Day by Day Armageddon: Shattered Hourglass (37 page)

Ninety thousand tons of steel bore down on Key West in speeds in excess of thirty knots. The strike teams would brace for impact until the ship ran aground, using their precious seconds to reach radio, eliminating the undead along their route, who would hopefully be floored and disoriented.

•   •   •

John and Ramirez were on the portside forward strike team.

“We’re not far. I can smell piña coladas,” Ramirez told John.

“Very funny, that’s not what I smell,” said John. “Just be ready. Thirty may not seem fast, but going from thirty to zero will catapult your ass off this ship. I’m bracing against that wall. Holding a handrail won’t be enough.”

“That’s why I have you around, old man; to be the brains. Looks like I’ll never get the chance to go to college like you did. Purdue is probably closed, huh?”

“Yeah, wiseass, Purdue is probably closed for the next hundred years. For what it’s worth I can tell you this, nothing I ever learned in college would prepare me for riding an aircraft carrier onto a beach, and assaulting passageways full of things that want to eat me. I think your years of OJT in the marines might be a more marketable skill in the bold new economy.”

“You think Kil is having this much fun right now?”

“God, I hope not.”

The two sat, backs against a wall, facing aft, away from the bow of the ship. The ocean thrashed against the steel hull as USS
George Washington
traveled at her max speed. John could hear the undead pounding on the hatch down the steps from where he now sat.

They wanted out, and they wanted him.

The flight deck’s 5MC announcement system crackled.

“Brace for impact in ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three . . .”

The ship slowed as if someone had pulled some kind of magical brake, or the screws had been somehow reversed. It was moments before the carrier slammed into the Floridian sandbar, rending steal, throwing men and equipment about in a
Wizard of Oz
chaos tornado of flesh and metal. Heavy ground support equipment, forklifts, and jet aircraft snapped their tie-down chains, skidding across the deck, slamming into the raised jet blast deflectors and catwalks. Many men were thrown over the side into the clear blue waters.

John was jolted back into focus by Ramirez’s screaming voice: “Dude, it’s just us! Let’s move!”

John stumbled to his feet, looking over his shoulder. He shook his head and brought his eyes into focus. Tara waved in the distance, just as they had planned before the impact. Everyone was fine from his clan, except Will, who was still missing.

Ramirez threw the hatch lever and jerked the door open quickly. He immediately shattered the skull of one of the creatures that lay on the darkened deck.

“Turn on your gun light, John. It might get dark.”

Another shot was taken, this time behind John, where one of the things stumbled to get back up from the ship’s recent impact.

They didn’t have much time now. The creatures were recovering from the jolt.

“Radio is just a few more frames inboard,” John said, taking the easy shots at the undead—while they lasted.

John moved with intent, systematically shooting, trying to avoid the ricochet of Ramirez’s carbine. He raised his weapon to take out a creature that sprung for him out of a ready room door—and hesitated.

The creature was William.

“Oh God, Will. I’m sorry.” For a microsecond, John imagined there might be a small residue of intelligence left. Will’s pursed lips and howling call for John’s flesh solidified the impossibility. John pulled the trigger, splattering Will’s brain, along with his memories, and love for Jan and little Laura, all over the bulkhead.

Before Will’s inert body hit the steel deck, John caught a glimpse of a bloody piece of paper protruding from Will’s shirt pocket. Without even thinking, he snatched it up, stuffing it into his back pocket. He would never read the words—they weren’t his.

Outside the radio room door, John fought a well of tears, pressing the numbers into the cipher lock. The magnetic locking mechanism clicked. Both men kicked the door wide and began shooting into a room full of the undead. Chunks of flesh flew, and creatures thumped onto the steel deck. Both men thought of retreat, but knew that lives depended on regaining control of this room. Shot after shot, they mowed down the undead. John moved into the next section of the radio room and secured it without much resistance. The ship’s SATcom transceivers had been damaged by struggle and previous last-stand gunshots.

“Ramirez, these radios are going to need serious repairs. Let’s clear this deck and report topside.”

“Roger that, I’m with you.”

The men soon became aware that they had killed most of the
creatures on their way in. The crew had been successful in closing off or compartmentalizing most of the ship when the outbreaks were first reported. Cleansing teams would need to clear spaces slowly—compartment by compartment.

Even though this level of the ship was devoid of the undead and relatively safe, John and Ramirez were very lucky to feel the Florida sun again. They could hear the thumps of undead fists sealed off behind heavy doors and through nearby bulkheads. John climbed to the top of the ladder first, heading straight for the Hotel 23 camp section of the flight deck.

The note he took from Will burned inside his back pocket as he approached Jan.

“Jan, where is everyone else?” John asked.

“You didn’t hear? They ordered everyone to abandon ship. Everyone is headed for shore; the last of the crew is boarding the elevator. I stayed behind to make sure you were okay. Don’t worry, Annabelle is with Tara and Laura.”

John began to tear up at the thought of Jan staying behind for him and at what he had had to do to Will—and the news he would break to her. She knew already though—somehow she could see a thousand miles through him.

“I’m sorry, Jan. I had no choice.”

Jan collapsed onto the rough nonskid deck, cutting her knee, bawling her eyes out, cursing God and everything good.

“I’m sorry, Jan. I’m sorry,” he kept saying as he held her, rubbing the back of her head, trying to do what he thought might make her feel better in some incremental way.

“I would trade places if I could. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love, and I wish I could trade places with Will right now,” John poured from the heart, meaning every syllable.

A few minutes went by before Jan was able to pull herself together enough to stand. John doctored her knees with the med kit from his pack before they rode the last elevator down to abandon ship.

