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Early Afternoon, Sunday, May 1
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Near Junction, TX
Luck had a way of ebbing and flowing. As a combat soldier, Colonel Cobb Pendleton was as aware of that as anyone. The Stryker was still rolling, and he still had fuel. After the attempted ambush near Sisterdale, he’d been more alert, even driving through rain storms. He also remained constantly on the alert for signs of fuel, as the APC’s tank was dangerously low. It was approaching fumes as Interstate 10 came into view.
Cobb hadn’t known what to do about the major artery. It was impossible to continue west without crossing a dozen such places; all of them were potential trouble. He got some good luck when he rumbled around a bend in the road and saw a truck stop ahead. Truck stops meant diesel! He slowed to a crawl, the Stryker in low gear and his head on a swivel. Almost out of gas wasn’t how he wanted to run into more trouble.
The truck stop was occupied. A medium-sized group of survivors, truckers mostly, had created a perimeter of trailers and were defending it with small arms. They weren’t interested in going with him; the group was waiting on more friends to arrive and sticking it out until ‘the plague ran its course.’ Cobb played on their patriotism and got two five-gallon cans of diesel, which went right into the tank.
The interstate proved remarkably clear. The truckers had informed him that there were road blocks 20 miles south, near San Antonio’s outer loop, which were now deserted. They also said that they’d encountered roving bands of infected from a few hundred to thousands. They were following the roads like deer following a game trail. There didn’t seem to be any sense of where they were headed. When groups encountered each other, some violence followed, but eventually a new larger group was formed, and a direction chosen. Then they were off again.
Cobb drove west along Interstate 10, his thoughts dark and malignant. How many of his fellow Americans now had the infection? All of them? Was the country soon going to be filled with 360 million wandering infected zombies, feeding on anything they could find, including each other? Again he thought about Kathy; how it had felt to lie next to her in the few hours of passion they’d shared. He’d been trying to avoid such thoughts; afraid they’d fill him with depression. She was somewhere on the west coast, if she was still alive. Untold thousands of miles lay between them, and millions of infected. Still, thinking about her gave him hope. She was worth staying alive for, because he somehow knew she’d be waiting for him. Even after only a couple nights together, he felt certain she would be there. He drove on.
There were plenty of abandoned cars on the interstate, some with their hoods up or doors open. He didn’t slow too much; the earlier ambush had made him less willing to be a convenient target. It was the cars parked along the road, doors closed, windows up, that made him the most curious. What was their story? They weren’t abandoned in a panic, like many of the others, but carefully secured against future need. It was a creepy apocalyptic landscape he was driving through.
He was rolling past the exit for a town called Segovia when he saw his first infected swarm. They were over the median, on the south-bound lanes. There were at least a hundred, and as he approached, all their heads tracked him like dogs watching a treat. The group had all ages, though none appeared less than about 12. It seemed like a lot were darker-skinned Hispanics, and many were partially naked. Seeing people on foot caused him to instinctively slow the Stryker, and that was when they started leaping the barrier.
“Shit,” he cursed and rammed the gas pedal down. The big diesel revved back up and the Stryker accelerated. Two men who’d been fit and athletic before Delta had claimed them both leapt at the APC. Cobb winced at the sound of bone crunching from the impact. The four wheels on the left side bounced slightly as the men were crushed under the vehicle’s weight. He swerved further to the right and roared ahead.
They were the only two to reach him before he was past. Since he didn’t have a rear view, Cobb had no idea if they were following. The speedometer stayed at 45 mph, and he decided not to worry about it anymore as he drove on.
A little further north, Highway 481 paralleled Interstate 10, and he saw a truly horrific swarm. This one held thousands, all on the side road. He guessed they’d been on the interstate until some instinct made them all follow an exit. They heard the Stryker coming, and Cobb was forced to push the vehicle faster as the infected raced across the intervening field toward him. Speed considerably reduced fuel economy, and as he sped up, the ‘Fuel Low’ light came on, mocking him.
The swarm raced across the grass to the side of the freeway and hit the chain-link fence barrier en masse along a good distance. The first there tried to climb or jump the fence. Some made it; most didn’t. Those behind them hit so hard that Cobb saw blood fly from a hundred yards away. He thought the fence would hold. It didn’t—not against thousands of onrushing bodies—it collapsed in vast stretches. The infected who’d begun to climb were crushed to the ground and summarily trampled to death. Reduced in number by a few dozen, the horde advanced with frightening speed.
This time Cobb couldn’t get past before they reached the freeway. A modern barrier was along the right edge of the road, three heavy steel cables held up by posts every 50 yards and set in concrete each quarter mile. These modern barriers were more effective than the old steel guard rails, cheaper, and caused fewer fatalities. They also didn’t slow the infected more than a few steps. However, those few steps were enough for him to get past before 90% of the crowd reached the actual road.
By the dozens, they leapt the safety barrier and into his path, and, this time, it wasn’t a couple thumps and a bump or two under his wheels. They hit like an oncoming hailstorm, fast and hard. He grunted as the Stryker crashed into a wall of human flesh. The front of the APC was slanted, and he felt it ride up and over the meat and bone, and the speedometer slowed. It slowed a lot. They’re going to stop me, he realized.
Cobb jammed the throttle down, and the engine roared. The transmission downshifted, slowing him further as it fought the resistance. He slapped the controls, and it went from using the two rear wheels to the rear four. The Stryker jumped and lurched over a big pile of screaming, yelling infected. Fists pummeled weakly against the composite armor. Some hit the spots that had been damaged when he’d rammed the trailer. Those were much louder. He wondered what would happen if they stopped him. Would they pound on the sides until it failed, pry him out, and feast on him? Or would he just be trapped until his food and water ran out, and he was forced to open the door and shoot his way out?
Cobb didn’t like either of those options, so he kept his foot down and offered a silent prayer to whomever might be listening. The Stryker continued to lurch, slide, and jump as its 20-ton mass crushed dozens, then hundreds of infected. Then the Stryker gave one more heroic lurch, and he was clear. The wheels spun, covered in unimaginable gore as they found traction, and the Stryker began to pick up speed again. There were one or two more thumps, then nothing. He looked through the vision slits and saw the road was empty. He’d made it.
Cobb drove on, laughing until tears ran down his face. A mile onward he slowed it back to 45 and wiped his face. “Fatigue,” he said, alone in the driver’s compartment, “just fatigue.” But how many times would his luck hold out? The answer was five miles.
He’d just reached the top of the County Road 2169 overpass when he saw the bridge ahead. A two hundred-foot-long double concrete span which crossed the South Llano River. It was destroyed. Quite effectively, too. If he had to guess, Cobb figured it had been bombed. He cursed and looked at the GPS. It appeared 2169 went along the south side of the river for a thousand feet, then came to an older single metal span which crossed into the city of Junction. He’d meant to bypass the city by staying on the freeway. His luck hadn’t held.
