Crossbones (8 page)

Beyond the thick bridge windows, the sound had grown even more chaotic. At nearly 10:00
A.M.
, the surface traffic was dangerously congested with vessels of all types, most disregarding all water safety rules in their race northward. Liz found her ship in the center of a waterborne rush hour, and no sooner had Boomer given his time estimate than she had to order the cutter to slow, keeping pace
with the vessels around them in order to avoid a collision. It might not be a bad thing, she realized. Perhaps
Joshua James
would become lost in the clutter.

Many ships tried to radio the Coast Guard vessel or signal from their decks, but Liz ordered radio silence and gave no response. In another life, even yesterday, she would have been communicating and working to bring order to the madness. But this was a new life, and though her heart ached to help the frightened civilians all around her, it wasn't safe to bring any of them aboard a ship that might be attacked by the U.S. Navy at any moment. The other consideration was that she didn't have enough stores or clean water to support her crew, much less refugees. No, for now she had to carry on. Things would be different after they resupplied at Port Angeles. Then she would come back here and start saving lives.

Off the starboard bow, a sport fisherman got too close to a maneuvering freighter and they collided. Fiberglass shattered and the sport fisher went under as the big, rusty ship plodded on. Yellow spots appeared in the water as life jackets bobbed to the surface.

Joshua James
steamed north without slowing.

The Ediz Hook was a curving sliver of land extending into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. It sheltered a deepwater harbor for the small town of Port Angeles, boasting a population of only twenty thousand, resting in the shadow of the Olympic Mountains. The town had an airport and a ferry service to Victoria, British Columbia, and other than a small tourism trade, it survived because of industry: logging, oil tanker berthing, and commercial fishing. It was also one of the last American communities before this part of the world turned into either Canada or the Pacific.

Port Angeles held little interest for Liz Kidd, who was standing on her bridge and observing the view ahead through binoculars. It was the Coast Guard Air Station out at the tip of the Ediz Hook that drew her. Air Station Port Angeles was a logistical support center for several cutters operating in the area and would have just what
Joshua James
needed. Liz had served on a small cutter here once, back when she was a young lieutenant, junior grade, and she knew the base well. Getting in quietly, however, would be impossible. They had company.

Slowing down to mix with the flotilla of vessels trying to escape
the Seattle area had masked their transit—no officials, including the Navy, had discovered them—but the reduced speed added three hours to their journey, causing them to arrive just after 6:00
P.M.
Most of the smaller craft around them had peeled away toward marinas hours ago, thinking to find safety on one of the many islands in Puget Sound. The biggest ships, the tankers, freighters, and containers, steamed on around the cutter, eventually angling either toward Canada or out to sea. A dozen vessels, private craft as well as two commercial fishermen, followed
Joshua James
at a close distance, no doubt believing the cutter would lead them to a safe harbor.

As Liz ordered her ship to a dead stop, two miles from the air station, the tiny flotilla with her did the same, drifting into a staggered line off her port and starboard, expectant faces looking toward the big, white Coast Guard vessel. Liz had long since stopped listening to their radio calls for information.

“Nothing in the slips,” Boomer said, standing beside her with his own binoculars. The pier that served the air station was completely empty of Coast Guard vessels, or any others for that matter. “Nothing on the runway, and the helo pad is empty too.” From here they could even see into the open, cavernous aircraft hangar. The three MH-65 Dolphin helicopters stationed there were gone.

Every coastie is out doing their job today. Except me.
Liz keyed the radio mic. “Air Station Port Angeles, this is Coast Guard Cutter seven-five-four. Acknowledge.”

No response, and sorting through the chatter on the Guard channel told them none of it was coming from the air station. Still, she tried to raise them several more times, each time with negative results.

“Helm,” she called, “ahead seven knots, come to zero-two-zero.” The helmsman steered the vessel toward the air station as twin diesels pushed
Joshua James
through the water. Most of the small craft around her took that as a positive sign and raced ahead to the
marina at the edge of the small town to the left. They didn't have much choice, Liz knew. Most would almost be out of fuel by now. One of the two commercial fishermen didn't like the look of it all and turned north to strike out for Canada, but the second hung on and followed the cutter.

Liz summoned her officers and section heads, handed the conn off to Mr. Waite, and gathered her people at the back of the bridge for a quick meeting.

