Storm Tide Rising: Blackout Volume 2 (17 page)

Marcus left the men to their work and stepped back out into the main corridor. A few people in khaki uniforms moved through the hall, but they were all deep in their own thoughts or focused on urgent tasks, so they didn't seem to notice him. Marcus checked the list on his clip board and found the last name with a dot next to it, but the ensign didn't come on duty until the second shift at 1900 hours. That meant Marcus would have to wait four hours, or he could go visit the man in his quarters.

There was no time to waste.

He looked at the information typed beside the name and started walking toward the barracks. Marcus got turned around twice and had to back track, but eventually he found the right hallway. In order to minimize disruptions, the second shift crew had quarters on the opposite side of the facility from the first shift. Outside of planned social gatherings every now and then and a bi-monthly joint briefing, the two shifts rarely saw each other.

Finally, Marcus stood outside the man's door and knocked lightly. He waited, but nothing happened. Finally, he knocked again, a little more forcefully. There was some rustling on the other side of the door; then it clicked open and a young man of maybe twenty two stood in his boxers blinking in the light.

"I didn't sleep through the briefing," he said immediately. "I've got three alarm clocks in there and none of them have gone off. I swear.....uh.....sir."

Marcus waited for the young man to take a breath, and then he said, "Are you Petty Officer Anthony Jacobs?"

"Yeah, that's me, sir," Petty Officer Jacobs said, rubbing at his eyes. "Lieutenant Commander, it's like three thirty or four in the morning my time. What's this about, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I need to see your printer access card, Jacobs," Marcus answered.

The young man blinked again and frowned. "Okay, sir. I gotta say that's a little odd," Jacobs said, but he turned and stepped into his room. He took a wallet off the top of the dresser and started thumbing through the card slots. After a moment he frowned, looked at the outside of the wallet, and thumbed through it again. He slammed the wallet down on the dresser and turned around to punch the foot of a tall, gaunt man. "Stick, wake up. Did you borrow my card again?"

The thin man mumbled something that sounded like a no, then rolled over on his side. Jacobs punched his foot a couple more times, but got no response. In a few moments, the man was snoring softly.

"Usually, if he borrows it, he asks first," Jacobs said, turning back to Marcus. "And if he says he didn't take it, then he didn't take it."  Jacobs took two pairs of pants out of his closet and emptied the pockets, but found nothing. "Sir, I always keep it in my wallet behind my ID card. I don't know what to say."

Marcus took a deep breath and put a mark on his clipboard next to the Petty Officer's name. "When do you think you might have lost it?" 

"Sir, that's the thing," Jacobs said, his voice heated. "I don't lose stuff. I might have slept in once or twice and missed a briefing, but I never lose stuff. My memory is better than anyone I know. Sometimes I wish it wasn't, but it is. I never forget where I put stuff, and I mean never. The last time I used that printer card was three days ago yesterday. It was my turn in rotation to give the morning work group brief, and I printed out handouts. I'm on a maintenance detail, so we don't use the printer that much. Only reason I have a card is to print out invoices and work order refills."

"You'd better get dressed, Petty Officer Jacobs."  Marcus said, sticking his foot casually in the way of the open door. "Until we can get this sorted out, protocol says I'm not supposed to let you have contact with anyone."

Jacobs nodded and glanced down at Marcus' foot and then back up to his eyes. "Yes, sir. I'll be ready in just a minute."

Jacobs stepped inside and quickly dressed in his service blues. He checked himself in the mirror several times to make sure his uniform was up to regulations. Finally satisfied, he took a deep breath and stepped out into the hallway. Neither man said anything as they walked through the empty halls of the second shift dormitory and made their way to the security cells.

Jacobs went inside hesitantly and sat down on the edge of the single bunk. His left knee was shaking, and he put his head in his hands and stared down at his feet. Marcus pulled the door closed, locked the handle and shoved the double deadbolts home. As far as he knew, only Commander Price had a key to these doors other than himself, and it would take one of them to open the door now that it had been shut.