Coming to a stop just past the top of the overpass, Cobb put the transmission into park and opened the hatch over his head for a look. Standing on the driver’s seat, he strained his eyes to the south. Was the bridge still there? He could see the structure, though not all of it. Next, he looked down. The river looked high. It wasn’t raining anymore, but in this part of Texas, when it rained it ended up in the river quickly. The Stryker could ford; it couldn’t swim. The approach down was dangerously steep on both sides. Getting stuck or rolling the Stryker was less than optimal.
Cobb looked back the way he’d come and was horrified to see a ragged line of infected jogging along. He felt like the Pied Piper of plague zombies. No wonder why he hadn’t seen any other cars! Driving just drew them like a moth to a flame. In a few minutes, they’d catch up. That made his decision for him. He dropped the hatch, settled back in the seat, and engaged the transmission. At the bottom of the overpass, he turned and headed down the ramp the wrong way. It gave him a small thrill of lawlessness. When he reached the bottom, he turned left and found several dozen cars and trucks abandoned. They all looked like they’d been attacked by herds of enraged rhinoceros.
“So that’s what happens when a swarm catches a car,” he said. Shielded from the rain under the overpass, many of the cars were still bloody messes. A skeleton sat in the driver’s seat of a semi-truck, half out the window, some flesh still clinging wetly to the bones. “Fuck,” he said as he picked a route though the mess. The Stryker pushed a mangled SUV to the side as it bulled its way through and left the carnage behind. The ground was littered with bones and still-shiny empty brass. Whoever it had been, they’d tried to fight.
Driving south on 2169 from under the overpass, he felt a thud on the roof. One of the infected must have jumped. He doubted the 30-foot fall had done the man or woman any good and drove on. The road dropped down a bit as it swung away from the interstate, and he could see some of the taller buildings of Junction. He wouldn’t call them high rises, but they were the biggest buildings he’d seen since he’d left Ft. Hood. Some were as much as 10 stories.
The road swung around to the right, and there was the bridge. An old metal trestle style, it probably predated the interstate. At first his heart sank. A huge gap of metal was missing from the top, near the center of the span. The remainder was twisted at odd angles and charred black. This bridge had been bombed as well. However, as he got closer, he saw the deck was intact. These kinds of bridges were harder to drop than concrete spans. As he drove closer he could remember a video of experts trying over and over to detonate a span in Ohio to drop in into the river, only to have the bridge stubbornly refuse to die.
* * *
On the final approach as he climbed up to the level of the bridge, he saw the deck was damaged after all. A hole, ten feet across, was torn through the concrete and steel. Risky, he thought as he examined it. Was the bridge’s structure compromised? He could drive out on it only to have the entire thing fold around him, taking the Stryker 50 or more feet to the water below. Trapped inside the APC and drowning seemed only marginally better than being eaten alive. Regardless, he didn’t stop as the vehicle rolled onto the span.
Cobb tried not to pay too much attention to the unnatural sway he felt as the 20-ton machine moved further and further away from the southern side. Right about now, he caught himself thinking, the main support will give way...only it didn’t. He maneuvered around the hole, which was one of the worst moments. The bridge shimmied but didn’t fail. He was past the impact point and onto the northern side, safe and sound.
He drove down the road, around a sloping corner, and onto a main street. He’d just rolled past a cross street when he realized what was just ahead. Another swarm, at least twice the size of the one back by the freeway. Thousands of eyes were looking at him with unnatural gazes. Cobb slammed on the brakes and the Stryker came to a stop. He could just see a pair of pickup trucks in the middle of the swarm and had time to wonder who the infected had just killed when the engine coughed once as the small amount of remaining diesel temporarily left the feed lies. Left was a courthouse, right a two-story parking garage. The swarm began to run, and he acted.
Cobb didn’t know why he went right, he just did. There probably wasn’t enough room to go left past the courthouse and the adjacent building anyway. The entrance to the parking garage had barely enough clearance for the Stryker. It was a miracle there was enough. The sign that whipped by said “Clearance 12’4”,” and he knew the Stryker was about ten and a half. He guessed the garage might hold county vehicles as well as court house traffic. Whatever the reason, he didn’t care; he just needed to get away from the swarm.
The enclosed space of the garage made the engine sound like the roar of a dinosaur as he shot through the bottom story. The back exit was lower. A lot lower. He immediately knew couldn’t make it through, and the entrance was probably filling with infected. The ramp was to the left. He turned, and the wheels squealed on the polished concrete, the Stryker actually drifting a little, and the engine sputtered again. Come on, he silently willed the machine, just a little more. The sign over the ramp up warned “Clearance 11 Feet!” He grimaced and drove. A second later the Stryker lurched with a bang, and he knew he’d just torn the .50 caliber machine gun from the turret. He didn’t care.
The Stryker came out of the ramp and did a little Dukes of Hazzard jump to land on the upper deck of the two-story parking garage. The entire structure shuddered from the 20-ton impact. Cobb hit the brakes and spun the wheel, bringing the Stryker around at the edge of the building. No more floors. Nowhere to go. In front of him was about 200 feet of empty parking garage deck, and a five-story building maybe 20 feet away from the edge. A lonely abandoned compact car was backed into a space facing him, the only thing that offered any shelter. He didn’t know what to do.
An infected leapt on the front of the Stryker, right before his eyes, and snarled in at him. He looked at his fate, glaring with hungry, insane eyes. Whang! A shot punched through the infected’s chest and bounced off the Stryker armor. The infected fell away and Cobb looked past to the adjacent building. Two floors higher, people were leaning out of a window, one with a rifle and tripod. They were gesturing for him to come. Seriously? Another infected jumped on the Stryker and was shot off the side.
Cobb turned and looked at the ramp he’d just come up, and into a river of bodies. “Oh, why the fuck not,” he thought, and hammered down the accelerator.
With four drive wheels engaged, the Stryker jumped ahead like a charging bull. It sputtered a couple times, then the turbo diesel found its second wind. Several more infected came around the ramp and leapt at the hurtling vehicle. He was only peripherally aware of it as the 200 feet of parking garage deck began to disappear at a frightening rate. The speedometer went from 10, to 20, to 30, and then 40 miles per hour as the engine gave every horse it had. As the machine sped, Cobb tightened his seat belt, and aimed for the compact car.
He hit at exactly 45 miles per hour, the shovel-shaped nose of the Stryker doing what he’d hoped it would, and while crushing the compact car, it also rode up it like an improvised ramp and exploded through the safety rail. In an instant he felt what no Stryker driver ever hoped to feel—air. He was airborne and sailing over open space. Cobb crossed his arms over his chest as he flew and got a brief look at the people who’d been beckoning to him. Their eyes were wide in astonishment as the massive armored vehicle cleared the 20 intervening feet.
