02 Flotilla of the Dead (29 page)

*****

Half an hour later the Super Huey and Dolphin One were approaching the coast of Catalina Island at over 150 mph.  Scott and Mick Williams were piloting the Huey with Mark and Jack riding shotgun in the passenger compartment.  A mile from shore Mick began to climb towards 1,600 feet, which was the altitude of the Airport in the Sky.  The runway had been built after World War Two by removing the tops of the two tallest mountains on the island and filling in the gap between them using the earth and rocks that had been displaced.  Thus, the airport was now the highest point on the island and offered commanding views in every direction.  

Mick cleared the threshold of the runway by 50 feet and slowed the Huey to a hover over the center of the runway with the Dolphin right behind him.  There was no place to land except right in the middle of the runway, so that is what they did.  As the engines wound down groups of people began to emerge from the aircraft parked around the field.  They approached hesitantly at first, especially when they saw that Scott’s party and the Coast Guardsmen from the Dolphin were all heavily armed.  But one man waved and came forward to greet them.

“Welcome to the Airport in the Sky,” said the tall man wearing aviator glasses and dirty denim overalls.  “I’m Mike Jones and I guess I’m in charge of this here shebang.  It’s a fuster cluck, ain’t it?”

Scott smiled and reached out to shake hands with Mike.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mike.  I’m Commodore Scott Allen, leader of the Survival Flotilla, and this is Captain McCloud of the Coast Guard Cutter
Stratton.
  Our ships will be arriving in Avalon soon with supplies from the mainland, but we decided to drop in up here first to check on your status.”

“We’re much better after hearing what you just said, sir,” replied Mike with a growing smile.  “It’s been damned hard for us here.  Most of the people who flew in on Z-Day have walked down to Avalon in search of food and shelter.  About fifty of us are still up here staying in our planes, but we’re just about out of food and water now.”

“I thought that might be the situation,” said Scott.  “So I brought cases of bottled water and canned food in my helicopter.  You’re welcome to it, compliments of the Flotilla.”

“Thank God,” said Mike seriously.  “We were all starting to lose hope.  Some of us might have even taken off to look for another safe airport, but our planes are all blocked in by others that arrived after we did.  That’s what I meant by a fluster cluck.  As you can see, this field is so full of planes that we had to start dumping the late arrivals off the end of the runway.  What can you tell us about conditions on the mainland?”

“Not much good news there, I’m afraid,” said Captain McCloud.  “Every major city and most towns appear to be overrun by zombies.  However, Commodore Allen and his Flotilla have established a safe haven on Terminal Island and the Port of Long Beach.  That’s where we got the supplies we’re bringing to Catalina.”

“That sounds promising.  Is there any place to land a plane in your safe haven?” Mike asked hopefully.

“Not exactly, at least not yet,” replied Scott.  “But we have some nice long and straight stretches of four lane highway that we should be able to convert into runways without too much trouble.  We just need to cut down some street lights and power lines, move some K rails, and bust out a few curbs and traffic islands.  Or we can clear out space for a runway in one of the big container yards.  One way or another we can have a runway prepared by next week.”

“That sounds great,” said Mike.  “This island is so crowded with refugees that there’s no place to stay and no supplies to be found at any price.  From what I’ve heard, there’s been quite a bit of trouble down in Avalon for the past couple of days with armed refugees seizing the remaining stocks of food and supplies.  So, if you have room for some of us in your safe haven and a place for us to land, there are a lot of pilots who would jump at the chance.  But how could we repay your generosity?”

“I was getting to that part,” said Scott with a smile.  “We were thinking that your aircraft could become vital means of transportation, communication and supply between isolated safe havens.   The Mayor of Los Angeles is planning to establish a safe haven at Burbank airport too.  Some of your people might want to relocate there after it’s secure.  There’s also a military safe zone down in San Diego, on Coronado Island.  It includes the North Island Naval Air Station.  I’m in contact with their commanders and I’ll suggest making use of civil aviation assets to maintain contact between the scattered safe havens that are being formed.  Finding all of these planes and pilots on Catalina might be exactly what we need to make such a plan work, if you and some of the others are willing to use your planes as couriers and air taxis.”