“I'm going to bring us alongside the long pier,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Coseboom will lead the shore party.” She looked at the man. “While you assemble your team, I'll draw you a map of the base so you won't get lost. Priorities are food, water, arms, and ammo, collecting any coasties you find. If you can make a second trip, some of the contractors will go with you so we can identify and obtain any systems equipment they need.”

Boomer nodded.

“Deck division,” she said, looking at her brother, “will mount the fifties and provide cover to the operation.” Then she looked at Amy, now going on twenty-four hours without sleep. “Engine room and propulsion needs to be standing by to get us off that pier fast.”

Everyone said they understood.

Liz looked at Boomer again. “If you encounter the dead, remember that head shots put them down. I want this operation executed fast and without casualties, people. You have your assignments.”

The officers and brand-new section heads dispersed, and Liz moved to her quartermaster. “I want to get into that harbor and then come about to one-eight-zero before approaching the pier, so we end up bow-out to sea.”

The quartermaster watched his digital charts and gave commands to the helmsman, and
Joshua James
moved into the sheltered waters of the Ediz Hook.

•   •   •

L
ieutenant Commander Coseboom was bright, and he had a quick, tactical mind. He and his shore party had been on the base for only a few minutes before it was clear to him what had happened. The crisis erupted in Seattle, and Air Station Port Angeles sent all three of its birds and every vessel they had south to assist, emptying the base of all but administrative and service personnel, and probably a tiny security detachment.

Like everywhere, the dead appeared in the small town across the water, and the civilian population, those that hadn't gotten out on boats, packed the road that traveled the length of the hook, passing through the bird sanctuary and seeking refuge on the only military base around. There would have been no way to hold them back; the base gate was nothing more than a sentry box and a pair of wooden traffic arms.

The dead followed the exodus.

And caught them.

Air Station Port Angeles now crawled. Through the spaces between buildings, sluggish figures could be glimpsed moving in large groups along the runway. Others, many in uniform, staggered across the closer lawns and parking areas.

“We're moving to Warehouse One,” Boomer told the eight men with him, “fast and quiet.” Only he, Chief Newman, and a bosun's mate were armed, and the bosun held their lone M16 rifle.

An ocean wind blew across the base, cool and salty, making the colors snap atop the flagpole in front of the administration building. The shore party had run down the cutter's gangplank, sprinting down the pier and onto the base itself, angling to the right down a paved access road. Boomer took the lead, a forty-caliber Sig in his hand and a pack on his back, carrying a pair of bolt cutters.

Two corpses in mechanic's coveralls stumbled across a strip of grass and onto the access road, moving to meet the running shore party. Boomer stopped twenty-five feet from them, took the Sig in two hands, and fired three times, putting them down. The shots
echoed across the quiet base. He'd seen enough during the
Klondike
rescue that the sight of other Coast Guardsmen in this condition—or shooting them, for that matter—caused him no hesitation. As his captain had said, the head shots put them down, and they didn't get back up.

The map Liz drew for them led the party to a warehouse about midway between the far helicopter hangar and the pier behind them, positioned right on the access road. Boomer hauled on a big sliding door mounted on rollers, running it open while the bosun's mate pointed the M16 inside. The lights were on, and nothing appeared to be moving among the high steel racks packed with crates. Forklifts were lined up to one side of the high-ceilinged space.

The officer looked at Chief Newman, who was also holding a Sig. “You know what we need. I'm taking three men and heading to the armory.”

“Copy that,” Newman said, pointing at the forklifts. “Take a couple of those.” Parked beside the vehicles was an airport-style tractor attached to a string of flatbed carts, something to service large aircraft out on the runway. “I'm using that,” the chief said.

Boomer gave him a thumbs-up and ran for a forklift.

•   •   •

L
iz used her binoculars and tracked her shore party until they reached the warehouse. A radio to keep her in contact with her men now hung on one hip. On the forward deck below, her brother had mounted a fifty-caliber on the port side and was loading it with a belt of heavy rounds. He yanked back the charging handle to arm the weapon and pointed it toward shore. Three other fifty-cals would also be aiming at the base now, positioned at intervals down the length of the port side. She hoped they wouldn't have to use them.

The mass of a peeling, green-and-white commercial fisherman
drifted in off the port bow, coasting into one of the slips near the shore, its diesel stacks blatting smoke and noise as it reversed to slow itself.

“Goddammit,” Liz growled. The fisherman ended up directly between the shore and Charlie Kidd's fifty-caliber. As she watched, four men in jeans and flannel leaped to the docks carrying empty duffel bags, running to shore and then heading in the direction her shore party had gone.

