Extinction Survival Series (Book 3): Cost of Survival

by Browning, Walt

  Donaldson shook her head. “We drove the tankers here. We didn’t need to haul it out to sea. That’s a lot different.”

  “Not only that. We’d need to find fuel in quantities that would make a difference. That means going into populated areas. Why stir the Variant pot if all we really need to do is pick up survivors?” Shader paused to take a breath before continuing. “And as far as maintaining our birds, Morales and the boys have been doing just fine keeping them both in the air. I, for one, have been very pleased with the lack of trouble we’ve been having.”

  Prior to the infection, Alejandro Morales was the head of maintenance at the Inglewood Forum. Shader and his Marines rescued him—and a dozen other survivors—before abandoning Los Angeles. Morales and some of the Boy Scouts recovered maintenance books and parts during one of the group’s sorties outside the valley. They’d been able to keep both the Osprey and Seahawk in the air.

  “Couldn’t have said it any better,” Donaldson said. “Why screw with the ship if we just want the crew?”

  “No disrespect to Morales, but he hasn’t had to do anything other than scheduled maintenance. If something big happens, he’d be lost,” Everly said.

  Donaldson shook her head and countered. “Still, the logistics of finding, loading, and carrying the fuel is tough enough when you have a functioning air station to support you. We’re out in the middle of the desert with an air conditioning tech and a bunch of Boy Scouts as our support personnel. I hate putting flight time on my Osprey without a definite benefit, and I’m not sure refueling some ship is worth my time. My Osprey can be temperamental, and if something major breaks, repairing her isn’t going to happen.”

  “It would if we had the resources on that vessel. And, you’re forgetting one other detail. The ship carries a Fire Scout Drone helicopter. We could really use that,” Everly said.

  Donaldson sighed. “You’re right. I forgot that.”

  “I’m right? That’s a first. Should I mark the calendar?”

  “Don’t press your luck. We have a couch in the common area. Never forget that.”

  Shader stuck his nose into their conversation. “My room has a spare bed.”

  “Thanks, Porky,” Everly said.

  “You know, Porky. A second ago, you actually said something smart. I was beginning to think you weren’t as stupid as I first thought. But now, you just proved me wrong,” Donaldson said.

  “Bros got to stick together.” Shader and Everly exchanged a fist bump.

  Donaldson glared at her boyfriend and shook her head. “Men never grow up, do they?”

  “That’s why you love me so much.” He gave her a kiss on the forehead. To her credit, she didn’t back away, but rolled her eyes instead.

  “Won’t the drone run out of fuel along with the other aircraft?” Gavin asked.

  “The Fire Scout can run on biofuel, which we are planning to make as soon as we have a surplus of crops to use,” Everly replied. “Fuel won’t be a problem, so it’ll fly as long as we have the parts to fix it.”

  “How long can it stay in the air?” Carver asked.

  Everly turned to Carver. “Twelve hours on station. It’s a long time to have eyes in the sky. That’s a real game-changer.”

  “If we decide to do this. Where do we find the gas to refuel the Freedom, and how do we get it to the ship?” Shader asked.

  “There’s plenty of it out there,” Carver replied.

  “Gas turbine engines can be adapted to almost any type of fuel,” Everly said. “We’ve marked a map where over a dozen tanker trucks are parked. The biggest problem is how do we get it out of the tankers and onto the Freedom?”

  “Can’t we just pick one of them up and fly it to the ship?” Gavin asked.

  Donaldson shook her head. “My Osprey can haul fifteen thousand pounds. That’s only about 1800 gallons of fuel by weight, and those tanker trucks can carry over five times that amount. I couldn’t lift them if I tried.”

  “They keep empty fuel bladders near one of the hangars back on Coronado,” Garrett Jacobs said from the rear of the small room.

  Garrett, along with fellow shore patrolmen John Gardner and Manny Polodare, had fled San Diego Naval Base to the USS Theodore Roosevelt. They were saved a second time by Donaldson and Everly later that same night.

