02 Flotilla of the Dead (9 page)

“Hey, look at this Sergeant Major!” called Private Snow.  He was holding up a clip board on the duty desk.  “There’s a note by a Sergeant Volts saying he was bitten by a madman and had to shoot his attacker numerous times to bring him down.  He goes on to say that his relief has not arrived and he is feeling ill.”

“Okay, that would be this guy here,” said O’Hara as he confirmed the name tag “Volts” on the uniform.  “You see anything else that might help us?”

“Not really, Sergeant Major,” Snow replied.  “Sort of the opposite actually.  The duty log says this Reserve Center was deactivated since last year and is only used for transshipment of military weapons and equipment through the port.”

“Damn it,” grunted O’Hara.  “They will have emptied out the armory.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Scott.

“Well, Commodore,” replied O’Hara with a grimace. “If they close a base, they usually take the weapons with them.  They might have left a few small arms for the guards, like this poor bastard,” he gestured towards the corpse on the floor.  “But I think we can forget about finding a full armory here.”

“You mean this mission was for nothing?” asked Scott in disgust.  “Clint lost his arm and maybe his life for nothing?”

“I can’t say for sure until we inspect the rest of this building, but I sure didn’t see any military vehicles in the parking lots, did you?” responded O’Hara.

 “No,” agreed Scott.  “But we need to search and make sure, right?” to which O’Hara nodded and Scott continued, “Then let’s just make sure that we do it right and nobody else gets fucked up here.  I’ll leave the search to your Marines, if that is okay with you Sergeant Major.”

“Suits me fine, but you can come along with me, Commodore, at least as far as the armory and the garage in back.  I think we’ll still find something useful,” O’Hara said.  “Hey Snow, you find anything else listed in that log book?”

“The only other listings are from a Homeland Security unit called ‘Linebacker Two Zulu’ that seems to conduct exercises here every other weekend,” replied Private Snow.

“Never heard of them, but that sounds promising,” said O’Hara.  “Maybe they keep some gear here.”

“Let’s find out,” Scott agreed and the Marines spread out through the building in four man fire teams that used standard urban warfare and anti-terrorist tactics at every door and room they entered.  No more zombies were encountered.  When they reached the armory a team of marines used thermite to melt the lock and got the door open in less than two minutes.

As O’Hara had predicted, most of the armory was empty, but not completely.  There were twenty M-16A4s on a locked gun rack and dozens of 1,000 round cases of 5.56mm ammo in ammunition lockers in the adjacent room.  On the other side of the armory they found six M-14 sniper rifles and four M-240 machine guns with a dozen cases of 7.62mm ammo for them in the lockers too.  Another locker held ten cases of 9mm pistol ammo and a gun case with thirty Beretta pistols.  There was also a rack of six M-203 combination rifle grenade launchers, which were Scott’s weapon of choice.  Best of all were the ten cases of assorted 40mm grenades that went with them.  It really wasn’t a lot, but it was a lot better than nothing.  One of the Marines called O’Hara over to look at some crates in the back of the armory and Scott followed. 

“Look at this, Sergeant Major,” said Staff Sergeant Dwain Washington, an experienced veteran of the War on Terror who had grown up in Harlem.  “I found eight crates of Twenty-five-Mike-Mike sabot and HE shells here.  Each crate holds a chain of 150 rounds. Too bad there aren’t any twenty-five millimeter canons to go with them, huh?”

O’Hara nodded, but didn’t comment.  Scott thought he detected a gleam of anticipation in the Sergeant Major’s eyes though.  Two Marines were sent outside to bring back some volunteers to remove the small cache of weapons and ammo that had been liberated.  Then O’Hara led Scott and half a dozen Marines back through the building to the secured vehicle garage in the rear.  There was another locked door that had to be opened with caution, but no zombies were waiting for them.  When they entered the cavernous garage their eyes slowly acclimated to the gloomy illumination provided by the failing battery powered emergency lights.

