“Enough left for one last pot,” she replied, and made his day.
“I just fell in love with you,” he said.
“Should I leave you two alone?” Marc asked, stumbling into the room, nearly tripping over the tail-wagging dog.
Jonesy didn’t answer, his attention having been caught by the view out their balcony, which faced the harbor.
The Polar Star had arrived.
16
USCGC Sassafras
Honolulu Harbor
“Will Chief Jones be joining us this morning?” LCDR Wheeler asked, as the pair of freshly-refueled helos passed overhead, en route to pick up the remaining survivors from the highrise they’d begun to clear last night.
“That is the word, sir,” LTjg Molly Gordon, standing next to him on the port bridge wing, said. “And he’s bringing a dog with him.”
“How fitting,” OS2 Bill Schaeffer said, coming through the door, and adjusting his gas mask.
Molly was struck by how perfectly incongruous he looked, wearing a gas mask with his Full Dress Tropical Uniform, bedecked with ribbons and his new Second Class Petty Officer collar devices. His head was not covered, of course, due to the impossibility of wearing a combination cap (or anything less than a helmet, for that matter) over the mask. They’d certainly be making an impression on the Polar Star, when they finally concluded their ponderous entrance into the harbor.
“Does the Chief have a reputation?” LT Amy Montrose smirked. At least, Molly thought she was smirking beneath her mask. Her eyes smirked, at any rate.
The question was something she hadn’t considered - hadn’t had time to consider - since the utter chaos of reporting aboard on the day they bugged out of Honolulu. Was Jonesy a dog? She hadn’t really thought about it, what with one thing and another since her arrival on the Sassafras. Had there been other women? Of course there were, she mused, turning the idea over and over inside her head, and coming to the conclusion that she didn’t like it, one bit, which was patently absurd. She had no hold on him - certainly not then, certainly not after their goodbye at the end of her Cadet Summer cruise on the Healy, when she’d told him not to call her. So why did she feel the twinge of jealousy?
It intrigued her. It disturbed her. And though she fought to keep the Green Monster under control, it reared its ugly head, just the same.
Schaeffer only snorted in reply, neither confirming, nor denying the rumor. His eyes met hers, briefly - his through the plexiglass of the mask’s lenses, and hers over the top of the filter mask she’d worn, over a generous slathering of their dwindling supply of Vapo Rub - and she thought she saw the tiniest of winks, before he moved past her and headed down the ladder.
Now, what did that mean?
17
The Rooftop
Honolulu, HI
“He’ll be fine,” Jonesy said, patting the large dog on the butt, then raising and twirling his finger to signal the helo to start hoisting the Stokes Litter into which they’d strapped Mac. If the animal was disturbed by the operation, he certainly didn’t show it. “I swear, if he was any more relaxed, he’d be in a coma,” he added in amazement.
He no longer wore the full MOPP gear. It hadn’t seemed necessary, and he certainly hadn’t wanted to try and sleep in the personal sauna, so he’d removed it last night, and hadn’t bothered to put it back on this morning. He held it tucked beneath his body armor.
“That’s our Mac,” Marc yelled over the sound of the hovering helicopter.
They were the last two on the rooftop, Wendy having gone up first to help get Mac settled. Didn’t look as if she’d needed to bother. As Jonesy had observed, the dog would be fine. Some of the other refugees, on the other hand...
“He made less fuss than Mrs. Charles Eddington-Smythe,” Marc added.
“Of the Beverly Hills Smythes?” Jonesy asked, playing his part.
“Raw-ther,” Marc replied, a toothy grin showing beneath his shaggy beard.
She’d been a royal pain in the ass, after being informed she’d be spending the night. The two Swimmers from the two air crews hadn’t appreciated Jonesy dumping her on them when he disappeared into the building, and had been even less pleased when he arrived this morning, wearing a shit-eating grin and carrying a case of liquor. Okay, the booze might have mollified them, somewhat. Safe bet they hadn’t consumed any alcohol since before they left Antarctica. Naturally, of course, that didn’t mean they were going to cut him any slack. He only hoped they didn’t make too much of a fuss around superior officers who might ask inconvenient questions about whether or not he’d sampled any of it.
