Finest Hour (29 page)

A knock on the door jarred him from his thoughts. He glanced over at Yumi, and she offered an all-knowing smile. Pike felt no shame around her. His dreams were her dreams, and wherever he went, she would follow.

“Come in.”

Vice President Stinson entered and settled into the chair across from Pike’s desk. He pulled a notepad and pen from his soft-sided leather briefcase, like a psychiatrist preparing to administer an inkblot test. Yumi sat cross-legged in a chair that Pike had pulled close to his own. Her presence helped him to feel stronger and more confident, and he was finding it harder to have her outside of arms’ reach.

“Andrew, I trust that you were paying attention to my speech earlier.”

“Of course, sir. Marvelously done.”

Yumi pursed her lips and made a small puckering sound.

“Then you heard how much importance I’m placing on getting the three colonies up and running.”

“Yes, sir. I’m doing everything I can to work the issues. I should tell you, however, that numerous challenges remain, including establishing basic utilities, implementing a civilian government, and introducing the new gold-backed currency.”

Pike nodded. “Yes, yes, I understand. And it is the establishment of local governments that concerns me the most. If we fail to provide a credible governor, the colonies will quickly elect feudalistic leaders who believe they don’t have to answer to anyone. That kind of decentralization would prove to be the downfall of our national government. Perhaps even our very identity as a sovereign unified nation would be threatened. We’re watching it happen all over the world…” He started counting on his fingers. “China, Russia, Japan.”

“It’s understandable, sir. All three of their governments have proven unable to maintain security or provide basic infrastructures. Out of necessity, survivors are turning to local leaders to meet those needs.”

“Precisely. And we are at risk of the same thing happening here. If we falter this first year, the United States will be no more. We will be a landmass governed by local councils, tribal warlords, and violent cartels. There will be no national government, no centralized control over anyone or anything. Our military will divide and be absorbed by those who can pay the most, and once that happens, we will have nothing.”

Stinson swallowed. “Tell me what you’d like me to do, sir.”

“Oh, please, let me answer that,” snickered Yumi.

Pike cleared his throat. “I need for you to go to each of the New Colonies. Pick local leaders who are both trustworthy and capable, and name them as interim governors operating under our authority.”

“You want me to appoint them directly, without elections?”

“For now, yes. Let’s stand these colonies up and get through the first year before we worry about proper representation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Work closely with the governors to ensure that all of the necessary infrastructures will be in place before winter arrives. That includes food, water, basic housing, security, medical services, and everything else people are going to need to survive.”

“I can try, but each of those has its own challenges. Food distribution, for example—”

Pike held up a hand. “I know, and frankly, I don’t care.” When he saw Stinson’s face start to turn red, he quickly added, “What I should have said is that I
can’t
care. I have to delegate some of this to you, and you in turn have to delegate it to others. There are too many moving pieces for the two of us to handle alone. We have to be the leaders that this nation needs.”

Stinson’s confidence seemed to return.

“Yes, sir.”

“Use the next few weeks to travel to the three colonies, appointing local governors and helping them to pull together readiness plans. Then come back and report to me.”

“Yes, sir. When would you like me to leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Stinson looked startled. “So soon?”

“Unless you have something more pressing underway.”

Stinson had been around long enough to recognize that there was really only one right answer.

“No, sir.”

“Good. Once you get back, we’ll figure out what resources must be brought in to help. Each and every one of the colonies has to succeed.” He paused for a moment. “Andrew, I shouldn’t have to tell you that this is a huge responsibility, one that might well define your legacy as vice president.”

The word
legacy
seemed to catch Stinson by surprise, and he instinctively straightened up in his chair.

“Uh-oh,” Yumi said with a giggle. “I think you gave him a woody.”

“I’ll do my best,” Stinson said in the deepest voice he could muster.

Pike smiled and reached across to shake his hand.

“I know you will, and I look forward to your report.”

Once Stinson had left the room, Yumi quietly came over and settled onto Pike’s lap.

“You do know that that man is an absolute fool.”