As he was airborne, Cobb later realized he’d seen one other thing. A rope was stretched from the floors above to the parking garage deck by the people who’d been calling to him. Oh, he thought, that would have worked too. And then the Stryker hit the building.
* * *
“Soldier, can you hear me?” Cobb shook his head and instantly regretted it. Stars exploded behind his eyes. He realized he was lying down and tried to sit up. Powerful hands held him down. “Stay down, Army,” he heard a voice say. Considering how he said Army, probably a soldier. Cobb tried to open his eyes. They were sticky and slow to respond.
“You’ve got a lot of blood on your face,” a woman said. “Give me a minute to finish these stitches and I’ll clean it up.” Stitches?
“What happened?” Cobb asked. His mind was still rerunning events. Just then, he was back on the Interstate 10 overpass.
“You jumped a LAV-25 twenty feet off a parking garage into a building,” the man said, a laugh in his voice. “I knew you Army fuckers was crazy, but damn.” Cobb nodded slightly; now he remembered. The people in the window on the adjacent building. The rope.
I’m a fucking moron, he thought. LAV-25? He thought, running the nomenclature through his head. “How bad am I?” he asked, as he felt the sting of a needle in his forehead and thread being pulled through the skin. You don’t serve for 20 years in the Army and not become familiar with that feeling.
“Nothing broken,” the woman said. He felt a damp cloth moving back and forth across his face, and his vision cleared to see a slightly overweight man kneeling next to him. He was dressed in basic camos, but the shirt was open, and his chest was covered in bandages. He looked like he’d been through the ringer himself. His head was shaved under a ball cap, which sported a big USMC logo. That explained the LAV-25 comment—former Marine. “Your head hit the controls. How’s that now?” the woman asked. She was pretty and had a professional medical demeanor about her.
“Better,” he said, and looked down at the man’s hand resting on his chest. “Mind if I sit up now, sir?”
The Marine chuckled. “Sir? I never made it past staff sergeant, Colonel.” He held his hand out and Cobb sat up. His head spun, but the pain was less. Cobb looked around at his surroundings. It looked like an office, though a large one. He was on a couch against an interior wall. A window nearby showed a view of the city skyline. It was still light, so he hadn’t been out for long, though the sun seemed to be lower.
A door opened, and a slightly overweight, middle-aged man stuck his head in. “How’s he doing?”
“Going to be okay, I think,” the Marine said.
“Vance,” the woman said to the new arrival, “can you bring me a bottle of the sport drink from my backpack?”
“Can do,” the man said and left.
“You know we threw a rope over for you?” the Marine asked.
“Yeah, spotted it about halfway across the gap.” This time, he was the one to chuckle. “I didn’t set the building on fire, did I?”
“No,” the man said. “But it’s going to take a shit load of paint to fix it up again. You know this was a county court house; you’re probably in big trouble.” All three smiled at that. “I’m Harry Ross, USMC retired.” He offered a hand, and Cobb took the firm grip. “This is my wife, Belinda. She’s a trauma nurse.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, “just wish it was under better circumstances.” Her grip was quite serious as well. The two seemed a good fit.
“Don’t we all? Colonel Cobb Pendleton, recently reactivated US Army. I guess I’m in the III Corps now, since it was General Rose that put the silver on my shoulder. I was a Ranger before I got my DD-214.”
“Combat engineer, myself. You got more of a unit around here?” Harry asked.
“No, unfortunately. I was at Ft. Hood when it fell. Ended up helping the last of the evacuation planes take off as the perimeter was overrun.” He looked down at his now dirty and torn camo pants. They’d been new only a couple days ago, drawn from the supply room at Hood. “I had three with me and lost them one at a time.”
“Where were you going?”
“The evacuation was headed for Los Angeles. Comms are all fucked up, but we had some word they were holding out there. Seemed like a longshot, but what else was there? They left with three C-17s full of soldiers and dependents, some gunships, and Ospreys and stuff. There was no way anyone could come back for us; the helos and so forth had left hours earlier.”
“That sucks,” Harry said.
“Very brave of you,” Belinda added.
Cobb shrugged. “It’s the job.” Harry nodded. The door opened, and several people came in, the first being the man Belinda had called Vance. A younger dark-haired woman was right behind him. After that came a man probably the same age as Vance, or a bit older, then another woman with short brown hair who looked harried and beat. Harry looked back as they trooped in and began introductions.
“Everyone, this is Colonel Cobb Pendleton. Colonel, meet Vance Cartwright, the leader of our little group, and his wife Ann.” They both nodded, and Ann gave him a little smile. “That man there is Tim Price, probably one of the smartest men with a socket wrench I’ve ever met, and his wife Nicole.” More smiles and nods. “The colonel here was explaining how he ended up here.”
“Just Cobb is fine,” he said.
“Okay,” Harry said, and Cobb gave the Cliff Notes version of his story.
“How about you folks?” Cobb asked afterward. Belinda had given him a bottle of medical quality electrolyte drink and was watching him with a wary eye to be sure he drank it. Vance spoke up for them.
“I used to have a place not far from Tarpley, Texas,” he explained. “Made a lot of money in software and retired early. Always liked to be prepared, and, as I got older, it became sort of an obsession. Preppers, they call us. I always figured it would be a super volcano, a meteor, maybe a hyperinflation or civil war.” He chuckled. “More than a few of our friends prepped for a pandemic. I never gave that one too much thought. Wish I had now.”
“No one could have prepped for this thing,” Belinda said. Vance gave her a thankful smile.
“Well, after a while, one of those infected swarms found our property. They didn’t go away. Must have realized we were inside, because they just...hung around. Well, eventually they got into the house and we were trapped in the bunker underneath.” Bunker? Cobb thought, ooh boy. “Somehow, they even got through the lid I had on it.” He shrugged. “I’d planned to be able to fight an armed group, not a thousand cannibals. We had to bug out.”
“Those pickups out by the road,” Cobb said, remembering them. Vance nodded grimly.
“Spent a lot of money on ‘em. EMP-proof, snorkels to ford a river, backup electrical controls. Had almost 500 gallons of stabilized gas.” He snorted. “We barely got out with our lives. One of the trucks was messed up. We stopped to fix it, and another group attacked us.” Cobb noticed the women all looking down. “The dogs saved us, but then we had to kill them.” Cobb looked horrified. “The disease,” Vance explained, “Strain Delta, as the CDC called it. Any mammal is vulnerable.”
“I’m sorry about your dogs,” Cobb said.
“So are we,” Vance said. “Well, we moved on, heading west. We’d heard a group on the shortwave were near Fort Stockton, and we figured we had to go somewhere. Closer to hill country; at least there could be some places to hold up. We took to I-10 for a time, then came to the bridge here in Junction and saw it was shot out. Detoured through the city.” He took a break to get a drink of water from a canteen on his belt.