  “Yeah. We patrolled that whole island. I remember them, too,” Gardner added.

  Jacobs stepped forward and continued. “And there are a couple fuel pump carts nearby, as well. We could pick up a bladder, fly it to a tanker truck, and load it up with fuel.”

  “I doubt they’ll fire up after six months,” Carver said.

  “I’ll bet the Freedom has one,” Everly replied.

  “That’s great and all, but wasn’t the base overrun by Variants?” Donaldson shot back.

  “It’s been months since we left. After that much time, if there’s no one left to feed on, won’t they move on?” Carver said.

  “I guess the only way to know is to go.” Shader shrugged. “That is, if we want to salvage the Freedom.”

  “That ship would be a heck of an asset for us,” Carver said. “What do you guys think?”

  Garrett was the first to chime in. “I’ll go. I’d love to see what happened back there.”

  “Are you insane?” The voice came from the open doorway. It was Jennifer Blevins, the former director of the Lost Valley Boy Scout Camp. She also happened to be Garrett’s fiancé.

  “Oh, crap,” Garrett mumbled.

  “All this for a drone? Why are we risking lives for a piece of equipment that may not be necessary? We haven’t seen a Variant in months. They have no clue we’re here. I don’t get it.”

  “That may change,” Carver said. “You prepare for the worst-case scenario, which makes anything else you run into a lot easier to deal with.”

  Jennifer gave a frustrated harrumph and stormed out of the building.

  Donaldson watched her leave then turned back to the others. “I guess that’s a ‘no’ vote.”

  “Hey, kid,” Shader said to Garrett, “looks like you might need that bed in my room.”

  “Captain Everly isn’t out of the woods yet,” Donaldson said.

  Everly drooped his shoulders in mock surrender. “That’s all right. I’ll use the couch. Won’t be the first time.”

  Carver enjoyed the banter. It reminded him of his time as a SEAL before the infection destroyed the world. A lot of snarky, dry humor found its way into those planning meetings. It was one of the ways to relieve the stress of creating a mission, especially one that might kill you and your friends.

  After a lengthy discussion, the group decided to try to refuel the USS Freedom. If they could salvage the ship and its fire drone, they’d have a much better chance of survival.

  “That’s it. We’ve got a mission. Go and grab dinner, then we’ll get together afterwards and start planning. We’ve got a lot to go over,” Carver said. “And remember, we can always use the Freedom to sail away from here if everything goes to hell in a handbasket.”

  The group filed out of the shack while Everly informed the Freedom that they were going to try to refuel them. The ship had enough fuel to make it to Two Harbors at Catalina Island. They’d drop anchor there and wait.

  “What the hell did we just get ourselves into?” Shader asked.

  Carver slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Come on, Porky. What else do you have to do?”

  — 3 —

  Two Harbors

  Santa Catalina Island

  “Whoever neglects old friends for the sake of new,

  deserves what he gets if he loses both.”

  ― Aesop

  “Seahawk One, this is Freedom. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Nice call sign,” Everly said into the craft’s internal communication system.

  The pilot replied. “No need for formalities since our bird and their ship are the only ones around.”

  “Point taken.”

  “Freedom. This is Sea
hawk One. We have a hard copy. Over.”

  “Seahawk One. We have you six klicks out. ETA three minutes.”

  “Copy that, Freedom. Three minutes. Has the party started yet? Over.”

  “That’s a big negative, Seahawk One. But everyone is anxious to see you.”

  “Don’t pop the champagne without us. Seahawk One, out.”

  The island was looming in the distance and the eastern harbor, where the ship had dropped anchor, was littered with abandoned yachts and catamarans. Picking out the Freedom was a simple task. At over three thousand tons and the length of a football field, it dwarfed all the other craft nearby. Its black and two-tone grey camouflage pattern also set it apart from the rest of the white craft anchored nearby.

  The Seahawk pilot keyed his mic and called to the ship. “Freedom, this is Seahawk. Let us know when you’re ready. Over.”

  “Copy that, Seahawk. We are still red deck. I repeat, we are red deck.”