As his eyes adjusted to the semidarkness Scott started to pick out the shapes of vehicles parked in two neat rows down the center of the garage.  It was hard to identify them at first because all of them were painted black, but they were definitely military vehicles.  The closest came into focus as military HUMVEEs.  There were six of them lined up pointed towards the garage doors.  But the most exciting discoveries were the four Light Armored Vehicles in the next row.  The LAV-25 was the Marines’ light armored scout vehicle, but these LAVs were painted black instead of the usual desert camouflage.  Unlike the AAV-7, the LAV had eight wheels instead of tank treads and it weighed less than half as much, but it packed a heavy punch with a 25mm Bushmaster rapid fire armor piercing canon, as well as a machine gun and four 40mm grenade tubes on the front of the turret.  It also carried fewer men, with a crew of three and four armed scouts, compared to as many as twenty Marines in an AAV-7.  It was exactly what Scott had been hoping to find.  He gave a soft whistle and said, “Bingo.”

“You can say that again,” agreed O’Hara softly.  “I think we found what we came for after all.”  He was smiling as he walked towards the military vehicles like a father walking into the maternity ward at a hospital.

*****

            It took about twenty minutes to load the small cache of weapons and ammunition from the Reserve Center into the HUMVEEs in the garage.  During that time Scott and Sergeant Major O’Hara searched for and found the keys to the HUMVEEs and the LAVs.  Then, since the power was out, they used the manual chain to roll up the big garage door.  Before they were ready to leave O’Hara had a chance to inspect each vehicle with Scott.

            Three of the HUMVEES were standard issue for domestic training and utility use, but the other three were specialized models.  One of them was a field command variant with a box-like compartment behind the driver’s cab.  It was full of communications gear and seating for a commander and two assistants, as well as a hatch in the roof where an M-240 machine gun could be mounted.  The other two were up-armored versions of the type used in Iraq and Afghanistan.  One of these carried an M-240 machine gun mounted in a ring turret on the roof and the other boasted an Mk-19 automatic grenade launcher.   They also found some paperwork that designated all of these vehicles as part of a forward deployed counter-terrorism reaction force called “Linebacker Two Zulu” dedicated to defense of the port under direction of the Department of Homeland Security.  Scott almost laughed at that.  It was ironic that his own
“letter of marquee”
was signed by the DHS Assistant Secretary for Counter-Terrorism.  He actually had the legal right to take these vehicles.

            Scott was most interested in the LAVs.  They were also painted jet black with the letters “DHS” in white paint on the side of their turrets.    He entered one of them through the rear door and O’Hara explained some of the finer points of its capabilities.  “These babies are a lot smaller and lighter than the AAVs, but they mount cannons that give them more hitting power and longer range than a grenade launcher.  Now we know why they had those 25mm canon shells in the armory.  The Bushmaster chain guns fire up to 200 rounds per minute and the crates we found hold belts loaded with alternating armor piercing sabot shells and high explosive incendiary with tracer and self-destruct.  That means you can set them to blow up at a given range.  It looks like we have enough rounds to give each LAV close to a full load of ammo.” 

            “I don’t think we’ll be using too many canon shells against zombies,” Scott mused.  “It’s the amphibious capability and armored mobility that interests me the most.”

            “Well,” replied O’Hara.  “They are amphibious and can go about 7 or 8 miles per hour in water, but they aren’t as good in the water as an AAV-7 which is designed to survive in heavier seas.  We can launch an AAV into the ocean from a ship that is over the horizon from the landing beach, but the LAV is really only good in the water for short distances in relatively calm seas.”

            “That should be good enough for what I have in mind,” Scott said.  “What about weight?  How heavy are they?”

            “About 12 tons empty, or 15 tons combat weight.  That’s about half the weight of an AAV-7,” O’Hara replied from memory.  “Why is that important?”

            “It’s just an idea I’m playing with that might give us a lot more options,” Scott replied.  “I’ll discuss it with you and Captain Fisher later.  Now, if everyone is ready, let’s get this convoy going.”

“Yes, sir,” replied O’Hara and went to split up his Marines and assign two of them to each “liberated” Marine vehicle, one driver and a gunner.  Five minutes later they rolled out of the abandoned Reserve Center leading a convoy that was finally worthy of the name.

            The return trip to the Cruise Ship Terminal next to the
Queen Mary
was uneventful for Scott’s convoy.  They secured the gate on the bridge behind them and a team of volunteers remained to cut firing slits in the steel gate to prevent another incident like the one in which Clint was bitten.  Everyone agreed that plans would need to be made to secure the other bridges onto Terminal Island as soon as possible and sweep the island of its remaining zombies.  Even their short visit had proven that the island was a treasure chest of resources that needed to be secured and made available to as many survivors as possible. 

