Crossbones (15 page)

Eventually, William was lured into Boston, his enemies proclaiming that all had been a misunderstanding and forgiveness awaited. Kidd and his wife were immediately imprisoned, their family fortune seized. Although Sarah was released to spend her days in poverty, William was shipped to England, tried for piracy and murder, and executed. After his death, Kidd's body was placed in an iron cage and hung over the Thames to rot, displayed as a warning to others. He was fifty-six.

Elizabeth sipped carefully at her coffee, trying to move her face
as little as possible. Once, before the world had gone mad, she'd been planning to write a book about her ancestor, something to pass the time after she retired. That no longer seemed likely.

Most people knew nothing about William's lackluster career as a pirate, but they had heard the tales of his treasure, and that was what caused the legend to grow and live on. Indeed, some of what he had hidden was found on Gardiner's Island while Kidd was still alive, and was dug up and sent to England. Rumors of vast riches persisted through the centuries, however: tales of gold bars, Spanish coins, and jewels, all hidden away by a genuine American pirate.

Liz smiled, and scratched Blackbeard behind the ears. The cat had appeared silently and unnoticed in her lap, the way cats often did. She stared at the painting. Hidden chests of coin were of small interest to Liz. Her affinity, especially now, was for the man and the troubles he had faced: a captain who believed in honor and duty, falsely accused and unable to defend himself, cast in a role for which he did not ask and threatened by the betrayal and disobedience of an undisciplined crew. The parallels couldn't be sharper.

Of course he hadn't had to contend with the walking dead, she thought, sipping her coffee too quickly and wincing. Blackbeard looked up and meowed softly.

Two sharp knocks came at her door, and Liz moved to it, drawing her pistol. “Who is it?”

“Ensign Liggett, ma'am.”

Liz checked the peephole to ensure Amy was alone, then let her in. “Take a seat,” she said, returning to her chair. Blackbeard had gone to hide under the bed. “What can I do for you?”

Amy looked at the bandage on her commanding officer's face and flushed. “I want to apologize for my earlier actions. I never should have put down my weapon. I should have listened to you.”

Liz gave her a nod, her voice coming out tightly because talking hurt. “I'm confident you understand. As far as I'm concerned, that aspect of this incident is behind us.”

Amy thanked her. “Ma'am, may I ask why I'm still executive officer when Lieutenant Riggs is senior to me by two ranks?”

“Because he's part of the air division,” Liz said, “and therefore cannot be the XO of a seagoing vessel. Is there anything else?”

The younger woman hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Captain, what are you going to do with Seaman Henry?”

“I'm going to hang him, of course.”

Amy blinked, then stumbled over her words. “How . . . why, but . . .”

“It's mutiny, Amy,” Liz said. “Article ninety-four of the UCMJ. The penalty is death.” She pushed her copy of the Uniform Code of Military Justice across the table, the book open to the section she had been highlighting.

Amy took a deep breath. “I'm aware of the article, ma'am.”

Liz nodded again. “You're right out of the academy; the lessons should be fresh.” She gave the girl a lopsided smile. “Go ahead and make your case, Ensign. As my executive officer you should be prepared to disagree with me and articulate your argument. In private, of course,” she added.

“Yes, ma'am. Captain, a charge of mutiny or sedition requires a conspiracy, an acting-in-concert. Seaman Henry acted alone.”

“As far as we know. Go on.”

Amy tapped the book. “Such a charge requires a review by the Judge Advocate General's office. . . .”

“They are unavailable.”

“At the very least,” Amy went on, “a general court-martial. He's entitled to a fair trial, representation by counsel, and a chance to cross-examine witnesses.”

Liz reached out and closed the book. “Very well spoken, Amy. Your file said that you received high marks in legal studies, and it shows. Well done.” She steepled her fingers. “You were present in this very compartment earlier today, and witnessed the events, yes?”

“Of course.”

“Then you saw Seaman Apprentice Henry attempt to overthrow a lawful authority, and commit both open rebellion and violence against a ship's captain. It's mutiny.”

“But the conspiracy . . .” Amy started.

Liz cut her off. “Semantics, and we don't have that luxury. It's mutiny. Any person who is guilty of mutiny shall be punished by death. He's guilty. He'll hang.”

