Plague of the Dead (15 page)

    “Yeah,” Darin agreed, backing away from the gap, rifle trained on the staggering infected above.

    He didn’t take his eyes off of them until they were safely onboard one of the band’s commandeered yachts, and pulling away from the harbor.

Open Sea

January 10, 2007

1513 hrs_

    The USS
Ramage
, DDG-61, was an Arleigh-Burke class destroyer, the pinnacle of state-of-the-art technology. It was a sub-hunter, a mobile anti-aircraft station, and a long-range cruise missile platform, boasting firepower on its decks that outperformed entire third-world militaries. But it wasn’t hunting subs now. It found itself pressed into service as a floating refugee camp.

    Cargo webbing had been thrown over the sides of the deck to allow soldiers and civilians to climb up from the moored yachts alongside. The ship itself was operating on a skeleton crew, since most of the crewmembers were working with the USS
Ronald Reagan
’s battle group in the Red Sea. That left it with enough room onboard to accommodate the escaping group, albeit slightly uncomfortably. Rooms normally left for storage of supplies or briefings were filled with displaced civilians, among them Mbutu Ngasy.

    He found that he had had little trouble adjusting to the world falling apart around him, a fact that sat uneasily with him. Maybe adaptation was in his blood. His family, after all, were notorious survivors, moving from region to region in the past to avoid conflict and poverty. Whatever it was, he found he was having fun escaping from the continent on this floating fortress, and the idea made him wonder about his own morality.

    
People are dying,
he thought as he pressed himself against a bulkhead to allow a pair of sailors to pass.
People are dying and I’m enjoying myself
.
Or, maybe I’m NOT as crazy as that
.

    He figured that maybe the dull routine in Mombasa of waking up, going to work, and going to sleep at the end of the day had worn him thin. Maybe a tragedy like the one that had struck Africa was exactly what his life needed-a jump start.

    Certainly he had met plenty of interesting people on the journey so far. As an air traffic controller he had had the opportunity to broaden his horizons, talking with pilots and crewmembers of cargo and passenger flights alike, but he had never actually gone to any of their home nations. He had now, in less than a month, been through four countries, and was on his way to his fifth, the United States.

    He had just had his picture taken on deck by a man named Sam Denton, a Canadian photographer, as he had helped a soldier aboard.

    “I’ll make you famous,” Denton had said with a grin. “If there are any newspapers left to print when we get back.”

    
If indeed
, Mbutu thought. The fall of Suez had left him with a gnawing sense of dread in his stomach. The virus was trampling any organized resistance in its path. Mother Nature was pissed off about something and she was taking heads. He wasn’t a pessimist as a rule, but Mbutu couldn’t help but feel as if this disease had barely begun its rampage.

    Mbutu arrived at his destination, the destroyer’s sickbay. He leaned in the doorway and knocked on the bulkhead.

    “Hello,” he said. “Would you like any help?”

    Rebecca Hall was sitting on a metal stool, re-wrapping a wound on a refugee’s leg, and glanced up at the sound of Mbutu’s voice.

    “Oh, hi!” she said, grinning. “Not really. The ship’s got a full stock of medical supplies and the sailors have a doctor with them. We’re close to wrapping up now.”

    “Hey, Becky, where’d you want your charts?” came a voice from behind Mbutu.

    He stepped aside, allowing a sergeant to squeeze by with a double handful of scrap paper Rebecca had been jotting case notes on.

    “Hi, Jack! In my hand would be great,” Rebecca said, putting the finishing touch on the leg wound in front of her. She stood, accepting the papers from Sergeant Decker. She turned back to her patient and told him, “You can go. Keep an eye on it. It’ll be throbbing for a while, but there shouldn’t be any sharp pains. Remember to take the penicillin I gave you. Take one every six hours or so.”

    Mbutu grinned. The patient probably only understood every third word Rebecca said to him. As the man walked past him, Mbutu grabbed his arm, repeating the instructions in Swahili. His guess was right. The man was from his own home country.

    “Asante!” he said with a broad smile before moving on.