“Seemed okay here, so we parked and got out to check on the repairs. A few infected ran out of the businesses.”
“I shot one,” Belinda said, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t even think about it.”
“Not your fault,” Tim said. “It would have gotten me if you hadn’t.”
“Well,” Vance continued, “in seconds, the streets were full—thousands of them—coming from every direction. We couldn’t get away, so we grabbed as much as we could carry and came in here. It’s a newer legal annex. The walls are heavy brick, glass is all bulletproof, and the inside doors downstairs are steel. We’ve been here since last night.”
“Can we get back out, you think?” Cobb asked.
“Go see for yourself,” Harry said, and gestured to the window. Cobb got up and walked over. This wasn’t the window he’d seen his new hosts gesturing to him from. This was another floor up, by the looks of it, closer to the roof. He moved up to the glass and looked down. The rear 1/3 of his Stryker was sticking obscenely out the side of the building. He looked across and was amazed he’d flown so far in the huge machine. Then he saw the upper deck of the garage, choked with infected. Then the lower deck, also full. Then the grass between the buildings, the sidewalks, the street, the square for the courthouse...everywhere, it was crowded like New Year’s Eve in Times Square. He looked the other direction and saw the same. The building was surrounded by a sea of infected. There was no way out.
* * *
North Island Naval Air Station, Coronado CA
“Blow the charges!” Captain Nick Sharps bellowed over the constant popping of gunfire. A hundred yards away, a half a mile of det-cord connecting four hundred blocks of C4 explosive went off like a line of lighting across the ground. The detonations were nearly simultaneous as the result of 2 hours’ work came to a head. Sharps felt his teeth pull back from his lips as he pushed his will toward the hulking hangar buildings. “Fall, goddamn you!” he said with a visceral snarl. With a groan of failing structural steel, the hangars fell, one after another, leaning sideways to create a near wall of crumbled steel. A second later, the dust plume blasted over where he’d hunkered behind a redlined Sea Dragon.
The pouring rain quickly beat the dust down to reveal a less than perfect obstruction. Sharps ran a practiced eye over it for obvious weak spots. “Gunny!” be barked to his senior gunnery sergeant.
“Captain?”
“Get a couple sappers and set claymores there,” he pointed, “there, and there.” The older man looked, rain pouring off his Kevlar.
“How about that spot there, sir, by the truck?”
“Outstanding, Gunny, do it.”
“Yes sir. Lee, Cooper, grab some boom and let’s move! Captain wants us to rig party favors.”
Sharps looked up as an Osprey banked in and made a non-standard landing. You weren’t supposed to hot-land the V-22 like that. Several had been lost in exercises flying the tricky craft in such a manner. Frankly, he currently had zero fucks to give. The rear door was already half lowered, and as soon as the wheels were down, Marines were coming out dragging, pushing and shoving ammo crates. At least several cases of M16 rifles were there too, as well as a couple M240s. That was good, because they’d lost some weapons. Nothing was made for continuous fire like that.
Two hundred meters down the taxiway, another Osprey was setting down; this one held the rest of Company C as well as four desperately-needed M2 .50 caliber machine guns. Sharps gave a savage smile and nodded. Can’t bomb the fuckers, Madam President? No problem, we’ll just machine gun the fuck out of them. They had to have killed a couple thousand already. How many more could there be on the island? The copilot of the Osprey that’d brought the ammo was waving to him. Sharps ran over so he could be heard.
“Navy just called, the Reagan is out of it.”
“The fuck you say, Lieutenant?!”
“I am not kidding, sir. Something happened, an outbreak. Reagan is adrift and not responding to comms. Their airborne elements are in deep shit. One of their Hornet squadron COs told me to tell you, sir, that you need to be prepared to receive his birds on the deck in five minutes. They have nowhere to land.”
“These fucked-up comms are about to give me a case of the red ass,” Sharps said as he jogged away from the Osprey. The twin-engine tilt-rotor revved up and rolled away to do a signature short-takeoff, returning to the Essex for more gear. Small arms and ammo they had plenty of; more men was another matter. He went about continuing to secure the end of the island and set up fortified positions until he got a radio call from his comms specialist in the command LAV-25.
“Captain, I just got a garbled signal from a Navy Seahawk. LCAC 20 is aground on the San Diego side of the waterway.”
“Well what the fuck does the Navy expect us to do about it?”
“Nothing, sir. But the pilot said that bridge across the bay has thousands of infected on it. Tens of thousands. They’re coming this way.”
Nick saw the map of the island clearly in his mind’s eye from the hurried mission brief aboard Essex, just minutes before the first LCAC had slid from her well deck. The bridge came in between the amphibious base and the airfield. Son of a bitch.
“Ted!” he called for his XO, Lt. Ted Hirt.
“Sir?” Nick gestured for the younger man to come over into the partial cover from the rain inside the door of an LAV. He pulled a map from his sealed thigh pocket and opened it for Ted to see. “Assign a squad to take the assault LAV, haul ass down Ocean Blvd. here,” he pointed. “Colonel Alinsky is setting up demo here,” he pointed again. “He must be told that he’s about to be cut off from us, and the carrier is down, so we’re losing Navy CAS. Have you got that?” The lieutenant’s eyes were wide.
“Yes sir,” he said. “Hell of a way to run a war.”
“Got that right, now move it!” As soon as the lieutenant was moving, Sharps called to the commanders of the other LAVs. “Reposition, we’re expecting heavy inbound.” Now he had to get the company resupplied before the wave hit. They’d been constantly engaged now for more than four hours.
* * *
Columbia River Channel, Cape Disappointment, WA
Against the recommendation of CWO Manning and the Manual of Operations, Captain Grange weighed anchor and got Boutwell back underway. The repair was well underway, but still hours from completion. The last thing she wanted was to get caught at anchor again and have someone start shooting at them. Manning assured her the other engine was running well, so she made the call.
Boutwell made a steady 10 knots up the Columbia. Grange kept them at General Quarters, considering the earlier attack. The current was slow, so most of their speed was headway.
The river quickly narrowed to 1,000 feet at several points, and they passed several of the small- and medium-sized islands characteristic of the Columbia River. It was those islands that’d brought her there, based on General Rose’s orders. A base of operations in a strategic location. The general had given her two locations to scout out. The first was a pair of islands—Hayden Island and Governor Island—in the river between Washington and Oregon. Potentially defendable, with infrastructure, power generation, and facilities to allow them to expand. The other was the chain of islands in the Harrow Straight, north of Seattle. Both were only hours away from the flotilla for relocation. Though Portland was generally less desirable, it was closer, so they were stopping there first.
The ship came around an easterly turn, staying to the center of the channel, with Gull Island and Crims Island off the starboard. Bradbury Slough was a small channel which cut around the south side of the island, only useful for small craft. Grange’s attention was drawn to the north shore, where a bulk grain hauler was aground, and not toward the slough they were passing, so she missed the go-fast boats.