The younger woman started to say more, but Liz lifted a hand. “Amy, I've let you have your say, and I've explained my decision. I needn't remind you of our precarious position, not only with this vessel during a crisis, but as heavily outnumbered officers. There must be discipline, and the crew can
never
be permitted to think it is even
possible
to rise up against the officers. I'm certain that concept was explained to you at the academy.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Good. And you will support me, in this and in all things.” It wasn't a question.

Amy looked down. “Of course.”

“Very well, you may take your leave. And tell Senior Chief Kidd I would like to see him.”

•   •   •

T
he following morning, the entire crew of
Joshua James
was mustered on the quarterdeck. Seaman Henry stood to one side, handcuffed and under the watchful eye of Charlie Kidd. Amy Liggett read a brief recount of the incident, the formal charges, and the decided penalty.

No one among the ranks of the crew spoke, and even the remaining civilian contractors lined up alongside them remained silent. There was only Amy's voice, and the sea wind across the deck. Seaman Henry was given the opportunity to speak, but he simply kept his head down and cried.

Senior Chief Kidd hanged the nineteen-year-old from a radio
mast, and the crew was dismissed. When the dangling boy turned a few minutes later, Charlie shot him in the head, cut him down, and heaved the body overboard.

Liz and her brother stood alone by the rail of the forward deck for a while, looking out at the sea. A line of dark clouds was on the horizon, heralding an approaching storm. “This crew needs supplies and some hope,” Liz said at last. “I'm taking us to the Oregon coast, and we'll see what we see.”

October—Brookings, Oregon

Portland had been out of the question. It was too close to Seattle, and an equally large urban center that would have suffered the same levels of destruction and infestation. Liz wanted someplace small, unobtrusive, and remote. She found it in the southern Oregon town of Brookings. Seven miles north of the California border, the little seaside village had—before the plague—only six thousand residents, a tiny community living off logging, fishing, and tourism.

Joshua James
approached the mouth of the Chetco River at a creeping speed. Every pair of binoculars aboard was in use as the crew scanned the small town, and below in the combat center, Mr. Vargas monitored the screens for the cutter's zoom-capable exterior video cameras. The forward fifty-seven-millimeter gun was armed and ready (they had managed to salvage twenty shells from the armory at Port Angeles), and all four fifty-caliber guns were mounted and crewed.

“Take a sounding, Mr. Waite,” Liz said, looking out the bridge with binoculars of her own. The Chetco River split the town in half,
with its two harbors on the right. Liz had little hope that either one could handle the cutter's twenty-two-foot draft, though the river might. They wouldn't get far even if it did, though. The bridge for US 101 crossed the waterway only a mile in, barely high enough to clear the ship's bow, much less the superstructure.

“Captain,” the quartermaster replied, “the river mouth has a thirty-one-foot-deep channel that is wide enough to handle us. I wouldn't try getting in much farther than a ship's length, though.”

It would be enough. “Helm, all stop,” Liz ordered, and the deck vibrated as the ship reversed briefly, bringing the vessel to a halt. “Let's take our time, people.”

Every crew member on the bridge continued looking out the windows.

Liz wore a blue wool pullover that desperately needed washing, and her ball cap was pulled down over greasy hair. She'd tried to make her deodorant last, but she knew she didn't smell good, and she itched constantly. The men aboard—except for the young ones—were bearded as she'd relaxed the grooming standard out of necessity. Liz had never wanted a shower so badly in her life.

At first she was surprised to see boats in the two Brookings marinas. There weren't many, but they included a handful of sail and power craft, along with several commercial fishermen, including one that looked big enough to handle crabbing in the unforgiving Alaskan seas. She thought about the waterborne exodus from Seattle and realized that the presence of boats here wasn't that unusual. This was the kind of place people would run to, for the same reasons Liz had selected it: quiet and remote. That also meant an increased probability of living people still being here, not necessarily a good thing.

“Starboard watch, any movement at the CG station?”

“No, ma'am,” a young seaman reported, “not even the dead.”

USCG Station Chetco River sat on a peninsula just to the south of the river's mouth, a single, flat structure with an attached lookout
tower. Its docks were on the far side in the lower marina, out of view. According to the hard-copy manuals in her quarters—the digital files were locked in a network computer system that still wasn't working—the station was thinly manned but had a trio of forty-seven-foot motorized lifeboats, known as MLBs, and a pair of launches like those carried on
Joshua James
. Armament would be minimal, nothing heavier than a medium machine gun, and the base had no air station.