“You better believe it!” said Mike enthusiastically. “I’d love to do something useful.  We had to run away from those zombies to survive, but I’m tired of running and hiding.  I’ve been a member of the Civil Air Patrol for almost twenty years, but this would be the first time that my flying could actually help save lives.  You can count me in and I’ll do my best to recruit as many of the others as I can.”

“Great,” replied Scott, still smiling.  “Why don’t you spread the word and discuss it with the other pilots.  As I said, it’ll probably be another week before we have a landing strip ready for you in Long Beach, or Burbank, and I wouldn’t fly into Coronado without clearance if I were you.  The military down there have developed a habit of confiscating things they deem valuable.  In the meantime we can give you some supplies to hold you over and let you know when and where it’s safe for you to fly back to the mainland.” 

“Sounds like a plan, Commodore,” Mike agreed. 

Scott saw that all of the supplies he had brought had been unloaded, so they made their farewells and re-boarded the helicopters.  Before returning to the task force Scott told Mick to fly up to the west side of the island and then circle around and back down the east side so he could get a bird’s eye view of the boat people gathered out there.  Captain McCloud followed the Huey’s lead and they swooped down the western slopes, over the famous Wrigley Arabian Horse Ranch, and down past Shark Harbor and Little Harbor where at least a hundred boats were crowded into the small anchorage. 

Turning north, Mick flew fast and low along the deserted western coast of Catalina where large waves heaved and crashed against the rocky shore.  A minute later Scott directed him turn into the western mouth of Two Harbors.  This large natural inlet was filled with hundreds, perhaps a thousand boats of every size and type.  The two helicopters slowed slightly to take in the scene, then continued on to cross the small town of Two Harbors on the isthmus connecting the north and south halves of Catalina.  The larger of the two harbors was on the eastern side.  Known as Isthmus Harbor, it was filled with well over a thousand boats and it was an impressive sight to see them all tied side to side in row after row along the wide cove.  

Turning back to the south they overflew the Wrigley Institute and Scott noticed three Coast Guard helicopters sitting on the landing pad there.  He triggered the microphone on his radio headset and said, “Eagle to Dolphin One, you guys know anything about the other Dolphins down there?”

“Roger that, Commodore,” replied Captain McCloud.  “Those birds are from the Los Angeles District.  So are the two small Coast Guard cutters and the buoy tender anchored off the point there.  They all followed the Boat People over here on Z-Day and have set up a temporary base of operations at the Wrigley Environmental Research Center.  I’ll need to meet with them soon.  Perhaps you’ll want to join us.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Scott responded, echoing the sentiments expressed by the pilot, Mike, at the Airport in the Sky.  “Let’s make a quick pass over Avalon and get back to the task force.  Eagle out.”  The helicopters continued down the eastern coast of Catalina at high speed and Scott was impressed by the number of boats anchored in each and every cove they saw.  When they got to Avalon Harbor the feeling of being impressed evolved into one of being shocked.  The five giant cruise ships anchored outside of the harbor were certainly impressive.  However, the view of thousands and thousands of sailboats, motorboats and yachts anchored between those big ships and the shore approached the status of awesome.  They looked like a patchwork quilt of diamonds spread out over a turquoise sea.   Even Mick seemed affected by the view, as he raised the nose of the Super Huey to gain altitude and perspective on the scene. 

“Holy shit,” Mick said on the intercom.  “Look at all of those boats!”

“The more the better,” replied Scott.  “They’ll be welcome to join the Flotilla.  Most of them will be more than happy to go back to Long Beach, if they know it’s safe and that food is sitting there waiting for them.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a fuck of a lot of them,” said Mick skeptically.  He looked down again at the multitude of boats, shook his head, and banked the helicopter back towards the task force.   Mick was frowning.  Scott was smiling.  Mark and Jake were covering their departure with weapons locked and loaded.