As the elevator whined and descended John spoke. “Look, I know this may not be the right time, but I have something that doesn’t belong to me. I didn’t look, it was in his pocket,” John said, handing the folded piece of paper to Jan.

She wanted no part of it, but couldn’t seem to stop herself from unfolding the battered note.

The evacuation of USS
George Washington
was complete.

The four Phoenix operators gathered around the workbench deep inside Hotel 23 with the flight recorder hooked to power and plugged into the laptop with the scavenged cable.

“Okay, me and Hawse have been working this orange box for twelve hours. I’m tired as hell, but I think we might have figured it out,” Disco claimed to the group.

“What was the holdup?” Doc asked, anxious to return the cable topside so they could bring burst comms back online.

“I had to activate a combination of various ports on our computer to get it to speak to the black box. Previously installed security protocol shut down the USB access to our system. I had to go into the bios and rewrite some of the access parameters. Tough thing to do without having the Internet handy. I had to trial and error quite a few scripts.”

“Let’s pull ’em, what are you waiting for?” Doc said impatiently.

“Hang on. I had to reboot; she’s coming up now.”

Disco logged in to the system and executed the software sent to them by the carrier before it went dark. A series of progress bars and boxes appeared and shuffled on the screen, indicating that the program was siphoning the flight recorder’s data.

All of it.

“This might take a few minutes. We’re getting more than the waypoints. Looks like we’re pulling the altitude, heading, airspeed, AOA, practically everything you’d see on the cockpit instruments. Thousands of data points.”

Disco clicked on another program, opening up the system’s mapping software. “Good old FalconView PFPS. Not the most
high-tech software but it’s damn easy to use. As soon as the geo-cords are all downloaded we’ll load them into this software and see the entire flight path from preflight to crash site.”

After five minutes of processing, the data was finally extracted from the black box. Disco transferred the GPS waypoints into the FalconView file folders and began to see the flight path in graphical format.

“Let’s see . . . according to the black box, this aircraft originated in Utah.”

“Can you get more specific than a state?” Hawse quipped.

“Yeah, I can. The maps are loaded all the way down to the TPC or tactical chart level on our system. Let me zoom in more.”

Manipulating the software, Disco brought the viewpoint down to a higher resolution. “Drum roll . . . the aircraft took off from an airfield in the Uintah Basin. Zooming in further. Gimme a sec—okay, the aircraft took off from a strip three miles southwest of Fort Duchesne, Utah. Getting the exact grid coords now.” Disco copied the grid coordinates of the first waypoint on paper and took screen captures of the area.

Doc stood nervously over his shoulder. “Double-check those coords, Disco. Hell, triple-check them.”

“Why? We have the screens. What’s the deal?”

“Just do it.”

“Roger that, boss. I’ll quadruple-check them if you want. I got nothin’ but time.”

Disco checked and rechecked the data. He had the aircraft base of origin down to within a hundred yards. After he was finished, he folded the paper and handed it over to Doc.

“You finished with that thing?” Doc asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah, all done,” Disco said slowly, anticipating what was next.

“Okay, you and Hawse get that cable back topside. We might have a backlog of message traffic waiting on us.”

“I knew it! I do all the work and I still go topside. I’m gonna bitch-slap you if I make it back,” Disco said to Doc.

“I love you, too, Disco. Now hurry along like a good communications officer and restore our comms,” Doc said.

“Yeah, but the sun is high in the sky and we’ll be out in the
open until we do our thing and haul ass back down here,” said Hawse.

“We got no choice. That burst unit is our only link to the outside world. If we don’t get comm links back up, we’ll never get out of here. We might have already missed critical orders. Based on what we’ve seen, Remote Six is having trouble using their toys as it stands. Just be fast,” Doc assured them.

Hawse and Disco press-checked their weapons before heading out the door topside.

Doc turned his chair around, facing Billy Boy. “We need to spin up the missile; the order might have come in. Get the checklists and I’ll grab the CAC card and codes from the safe.”

•   •   •

The afternoon sun broke through the clouds outside the access door nearest the comms terminal. They scouted the surrounding area before breaking cover, fearing undead that might spring from the brush at any second.

“Looks clear, Hawse.”

“Yeah, that’s what me and Billy Boy thought until shit almost went Bakaara Market out here last time.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up. There were only four.”

“Yeah, only four that we could see. Probably a hundred in the bushes, and they were fast,” Hawse said.

Disco swept the tree line again before they advanced on the equipment. “You handle the cable since you know where it goes. I’ll watch your six.”

“You better. I’m not kidding. They came out of the bushes fast, man. Like lion-chasing-gazelle fast—no exaggeration.”

They sprinted. Just as Hawse had warned, the tall grass came alive, shuffling, erupting with the undead. Both men opened fire on the perimeter like soldiers on patrol in Vietnam.

“Changing!” Hawse said. His magazine was empty from firing nervously into the brush.

Things were much different without the cover of darkness and the technology edge. They dropped the first wave of creatures, giving Hawse the time to reinstall the cable. It didn’t take long. The
Sharpie marks he had made on the last trip made it a lot easier. Hawse secured the cable bundle and closed the lid on the hard case that contained the sensitive equipment. Disco continued to fire his weapon, picking targets that were closest, as the two backed away from the equipment.

When they were nearly at the access door, an explosion rocked the area, throwing Hawse ten meters. He landed hard on his back.

What the—?
Hawse attempted to voice without air. The wind was knocked from his lungs, and scorched dirt rained down on his face.

The undead were too far away from the explosion to be damaged and quickly advanced on Hawse’s position. Pushing out the pain and lack of oxygen to his lungs, Hawse forced himself to his feet. He popped off a few unaimed hip-fired rounds at the creatures, missing their heads but sending them tumbling and tripping over themselves.