This close to shore, the big white cutter attracted a lot of attention, and she wanted to tuck it away somewhere. The river mouth was calling to her, but before she put her ship someplace with no room to maneuver, she wanted to be certain the area was secure, or at least controllable. So far, the dead they had seen along the waterfront were scattered and few in number.

“XO, Senior Chief, on me,” Liz said, moving to the starboard side of the bridge. Both Amy and Chick joined her. “We're going to launch two shore parties,” she said once they were all together, “five crewmen each. Objective one is to seize the Coast Guard station. Objective two is the commercial docks and buildings across the harbor. We will recon the hillside to port from the ship. Once I'm sure we're clear on all sides, I'll bring the cutter in.” She was more confident in the chances of her shore parties now. Before he was killed, LCDR Coseboom had ensured that plenty of M4s, handguns, and ammunition had been loaded aboard the forklifts. Half of it made it to the ship. The people she put ashore would be well armed.

“If the cutter is on the river,” Amy said, “how could the dead—”

“I'm concerned about the living right now, Miss Liggett. This place is remote enough that there may be civilian or military survivors in there, all of whom are sure to be armed. This vessel is a prize worth taking.”

Amy nodded.

Liz went on. “Don't worry about scavenging right now; this is purely a security mission. However, make a note if and where you
locate food supplies and water. Keep an eye out for fire engines, especially pumpers, as well as bottled water trucks.”

“Rules of engagement?” Chick asked.

“The dead are fair game,” Liz said. “If you encounter the living, and they make a hostile act, you are clear to engage. You'll both have comm with the ship, and we can support you with the Bofors gun or fifty-calibers as needed. Questions?”

There were none.

“Then assemble your crews and let's get this done. We will not have a repeat of Port Angeles. Everyone comes home. If you encounter strong opposition, living or dead, you are to fall back to the ship, understood? Dismissed.”

Liz used the ship's PA to inform the crew that shore parties would be launching, and all watches and weapon positions were to remain vigilant. Then she ordered what crew there was left to report to the bow with rifles.

•   •   •

I
t was strange to be on land. After more than six weeks at sea, Amy still felt the swaying motion in her body, despite the fact that there was concrete under her boots.

She and her crew of four had taken one of the Prosecutors and motored into the mouth of the river, turning right and passing the commercial fishing docks, heading into the south marina. Almost at once they'd come upon the high, corrugated metal enclosure for the Coast Guard station's vessels. Only one remained, a forty-seven-foot motorized lifeboat tied to its moorings, a sleek, gray boat capable of vaulting over ocean surf and heavy waves. It had both an enclosed cockpit and a top-deck steering station and was essentially a massive power boat. Amy had trained on one at New London.

They moored their SRP inside the shelter, across from the much larger craft, and made their way up a wooden stairway before moving out onto the station's grounds. Amy led with her pistol in hand, the
four men behind her armed with M4s. Normally a boarding party would have been fully outfitted with tactical gear and helmets, but that equipment hadn't yet been delivered to
Joshua James
. She hoped they might find some here but knew it was a long shot. It was usually the cutters that did the boarding. This station's mission was probably more attuned to lifesaving and fisheries protection.

It started to rain as the team moved down a sidewalk toward the station's single building, a spread-out, one-story structure painted white, with a three-story lookout position that resembled a traffic control tower. Overgrown lawns extended to either side as the group closed on the building, stacked up in a single-file, tactical formation. Amy's heart was thumping as she tried to remember her training.

“Seven-five-four, this is Team One,” she said into the radio mic clipped to her shoulder. “Mooring is secure. We are advancing on main building from the northeast.”

“Copy, Team One,” came the reply.

As they reached the building's corner, Amy stopped and took her bearings. To her right was a short open lawn bordered by the harbor on two sides. Out to her left she could see the access road leading to the station, and the entrance to an RV park that appeared filled to capacity with motor homes, cars, and recreational trailers. The corpse of a teenager in cutoffs walked stiffly across the road and disappeared behind a big brown-and-white motor coach. Amy cautioned herself that the presence of so many RVs meant either lots of frightened, desperate refugees hiding within or lots of dead things trying to get out.

To her immediate front was the lawn between the station and a parking area crowded with vehicles. A black Charger with
Brookings Police
on the door sat at the curb. Nothing moved, the breeze coming off the Pacific making the colors snap atop the flagpole out front.

“Team One advancing to main building,” Amy reported quietly. She led her men past the building toward the entrance, weapons
aimed at the windows they passed, and then they were facing double glass doors. “Breaching,” she told her radio mic, and they went into an empty, tiled lobby.

