Up From the Depths (4 page)

Chapter 6

Port Winthrop Naval Base, Washington State

“Captain, I have a new contact,” The radar operator on the
New Orleans
reported. “It’s weak but a definite contact.”

The
New Orleans
, having suffered severe structural damage during the encounter with a hostile force off the coast of Anacortes, was now out to sea but only a few miles from Port Winthrop. Not able to make more than twelve knots, it had been decided for safety reasons, to remain close to Winthrop. Engineers below decks were still working feverishly to seal the inboard stress fractures. The flight deck had been patched but the hangar bay was unusable for the near future as there had been several explosions and major fires in that space.

“Can you tell what it is?” the Operations Officer asked.

Since
New Orleans
had been able to get underway, they had detected vessels on the open ocean. Most of those vessels had been freighters or other cargo ships that were still under power. There were EPIRBs or Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacons, from ships and quite possibly life rafts, further out to sea but, until
New Orleans
was cleared for deep water operations those beacons would have to wait to be investigated.

“Sir, contact firming up now. It’s some kind of large vessel, unknown type, maybe a tanker or freighter, definitely under power and heading in the general direction of Bremerton. No EPIRB. The closer it gets to the coast, I should be able to pinpoint the actual destination,” the radar operator reported. “Computer’s assigning a code for it now.” The radar operator watched as the CIC computer assigned a tag to the vessel. The only way to tell that a tag had been assigned was when the contact flashed once and the newly minted designation appeared next to the contact.

Bremerton basically was a navy town. There was a carrier based there along with several support vessels and the mothball fleet at anchorage in a sheltered inlet. No one knew where that carrier was now. Since the outbreak, Port Winthrop personnel had ventured to the naval base and stripped it of everything that they could use. The ships tied to the pier had been searched for survivors and then secured. The fences and gates had been reinforced and secured and the base left vacant. Over the months that had passed since then, Bremerton had been accessed only from the sea not from land. If the radar contact was a freighter, there was no reason for it to be heading to that destination. The Ports of Tacoma and Seattle and locations further north would make more sense. It could be that there was some kind of damage to the vessel’s directional computer. The Operations Officer stepped away from his position behind the radar operator and picked up the handset that would connect him to the bridge.

“Bridge, Ops. We have an unknown contact, designated as Uniform-112, heading towards Bremerton. Is there anything available to send up and give us a look at what it is?”

“Ops, wait one.” The phone was quiet for several long seconds.

“Ops, this is the captain, what do you have?” Greerson asked.

“Sir, we have Uniform-112 on a course for Bremerton.”

“I see it up here, Ops,” Greerson said as he moved to the radar console on the bridge.

“Sir, we have no Comms and no EPIRB. Could be a rogue with a navigational error,” the Operations officer said, not wanting to get his hopes up that the unknown could be another naval vessel.

“I concur,” Greerson said. “We’ll get someone to take a look at it. Bridge out.” Greerson looked over at his flight officer.

“Who do we have on ready alert?” he asked.

“Sir, Werewolf-27 and Dragon-09 and 05.”

Greerson knew that Werewolf-27 was a tilt rotor MV-22 Osprey and Dragon flight was comprised of two AH1-Z Viper gunships, heavily modified former Cobra helicopters. None of those aircraft had the legs to intercept Uniform-112 at this range. All he could do was launch them and hope for a better visual. Based on the size of the contact, the silhouette should be enough to identify what it was.

“Inform Dagger-Six that he is to get as close to the unknown as possible and attempt to identify it,” Greerson said as he returned to his command seat, picked up the high powered binoculars and swept the flight deck before slowly scanning the horizon. With the hangar bay still under repair and only one of the flight deck elevators functioning, it had been decided that the aircraft would be flown out to the ship from Winthrop after it was determined that
New Orleans
could remain afloat. Greerson felt naked without his aircraft onboard but knew that safety was paramount. No reason to risk the small remainder of their air power needlessly. The Coast Guard cutter,
Hampton
was patrolling in a race track pattern around
New Orleans
to render assistance if needed while her sister ship,
Farragut
, was engaged in replenishment at the port. He hated to have to rely on the Coasties but
New Orleans
was not in prime structural shape.

Marines from the MEU boarded the tilt rotor as the engines spun up. In just a few minutes, the three aircraft were airborne, circled the ship once, then headed off to intercept the unknown contact. While the ship was well outside their operational range, it was imperative they determine what type of ship this was. No one wanted a supertanker running aground just a few miles from Winthrop nor did they want some freighter doing the same and dumping its load all over the coastline. But, if it was a supply ship of some kind, they would tag it as possible salvage. So far, the list of the vessels that they had recorded included four RO-RO ships that were car carriers from Asia, ten cargo vessels with CONEX containers stacked high on their decks, six log carriers, and fourteen freighters of varying size and tonnage with unknown cargo.

“Let
Hampton
know we’re launching on a contact,” Greerson said as he continued his sweep.

“Aye sir.”

Greerson focused on the smaller Coast Guard vessel, he watched the vessel as it expanded its patrol circuit.

“Ops, keep me posted on that contact,” Greerson ordered.

