Crossbones (21 page)

Had she stayed on deck, she might have seen the ghostly silhouette of a ship gliding toward
Nimitz
out of the coming night. She might also have seen the mass of drifters that were gathering at the edge of the bridge high above, climbing over the railing as the flat, wide deck of the aircraft carrier began moving below them.

•   •   •

U
p in the superstructure's comm center, Pat Katcher sat at his station wearing headphones, glancing on occasion at the empty sweep of the air search radar, and scanning through radio frequencies.

“
Nimitz
calling Navy zero-two, come in.” He drummed his fingers on the console. Either Evan or Gourd should have answered by now, with either the Seahawk's radio or their personal survival units. Seeing nothing in the air and getting no response from either man wasn't a good sign. The fact that he wasn't picking up any rescue beacons was even more grim.

“
Nimitz
calling Navy zero-two. Evan, Gourd, can you hear me?”

Still nothing.

Suddenly there was a squeal from one of the frequencies he kept tuned and recording at all times after both he and Father Xavier had heard talking and the word
Reno
. Now that channel was alive with garbled transmissions, voices he couldn't quite make out, but definitely more than one, talking to one another. Then the signal dropped to a line of dead static.

“Shit!” Katcher said, reaching for the playback controls.

Just then another voice came over the military-only Guard channel, a strong, clear signal. Pat Katcher's eyes widened as he heard a woman's voice.

“USS
Nimitz
, you are ordered to surrender your vessel. Muster your crew on deck in fifteen minutes or we will fire upon you.”

Then the electronics tech heard a deep boom from somewhere beyond the superstructure's steel walls, followed almost immediately by the scream of a fifty-seven-millimeter shell sailing across the flight deck.

“That was your first and only warning,” the woman's voice said over the radio. “Fifteen minutes only. This is
Adventure Galley
, out.”

November—Brookings, Oregon

“Ensign, did you just use the word
extortion
?” Liz asked, looking up from a plotting table. They were down in the cutter's combat center, the room filled with mostly nonoperational equipment and lit by dim, red overhead lights. Petty Officer Vargas, the operations specialist and weapons section head, was sleeping on a narrow mattress in the corner of the room.

Ensign Liggett, standing opposite her captain with the plotting table between them, cleared her throat. “That isn't what I meant to say, ma'am.”

“Mm-hmm,” Liz murmured, looking back down at a map of the Oregon-California coastline. Although both women still wore blue uniform trousers bloused into combat boots, Amy now wore several thermal shirts with a hooded
University of Oregon
jacket over the top of them. Liz wore a once-white Irish cable-knit sweater with a turtleneck. Her cap was still pulled over her eyes at regulation distance above the bridge of her nose. Both wore sidearms.

“I meant that it could be perceived as that,” Amy said. “By the civilians. They're the ones doing the work and taking the risks.”

Liz made a notation on the map with a red marker and didn't look up. “And they're living here under
our
protection,” she said, “receiving medical care from
our
Petty Officer Castellano and using
our
ammunition.”

“Yes,” said Amy, “but they're finding their own weapons and ammo now. During the scavenging runs.”

“Confiscate them,” Liz said, using a ruler to measure distance, then converting inches to miles in her head.

“But—”

“Confiscate them,” Liz repeated. She looked up at her XO. “We can't allow a force that outnumbers us to have uncontrolled access to weapons, especially a potentially hostile force this close to the ship.”

“Hostile? Captain, those are civilians looking to us for safety. They're not hostile.”

“No?” said Liz. “We disagree on that.”

Amy thought Kidd's eyes looked red in the shadows beneath the bill of her cap. It was the combat center lighting, she knew, but it was still unsettling.

“Weapons are for the sentry positions only,” the captain said, “and are to be issued to those going on runs, on a limited basis. They are to be collected immediately upon the group's return, and all ammunition accounted for.” Liz went back to her map.

“Some of them are going on runs without telling anyone,” Amy said. “There's close to four dozen of them now, and only one of me. It's impossible to keep track of them at all times.”

Liz sighed and straightened. “It sounds to me as if you're not in control of your command, Miss Liggett. The shoreside station and the refugees are your responsibility. I need to know if you're up to the task.”

Amy stiffened. “Of course. It's not an easy task, though, and like I said, I'm the only—”

“Enough,” Liz said, pinching the bridge of her nose and closing her eyes. “You know how I feel about whining.”

Amy's face reddened, and not from embarrassment, but the change was lost in the light.