One of the expectations of a Coast Guard officer was to be able to lead boarding parties and conduct searches, going aboard everything from small pleasure craft to the big oceangoing freighters and container ships. The purpose of the boarding was almost always to look for migrants and contraband: drugs and illegal arms. Occasionally intelligence would direct them to a counterterrorism op. Amy had learned how to move a team through the close quarters of a ship, a maze with plenty of places for bad guys to hide, ever aware that someone might pop out of a hatch with an AK-47 on full auto. The training had been both intense and fun, but it had been
training
. This was her first live mission, and she had to watch out not only for armed aggressors, but also for things that
bit
. Dead things. Her heart hadn't slowed, and now she was sweating.

She motioned her team down a corridor to the left, and they began a room-to-room search. It smelled bad in here. Rotten. They found a mess hall with a kitchen—which smelled a different sort of rotten—small offices and a meeting room, separate berthing for both men and women, as well as heads and showers. Rusty blood smears in one shower told them someone had died in here but had since moved on. Otherwise, there were no other signs of violence in this half of the building, and no occupants.

Amy checked in over the radio and took her team back to the lobby, then started toward the other side of the station. More offices, a briefing room, storage for the gear needed aboard rescue craft—life jackets, rope, rafts, and boat safety equipment—and then they came upon the small armory. It was open and empty except for a pump shotgun and several boxes of shells. It looked to the young officer as if the coasties who had gone out in the station's other vessels had armed up before leaving. She understood now why the place was so empty.

“Seaman,” she said, snapping her fingers to get a bosun's mate's attention. “Take that weapon and the ammunition.” The young man immediately slung the shotgun across his back and stuffed the boxes of shells into a nylon satchel. Amy keyed her mic. “Armory secure and empty.”

At the back of the team, one of the
Klondike
men was watching the rear as he had been trained and saw a man in dark trousers, dress shoes, and a light blue shirt covered in service ribbons come through a doorway they had just passed. He wore short gray hair, and a pair of commander's insignia was pinned to his collar. His shirt was darkened on one side, and a chunk of his neck was missing, blackened at the edges.

“Ensign,” the seaman hissed, and the team pivoted as the corpse groaned and began a quick sidestep toward the bosun's mate.

“Engage!” Amy yelled, bringing up her pistol, but the crewman in front of her was quicker and triggered a three-round burst, hitting the dead man in the throat, jaw, and nose. The body dropped. “Stay in formation,” Amy ordered, moving to the bosun's mate at the rear of the stack, grabbing him by the strap of his ammo harness.

“You're our rear security, and you engage on sight. Don't hesitate!” Her voice was a tight growl.

“Aye-aye,” he said, and nodded.

Amy looked at him for a moment, then softened her expression and patted him on the shoulder. “We're all tense.” Then she looked at the corpse and keyed her mic. “Seven-five-four, this is Team One. We just had contact with a Whiskey-Delta.” Her captain had decided that until something better came along, they would simply be called
Whiskey-Delta
for “walking dead,” while the living would be referred to as
Limas
. “It's down, no casualties.” Then she noted, “I think we just took out the base commander.”

Joshua James
acknowledged, and Amy pressed forward. The only part of the station they hadn't investigated was the lookout tower, and as soon as they opened the door at its base, which was a
single communications room, they were hit by an oily, nauseating stench. Across the room, near a spiral metal staircase that led up into the tower, a bloated green Coast Guardsman turned and began trundling toward them. Its eyes were white with pinpoint pupils, and it was so swollen that its uniform had begun to split at the seams. Gases erupted from its body in a
blatting
sound as it lurched, and Amy thought for an instant that she could hear it sloshing.

The seaman behind her, the same one who had shot the base commander, stepped past her and fired another burst. The creature
exploded
, painting the walls and equipment with a sticky green-and-black grease, and then the
real
smell hit them.

Amy gagged, and the rifleman beside her vomited, joined two seconds later by one of his shipmates. The young ensign managed to keep it down for a moment, until she thought about the powdered scrambled eggs she'd had this morning. Her breakfast came up in a heave.

In the center of the room, what was left of the green coastie flopped about and snapped its teeth, as something in the tower above started down the stairs and let out a long wail. Amy shot the exploded dead thing in the forehead, spat, and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Let's finish this,” she said, and started up the stairs to kill whatever she found.