“Boats astern!” was the call over the intercom. “Starboard astern!” Grange spun and looked at the speaker, then ran to the starboard bridge wing. From the Slough, two low, sleek, and powerful speedboats were roaring toward them.
“Starboard .50 caliber!” she yelled back into the bridge. “Warning burst between the boats.”
“Warning shots, aye, aye!”
The M2 .50 caliber chugged a burst of five shots. The first round hit the water 100 yards in front of and between the two boats, each successive shot walking back so that it effectively worked a line past them. The last round hit the water just as the go-fast boats left the Slough, and really accelerated.
Grange knew perfectly well how fast that type of speedboat could be. Drug interdiction was part of their mission. The speed of the boats was the reason they carried the HH-65 Dolphin helicopter. Only she didn’t have a pilot for the craft; she’d died in the same outbreak that had taken the captain’s life, weeks ago.
The two speedboats turned to come up on either side of Boutwell. As they approached the stern of the Boutwell, they opened fire. Machine gun fire walked up the side of the venerable cutter, bouncing off the steel superstructure and shattering windows. Grange and everyone in the bridge ducked as rounds tore through.
“Return fire,” Grange ordered.
“Port .50 caliber not reporting!” The starboard gun roared to life, tracers walking in on the go-fast, which dodged. The bridge crew began slamming the metal shutters in place as Grange got a look at the one racing by to port. Seven or eight men were aboard the boat, all in black camo and helmets, the same as the ones in the SUVs back at the lighthouse. You bastards again.
“Radar contact,” the operator said. “Range: five miles dead ahead.”
“Fire control,” Grange order, “Bushmasters, both sides.”
The go-fasts realized they’d overplayed their hand and tried desperately to avoid as the 25mm Bushmasters came alive and began to roar. In a few seconds, both were torn apart.
“We’re being targeted!” the radar operator barked. Then a second later, “Incoming missile!”
The Boutwell’s missile defenses were automated. As soon as a threat was detected, the Phalanx CIWS, or Sea-whiz, came alive. Mounted on the aft deck, almost on the stern to give it a wide area of fire, the six-barrel 20mm autocannon fired 75 rounds per second. Once a target was designated by the ship’s radar, the Sea-whiz did all the rest itself, firing in a sustained burst like a buzz saw. The Hellfire missile was swatted from the sky half a mile out.
“Intercept,” the weapons officer reported.
“Radio, anything?” Grange asked.
“Negative contact.”
“Contact now three miles.”
“Another missile!”
“Sea-whiz engaging.”
The line of fire blazed past the bridge and another missile exploded. Ahead of the ship, a helicopter was visible two miles away as it turned.
“Target identified!” the radar operator said. “It’s an Apache. Why are they firing at us?”
“I don’t know,” Grange said. “Bring Oto on line. Target that helicopter.” On the foredeck the turret spun around and leveled. “Fire.” Boom, boom, boom! The 76mm cannon fired three rounds, two of which slapped the Apache from the sky and turned it into a spinning ball of fire. “But I’d like to know what the fuck is going on,” she said as the burning wreck fell into the river. “Damage report.”
The attack by the go-fasts had killed both men on the port .50 caliber and ruined the gun. Three other crewmembers were injured, and one of the two RHIBs had been shredded by gunfire. Medics tended to the injured, and damage control saw to sealing the shot-out windows. Boutwell was starting to look worse for wear. She wasn’t intended to be a warship.
“Should we turn around?” the helmsman asked.
“No,” Grange said. “Someone doesn’t want us here, and I’d like to know why.” She did order a somewhat slower speed, though. Half an hour later, CWO Manning surprised her.
“Engine number two is back up,” he said, coming onto the bridge while wiping oily hands on a rag.
“That’s way ahead of schedule,” Grange said. “Well done.”
“One of the mates figured out how to do it without draining the oil.”
“Put that man in for a commendation,” she said with a huge grin, then the smile faded as she remembered that there might well be nobody left in DC. “Anyway, thank you for the extra effort.”
Boutwell was considerably more maneuverable with both engines, and Grange felt less worried about what might be ahead as the deck rumble from both engines became more familiar. “Keep Oto on standby,” she ordered, and left the bridge windows shuttered. They piloted by radar and through the 1-inch slits in the armor instead. She was tired of getting shot at and ready to find out who’d been attacking them. They increased to 20 knots.
The ship navigated around Barlow point, a shallow turn to port, and the city of Longview was just ahead. There was also a group of ships in the channel.
“What the hell is that?” the helmsman asked. At least ten huge barges were joined to create a massive hauler. The entire thing was being moved by a trio of equally large ocean-going tugs. Radar indicated they were managing 2 knots at best, and even from a mile away Grange could see rooster tails behind the tugs, a clear sign they were laboring under a tremendous load. In the center of the barges sat what she thought at first was some sort of animal.
“Give me those glasses,” Grange said, holding her hand out. She took the powerful binoculars and focused them through the slit. It clipped the view slightly. The thing was shaped a little like a whale, but it was many times larger than the biggest whale she’d ever heard of—at least 450 feet long, and half that wide. It was sleek-looking, with a silvery finish that caught the afternoon light, even through the low clouds. She thought she could see features, maybe seams or windows? “It’s some kind of a ship, or a submarine.” She could see people on the barge, men in black camo pointing at the Boutwell.
“Missile lock!” the radar operator yelled. “Oh shit, multiple missile lock!’
“Helm, bring us around hard to starboard,” Grange ordered. “Flank speed!”
“I have five inbound missiles.”
The nimble cutter’s engines belched black smoke as her rudder was thrown over, and she leaned hard as she turned. The Sea-whiz growled. Grange went to the port side and looked out. A flash was an intercepted missile. The Sea-whiz spun and fired again, again, and again. Then a burst stopped halfway through.
“It’s out of ammo,” the weapons officer said. Grange’s jaw set as she got an instant view of the missile, a blur across the sky as it dove on Boutwell and exploded.
* * *
North Island Naval Air Station, Coronado CA
The flight of four Marine Viper AH-1Z helicopter gunships shot over the North Island Naval Air Station fields at 200 knots. Some of the Marines on the ground waved as the helicopters shot past, but most were too busy. Dozens of heavy machines were moving, frantically clearing the main runway and one taxiway. It was now common knowledge why the effort was being put forth. Three planeloads of survivors from Hawaii, and the President of the United States. Feelings were mixed.
As the Viper passed the lines of Marines digging in under sheets of pouring rain, the town of Coronado came into view. Even in the rain there were fires started by the earlier bombings, before they were called off. The town was alive with movement, streaming down off the Coronado Bridge and into the town to flow toward the airfield and all the activity. A tsunami of infected.
“Sector seven,” the flight leader said, and the helicopters swung in unison onto a path crossing the tidal wave of infected on their march toward the airbase. “Fire when ready.”
