Strands of Sorrow (3 page)

CHAPTER 2

This is Devil Dawwwg Radio, coming to you live from sunny Guantanamo Bay! An here’s yer hourly sitrep, Devil Dogs!

Those of you Devil Dogs in the Great White North may not like to hear about our sunny weather and tropical days, but that cold’s biting the hell out of the zombies! We’re starting to get reports from across the northern tier of the U.S. and into Canada of breakouts by survivors! Oorah! Keep ’em coming!

U.S. Navy forces under the command of Lieutenant Arnold Trim recently made a port call in Rockland, Maine, delivering critical medical supplies and ammunition for the locals. Some requested to be evacuated but a small cadre stayed behind.

With Portland still reporting scattered infected, Rockland is the designated secure point for Maine and Upper New England. The flotilla will continue support and clearance operations in support of Operation Mayflower . . .

Master Sergeant John Doehler, NCOIC, Imagery and Overhead Analysis, Strategic Armaments Command, started at the sound of a phone ringing.

He was the Duty NCO in the Hole and, it was the middle of the night, there were no major crises and he was thus trying not to nap. Until the phone rang.

Phones just didn’t ring. Every communication they were getting these days was on computer terminals. There might be a polite
ping, ping, ping
but not the harsh sound of a bell. Now there was a phone ringing.

He looked at it. It had a light coating of dust. The label on it said: “Topside Security Station.”

He picked it up.

“Master Sergeant Doehler, Duty NCO, Strategic Armaments Command, how may I help you, sir or ma’am?”

“Master Sergeant, Sergeant Williamson, Base Security. Infected numbers have dropped enough we’ve staged a breakout. We are in the process of ensuring topside security. What is your status if I may ask, Master Sergeant?”

“Nominal,” Doehler said. “Uninfected so until we can get some vaccine we’re locked down.”

“Roger,” Williamson said. “Orders?”

“Survive and clear,” Doehler said. “Look, don’t try to maintain that position all night. Have someone there tomorrow at zero nine hundred hours if security situation warrants. I’ll get someone to brief you then. And congratulations on your breakout, Sergeant. Really good news.”

“Can I get a quick status update, Master Sergeant?”

“Broadly, the whole world was shut down by the infected,” Doehler said. “There are groups getting organized. Main force, currently, is LantFleet and primarily Wolf Squadron. Long story. There are also civilian groups ground-side organizing, mostly in northern zones, but there has been no broad movement. Most are waiting for the spring to start moving beyond local areas. Do you have sufficient supplies for the time being?”

“Now that we’ve gotten out of the warehouse,” Williamson said. “We’ve accessed another. We were getting short.”

“Just hang in there, Sergeant,” Doehler said. “And get someone back to the phone at zero nine. Call us. I’ll have someone more senior available to brief you and give you any orders.”

“Roger,” Williamson said.

“Hole, out,” Doehler said, then hung up the phone.

“Huh,” Doehler said, making a note in his log. “That’s a hell of a thing . . . Must be cold as a witch’s tit topside . . .”

* * *

“Not as pretty as the Caribbean,” Faith said, looking at the low, scrubby shoreline of the river entrance. “Better than fucking London, though.”

February in Jacksonville was significantly colder than in Guantanamo. While not a patch on London, there was a biting north wind under an iron gray sky. It reminded Faith a lot of when they’d left Virginia so many months before.

They’d taken up a position on the side of the bridge of the
Grace Tan
to observe their newest objective. Neither was particularly impressed.

“Not much,” Sophia said, gesturing.

The Naval Station was just inside the harbor mouth. They could see the masts of a few Navy ships, probably frigates, tied alongside. What was immediately apparent, though, was that the fuel storage bunkers had burned to the ground. The fire had also consumed what looked like a trailer park right at shoreline.

“Survivors,” Faith said, looking through binoculars.

“Where?” Sophia asked.

