and well-being spread like a drug; she could almost follow the sugars through her veins as they reached outward from her insides, quieting her screaming tissues.

  A rumble went through the ship, a vibration felt rather than heard. Grinding and clanking sounds startled her, originating from somewhere very near. She hastily sealed up the waterproof bag and slipped back into the water, just in time.

  Light blazed above where she had just rested, and she slipped the scuba regulator back in her mouth, breathing on tank air. The great dark slab of the well ramp laid itself rapidly down onto the surface of the water nearby, forming a smooth transition for hovercraft inside to leave the ship.

  A moment later an enormous dark shape swept by just feet from her, an LCAC hovercraft shoving her downward with tremendous force, spinning her like the undertow at a riptide beach. As quickly as it had come it was gone, off into the Atlantic night, and the ramp began to rise again.

  This was her only chance. Her legs pumped, driving the fins against the sea with all of her strength, aiming for the joint at the base of the ramp, from the side. There was no time to worry about being spotted; she had to get out of the water and on board.

  She rolled over the enormous hinge and into the wet well. There was only three feet of water inside, and as soon as the ramp closed it would drain. She swam sidestroke in the shallow water, pushing herself up against the side rail, and then wormed her way forward. She was still hidden by the sea water, the dimness and the looming machines, but soon she might have nowhere to hide.

  It’s good to be good, but sometimes it’s better to be lucky. She got lucky.

  The only person in sight was a sailor sneaking a smoke, facing into the corner opposite her across the vast open space. Parked vehicles hid her exit from the water, and the noise of the starting pumps covered any sound she made as she dragged herself up the access ramp. She climbed onto a ladder – nautical terminology for any stairway aboard ship – and upward into one of the compartments tucked up along the walls. Once out of sight, she just breathed for a few minutes, resting after her ordeal.

  Dry and safe enough, she ate her fill, stripped off the wet suit, and changed into her uniform. On a ship this size, one more Marine would be almost anonymous. The trick would be when to make herself known, and to whom.

  This was as far as her planning had carried her.

  Her MOS, Military Operational Specialty – until she lost the legs – was 5816-3RT, Military Police Special Reaction Team member. It was the closest thing to direct combat she could expect as a female, similar to civilian SWAT. The problem with such a small specialty was that her circle of contacts was limited. 3RT people tended to keep to themselves. She hoped to either find someone on this ship’s 3RT she knew, or just depend on the tight-knit community to shelter her in the face of her unlawful actions. Still, there were some violations that could be ignored by the loyalties and traditions of the service; she hoped that unofficially rejoining a deployed unit would qualify.

  She slipped the prostheses on last, grimacing as she strapped them tight. Another four pain pills and a gulp of water, and she was on her feet. She stowed her gear behind a stack of
firefighting equipment and hoped it wouldn’t be noticed.

  Down into the enormous ship she tottered, holding onto railings and moving slowly. Sweat broke out on her brow, and she fended off two concerned inquiries with explanations of recovering from food poisoning. She didn’t like the way the people looked at her; she had chosen food poisoning as an explanation precisely because it was neither unusual nor contagious.

  These people seemed on edge. The crew must have been told the same lies about a deadly disease aboard the cruise ship, and they were jittery. Maybe going to the 3RT wasn’t the best choice. She suddenly realized who she might be able to trust – by law, custom and regulation.

  Five minutes later she was leaning against the chaplain’s door. She hoped he would be a calm, sensible sort that could keep his mouth shut. If she was lucky, she would get a Catholic priest. Priests had reputations for keeping confidences. For this, she needed someone unshakeable.

  The door opened to show a pleasant, pink, thirtyish face attached to a short, chubby body with bottle-red, collar-length hair. She stared at the Navy Lieutenant’s bars on the right lapel of the woman’s combat cammies, and the cross on the left, disoriented by preconceptions. Her name tag read ‘Forman’.

  “Can I help you?” Lieutenant Forman’s accent was cultured, New England – Boston perhaps, or Maine. It reminded Jill strongly of Katherine Hepburn, before the quaver. Or maybe a Kennedy.

  “Yes, ma’am. Permission to enter?”

  “Of course, Sergeant.” The chaplain stepped back, then closed the hatch behind Repeth as she gingerly tottered in. “Please, sit. Are you ill?”

  Jill sat. “No, my prostheses are giving me a bit of trouble.” She reached down to thump on her boots, bringing forth a decidedly artificial sound.

  “Ah. Well, here we are. Coffee? Tea? Soda, or some juice?” She gestured at a compact coffee maker which sat upon an equally tiny refrigerator. “Privileges of the ministry.”