Firing in sequence they rained a line of 2.75” anti-personnel rockets along a quarter-mile long path of destruction. Lacking the high explosive warheads, they used massive amounts of shrapnel to rend gashes in the advancing lines. Each Viper carried 76 Hydra rockets, for a total of 304. The strafing run killed and maimed more than a thousand infected. It slowed them only slightly.
Finishing their run, the helicopters spun back around and flew the same route on the return, though slightly closer to the Marine’s defensive line. This time their three-barrel 20mm chain guns rained high-velocity lead into the advancing infected. Each helicopter carried 750 rounds, adding another 3,000 shots into the already devastated town. Buildings were torn apart, abandoned cars shredded, former humans reduced to twitching projectiles of meat and bone.
Their guns empty and rocket pods depleted, the helicopters banked back toward the Essex to rearm. The problem was, they’d just fired the last of the anti-personnel rockets in the ship’s stores. There were more than a thousand M261 high explosive rockets, and they were forbidden to use them. It would take an hour for them to travel to the carrier, land, refuel and rearm, and return. In that time, the infected would be to the perimeter. Meanwhile, thousands more poured across the bridge. Reluctantly, the Viper returned to base.
“That’s the last of the anti-personnel rockets,” Lieutenant Hirt said. Captain Sharps nodded. He’d heard the same radio message from the gunships. Already infiltration across the no man’s land between the last of the residential area and their improvised line was picking up. In half an hour, it would become a flood.
“Everyone loaded up?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” Hirt replied. “Every man has as many mags as he has places to carry them, and we’ve stocked the first fallback point with piles of magazines.”
“Good. We have about 30 minutes before the shit really hits the fan. Have Company C relieve Company B so they can grab a meal bar and a drink for five minutes, then reverse for the same. Make sure everyone gets a bite, takes a dump, whatever they need.” He looked at his watch and consulted his notes. Behind him the construction crew was just finishing up on the taxiway. “The first C-130 will be down in 20 minutes. Have the LCAC come all the way up to the end of the taxiway.” The lieutenant nodded; they’d gone over it already. “And for God’s sake, don’t let the people on that Hercules screw around. Move them off as fast as you can.”
“I should be here with you and the rest of the company.”
“I need someone I can trust shepherding the sheep,” he said. “Now see to the men.”
* * *
Colonel Alinsky hadn’t stopped cursing for two hours. First the battalion transmitter in his LAV went out, then they’d been constantly harassed by infected, and then this god-forsaken rain had come in. He’d hoped it would provide some cover for their movements; instead the infected seemed almost telepathic concerning the Marines’ movements and whereabouts.
The construction equipment they’d taken from the amphib base wasn’t in good repair. He’d brought twice as much as he’d though would be required, and most of it was already broken down. They’d picked the narrowest spit of land as close to their debarkation point as possible. The plan was simple; dig a big ass trench, set demolition charges, blow the fuck out of it. This part of the island was just sand, so the result would be a water filled passage cutting the lower approach to Coronado. He had a truck with razor wire, just drive it across and it would unload. Add few hundred claymores, and it would be death to anyone, or anything, that tried to cross it.
The echoing crump, crump of exploding ordnance had stopped some time ago. They could still hear the roar of Viper chain guns and Super Hornet fighters, but no bombs. He narrowed his eyes as rain poured off his Kevlar. Something had gone sideways.
“We’re about ready to start laying explosives,” Major Hartman said. The nearest M240 rattled, chewing up a group of infected making a run at the trench. If he had a dozen of the guns and the ammo for them, he could stand off ten thousand here. Narrow approach, no cover—it was a killing zone. Might as well wish for wings, he thought. Marines worked with what they had, not what they wanted.
“Colonel!” one of the sentries was running over. “LAV coming down from the north.”
“Fuck,” Alinsky spat. There was only one reason Capt. Hirt, who he’d put in charge of the airbase, would send an LAV. It wouldn’t matter that Alinsky was out of comms, the primary mission was more important. Something was indeed very wrong.
“Roger that,” he told the corporal, “return to your post.” The young noncom saluted and ran back to the rear-guard position just as the LAV roared up off the road to the staging area where Alinsky’s trucks loaded with explosives waited. The hatch popped, and he recognized Sergeant Treymore from Company C. He ran over and saluted. “What fucked up, Sergeant?” The sergeant took out a laminated map and started showing the battalion commander just what had gone wrong.
“How long ago?” he asked the sergeant.
“About 30 minutes, sir. We had to practically swim to get to you.” He gestured to the LAV. Water was pouring off it from the rain, and it made red rivers down the beach. Alinsky could see pieces of skin and bone stuck to the armor, and what looked like a hand jammed into the suspension. “We finally had to drive down the beach or give up. I’m sorry, but you’re already cut off.”
“Good,” the colonel said. The sergeant’s eyes went wide with surprise. “Then we attack the infected from their flank.” The look of surprise turned to a predatory grin.
“Yes sir,” he said.
“Paul!” Alinsky yelled to his XO who was by his side in an instant. “Drop this operation. Leave a squad with a Humvee to set claymores as they can on tripwire, then try and follow us. Then find Gunny McComb, tell him I need six detonators rigged ASAP.”
* * *
Commander Michael “Shrek” Gorski looked down and regretted the decision to fly to Coronado when the Reagan went shit-side-up. The field was nearly open; he could see that from 10,000 feet, even if the comms were still for shit. What he also saw on radar was four planes coming in from the west. That would be three C-130s full of dependents and service staff and the E4B with POTUS and at least some of the general staff aboard. Fuck.
“Bar closed, boys,” he said over the squadron channel. “Sound off! Who has more than 20 minutes’ fuel left?” Not many responded. “Everyone with the time, head for the Ford. Just heard they’ll be open for business in 15 minutes. The rest of you line up just off shore, and we’ll see if they can get the trash haulers on the deck before we’re sucking vapors.”
“I already have a caution light, skipper,” one of his pilots called in.
“Me too,” another said.
And me, Gorski thought. No good options. They couldn’t risk a problem on landing with the big lumbering beasts only minutes out. If more than one runway was open...but there wasn’t. “Everyone almost out, follow me. The rest, proceed as instructed.”
He peeled off to the west, airspeed down as low as he could get it, slowly bleeding off altitude to cruise as far as he could. Point Loma was falling away behind him, and radar showed the nearest ship five miles out, with the George Washington seven miles away. They’d taken over flight ops after Reagan went down. Gorski checked his fuel gauge and watched it until it read zero. That’s it, he thought. He radioed his squadron. “See you in the pool.” He switched channels. “George Washington, George Washington, this is Camelot One Zero One, I am ejecting, repeat I am ejecting.”