  “Red deck. Red deck. That’s a hard copy, Freedom. Over.”

  Aboard the USS Freedom

  Captain Dale Thieriot stood on the bridge and watched the Seahawk hovering next to the large ship. His chief of engineering was supervising the preparations, having gotten together a makeshift FOD (foreign objects and debris) cleaning crew to clear the landing pad.

  Before the outbreak, he’d started with a core crew of forty sailors, along with an air detachment and mission package specialists, bringing his personnel to over sixty. When the outbreak hit, it quickly killed the remnants of the Pacific Fleet. The Freedom was part of that flotilla, and the infection came to his ship as well, which explained why there were only twenty-three left to keep the Freedom afloat.

  Watching the Seahawk off his port allowed Thieriot to momentarily imagine that it all had never happened. He stared at the craft, hovering majestically in the afternoon sky, and pretended it was just another day in the Navy. With radio chatter back on the network and his people moving with a purpose, he felt like a real captain again.

  His Cheng’s voice came over the ship’s internal channel. “Captain, the deck is clear. We’re green deck.”

  “Thank you. I’ll let them know.”

  The captain scolded himself for not having the landing deck already prepared. In normal times, the FOD cleaning crew could police the platform in a few minutes. But that was before the apocalypse.

  He had called for the deck to be cleared thirty minutes before the Seahawk was scheduled to arrive, but it hadn’t been enough time. There had been no need to clear the deck after the world went dark. It had been kept as clean as possible by the ship’s skeleton crew, but not to the standards required for an actual aircraft landing. It ended up being a lot of work to make sure there was nothing on the platform that could become a rotor-launched weapon. With Uncle Murphy always paying a visit at the worst of times, even a single screw or bolt could be turned into a projectile by the rotor’s downwash and permanently damage the ship.

  The Seahawk began to pull around to Freedom’s aft, where the ship’s platform was located. Thieriot was tempted to break protocol and observe the landing, but there were too many things that required his attention on the bridge. He needed to man his station.

  Even when he had a full core crew complement, there had never been enough bodies for all the daily tasks. Back then, each of the enlisted had multiple jobs. A single sailor could be a cook, first responder, refueler, and assigned to fire detail. With half their numbers now gone, all those who remained had twice the workload.

  But maybe that’s going to change, Thieriot thought. We have a purpose now.

  Aboard the Seahawk

  The pilot sighed as he looked down at the USS Freedom. “You ever seen anything so beautiful?”

  Everly pretended to be shocked. “What? You don’t like your accommodations back home?”

  “I don’t mind, but all the sand and dirt that gets kicked up isn’t doing the bird any good. I’m surprised the fuel line isn’t fouled up or some gear doesn’t just seize from the crud.”

  Everly felt the same way. These helicopters needed a lot of care by trained people in a clean environment. The Freedom could do just that for them.

  The seas were calm and, with the Freedom anchored, the landing was simple and smooth. As the rotors began to slow, the ship’s large garage door started to open, and several sailors scurried out. They quickly lashed the bird to the deck with chains, preventing an unexpected wave from sliding the craft off the boat.

  After the blades had completely spun down, almost a dozen sailors ran out of the bay and began to cheer. Shader slid the Seahawk’s side cargo bay door open. He jumped out along with Gonzalez, Keele, and Carver. They were met with high fives, fist bumps, and handshakes.

  The most enthusiastic greetings were reserved for Shrek. The crew of the Freedom hadn’t seen a dog since they left port over half a year ago. Shrek took it all in stride as the ship’s crew petted and stroked his furry coat. The Mal reminded them of a lost past—like seeing an old friend or smelling a favorite food. Shrek brought them hope. The Mal even made two of the sailors tear up.

  Everly called out to the two SEALs and waved them back to the Seahawk’s cargo door. He pushed a couple cardboard boxes over to the edge. Both Carver and Shader each put a box on a shoulder.

  “A gift from the Valley,” Carver said as they strode past the sailors and into the ship’s hangar.