“I'm hearing about refugee issues from other sources,” Liz said, “when I should be hearing them from you.”

“I
am
reporting to you, Captain,” Amy said.

“Yes, I hear about water collection efforts, ammunition expenditure, I hear about who is sick and who needs medicine. I hear you complain about how difficult it is to keep the Whiskey-Deltas back.” Liz leaned forward on the table. “What I'm not hearing from you are reports that the civilian scavenging parties have begun raiding into the town, and that they're having some success.”

“They're also experiencing losses,” said Amy.

“Which concerns me not a bit,” Liz replied. “I'm hearing about runs on nearly untouched grocery stores and pharmacies, on sporting goods shops and even a police station. I hear about wheelbarrows full of kerosene cans and bottled water, cases of booze, and yes, even firearms. Either you don't know about this,” Liz said, looking at the younger woman, “or you haven't thought it was important enough to tell me. Either answer is unacceptable.”

Amy looked down. The statement was a trap, and anything she said would be wrong.

Liz let her stew for a moment, then said, “I don't want to hear the word
extortion
again, do you understand? Nothing is free in this world, certainly not safety and security. Call it
rent
if you have to call it something, but these people
will
contribute to the welfare of the ship and crew that keeps them out of harm's way, or they'll be expelled to fend for themselves out there.”

Out of harm's way.
Amy managed to keep the disgusted look off her face. Close to fifty civilian refugees were living in the Coast Guard station now, squatters sleeping where they could, using patched-together kitchens only feet away from toilet buckets. They
stood their own watches to guard against the dead, and risked their lives venturing into unsecured parts of Brookings in hopes of finding enough food to keep them and their families alive. Coast Guardsmen no longer manned the sentry positions in front of the station, and participated in none of the raids.

The only time the crew left
Joshua James
was for coastie-only raids, carefully planned in advance and only to locations that could be reached in the launches. Only Amy Liggett went ashore to the station, now more of a liaison than anything else. And Chief Kidd, of course, who had a lady friend there, a situation the captain was pointedly ignoring.

In the three months since the outbreak, Amy discovered that not only had she come out of the Academy filled with the unrealistic rhetoric of things like
duty, honor, and others before self
, but she'd been blind as well. Elizabeth Kidd once seemed larger than life, a career female officer who would mentor and guide Amy through an honorable profession, dedicated to her crew and to saving lives. Now Amy knew that only one thing drove her captain: hanging on to her precious command at any cost and justifying her agenda with words like
responsibility
. The young officer wondered just how far Kidd would go to keep what she had.

“My order stands,” said Liz. “Half of everything they collect. Half the food and water, half the fuel and camping supplies, half of what they take from pharmacies. In fact, they are to surrender
all
medication. Petty Officer Castellano will continue to oversee their medical care. We can't have them wasting resources by self-medicating.” She went back to her maps.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I want all alcohol dumped in the harbor,” Liz said without looking up. “We don't need the kind of trouble it can bring. And you are to confiscate all firearms and ammunition, parceling it out for sentries and raids only. I want a daily accounting of that.”

“Captain,” Amy said, “without actually conducting a search, I don't see how we can keep them from hiding weapons.”

Liz looked up again in annoyance. “Make it clear that anyone holding out on us will be hanged.”

Amy stared at her, unsure of what to say. Part of her earlier question about how far the captain would go had just been answered, though.

“You still cannot appreciate the weight of my responsibility, can you?” Liz sighed and shook her head. “You're inexperienced, I know, and perhaps I need to set a better example for you. Having a command means making hard decisions, Amy. Sometimes those choices are unpleasant, but the ability to lead depends upon making them.”

Amy nodded slowly, looking at a woman she realized she didn't really know at all. “And if they refuse to pay
rent
, Captain?” she said. “What then?”

Liz made another marker notation on her map. “I'm sure you can imagine what this ship's weapons systems would do to that Coast Guard station at this range. If they protest, make sure they can imagine it too.” Liz stood and straightened, twisting her back with a crack and yawning. “That will be all, Miss Liggett. You're dismissed.”

•   •   •

A
week after Liz and Amy's talk in the combat center, an early winter storm barreled in off the ocean, hitting the coast with terrifying force. Heavy rain pounded the Pacific Northwest, and in Brookings, sustained winds of sixty miles per hour—with gusts as high as ninety miles per hour—lashed the seaside community. Trees were knocked flat, power lines fell, and in several places roofs were torn completely away, the walls beneath them collapsing. The worst of it hit at night, sealing
Joshua James
in a black envelope of screaming darkness, waves surging into the river's mouth and crashing
against the bow, lifting the cutter and dropping it back down so that it strained against its anchor.