Marcus frowned and checked over the names again. Jacobs' printer card was missing, but he didn't seem to realize it was missing. Clearly the young man was nervous, and that could have simply been a guilty conscience wondering what the punishment would be. Still, something didn't seem right to Marcus.

Then he remembered a conversation with his cousin, who was a homicide detective in Atlanta at the time. He said the one thing that surprised him most was how often the guilty guys weren't the ones who were nervous and scared in custody before the interview. The guys who had done the big stuff were the ones who fell asleep in the car ride or in the holding cell before the detectives could process them. It wasn't that they weren't nervous or scared. In reality, they'd been so nervous about getting caught for what they'd done that most wouldn't have slept in days. He had explained by the time the cops had picked them up, they were so exhausted from fear and anxiety that the guilty perps just collapsed.

Jacobs, on the other hand, was plenty nervous.

Marcus couldn't help but wonder if the spy was smart enough to know that each printer card could be tracked. If he or she knew that fact, why would they use their own card at all? It would be safer to steal someone else's card, use it, and ditch it ASAP. With those thoughts and doubts rolling around in his head, Marcus made his way up from the sub-basements and headed for Commander Price's office to report what he'd found, and what he hadn't.

Ch.26

Trouble Ahead

The sun had started its descent toward the western horizon, but it was still hot on the river. It wasn't quite the same oppressive, heavy heat of the dog days of summer, though. Already the coming change in seasons was beginning to blunt the edge of the heat and give the first hints that summer might be slowly losing its grip. Still, Mike was soaked with sweat and his shoulders ached. He'd been paddling down the river for hours, using muscles he didn't know he had.

Alyssa sat in front of Mike, the back of her shirt dark with sweat. Her long hair was matted to her face, and she seemed to be panting for breath. Mike splashed a little water from the river up to her to cool her off, and Alyssa turned to look at him. She tried to give him a smile, but it looked more like a wince. Apparently they were both exerting new muscles and reaching for new levels of endurance. The river narrowed ahead of them, and the trees grew close along the banks. Mike was looking forward to the shade that shrouded the narrower channel. Given how long they had been paddling and how far they'd already come, Mike guessed they were about halfway to the mouth of Lake Wylie. He steered the inflatable canoe around a bend and found Alex waiting another hundred yards downstream waving his paddle in the air.

"We'd better go make sure he isn't in trouble," Mike said, and Alyssa nodded. They both began paddling faster and harder. The water was deep and the surface current wasn't much help in this stretch . Finally, they reached Alex  where he sat against the left bank of the river, holding onto a hanging branch of a river oak. Alyssa picked up her oar, and Mike began back paddling to slow them down. Alex reached out with his oar and hooked it through the loop on the front of their canoe. He slipped the other end of the oar through a chord tied on the side of his kayak and tied it down to temporarily join the two.

"How are you two holding up?"  Alex asked.

"Tired," Alyssa said.

"And hot," Mike agreed.

Alex nodded. "Me too, but we're a little more than halfway there, so we've still got a while to go. There's a problem, though. Ahead about a quarter of a mile, there's a drainage dam. It's low, but it slows the river enough to make a kind of broad, flat pond. Normally I'd say we paddle through the pond to the far edge, get out and put back in right on the other side of the dam. I don't think that's a good idea, though."

Alex's face went pale and he swallowed with visible difficulty several times. He looked for a moment like he was about to lose the light meal they'd eaten before leaving the Whitewater center, but he managed to keep it down. After a long moment, he finally continued. "I went ahead to check and see if it was clear. There were...bodies...floating in the water. Some of them were hung up on snags or new trees fallen into the pond. A lot of them were stacked up against the dam. It was bad, man. You don't want to see that."

Mike thought for a moment about the neighborhoods they'd passed and the few houses they'd checked. Bodies lay bloated by the sun, and clouds of flies rose in shimmering black and dark green. But it was the smell that really lingered in his memory the most. He shuddered and nodded, finally.

"Okay, we'll put out here and walk."  he said.