Scott, although pleased with the acquisition of the LAV-25s and HUMVEEs, spent the ride back worrying about Clint.  Had he cut off the arm in time?  Was he even right to try?  Or was Billy correct that he should have just shot Clint in the head?  One thing was certain.  If Clint turned into a zombie now, it would be Scott’s duty to pull the trigger.  Another, more troubling, question lay just below his conscious mind: what would he do if Billy were ever bitten?

*****

            For Captain McCloud the short cruise back towards the
Queen Mary
was equally troubling.  He had lost two of his crew to the zombies.  The military side of his mind told him that it was a fair trade for hundreds of weapons and thousands of rounds of ammunition, not to mention the hundreds of zombies that had been terminated.  But his human side was beset with regret and second guesses as to how he had handled the operation and how he might have prevented the loss of the brave man and woman who fell, first beneath a swarm of zombies and then to the massed gunfire of their own shipmates.   

            McCloud’s stormy thoughts were interrupted as the
Stratton
passed by the ocean side of the Navy Mole and a flare was fired from the deck of the
Cape Inscription.
  He was in no mood to make new friends at that moment, but decided that he needed to at least make first contact and arrange for a formal meeting with himself and Commodore Allen.  His curiosity was also aroused by the
Sea Launch Commander
which was tied up close by.  He noted in passing that the Navy Mole was a narrow and isolated spur of land that could be easily secured from zombie incursions by a few hundred feet of fencing or barricades on the north-east end.  He also noticed that there was an empty berth next to the
Cape Inscription
and another empty pier a quarter mile up the Mole – close to the best spot for a protective barrier – which was also connected to a tank farm and ship fueling station. 

            Captain McCloud decided that he should make a quick visit to the
Cape Inscription
in one of the Dolphins and issued orders to that effect, but as he did so he realized that there should have been a Dolphin circling over the shore party to warn of zombie attack.  It might have given them another minute warning when the swarming zombies flooded out of the federal prison.  That would probably have been enough to save two lives, yet it might have attracted more zombies.  McCloud was cursing himself as he walked back to the helicopter pad.  Of course the Dolphin was ready for takeoff when he arrived, as it had been throughout the mission.  He shook his head in self-disgust, then shook off that mood and climbed aboard the chopper.

            The flight to the
Cape Inscription
took less than a minute.  There was no official helicopter pad, but there was plenty of open deck space that was designed to carry the weight of a main battle tank, if necessary, so McCloud directed the pilot to land as close to the superstructure as possible.  As soon as the wheels touched down Captain McCloud hopped out of the Dolphin, followed by two armed Coast Guardsmen.  Moments later a door in the superstructure opened and three men walked out to great them.  Their uniforms were not exactly Navy issue, but not far from it either.  The man who took the lead wore the uniform of a ship’s captain with civilian insignia.  The man on his right was also an officer and the other one was a master chief of some sort. 

            “Permission to come aboard!” McCloud yelled over the fading whine of the Dolphin’s turbine engines. 

            “Permission granted and gladly!” was the shouted reply from the
Cape Inscription’s
captain, a six foot six black man with white teeth showing through an honest looking smile.  “We’ve been hoping someone like you would show up to deal with this nightmare!”

            “That’s a tall order,” replied McCloud.  “But we might be able to offer some assistance, maybe even some purpose to what’s left of life around here.  I’m Captain McCloud of the Coast Guard Cutter
Stratton.
  We’re engaged in a mission to help the refugee “boat people” of Southern California.  That’s what we are calling the survivors who took refuge on vessels after the zombie outbreak.  Looks to me like you and your crew fit that description.”

            “Yes sir!” replied the ship’s captain.  “I’m Captain Charles Crenshaw of the
USS
Cape Inscription. 
This is my first mate, Brandon Flowers, and my senior Chief Petty Officer, Clyde Brown.  We’re part of the Ready Reserve Fleet and we’ve been ready to receive orders that never come.  But if you need our help, I’m of a mind to offer it.  These zombie bastards are bad news.  My ship and I stand ready to move troops to fight them or help evacuate survivors.  Just say the word, Captain McCloud.  I know I’m supposed to fall under command of the Navy, but I haven’t heard shit from them since this started, except for some radio conversations with commander at the Seal Beach Naval Weapons Station.  Fleet Command in San Diego just told us to sit tight.  So the Coast Guard is plenty good enough for me.  Just say the word, sir.”