On shore, the civilian refugees huddled in the Coast Guard station, eyes turned upward and listening as the roof groaned and popped. They watched the doors as well. Weather didn't bother the dead, and it was too dangerous to put out the normal sentries.

Joshua James
was designed for storms like this, and the ship rode it out, battened down tightly. The night watch stayed safe and dry within the warm protection of the bridge, gripping handles and consoles while the ship rose and fell, watching as rain hammered the glass. Lightning forked out over the Pacific.

Liz and Charlie were in the captain's cabin for their late-night coffee, both of them long at ease with the roll and swell of a ship in a storm. Blackbeard was curled on Liz's bunk, half sleeping and peering at them through slitted eyes. A half-eaten bowl of cat food sat on the deck nearby, and several dozen more cans were tucked in a cabinet. One of the crew had found a few cases of the stuff during a rare excursion into a water's-edge area of Brookings, along with several bags of cat litter. Liz gave him twenty-four hours off-duty time as a reward.

Brother and sister held their mugs and drank without spilling. They'd been talking about the day's events, what the refugees had been doing, and how Amy Liggett was performing. So far she'd carried out Liz's orders, and the refugees were cooperating, surrendering their firearms (all the captain knew about, anyway) and making their fifty percent tithing.

“They're sure not doing it because of her personality or leadership qualities,” Charlie said. “It's because they know you're not afraid to use the rope.”

Liz smiled thinly. The old-time sea captains had it right all along. The modern world had grown soft, conditioning everyone to expect special treatment and to be spoken to in language that wouldn't
hurt their feelings. Along the way, true discipline became fuzzy. The old ways worked the best, she'd decided.

They were quiet for a while, lost in their thoughts as the storm sea lifted and rolled the ship. Then Liz looked up. “Chick, the FBI said you murdered three people during a drug deal. Is it true?”

Charlie sipped and looked at her over the rim of his cup. “Does it matter now?”

“Not to our situation,” Liz said, “or to what was my career, not anymore. But I want to know.”

“I thought it was four people,” he said without a change to his expression. “One got away, huh? That guy that tried to make a swim for it. I guess he got to shore.” He shook his head. “Damn, I was positive I hit him.”

Liz set her cup down, still holding it so it wouldn't slide. She stared at her brother. “Drugs, Chick? How long have . . . why . . . ?”

He smiled. “It wasn't really a drug deal. Well,
they
thought it was.”

“Make sense,” she said.

A shrug. “I met a guy in Seattle who knew some cartel guys, and I told him I had a quarter million to invest in coke. After that it was really just setting up time and place.”

“Where the hell did you get a quarter million dollars?” Liz demanded.

He laughed. “I didn't. I just told them that, and brought a bag with a couple of phone books in it. Those guys were so cocky and comfortable that they didn't check until it was too late. They couldn't imagine someone would cross them.”

She shook her head again. “Coke? Chick, what were you thinking? Do you
use
coke? How long have you been selling it?”

“No, I don't use it and I wasn't going to sell it. When it was over I dumped the shit in the Pacific.”

“Then why?”

He sipped his coffee. “I did it for Leo.”

Liz sat back in her chair. Her brother had known Chief Leonard Massey since he joined the Coast Guard. The two of them had come up through the ranks together, served together aboard ship several times, and even made chief the same year as one another. He was Charlie's best friend, and as far as Liz knew, his
only
friend.

Two years ago, Chief Massey was stationed in Miami and led a boarding party onto a megayacht suspected of being used by some cocaine cowboys. There was a close-range gunfight, and Leo caught a bullet. He died right there on the yacht. The man who shot him surrendered at once and was later convicted of homicide in connection with drug trafficking. In exchange for providing federal agents with information about the cartel, however, Leo Massey's killer had his sentence commuted from death to life without parole. Losing one of their own during drug operations was every coastie's fear, and seeing the chief's murderer go unpunished—anything less than lethal injection wasn't enough, as far as they were concerned—was a bitter pill. Charlie had never spoken of it, other than to acknowledge that his friend was gone.

“Chick,” she said, leaning forward, “the man who killed Leo . . . these people weren't him.”

“Nope,” he said, “but they were cartel, and I paid them back with interest.”

“But it wasn't
him
,” she insisted.

The corner of Charlie's mouth turned up. “Sis, assholes are assholes, and they're all just as satisfying.”