  Once inside, both men stopped.

  The Freedom’s Seahawk, with its rotors retracted, sat along the starboard wall. A large military storage container and the Fire Scout Drone were on the port side. What made the two SEALs freeze in place were the holes that pocketed the hangar’s walls. Hundreds of bullets had torn apart the interior corrugated aluminum panels. Where a round punctured the metal bulkhead, it had been repaired by various patches and makeshift occlusions to keep the seawater out. Where the .556 round found an internal wall, it was left without repair. Even duct tape was at a premium when you couldn’t replace the used supplies.

  The sailors all stopped behind Carver and stood quietly, letting the two men take in the devastation.

  “It was a hell of a fight,” the ship’s chief engineer finally said.

  Carver acknowledged his understanding in a hushed voice. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

  “That’s why we’re down to twenty-three.”

  “I know this won’t make up for it,” Shader said, dropping his box onto a metal workstation. “But it can’t hurt.”

  He reached in and pulled out a bottle of Hawk Ridge wine. The reaction was as expected. The crew sounded like they could use some time to blow off steam.

  “I have some more,” Carver said, dropping his box next to Shader’s. “And could you grab a dolly? We have more supplies in the helicopter.”

  A two-wheeler appeared, and five of the sailors ran to the Seahawk. Everly began to pass out containers to the eager men and women.

  The captain appeared and greeted his guests.

  “You don’t know what this means to us,” he said, shaking their hands. “It’s a small world when you’re stuck on a ship for so long.”

  “Well, the big world out there isn’t too safe. You’re lucky to be where you are,” Carver said.

  “I have to tell you, there were times we almost ran her aground to abandon the ship and take our chances.”

  “Love to hear the story,” Shader replied. “But let’s get this stuff put away first.”

  “Follow me to the wardroom.”

  The Lost Valley crew and several of the Freedom’s personnel followed the captain to the second level, carrying and wheeling the boxes brought by the helicopter. They stacked them on a large table and began to unload the supplies.

  “Holy crap! Coffee!” one of the sailors yelled.

  “It’s only instant,” Carver said.

  “I don’t care if it’s in a tea bag. We haven’t had coffee in months.”

  Opening each of the containers brought a holiday atmosphere as i
t became evident that the crew had not been living, but surviving. Without the occasional treat, the ship had to have felt like a floating prison.

  A joyous squeal came from one sailor who discovered fresh potatoes that the Boy Scout camp’s garden had already yielded.

  “Geez. And I thought we had it bad,” Carver whispered to Shader as a collective cheer came up when a gross of toilet paper was uncovered. The women seemed the happiest.

  “I could cry,” a female seaman said, smiling.

  “We’re in your debt,” Thieriot said. “Whatever you need, it’s yours.”

  “Thanks, Captain. But we’d prefer to get started on refueling the ship. We’ve been thinking about how to get the gas out to you guys,” Carver said. “The Seahawk can handle about fifteen thousand pounds. That translates to about eighteen hundred gallons of fuel.”

  “I hate to break this to you, but the ship holds a hell of a lot more than that. Eighteen hundred gallons isn’t going make much of a dent in what we need.”

  “Crap,” Shader said.

  “Hey, don’t get me wrong. The fuel would really help, and if you could make two or three runs, at least we could keep our generators operating. As it is, we’ve got less than a month’s worth of fuel to keep the Freedom’s generators going. Engaging our engines would use up our reserves within hours.”

  Carver shook his head. “So, we can’t get enough fuel to make the Freedom mobile, but enough to keep the power on.”

  “Unless you want to make fifty of those flights, it won’t put us out to sea.”

  “That’s not what I had hoped to hear,” Carver said.

  “It’s not all that bad,” Thieriot said. “Having a source of electricity will help us get a foothold here on the island.”

  “You’re planning on staying here?” Carver’s face registered surprise. “That’s a bold step. Catalina had thousands of residents. How are you going to deal with that?”

  “I don’t think there are thousands left.”

  “And how do you know this?”