“As soon as we land on the base, she’ll be somebody else’s problem,” he said.
A word in the wrong ear (as, for example, Captain Gideon D. Hall’s) would be bad. Maybe even catastrophic. But, after all, what were they going to do to him? Drop him into a zombie apocalypse and make him fight for his life?
The cable lowered from the helo, this time attached to the harness that would soon be wrapped around Jonesy’s new-found friend. The thought gave him pause.
Had he made a new friend. Two friends? Three, if included the dog? He supposed he had. In the middle of a zombie apocalypse. Would wonders never cease?
18
USS Paul Hamilton
Palmyra Atoll
“Brace yourselves!” Gunner’s Mate, First Class Ernie Swaboda yelled, as the ships bottom - already battered by the nuclear detonation that destroyed the rest of the fleet - began scraping along the coral bottom of the shoals around Palmyra. It sounded to Morris Minooka’s ears like sliding across glass, while inside a steel tube. The ship jerked once, twice, a third time, then gave a terrific lurch, which would have knocked every remaining member of the Hamilton’s crew flat on their asses, if they hadn’t already been there, sitting upon the deck, inside the hold, which had become their prison..
They had arrived.
They’d agreed to cooperate - tacitly, officially, if not exactly in spirit. The “President’s” speech had convinced the last of the holdouts - that, and the forty-five wielded by the head pirate, Blackjack Charlie.
Morris had tried to convince everybody, but with some of them, it was like talking sense to a gerbil. Any idiot could see their only hope of survival was to play along. Some of them, however, apparently, possessed less intellectual capacity than a rodent. The fact they were swayed by that moron, Goddard, pretty much said it all.
He remembered hearing about the man, and had even seen him once, on Meet the Press. His assessment was that gerbils could have given the guy a run for his money. And the last few holdouts had been swayed by his speech... Go figure.
The man could string sentences together, that was for sure. Some of it even made sense. But it sounded a bit too much like Abernathy’s Hallmark platitudes about God and Country. And Morris Minooka could spot bullshit a mile away.
“Is everyone alright?” Swoboda called. There were positive responses from around the compartment. No new injuries. That was a good thing.
Because now came the tricky part, the part which some could consider to be treason. Now they would have to help the pirates remove and transfer the ship’s weapons systems. And once they were done...?
Morris had no answer.
19
USCGC Polar Star
Honolulu Harbor
“Will you look at that?” Yeoman, First Class, Dave Ablitz said, staring out through plexiglass lenses at a sight Jeff Babbett never imagined he’d see.
The Star finished its slow pirouette, having turned a neat donut in the harbor to position itself, eventually, to moor to the pier, after first passing broadside to the Sass, whose crew, like theirs, was manning the rail. Under ordinary circumstances (which these definitely were not) manning the rail was a sign of respect, from one ship to another, in which the crew, in all their uniform finery, lined one side of each ship and rendered a salute. It was a solemn thing, a traditional thing, and it filled one’s heart with pride - under ordinary circumsta
nces.
PA3 Jim Westhoff, the second Public Affairs Specialist (the first having gone to Kauai) stood apart from the line of men and women, snapping photos with a large, professional camera. Babbett nodded, to himself. Good, he thought. Takes lots of pictures. This is history.
“Bunch of Coast Guard Ninja badasses,” Operations Specialist First Class Rudy McGuin, on Babbitt’s other side, said, the awe in his voice evident even through the muffling gas mask.
Indeed, this was true. On the fantail and forecastle of Sassafras, there were men and women in Tropical Dress Blue, standing at parade rest. All of them wore gas masks, as did everyone on the Star. On the Buoy Deck, however, were arrayed a line of men and women, dressed in black, wearing helmets and body armor and carrying weapons - lots and lots of weapons.
“Holy shit,” Babbett said, when they moved to attention as one.
20
USCGC Sassafras
ISC Sand Island, Hawaii
“...Hand salute!” Wheeler’s Boston accent came through the loudspeakers of the 1-MC.