*****

Flotilla Task Force One arrived off the coast of Avalon Harbor at two-thirty in the afternoon of April 12
^th
, 2012.   People on the ships and boats surrounding Catalina, as well as those in houses on the hills above the town of Avalon, must have seen them approaching for at least an hour.  There seemed to be a tense atmosphere of expectation among those on the thousands of boats anchored and tied together off the coast as the
Sovereign Spirit
slowed to a stop near the larger cruise ships and dropped anchor.  As the
Stratton
turned and sped up to circle around the rest of the task force the big red stripe near her bow identified the ship as a large Coast Guard cutter and the boat people began to cheer and blow the horns on their boats.  The Coast Guard was a welcome sight to all and their presence indicated that the rest of the strange task force could probably be considered friendly too.

Captain Fisher ordered the Cigarette speed boat lowered and Scott went down to board it from the vehicle ramp.  Mark, Jack, and Sergeant Major O’Hara had all volunteered to accompany him ashore.  Scott drove the Cigarette boat himself and threaded their way through the mass of moored yachts to reach the Green Pleasure Pier in the center of Avalon Harbor.  Almost all of the boats they passed had people out on deck, watching the arrival of the Flotilla task force.  Some waved at Scott as he passed them.  Others had sullen or blank looks on their faces.  A few grew fearful when they saw that Scott and his party were armed with assault rifles.  According to the radio reports they had received, there were no zombies roaming the streets of Avalon, but that didn’t mean they were free of danger.  With this many refugees competing for limited resources it was inevitable that street crime would become an issue.  Scott and his party had agreed that it would be best for the Flotilla to present at least a token show of force from the outset, if only to establish their position of authority in this post-apocalyptic world.

Avalon’s Green Pleasure Pier was crowded with refugees.  Every slip and inch of dock space was full of small boats and dingy tied to dingy.  Scott brought the Cigarette Top Gun in to side tie next to a harbor patrol boat and directed Jake to secure the lines and remain aboard to guard the speed boat.  Mark spoke to Jake quietly for a moment and turned to follow Scott and O’Hara as they crossed over the patrol boat and climbed up to the pier.  

The crowd parted reluctantly as Scott and Sergeant Major O’Hara stepped up onto the pier.  Some of the people were smiling, but there was something a little strange about their expressions.  A few others in the crowd looked hostile, or close to it.  Scott noticed that many of the rougher looking men were armed.  O’Hara casually swung his M-4 up to port arms and at least a dozen faces turned to find something else to glare at.  Scott was still smiling as he took the M-203 off his shoulder and held it with the barrels pointed skyward. 

“Where’s the Harbor Master?” asked Scott in a loud voice.

“He’s dead,” shouted a voice from the crowd.

“Then who’s in charge here?” Scott spoke even louder, his smile gone now.

“We are!” yelled one of the armed thugs.  “This is our town now.  We make the rules.” 

“Bullshit!” Scott yelled as he lowered his combination grenade launcher and assault rifle on the crowd.  “Everyone put your weapons down on the deck now!  Whoever is in charge here needs to come forward.  I’m Commodore Scott Allen and I’ve brought ship loads full of food and fuel to help all of you.  But I’ll be damned if I’m going to give anything to a hostile mob.”

  The mention of ships full of food had the desired effect.  Or maybe it was the grenade launcher and assault rifles pointed at them.  The men in the crowd lowered their weapons or hid them out of sight.  Many of those in the back of the crowd tried to slip away unnoticed.  But Scott felt the need to get to the bottom of this and called out again.  “Everyone freeze!  Nobody is going anywhere until I know what’s been going on here.  You there, with the big mouth,” Scott pointed at the thug who had claimed ownership of the town.  “Drop your pistol and step forward.  Now!”  The man hesitated, saw that nobody was going to back him up if he raised his weapon, and decided to comply with Scott’s demand.  He set his revolver down on the wooden pier and stepped forward with only a slightly less defiant expression on his face.

“What’s going on here?” Scott asked.  “And what happened to the Harbor Master and the Harbor Police?”  The thug stood silent and defiant, but he slowly lowered his eyes in the face of Scott’s angry glare.

“These men killed them,” called out a woman in the midst of the crowd.  “When the food started to run out the Harbor Master and his men ordered the grocery stores closed and started to ration things.  But some of these men didn’t accept that.  They started saying that there were too many people here and not enough food for all of them.  The ones with guns started saying that only the strong should survive.  It turned into a riot and they shot the Harbor Master and his patrolmen.”