    “You are welcome,” Mbutu said softly, turning back to Rebecca and Sergeant Decker in the sickbay. The pair were talking quietly between themselves. Mbutu may as well have been invisible. Other than him, the bay was empty.

    Mbutu smiled. He could take a hint. He cleared his throat and the pair looked over at him.

    “I am going up top. Maybe they could use my help,” he said.

    “Oh, okay. We’ll be up once we get this place organized,” Rebecca said. Decker waved a hand in his direction.

    Mbutu strolled off down the corridor, squeezing to the side once more to allow sailors to pass by, the vague smile still on his face.
No husband
, she had said. Well, a sergeant in the Army was not the worst choice she could make.

    Back in the sickbay, Rebecca shoved her charts into a folder, tucking it neatly into a desk drawer, then turned back to Sergeant Decker.

    “Well?” she asked.

    “Well, what?” he replied.

    “Well, there must be a reason you came down here other than to just give me my charts,” she told him, coquettishly brushing her hair back behind an ear. “-Not that I’m not happy you did.”

    “You caught me,” said Decker, smiling. “I wanted to talk to you some more.”

    “Oh, I’m that interesting, am I?”

    “Well, you’re more interesting than the other people on this ship,” Decker replied, leaning his rifle against an exam table.

    Rebecca laughed. “Thanks, I think.”

    “We’re heading back home,” Decker began, choosing his words. “We should be there in a couple weeks. I was thinking…”

    “Sergeants think?” Rebecca quipped.

    “Ha-ha. I was thinking… I don’t know, maybe once we got back we could go out sometime. My credit’s good. Haven’t been able to spend anything for the past couple months on deployment.”

    Rebecca smiled, looking down at the floor to hide the barest hint of a blush.

    “-That is,” Decker quickly added, “Assuming there are still restaurants when we get back.”

    “That’s not funny,” Rebecca replied.

    “Well?”

    “Oh.” Rebecca took a moment before answering: “I… think I’d like that very much.”

    Decker flashed her a grin. “Me too.”

    They held the smile and gaze for a pair of heartbeats. As if by unspoken agreement, they leaned in towards each other, faces mere inches apart.

    Outside, the ship’s intercom buzzed loudly, and they pulled apart, the moment shattered.

    “This is the captain. A few announcements before we begin our voyage. Listen up. All civilian refugees and military passengers, be advised. Remain out of areas designed crew only. The only authorized locations for passengers are temporary quarters, mess, and deck. Volunteers are needed in the mess to help prepare meals. General Sherman and staff, to the bridge, please…”

    Above, Mbutu was just stepping into the hot sun when the announcement ended. General Sherman and Sergeant Major Thomas were standing at the far end of the deck, looking up at the bridge with furrowed brows. Mbutu saw Sherman gesture at Thomas, and the pair began a brisk walk towards the forecastle. Mbutu wasn’t entirely sure he liked the look on the General’s face. As the pair drew near, he risked an interruption.

    “General,” he said, “Is everything okay?”

    “Things are fine, Ngasy,” Sherman told him, brushing past Mbutu without further explanation. Ever-gruff Thomas shot him an annoyed glance. The two soldiers disappeared into the ship.

    Mbutu sighed, folding his arms as a warm sea breeze washed over him. His mother, so famous in his mind for her stories of subtle wisdom, had once shared a Western tale of a man named Murphy and his Law. This, Mbutu thought, would be the time when Mr. Murphy would poke his head in, if things kept going at their current rate. He hoped they would be back on dry land before whatever was brewing on the bridge hit. He wasn’t much of a swimmer.

    Inside the corridors of the destroyer, Thomas drew alongside Sherman.

    “With respect, sir, maybe it’s not such a good idea to get too buddy-buddy with the civvies,” he said.

    “What do you mean, Sergeant?” Sherman asked, casting Thomas a sideways glance.

    “You’ll feel obligated to keep them informed, but still control our intel. That might not be a good idea, considering.”

    “Considering what?”

    “Considering the state of affairs in the world. We should keep our little corner as ordered as possible. The last thing we need is a bunch of RumInt floating around making people nervous,” Thomas said, hands clasped behind his back.