“Big warehouse in by the docking areas. Think that’s the same building. See them up top?”

“Got it,” Sophia said. “Well, that’s a target, then. That’s a stores warehouse for the squadron that was based here.”

“And more fuel tanks,” Faith said, pointing west. “Amazingly not burned.”

“That’s the aviation fuel,” Sophia said. “It’ll need to be re-refined, but good to see. The airfield is over there.”

“I can figure out where stuff is on a map at this point, Sis,” Faith said. “So seems like you’re good for av-fuel. As long as we can clear this sucker and hold it.”

“Ensign Smith to ready room,”
the tannoy blared.
“Ensign Smith to ready room.”

“And so much for sightseeing,” Sophia said. “See you later.”

“Try to keep it in the air, Sis,” Faith said, still looking through the binos.

* * *

“Lookouts detected some survivors on a building in the base area,” Captain Wilkes said, putting on Nomex gloves. “Time to rig up.”

“Yes, sir,” Sophia said. She’d started training in helo operations in England since Dr. Shelley had the vaccine production well in hand. Actually, she’d started on the trip over when she borrowed one of the captain’s flight manuals as something to read on the voyage. Then in England she’d taken some very quickie tests and acted as a copilot, switching between the three “trained” pilots. In two weeks of clearance over burned-out London she’d gotten eighty hours of “copilot” time, then soloed. They left the Seahawk in London and brought back only the Super Stallion. On the trip back, she’d continued to fly, including dropping in some SAR and salvage crews on ships in the Atlantic. She was still a little unsure in winds like today, but she could manage to keep the bird in the air most of the time. “Has anyone told the rest of the crew, sir?”

They had one Marine, Sergeant Christopher L. “Smitty” Smith, who was a qualified Air Crewman. Oddly enough, he was considered more useful for his proven clearance skills than flying around in the back of a helicopter. Especially given some of the missions after the London Research Institute battle. Many of them hadn’t been just “search and rescue,” but “combat search and rescue.” Then there were the two liner clearances the Marines and Gurkhas had performed. And, of course, Faith had gotten her titties in a wad about losing “her” Marines. Smitty was a grunt for the foreseeable future.

Shortly after returning from London, they’d picked up a medically retired Air Force flight engineer, what the rest of the services called a “crew chief.” His name was Eric “EZ” Ezell, and he was a veteran of the storied 20th Special Operations Squadron, which had flown the MH-53J/M. General consensus was that he was a godsend. The Super Stallion needed a flight engineer to do the kinds of missions they were doing, and EZ was fully trained, albeit on the Air Force version.

“EZ’s got them at the bird already,” Captain Wilkes said, putting on his bail-out harness. Almost as soon as he’d arrived, EZ had taken on the task of training up their inexperienced back-end crew. As a flight engineer, he’d explained, he had one of two jobs. He’d either sit in “the seat” behind the pilots and monitor the aircraft’s systems and run the crew, or he’d be in the right door, running the hoist and generally, manning a minigun. Therefore, he was in the best position to teach their baby gunners their jobs. Though he was diplomatic about it, it was clear that in his world, the flight engineer ran the show, second only to the aircraft commander. It wasn’t quite the way that the Navy and Marine Corps had operated, but no one could deny that EZ was getting results with the gunners, and so Wilkes let him do his thing.

Sophia reached for her own survival harness, letting out a mental sigh. She was of two minds about the survival gear. If they survived at all, it would be useful. It included, among other things, a lifting harness so they could be airlifted out.

But they were flying over zombie-infested territory. Their survival if they went down was measured in how fast how many of the infected humans could close on them. Then they’d be eaten.

And since they were the
only
qualified helo pilots around, being airlifted out was currently a moot point.

She’d never even mentioned those thoughts to Captain Wilkes, though.

She was putting
her
faith in her 1911 if they went down. She squirted CLP into the action and worked it several times before holstering it on her chest.