“Aye, sir.”

Greerson lowered the binoculars then picked up the commo handset and dialed Engineering.

“ChEng, how’s it look?” he asked, using the abbreviation for the ship’s Chief Engineer.

“Not good, Captain. We’re still taking on water but it looks like the major welds are holding. For now,”
New Orleans
Chief Engineer said. “If we hit rough water or need to make a speed run, I can’t guarantee they’ll hold for long. We’ve already burned out a couple of the pumps just trying to keep ahead of the incoming water.”

“I hear you, ChEng.”

“Sir, I’ve said this before; we need some serious time in dry dock and a full team of ship builders and structural engineers.” He didn’t add that even with that type of skill base and experience, there was a very good chance that the ship would be decommissioned and scrapped due to the level of damage. He had seen the ultrasounds taken of the hull and it was latticed with fine cracks. He was amazed that the keel had held up as long as it had.

“If wishes were horses,” Greerson said.

“Copy that, Captain. I’ll do what I can down here, sir, but it’s only a matter of time before we run out of duct tape and baling wire.”

Greerson hung up the handset. He knew as well as the Chief Engineer that
New Orleans
would never be the ship she once was. Too much stress on the bulkheads and keel from the Anacortes attack had taken its toll on the structural integrity of the ship. Time was not in their favor. Winter was upon them and that heralded storms along the coast. It was time to head back and secure for the winter. That would give them months to continue what repairs they had the capability for and come spring, maybe be in better shape.

“Helmsman, bring us about, we’re going home,” Greerson ordered. “All ahead one-third.”

“One-third, aye.”

Greerson knew that his aircraft had the endurance to make it back to Winthrop. Moving
New Orleans
back to her berth wasn’t an issue. He was sure she would stay afloat long enough to get them home.

***

Onboard the MV-22, Captain Frank Burgess, United States Marine Corps, Port Winthrop Marine Security Detachment, crouched by the open rear ramp and watched the ocean pass beneath him. He had lost count of all the times he and his men had launched to determine what a ship was. Most of the missions were flybys to see if there was any living crew left onboard. So far, they hadn’t done any ship clearing. They had only tagged the vessels with a transponder and monitored where they went or where they were floating. This ship, whatever it was, wasn’t going to get that same treatment. This time, they were going to the extreme limit of their operational endurance and attempt to identify what kind of vessel it was. More than likely, they’d launch on it again once it was closer and maybe this time, they would actually land on something. He knew that they had enough fuel stored on the supply ships and definitely enough supplies between what was at Winthrop and onboard that same replenishment ship. Until they actually performed a real VBSS mission instead of an airborne MIO, all they were doing now was drilling holes in the sky.

***

BB-63, Missouri,
Off the Pacific Coast

“Bridge, Radar, I have some intermittent contacts,” Brown said. O’Reilly spun his command chair and grabbed the handset.

“What do you have, Chief?” he asked, thinking that maybe the radar was picking up debris or an abandoned ship.

“Don’t know, Cap. Can’t tell if it’s a boat or a plane,” Brown said. “Whatever it is, it’s right at the extreme edge of detection,” Brown said wishing there was someone onboard who had more experience with radar and how to decipher the readings.

“It’s gone now, Cap,” Brown said.

“Keep on it, Chief,” O’Reilly said before he replaced the handset.

***

***

“Paladin, Dragon Lead,” the senior pilot of the three aircraft formation said.

“Go ahead, Dragon Lead.”

“I have a visual on some kind of large vessel. It’s definitely not a freighter or a tanker. I’d say it’s some kind of warship.”

“Say again, Dragon Lead.”

“Waterborne contact is definitely not a civilian vessel, Paladin.”

“Can you get closer, Dragon Lead?”

“That’s a negative, Paladin. We’re two mikes from Bingo,” Dragon Lead said as he watched the large gray ship disappear into the fog that was a precursor to the storm that was forming further out to sea.

“I’ve lost visual. The weather is turning on us,” he said as fat rain drops began to sprinkle his canopy. “We’re RTB at this time.”

“Copy that Dragon Lead. Paladin out.”

The senior pilot of Dragon Flight took one longer look in the direction the ship went. He wasn’t sure, but it was possible that the flag flying from the stern was the stars and stripes.

***

Chapter 7

Museum of Natural History, New York City

“Work this out,” Pruitt said. “The world as we know it has pretty much ended. Somehow, with all that happening, our illustrious team leader manages to piss off command and we get relegated to a total shit detail.”

“Hey, it could be worse,” Jiminez said as he swept his tactical light around the utility tunnel that Sierra-3 was currently patrolling.

“How much worse could it get?” Graham asked.

Sierra-3 looked at their team medic and collectively shook their heads.

“There you go, you had to say it,” Ski said.

“What?” Graham asked looking around. “What did I do?”

“If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you,” Pruitt said.

“I can’t believe you said that,” Jiminez stage whispered. Sound travelled far in these tunnels but they weren’t too concerned about Zulu’s in the immediate area. There had been regular patrols down here and they hadn’t encountered any. Yet.

“Someone had to say it,” Graham insisted.