At that moment, there was a shudder and one of the turbines began to spin down, followed quickly by the other. Warning lights flashed like Christmas morning, then the panel went dark. He reached back over his head, grabbed the yellow rope handle, and pulled hard. With a blast, the canopy blew and was instantly sucked away by the wind stream. A half second later, the rockets under his seat ignited, and he was blasted into the sky.
Rockets expended, the seat released him as he spun clear. Gorski got a fleeting glimpse of his $30-million-dollar fighter beginning to spin down toward the cloud deck before his chute drogue deployed. A moment later he was snapped like the end of a bullwhip as the canopy unfurled, then he was drifting down toward the clouds. He swallowed hard from the pain in his lower back and consoled himself with the fact that it was better than ditching. Soon enough he’d have a nice cool swim, and he hoped that the SAR folks would find him. For now, he was out of the fight.
* * *
Lieutenant Commander Mike “Dumbo” Davis listened to the sounds of his squadron-mates ejecting one after another just a few miles away with a feeling of utter helplessness. Flying over the Reagan, he watched a pair of Seahawk helicopters circling and looking for survivors, which didn’t help. Carl Vinson and George Washington were launching more search and rescue helicopters for the crews going down. He silently offered prayers for them.
“Ford is 20 miles out,” Lieutenant Commander Alice “Taz” Cox, his weapon systems officer, or wizzo, said. They’d been flying together as a crew on the F/A-18F, the two-seater variant of the F/A-18, for almost a year. Davis’ wife hadn’t been happy that he had a female wizzo, but she’d finally adjusted. Davis noted that Taz sounded a little off.
“Are you okay?” Davis asked.
“I don’t feel very well. Probably shouldn’t have eaten that sandwich before we took off again,” she said. Davis looked down where he still had his own sandwich. As much as he’d wanted to eat it, there hadn’t been enough time since they’d catapulted from the Reagan, before all hell broke loose on the carrier. He checked the beacon from Ford and verified his course.
“Grraaah” came over the radio.
“Who was that?” he replied.
“I couldn’t tell,” came one of the other fighters with him. Davis craned his head left and right, then saw one of the planes in his group plunging toward the ocean.
“It’s Thompson!” another flight member said. “He just suddenly lost control.”
“Did you see anything?” he asked Cox on the intercom. “Hey, Cox, you awake back there?” He looked up at the little curved mirror on the side of the cockpit that let him see to the rear. All he could see was her head slumped forward. “Alice! Talk to me. You okay?” The helmet moved slightly. “Taz, say something?”
“Haggh,” she gurgled. Davis felt his blood run cold.
“Oh, God, no.” Her head shot up, and her eyes locked with his in the mirror. They were wide with rage. What he could see of her face above the oxygen mask was twisted and...wrong. In an instant she was lunging at him, reaching around his seat, fingers clawing for his throat.
Davis had nowhere to go. He pushed forward, and the movement jarred the stick, pushing them into a dive. Cox was screaming and snarling, reaching for him. She had unlocked her harness and removed her gloves before the virus took her, and had now somehow gotten her harness unfastened. There wasn’t enough room to actually get over the seat at him, but she was still doing a lot of damage with bare hands. In a moment she’d ripped his oxygen mask away and was ripping at his skin.
“Camelot One Zero Nine, my wizzo is...Alice no!” Davis never finished the call. Lieutenant Commander Alice Cox managed to hook her hands through Davis’ ejection handle and pull with enough force to trigger it. The canopy blew away. She was half sucked out of the cockpit a heartbeat before her ejection seat fired, nearly tearing her in half. Davis’ own seat ejected, slamming into her body as well, killing Commander Mike Davis. Pilotless, the F/A-18F spun toward the ocean below.
* * *
“Mr. Osborne, are you serious?” Captain Gilchrist was watching in the electronics room as several of his guests worked on what they claimed was an alien starship.
“Dead serious, Captain,” Jeremiah said. “As I explained, we found one just like it back before the plague set in. The engine inside is what we used on our ship.”
“And you flew it faster than light?”
“No,” Jeremiah said, “they did.” He gestured at Alex West and Alison McDill. He’d decided to leave out the part where the pair had destroyed the International Space Station.
“Frankly, mister, I’m inclined to think this is all bullshit.” The captain crossed his hands over his chest and observed. A dozen technicians from the Ford were also watching as Alison spent a minute improvising tools from the available equipment. She was incredibly fast and knowledgeable about electronics, and, as Jeremiah had already noted, she’d done this before.
“We’re ready to open it,” West said, and the captain came closer. He and Alison ran a hand-held probe along the shiny surface of the ship, found a point, and there was a ping sound. They moved, and it happened again, and again. After the sixth one, a piece of the ship’s skin popped free and floated about a millimeter above the surface. West reached in and plucked it away. Gilchrist leaned a little forward and saw an opening with strange blue-glowing cylinders inside. Alison and West grinned at each other.
“Bingo,” she said.
“How long were you planning on keeping this from the military?” Gilchrist said, his eyes narrowed at Jeremiah.
“Frankly, we found the first one with help from NASA, and I’ve been trying to get back in touch with them since the day I found it.” Gilchrist started to ask something, but a young sailor trotted up and spoke to him. After a second, the captain turned back to them. “The situation is devolving fast,” he told them. “I’m still not convinced this is going to work. How long are you going to need?”
Alison pulled one of the formerly-glowing modules from inside the ship and examined it. “We have the control module cobbled together,” she said. “It won’t be as delicate and effective as the one we made for Azanti.”
Captain Gilchrist gave Jeremiah a look.
“That’s what we named the ship they took into space,” Jeremiah explained. He shrugged. “It’s a long story.”
“Please proceed with all haste,” the captain urged.
Everyone who wasn’t involved in the process—everyone except Alison and West—watched while the two mated the alien device to some human-manufactured electronics. “Now some power,” Alison said, and one of the Ford’s technicians shook his head as he handed her a simple 9-volt battery.
“That is what powers it?” Gilchrist asked in surprise.
“Yes,” West replied. “We went faster than the speed of light with a 9-volt battery.”
Alison finished making connections. “We’re good.”
“We’ll get that beast off the deck,” West said.
“With all due respect,” Andrew Tobin said, “that’s USAF property. I’ll take care of it.” He’d been at the back of the bay watching with interest.
“And with all due respect,” West countered, “you don’t understand the control processes. We do.”
“Captain?” Andrew asked. The captain looked at the device they’d cobbled together. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a failed high school science experiment, or a prop from a Dr. Who episode from the 1970s.
“We just need it off the deck safely,” Gilchrist explained, “if you can...float it, over to the side and sit it in the water, we’ll have a SAR helicopter pluck you both off before it can sink.”
“Captain,” Alison said, “with that battery we can float it there for a couple years. For that matter, we can just follow along behind you, if you want.”
“To the side, please. We’ll have planes landing from behind.” West nodded. Alison waited. “Fine, do it. Move.”