Alex was already shaking his head before Mike finished talking. "You've got a light inflatable, and my kayak is small enough I can carry it myself. It'll take a little bit of extra time, but we can carry the boats around through the woods to avoid the pond. Put in another hundred yards downstream from the dam, and we're clear. If you try and go across land from here, you're going to run into the perimeter of the airport security zone. Trust me, you don't want to do that."

Mike and Alyssa shared a look, and after a brief moment, Alyssa shrugged slightly. "Honestly, I thought I was going to pass out two hours ago. At this point, anything's possible."

"You think we can get where we need to be before nightfall?"  Mike asked.

Alex nodded. "We'll have to paddle hard, but as long as there are no more interruptions or obstacles, we should get there in time."

Mike looked at the young man and shook his head. "Look, Alex, I just wanted to say—" 

Alex shook his head and cut Mike off. "Look, I appreciate it. But we're not there yet. If you want to thank me, thank me when we get there. For right now, though, I'm just a guy trying to help out as best I can."

Mike smiled. "Fair enough. You know the area around here?"

Alex nodded. "I've been fishing these little coves my whole life. For a long time I would walk the shores. I know them from the water side and the dry side, don't worry."

Mike pushed the end of Alex's oar from the looped cord at the bow of the canoe, and after a bit of difficulty, he and Alyssa maneuvered it to shore. Mike stepped out first and held the boat as Alyssa climbed ashore. They lifted it out of the water and followed Alex as he walked confidently with his kayak on his shoulder.

As they made their way through the trees, the wind shifted and Mike caught a brief whiff of something familiar on the breeze. His stomach turned and he tried not to think about what the stench meant.

Ch.27

Where There's Smoke

A thin sliver of the sun still showed over the western horizon. Eric was tired. It had been a long few days, but things were finally starting to come together. The community dinner had been a welcomed break from the constant work. There had been some pushback at first, but finally his father had calmly cleared his voice and pointed to the empty sky overhead.

Once everyone had settled down, Joe asked quietly, "When's the last time any of you saw an airplane of any kind?" No one could remember seeing a single airplane pass overhead in the daylight or at night for more than five days. Most days they could see dozens of passenger jets as they navigated their way to the Raleigh or Greensboro airports. There were also the military flights from Fort Bragg in the south, but those were more sporadic and less predictable. The C-130s from the Air Force were regular enough, though, that people had grown accustomed to seeing them come through low and fast, hugging the tree tops.

Not to see a single plane of any kind, even the flashing lights of a passing jet at full cruise altitude was not just uncommon, it was unheard of. That was the turning point for the conversation. It took a while to convince some of the holdouts, but Eric could see it on all of their faces as soon as his father had made his point about the airplanes. They might be able to explain away the lights, the water services, even the lack of police and rescue response. But not the missing air traffic.

One by one, the families on Cutler's Run shook his father's hand, and then Levy's. The agreement was made. No matter what else happened, the families on the Run were going to stick together. Eric's childhood home would be the fallback point if things got bad enough, and the grim look on Joe's face said he thought that things would definitely get bad enough. Eric still couldn't believe how quickly his father had managed to get their approval. There were family and friendship ties that reached back three or four generations, and that much history coupled with strong personalities and opinions usually meant at least some contention on just about everything.

This time there was none. After a few questions, and some stubborn rumblings, things were settled. The families sat chatting for a half hour or so, and then as if by some unspoken agreement, they left. One by one, they packed their leftovers, helped clean and straighten the yard, and then began the long walk home while it was still light. Eric was elected for first watch at the fence with one of Aunt Betsy's grandsons. Chris volunteered to go and keep the first watch at the big road by himself. Eric had watched him slip into the shadows among the pine trees and hadn't heard a sound. He was simply gone.

Steven Jacobs stood on the other side of the road, his eyes trained on the long shadows cast by the trees as if he expected them to sprout wings and fly away. He was barely fourteen years and a freshman high school. The young man's nervousness showed on his face. Still, he held an older twelve gauge shotgun in his hands as if he had been born with it there. Eric knew the family, and Steven had been hunting doves, ducks, squirrels, turkeys, and deer with that shot gun since he was old enough to handle the recoil.