    Sherman said in his own defense, “Rumor Intelligence is nothing new. No matter how much you try to control the flow of information, it’s going to get out in bits and pieces.”

    “You could have just told him about the radio contacts. It could mean nothing, and solid intel’s better than playing telephone like a bunch of grab-assy teenagers at a slumber party. If that guy back there,” Thomas said, jerking a finger over his shoulder, “decides to tell someone how he just got the brush-off, you can bet there’ll be a baker’s dozen conspiracy theories floating around by evening chow.”

    “You sound truly disturbed, Sergeant,” Sherman said, smirking.

    “I’m just commenting, sir.”

    “Comment noted. I’ll consider it. Maybe we should hold a meeting tonight, smooth things out and let the people know what’s going on.”

    Thomas nodded once, and the pair moved on in silence. When they reached the door to the bridge, Thomas reached out a hand and pulled it open. Inside, all was harried business. The bridge was ingeniously designed, with a maximum of efficiency for a minimum of space. Consoles lined the walls, and a wide viewport gave the ship’s commanders a panoramic view of the open sea off the ship’s bow. Crewmen bustled around, checking instruments, jotting notes, and broadcasting reports.

    The Captain of the USS
Ramage
was a stout middle-aged career man named Franklin. He spoke with the slightest of New York accents, vaguely reminding Sherman of Joe Pesci in one of those old gangster films. As they entered, Franklin was hovering over the shoulder of the radio op in the center of the bridge. He looked up as they approached.

    “Ah, General. Glad you’re here,” Franklin said.

    “Glad you picked us up, Captain,” Sherman replied. “Things were getting pretty sporty onshore.”

    “That’s exactly what we’re worried about right now. When you got onboard a couple hours ago I told you we were having problems establishing a connection with our base back home.”

    “Yes,” Sherman said.

    “Well, it’s gotten worse in the past few minutes,” Franklin said, leading Sherman and Thomas over to the radio station. He picked up a written transcript and handed it to Sherman. “We think they’ve got a down antenna or a pretty bad atmospheric disturbance.”

    Franklin looked around and leaned forward an inch, dropping his voice an octave.

    “Least, that’s what we hope it is.”

    “And you needed me here why?” Sherman asked, thumbing through the transcripts. Most were gibberish.

    “You were part of the force tasked with quarantining Africa. I know Suez has fallen, but that was only a few days ago. You’ve been in contact with the commanders of the naval and air blockades these past couple of weeks. Is there any possibility someone got through? I’d like to know so I can give my men some peace of mind. They can’t call home to check on their families, and they’re worried.”

    Sherman frowned, but obliged, wracking his brain for any snippet of knowledge that might be useful.

    “No,” he said after a moment. “Once we got those blockades set up, nothing and no one got off the continent until Suez was breached.”

    “
Once
you got the blockades up,” Captain Franklin repeated, stressing the first word. “All our reports from home are incomplete, but look on the next-to-last page of those transcripts, halfway down.”

    Sherman scanned the pages, and found the entry the Captain referred to.

    
VOICE 1: [static] to Mexico for [static] fueling.

    
[static] isn’t [static] Be advised that Brazil now considered [static] back to Panama. Any ships [static] to the peninsula. Over.

    
VOICE 2: Say again. Over. [mumbling?] Losing signal here…
    

    
V1: Situation [static] untenable as of [LONG STATIC] fueling. Over.

    
VOICE 3: Coronado, your signal is breaking up. Relay sitrep on hard lines. Do you still need resupply & reinforcement? Over.

    
V1: [static]

    
V3: Say again, Coronado. Over.

    
V2: Andrews, we have lost signal from Coronado. Are you receiving? Over.

    
V3: Negative. Edwards can you recon? Over.

    
V2: Can’t do, Andrews. All flights on strike missions. Can divert by [static]

    
V3: Edwards are you reading?

    
V2: [static]

    Sherman grunted and tossed the transcript onto an empty chair.

    “Could mean nothing,” he said. “Cali’s been having trouble with brownouts for the past decade. Maybe they’ve just lost transmitter power.”