“Do you need to know how to power it up?” Andrew asked.
“Nope, we can run this from anywhere on the bird,” West said.
“As long as we can put it in contact with the metallic structure of the plane,” Alison reminded him. “However this drive field works, it requires a metallic structure to operate.”
“Go!” Gilchrist ordered. West and Alison took off without another word.
“Captain?” Gilchrist turned to find Commander James Young in a flight suit.
“Commander?” the captain asked, surprised to see the other man so attired.
“Sir, we know the Marines are in trouble. I have both F-35s fueled, armed, and waiting by the elevator. The shooter says he can have us on the cat in five minutes, if you give us the go.”
“Us? You’re the only Lightning-qualified pilot on board.”
“Actually, Tobin here worked on the development of the F-35A.”
“He’s never done a carrier shot.”
“No, you’re right,” Andrew said, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t.” Gilchrist stared at Andrew, who met it unflinchingly.
“And what about a landing?” Andrew’s lips made a thin line before he spoke.
“Does that really matter?”
“I would think so, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, those Marines need help, badly. Help that a helicopter can’t deliver. Heavy iron help.”
“The POTUS has forbidden—”
“The president isn’t here, sir!” Andrew exclaimed more sharply than he’d intended.
Gilchrist’s eyes narrowed. “I understood from Rose you saved their asses. I also understand you were in custody, something about disobeying orders in the sandbox?” Tobin didn’t answer, he just stood at attention. “If two Lightnings happen to be fully armed when they leave the flight deck, I don’t know shit. Is that understood?”
“Yes sir,” Tobin said.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Young said, and the two pilots left in a hurry.
“I didn’t think he’d approve it,” Andrew said.
“He didn’t,” Young replied. “He’s just not going to stop us.” Young came up short at a phone, punched a number, and waited a second. “Bowers?” Someone answered. “Yeah, we’re a go. Get them up to the flight deck ASAP.” He hung up and resumed.
“What would we have done if the captain said no?”
“We’d have tried to launch anyway,” Young said.
Andrew laughed. “I’m beginning to like you Navy boys.”
“No long, romantic showers. That stuff’s all a lie.”
As they walked toward the flight deck, Young went over all the various steps of a catapult launch. He’d gone over them before, when the two had first conceived their plan, but Andrew didn’t complain. He didn’t want to let on he was scared shitless. He didn’t know why, but it was infinitely worse than landing. Maybe because he knew what was coming in full detail. All Air Force pilots knew about carrier landings. They watched plenty of videos, especially the takeoffs that went wrong. And Ford had only launched with its EMALS, electromagnet aircraft launch system, under carefully controlled-test environments.
The two pilots reached the flight deck. Already the two F-35s were being towed off the elevator. He thought they looked strange with their wings folded up, something the F-35A wasn’t equipped to do; it was an adaptation the Navy needed to make the fighters fit in the cramped environment of a carrier.
“You ready for this?” Young asked, smiling.
“No,” Andrew admitted. Young laughed and slapped him on the back.
“Just remember what I said, and don’t forget the flight deck is only 250 feet wide. Keep it slow until it’s time to catapult.”
“Can we just call it takeoff?”
“Sure. Good luck.”
“You too.”
“This way, sir,” a sailor with a brown vest said. He was led to the plane, its steps open and waiting. He handed the helmet to the man in brown and climbed up. The cockpit, at least, looked the same as the simulator.
“I can do this,” he said.
“Yes you can, sir,” the man said as Andrew slid down into the snug cockpit. His left leg stump pained him a bit, as it always did, until he was settled in. The pedals under his feet didn’t take much force to operate, which was why he was still qualified to fly. He wasn’t sure he could still be a pilot if helicopters had been his thing. “I’ll give you the signal when you’re clear to start, sir,” the man said, hooking up Andrew’s mask. “Good luck.” Andrew nodded distractedly. The man climbed down, and he was alone.
Young had given him a thigh board with all the checklists he’d need. The first one was startup. He quickly ran through the last few steps not completed by the ground crew. In a second, the turbine began to whine to life. Once the engine speed was at idle, he activated the controls that brought the wings down. They descended smoothly and locked in place with a couple of smooth clunks. In front of the plane, a man in a yellow vest was holding his hands up. Andrew gave him a salute, and the man started guiding him. Andrew released the brake and gave the Lightning a little power. He was moving.
* * *
West and Alison scrambled up the hi-lo lift the carrier crew had put under the huge C-17’s fuselage for them so they could reach the boarding door. As soon as they were inside, the lift started to go down.
“Do we need to move the chocks?” one of the men in a yellow vest yelled a question up at him.
“Not necessary,” West yelled back. The confused look on the man’s face made West laugh as he closed the door.
“What’s so funny?” Alison asked.
“Everyone who wasn’t in the meeting is in for a huge surprise,” he said. “Let’s wire this damned thing into the cockpit so we can see where we’re going. Are you sure it’s going to work?”
“Pretty sure,” she said.
“What?”
“Reasonably sure,” she added.
“We’ve been through too much to be trolling each other,” West said.
Up in the cockpit, they spent a frantic minute finding an open structural member. West ended up having to yank a panel cover clear. Alison used some conductive paste she’d taken from the Ford’s electronics shop and smeared it liberally on the metal before using duct tape to attach the alien/human hybrid drive. The controller was a PlayStation controller with an extra-long cord, donated by an electrician. She handed it to West.
“Okay,” she said. She reached over and flipped a switch. “It’s live.”
West looked down at the joystick and made a face. “It’s configured like the one on Azanti, right?”
“Yep,” she said.
“Okay,” he replied, and touched the forward control. The C-17 rocketed off the end of the carrier like a missile launch.
“Shiiiiitttt!” Alison screamed as she watched out the front window, eyes wide in terror. Just as before, they didn’t feel any of the acceleration, but the blast of wind against the plane’s fuselage hit their ears like a bomb.
“Sorry!” he apologized. “Calibration must be off.”
“Ship!” she screamed while pointing out the cockpit, this time with an obvious edge of panic in her voice.
“Gah!” West said unintelligibly as he worked the joystick, but gently this time. The nose of the C-17 angled up and he had a hair-raising view of a massive tanker flashing by incredibly close underneath. They continued to angle upward as he both reduced the speed and banked them to the left. Alison was frantically buckling into the engineer’s seat. “Why bother?” he asked.
“And what happens if that cobbled-together alien mashup suddenly shorts out?”
West glanced at her, and she gave him a ‘Well?’ look. A second later, he set the controller on his knee, reached over to the controls, and started the auxiliary power unit. “Not a lot of fuel,” he said. “It’s just as well we only need it for the generators.”
“So now what?” she asked after they’d turned around and were flying back toward the Ford at a far less insane speed. He got the gear retracted, then shrugged.
“I guess we’ll make contact and see if there’s anything we can do.”
* * * * *