“I’d say you carry an insane number of magazines for that,” Captain Wilkes said. “But probably not.”

“If we ever go down, there’s going to be no such thing as ‘too much ammo,’ sir,” Sophia said. “I’m still figuring out where to rack two Saigas in the bird.”

“Ask EZ,” Wilkes said. “I’m sure his pilots at the 20th did something similar with their M-4s. And anyway, we won’t be feet dry for long this time. Just a quick hop.”

“I saw the survivors when I was up on deck, sir,” Sophia said, grabbing her helmet. “Agreed it’s a short hop.”

“I’ll still be checking your pre-flight,” Wilkes said. “You can die on a take-off, especially off of this monstrosity.”

* * *

The helo platform on the
Grace Tan
was just about the highest point on the ship, stuck incongruously above and forward of the bridge. The only higher points were the radio and radar masts. Just walking out onto it required a fundamental lack of fear of heights, and since you could only approach from the bow, taking off and landing were interesting, especially when the ship was moving.

While the task force had been on the London mission, the M/V
Boadicea
had been modified to support helicopter operations. A portion of the aft sun deck and Marquee deck had been cut away. The pool had been removed and a large helo platform had been mounted at the bridge deck level. It would have made a better spot as a primary platform for the helo, as it was way less nerve-wracking to climb out on, but the
Grace Tan
was where all the mechanical support was located.

Sophia couldn’t deny, however, that the view from the
Grace Tan
’s helo deck was spectacular. She could clearly see the skyscrapers of Jacksonville in the distance as well as their objective, Blount Island. And their companion craft. The
Grace
was preceded by three divisions of small craft, fishing trawlers converted into gunboats and yachts that had once seemed large to her, as well as the USS
Alexandria
, a nuclear attack submarine, which had, carefully, checked the channel using both state-of-the-art sonar and small boats using old-fashioned hand-lines. It was immediately in front of the large oil platform supply ship, guiding it into its anchorage. The ship was followed by two tugboats to make sure it could get into the right spots. Behind the tugs was the cruise liner M/V
Boadicea
, brought along in the hopes that they would find enough survivors to make it worthwhile. In all it was about half the “throw-weight” of the entire “Atlantic Fleet.” At least if you didn’t count the subs, which she was still getting used to.

She did the preflight slowly, and with great care, conscious of the watchful eyes of both Captain Wilkes and EZ. The flight engineer had already checked everything she looked at, of course. His own training demanded it. But she needed to know the aircraft systems for herself, and neither she nor Wilkes was willing to dispense with the ritual of “seeing for themselves.” The survivors would be fine for the time being. They’d survived this long, they could wait another ten minutes, she thought.

She glanced over at the flag they used as a primary wind indicator. It whipped from right to left, indicating gusty and variable winds. That was another thing. She was not looking forward to trying to take off in this wind while the ship was moving. In fact, she’d “protest” if it was suggested. The aircraft was longer than any of the boats she’d captained and damn near heavier. A nice stable platform for take-off and landing that wasn’t stuck out in a constant stream of dirty, turbulent air was high on her list of birthday wishes.

“Some day, I might actually be able to fly one of these things off of a ship that’s designed for it,” Sophia said as she completed the pre-flight in the cockpit.

“Well, think of this as good training,” Captain Wilkes said. “Although, I’m taking this take-off and landing.”

“Please,” Sophia said. “I’m worried about the winds, sir.”

“Did worse in England,” Wilkes said, shrugging. “Finished?”

“Yes, sir,” Sophia said, keying the intercom. “Crew, you up? Port?”

Following tradition, and because it made sense to minimize intercom chatter, the aircrews used the shortest, clearest, callsigns internally. Sophia’s normal handle of “Seawolf” had been cropped to “Wolf.” Captain Wilkes’s callsign was “Tang” for no reasons he was willing to admit. As for the rest of the crew, they answered with either their position or their personal callsign, though EZ tended to insist on the former.