“Perhaps, but a fool is what we need right now.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Got any assignments for me, lover?”

He felt the heat of her ghostly body, something that he knew to be physically impossible but had learned not to question.

“I’m sure I can think of something,” he said, letting his hands run along her silky thighs.

She leaned down and nibbled on his ear.

“Your wish is my command, Mr. President.”

Chapter 18  

Mason was breathing hard. He and Bowie had been playing a game of cat and mouse with the infected for the better part of an hour, hiding in thickets of trees, darting around buildings, and now racing along the river’s edge. Unlike the infected he had encountered previously, those residing in the depot seemed more willing to suffer the bright sunlight in order to hunt their prey.

To make matters worse, it had started to rain. Not a blinding, pelting affair, but enough to seep through his clothes. The rain was also making it more difficult to move about undetected, as everywhere they went, muddy boot and paw prints followed.

The plan was simple enough. He would have Bowie track the Commandant using the jacket they had found in the storeroom. But that meant returning to the igloo to pick up his scent, something that wasn’t going to happen until the hunt quieted down a bit. Whether or not the rain would throw Bowie off the scent remained to be seen.

Mason bent over, hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. Bowie stood a few feet away, studying him.

“What are you?” he breathed. “Some kind of marathon dog?”

Bowie edged a little closer, perhaps hoping that a good lick of his master’s face would help to rejuvenate him.

Mason straightened and looked out across the river. The flow of water was steady, and he had no desire to cross it with the weight of his rifle and gear. He also didn’t know whether Bowie could make it across. Like other animals, dogs could instinctively swim from a very young age, but that didn’t mean that they could forge a river that was two football fields across.

Bowie offered a quick reassuring bark.

“Yeah, you say that now, but I’m the one who would have to give you mouth-to-mouth.”

The dog licked the fur around his mouth.

“I think our only choice is to find a place to hole up until this rain stops. Hopefully, by then, our pursuers will have given up the chase, and we can return to get the Commandant’s jacket.”

Mason scrambled up the muddy ravine lining the riverbank, dropping to all fours as he neared the top. There were two buildings within view, set about a hundred yards apart. Both looked identical to the blast igloos that he and the cadets had explored. There was movement near the building to the right, but the one to the left looked clear.

He rose to a crouch and shuffled toward the empty building. Between the muddy ground and rye grass that had grown to nearly eighteen inches, it felt as if he were slogging through a rice paddy in the South Pacific. Bowie, however, didn’t seem to mind splashing through the slop. If anything, the rain and mud only improved his spirits, as he stopped to occasionally roll in the tall wet grass. By the time they arrived at the building, both were soaked from head to tail.

Like the other igloos, it was surrounded by a white reinforced concrete blast wall. In this case, however, the wall had been omitted at the rear of the building, instead relying on an adjacent hill to contain any explosion. A large water tower had been built on top of the hill, and its tank hovered a hundred feet in the air, offering a brief reprieve from the rain. While the tower would have been a solid defensive position, Mason decided that getting Bowie up the narrow ladder was a job best left to professionals.

He dropped to his butt and slid down the hill, keeping his rifle ready as best he could. Bowie chased after him, nearly tumbling head over heels on a slick patch of mud. By the time they reached the bottom, both looked like they had lost a bout against Kushti mud wrestlers.

The rear of the building had a single window, covered with a heavy metal mesh. There was also a louvered vent at ground level, but it was obscure enough that Mason thought it would likely go undetected by anyone looking for a way in. He circled around to the right, sliding between the sheet metal and the surrounding blast wall. The side of the building had several small windows, all about eight feet off the ground and all covered with the same metal grating. So far, so good.

When he reached the far end, Mason stopped and carefully peeked around the corner. As with the others, the front was equipped with a service door, a ramp, and a loading dock. The bottom of the high-bay door was crumpled from where someone had attempted to pry it open. While failing to get it all the way up, they had managed to create a two-foot gap between the dock and the bottom of the door.