“Detail!” LTjg Molly Gordon barked. “Present arms!”
They hadn’t had time to practice this maneuver. She doubted any of them had done it since boot camp, and for some, that was a long time ago. But Jonesy, Duke, Harold, Frank, Greg Riley, Pat Querec, Jeri Weaver, Glenn Newby, Jennifer Collins, Tara McBride, and Jerry Nailor, snapped their weapons (M-4's for most, a shotgun for Duke, and a Thompson submachine gun for Jonesy) to attention, as if they’d been doing it all their lives.
To say Molly’s heart filled with pride would be akin to calling Everest a foothill. In that moment, in that place, she loved those people more than anyone she’d ever loved in all of her life. Forget that Wheeler was the Commanding Officer. Forget that Montrose outranked her. Forget that Captain Gideon D. Hall (in all probability, the Commandant of the Coast Guard) stood some three hundred yards away, on the bridge of his own ship. This was her crew - even the new kids they’d gotten from the Star - and she loved them.
When Wheeler gave the order to man the rail, he’d pulled her aside and told her he wanted everyone in Tropical Dress uniform, except the civilians, and the men and women who’d been out there fighting for their lives, and the lives of everyone they’d rescued. The civilians could wear what they liked, and, indeed, they were, from Lane Keely’s understated, button-down shirt and chinos, to Gus Perniola’s loud Hawaiian shirt and shorts, they presented a truly mixed bag. But he wanted the others to be in full battle rig - torn, bloodstained fabric, and all.
They stood there, at attention, their weapons raised in salute, looking like warriors of old. And yet, they didn’t. In a certain sense, a sense felt deep within her heart, they looked like what they were: battered, exhausted, survivors of a Hell to which there was no adequate description. And they were hers.
21
The Cabin
USCGC Polar Star
“Your crew...” the Master Chief grumbled.
Here it comes, Wheeler thought. They were standing - once again - in the Cabin vestibule, this time waiting for the arrival of Wheeler’s former boss, LCDR Stubbelfield. Almost seemed like Old Home Week, except for the fact that it hadn’t been so very long since he’d last done this as a member of the Polar Star crew. But now he was Captain of his own vessel, the realization of a career-long dream, and the Master Chief was about to slam him for parading his new crew in battle gear.
To be sure, he’d done it for dramatic effect - the idea behind which was to impress upon Hall the extremity of the situation, as quickly as possible. And, yes, he’d done it out of pride, as well. What the Sass crew - his crew, now - had accomplished was nothing short of astounding, especially given how worn out and beat up they all were. He’d wanted, in one (admittedly theatrical) gesture, to demonstrate their place in history, right alongside George S. Patton’s Magnificent Bastards. Many might think it hyperbole. They would soon learn it to be fact. Wheeler had wanted to display this fact in such a way as to start the transition between thinking and knowing in the shortest time possible, because time was the one thing they did not have.
And the Master Chief was about to chide him for it.
“Yes?” He asked, warily, waiting for the blow to fall.
Wolf grunted. “Impressive,” was all he said.
Wheeler would have been astonished - was about to drop his jaw in shock - when the interior bridge door opened above them, and Stubbelfield descended the ladder. “Are we ready?” the man said.
Wolf answered by rapping twice upon the Cabin door and entering.
“Commander,” Hall said as Wheeler entered, striding up to him and offering his hand. “Welcome back.”
“Yes, sir,” Wheeler replied. “Thank you, sir.”
They gathered around the large conference table, and waited for Hall to take his place at the head, before seating themselves. This was to be an informal meeting, in preparation for the larger one, which would take place down in the Wardroom. But in some sense, this was the real one. Much would be decided, and Wheeler - still not quite settled into his new and lofty position - felt uncharacteristically nervous.
It could go one of two ways: either Hall would take iron control of all operations, leaving little discretionary command to Wheeler, or he could set a general tone, and allow things to develop in the ebb and flow of the situation. Wheeler knew which he preferred, but he was afraid he’d end up with the other - and not just because his grip on his new command felt so damned fragile.