She was about to switch to the exterior PA system and order the fishermen to clear out when a muffled echo of gunfire floated up the bridge ladderway from decks below.
Gunfire? Who else aboard was armed?
She looked around.

Amy Liggett was not on the bridge.

•   •   •

A
my moved down the passageway, eyelids heavy, her body exhausted. Tired people made poor decisions, she knew. It had been Amy who put Seaman Thedford in charge of babysitting the wounded
Klondike
survivors, and then, in all the excitement, promptly forgot about him.
How long has this poor guy been waiting for his relief? He must be bursting to make a head call.
She was almost at sick bay when she realized she hadn't brought anyone to relieve him.
Stupid. Tired and stupid.
She would let him visit the head, then tell him to hang on just a bit longer until she could find someone to take his place.

Alone in the corridor, she came to a hatch marked with a red cross in a white circle and was reaching for the handle when it moved upward on its own. The door swung in.

“Moses, I'm sorry—”

Her voice and her breath caught as the young black seaman, now gray, gripped the open hatch frame with pale, blood-encrusted fingers and leaned out, gasping. He lunged, but the lower lip of the
hatch caught him at the ankles and he collapsed face-first into the passageway.

Amy let out a shriek and stumbled backward, clawing for her sidearm as more corpses in bloodstained uniforms tumbled out on top of the former Moses Thedford. Heads turned, creamy eyes with pinpoint pupils seeking and locking on prey, and they scrambled to their feet, moving awkwardly toward the young ensign. All were croaking and rasping.

Of all the military branches, it was the United States Coast Guard that trained the hardest with handguns. In their law enforcement role, it was the weapon most commonly carried. Though still considered green in almost every area of responsibility, Amy Liggett had qualified as expert with the Sig Sauer P229. As she had been trained, she took a wide stance and a two-handed grip, then fired two shots in quick succession. The forty-caliber slugs took the
Klondike
survivor in direct center mass—also as Amy had been taught—and punched out his back without slowing him in the least.

Head shot,
the captain had said, and Amy focused, raising her aim. She fired, and the round hit the crewman in the forehead, spraying gore into the faces of those behind him. The body crumpled. In the tight steel corridor, the pistol shots echoed, hurting her eardrums. She shifted her aim right and fired, blowing off a jaw and making one of the things stagger against the bulkhead, but not stopping it.

The three creatures were fifteen feet away and leaned into a sidestepping gallop. Amy turned and ran back up the corridor, but only twenty feet before she turned again and resumed her shooting stance. The Sig banged out four more rounds, and the remaining
Klondike
crewmen went down.

Five rounds left. Moses Thedford hopped toward her, arms flailing, mouth yawning as he let out a ghastly moan. Amy fired once,
hitting Moses in the eye, blowing out the back of his skull. He collapsed.

She remained in her shooting stance, pistol trained on the open hatch down the hallway for a moment as she did the math, counting occupants. Then she advanced cautiously. Sick bay was a blood-splattered ruin, but there were no more bodies in here, moving or otherwise. When the sound of running boots came from the distance in the passageway, followed by her captain shouting her name, Ensign Liggett holstered her sidearm and leaned against the open hatch frame, resting her forehead on her arm.

“Clear,” she called back. “And it's contagious, Captain.”

Liz Kidd turned and ran back for the bridge.

•   •   •

A
ir Station Port Angeles had fallen almost exactly as LCDR Coseboom had guessed. When the dead began attacking and rapidly multiplying in the small town across the harbor, the residents who could went to the marina to escape by water. Most of them made it and put to sea long before
Joshua James
arrived, with Victoria, British Columbia, as their destination.

Victoria had fallen by the time they reached the Canadian city, and death was waiting for them.

The majority of Port Angeles's citizens made for the Coast Guard station, quickly clogging the access road and then abandoning their vehicles to go ahead on foot. The base was never meant to be particularly secure. Its remote location provided security, as its position at the end of a slender peninsula meant that a small armed detachment could hold back any moderate threat. The gate, such as it was, had never been intended to stem the tide of thousands of panicked refugees, and the civilian mass pushed in without resistance. The few guardsmen assigned to defend the gates weren't about to fire on their terrified and unarmed neighbors, and so the civilians poured
out onto the airfield. Once they arrived, however, they weren't sure what to do next, and so most of them stayed on the airfield.