Valuing speed over caution, Mason hurried up the ramp, dropped to his belly, and rolled under the door. Bowie gave a little bark and followed after him. Thanks to sunshine filtering in through the small windows, he could make out the basic details of the room. There were hundreds of crates stacked along the walls, as well as several inspection stations identical to the ones he had discovered earlier. A long row of carts lined the right side of the room, the sunlight reflecting off their brass payloads.

Mason didn’t see anyone or anything moving, but that didn’t mean the infected weren’t having a slumber party in some dark corner of the room.

He turned to Bowie and whispered, “Check it out for me, boy.”

Bowie meandered off. When he returned a couple of minutes later, he yawned loudly, as if it was past time for his midday nap.

“I’ll take that as an all clear.”

Mason stood up and walked around the carts, examining their contents. Having expended much of his 5.56 mm ammunition helping the cadets to escape meant that the M4 would run dry soon enough. Unfortunately, most of the carts were filled with 7.62 mm, a perfectly fine caliber, but one that did him no good at the moment.

It wasn’t until he discovered a cart covered with a greasy tarp that he had reason to smile. Underneath was a waist-high stack of .45 ACP ammunition, easily a hundred thousand rounds. Despite having served as both a US Marshal and an Army Ranger, it was the most .45 ammunition he had ever seen at one time. He picked up one of the cartridges and rolled it across his palm like a nugget of freshly panned gold. With a velocity of only 830 feet per second, it certainly wasn’t the fastest or hardest hitting .45 round available. Nevertheless, the standard issue 230-grain full metal jacket round had proven its lethality time and time again.

Bowie came over and sniffed the mound of cartridges, sounding off with a soft
woof
.

“Amen,” he said, tossing the round back into the cart. “Unfortunately, without more magazines, we’ll end up having to throw it at the enemy.”

Quickly losing interest in the smell of gun oil and black powder, Bowie wandered over to the sliding door and flopped down.

“Good idea,” he said. “You keep a look out while I search for magazines.”

Bowie’s only response was to let his eyes droop lower and lower until they finally closed.

Mason spent the next twenty minutes carefully searching the single-room building. Many of the crates contained Sig Sauer M11 handguns, a compact 9 mm version of the venerable P226. Other crates were packed with Beretta M9s. Both were quality weapons, reliable and easy to maintain. But without ammunition, they were about as useful as a boat anchor.

He did, however, come across something interesting: three crates labeled
M45A1 CQBP
.

Mason grabbed a claw hammer from one of the inspection stations and pried off the top of the first crate. Inside was a thick layer of brown packing material with the consistency of dried Easter grass. He pulled out a large handful of the desiccant and found six Colt M45A1 semiautomatic pistols beneath. They were identical to his Supergrade both in fit and function, the main differences being their desert tan finish, dual recoil spring system, and Picatinny accessory rail.

He knew that the M45A1 had been designed for use by the Marine Corps Special Operations Command and Marine Expedition Unit forces. In the age of polymer pistols, it was one of the few military sidearms still built with a steel frame, match grade barrel, and manual safeties.

He picked up one of the pistols, ejected the seven-round magazine, and cycled the slide. Not having gone through a break-in period, the action felt tight and slightly gritty. There was also a layer of grease covering the metal surfaces that would eventually need to be cleaned off. He placed the weapon back into the crate and retrieved the magazine. It looked and felt identical to the Wilson magazines he had been using for years.

Leaving nothing to chance, he cleared the Supergrade and inserted the empty magazine. No surprise, it fit perfectly. Mason smiled. The world had just gotten a whole lot brighter.

He took the next few minutes carefully searching all three crates, coming away with a total of thirty-six magazines. It took him two trips to carry them all over to one of the inspection stations. After dumping them onto the tabletop, he rolled the heavy cart of .45 ammunition closer. Before loading the magazines, he inspected each and every one for burrs or bent feeds. Only two of the thirty-six were ultimately discarded. He loaded the remaining thirty-four with ammunition from the cart and laid the magazines out in front of him.