History had shown which form of leadership worked best in battle - and make no mistake, this was a battle they were in, and the prize was nothing less than the salvation of human civilization. Martinets, like George McClellan, in the American Civil War, or Hitler, in the Second World War, took complete control, where others, like Grant and Eisenhower, set the general objectives, then gave their commanders discretion and flexibility, to respond to conditions in the field. The result: Grant and Eisenhower won, the others didn’t.
“What you’ve accomplished in the short time since assuming command,” Hall began, and Wheeler felt a tingling, right around his tailbone, waiting for the first shoe to drop. “Has been magnificent.”
I’ll be damned, Wheeler thought, his muscles relaxing, slightly. He used the word.
“The credit goes to Ms. Gordon,” he said, wanting to get that nugget out there, for all to see.
“And, as I understand it, Chief Jones,” Hall said.
“Indeed,” Wheeler agreed, wondering just where Hall got his inside information. Was there a mole in his command? If so, whom? He couldn’t think of anyone it might be, but how else could Hall know?
“We’ve been listening in over the radio,” Stubbelfield said, as if catching Wheeler’s thoughts. “Just like the Big Game.”
The Master Chief grunted again. “Not much else to listen to.”
Wheeler finally relaxed all the way, leaning back in his chair. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
“Couldn’t help but notice the number of people you promoted,” Hall said, and the tension started creeping right back in.
“Seemed like the right move,” Wheeler replied, on the defensive.
“Relax, Commander,” Hall eased. “It was the right move,” he added. “Clearly. Although I suspect if there were an officer review board, they might look sideways at the young Ensign.”
“Sir,” Wheeler began. “If there were an officer review board, they’d have cashiered her, and I’d have had a mutiny on my hands.”
“So I presume,” Hall said. “Such loyalty is...” He let the sentence trail off as he searched for an appropriate word.
“Impressive,” Wolf said, again.
Well, well, Wheeler thought. Twice in one day...
Hall nodded, then sighed. “But as I understand it, there have been... difficulties.”
“Sir?” Wheeler asked.
“Mister Peavey,” Hall replied.
So it wasn’t just listening to the Big Game, after all. Pea
vey, along with Montrose, Gordon, Jones, Mister Barber, and Ms. Gordon’s Uncle John, had come to the Star with Wheeler, and while pleasantries were being exchanged, Peavey disappeared for a time. Could he have gone to the Cabin? Could he have whispered sweet nothings into Hall’s ear?
“Ah,” Wheeler replied.
“That’s it? Just, ‘ah?’” Hall asked, a bemused expression on his face.
“Sir,” Wheeler began, trying to come up with an explanation that didn’t obliterate the limits of decorum and diplomacy. “Mister Peavy is...”
“Peavey has his head so far up his own ass,” Master Chief Wolf said, “if he farts, his head will explode.”
Stubbelfield burst out laughing, Wheeler struggled to keep from doing it, and even Hall allowed himself a small smile. Score one for the Master Chief.
“Yes,” Hall said, after a moment. “Well...” He turned to Wolf. “Eloquent as always,” then turned his attention back to Wheeler. “What do we do about it?”
“I’ve given this some thought,” Wheeler began. “And I’m tempted to suggest we promote Jones to Warrant Officer, and make him First Lieutenant.”
“But...?” Hall asked.
“Sir?”
“I sense a but.”
“Yes, sir,” Wheeler said. “Problem is, we need Jones for too many other things.”
22
The Hospital
Lihue, Kauai
“What are we gonna do?” Carol asked, trying to keep her voice low, so the other members of the Polar Star ground team couldn’t hear her.
CWO4 Robert Vincenzo looked at her with what could only be described as derision. She’d seen that look before - in the eyes of her father. There had never been any pleasing that man, and it didn’t seem as if she were doing any too good a job of it with Bobby V.
“We kill the zombies,” he said. “You’re in charge. Give the order.”
They were seated in the first of three trucks, parked just outside the City Hospital, which was incongruously placed right next to the Walmart. Pick up a few items, have your spleen removed...One stop shopping...
Guardians of the Apocalypse (Book 4): Zombies of Infamy Page 4