“Knock it off and get your head back in the game,” Ski said as he turned around to check their back trail. Since his meeting with Colonel Wiener and his meeting with Doyle and later the Russian diplomat, he had been quiet. More quiet then he usually was as the topics of discussions between Doyle and Anatoli coupled with what he now knew of the situation inside the museum, had caused him to take a mental step back. Command was command. It was a crap shoot when it came to someone capable being in command but that was how it was in the military. However, to have someone so far down the chain that in all likelihood, in the real world, would have been passed over as non-promotable was a sick twist of fate.

“I got to ask, Ski,” Pruitt said. “Who did you piss off to get us assigned to the sewers?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ski said.

“It kind of matters to us,” Pruitt said, stopping and looking back at his team leader. “This shitty job has us living down here in a goddamn maintenance room eating MREs. So it does matter.”

Ski stopped and looked at the team’s designated marksman. Pruitt was normally calm and collected but since their arrival at the museum and being exposed to some of the amenities inside then having those amenities taken away had made him and the rest of the team sullen and surly.

“We do as we’re ordered,” Ski said, stepping closer to Pruitt. “Until someone tells us otherwise,” he added as he stepped past and moved further into the tunnels. Graham and Jiminez gave Pruitt a look then followed their team leader.

Luzetski had stopped at a junction. To the left was a narrow outflow tunnel, too narrow for anyone larger then a cat to get through that was covered with a very sturdy looking heavy metal grate. To the right was a larger tunnel that led towards downtown. Wheeler had told Ski that there was a large grate in that direction that had, so far, prevented any infected from getting to this area. Somewhere beyond that grate was a small pumping station. Ski pulled out the hand drawn map and studied it under the glow of his mini Maglite. He glanced up and around until he found the marks and arrows that the previous unit assigned to this task had left.

The tunnel to his right disappeared into darkness. Wheeler had mentioned that there was some WD-1 wire that the engineers had strung up about shoulder height on the walls along the service catwalk all the way to the main grate that they could use to hang chem-lights.

“Jiminez, you got the duty,” Ski said. Jiminez, no longer carrying the team radio, was carrying boxes of long-life, break and shake Cyalume chemical light sticks. The corporal reached into the bag that was slung over his shoulder and removed one of the boxes. Letting his rifle hang by its sling, he tore open one end and pulled out a handful of the sticks passing them around to the team.

“You know the drill,” Ski said. “One mounts the lights while the other provides cover.” There was some grumbling among the men but they soon focused on the task at hand. They worked in silence, mounting the sticks as the tunnel gradually brightened.

“Hey,” Graham said. “I got something here.” Ski estimated that they were about halfway to the main grate. The tunnel behind them was well lit while the tunnel ahead was still dark.

“What you got?” Ski asked.

“Looks like a door. Maybe some kind of maintenance space,” Graham said.

“Check it,” Ski directed.

“Locked,” Graham said.

“Leave it alone and keep moving,” Ski said. That door wasn’t on the map that Ski had. As long as it was locked, it wasn’t an issue. Graham removed a piece of chalk from a pocket and marked a large X on the doorframe before moving on.

“You hear that?” Pruitt asked. Jiminez and Pruitt were a little further down the tunnel then Ski and Graham. They all stopped and listened for sounds. Several tense seconds ticked by with nothing but the flowing water breaking the silence.

“Keep moving,” Ski said. “Probably just rats or dripping water.”

Sierra-3 continued mounting the light sticks until the large grate at the end of their tunnel materialized out of the darkness. The bars were close enough together to prevent debris from flowing through the tunnels and causing damage. Pruitt and Jiminez mounted their last light stick then waited for Graham and Ski to catch up.

“Hey, Ski,” Pruitt said as his team leader finished attaching the chemical light to the WD-1 strand that ran across the floor to ceiling grate.

“Yeah,” Ski said, standing thigh deep in the water that was flowing through the bottom of the tunnel and expecting Pruitt to bust his balls again about their current assignment.

“That grate doesn’t go all the way to the tunnel floor,” Pruitt said, shining his light into the water. “I wouldn’t stand there too long. Something’s bound to come up out of the water and bite your dick off. Maybe one of those legendary sewer crocodiles.”

“I thought they were alligators?” Jiminez said. “Isn’t that shit all urban legend anyway?”

“Zombies were urban legend and look where we are now,” Pruitt said. “Ski’s going to find out if there are sewer gators if he stays there too much longer,” Pruitt said with a chuckle.

Ski looked down at the water that he was standing in. He removed his mini Maglite and illuminated the base of the metal mesh and the tunnel floor. There was a sizeable gap where the metal ended and the curve of the tunnel floor started. A gap that was large enough to very easily let a man sized object through. Looking closer at the bottom of the metal, Ski saw ragged clothing caught on the sharp edges. He quickly swung his light up and shone it through the mesh then around the tunnel but saw nothing. Tucking the small flashlight back into a pouch on his vest, he casually and calmly climbed out of the water, onto the catwalk and brought his rifle around to the front of his body.

“Mission objective has been completed,” Ski said. “Tunnels lit. We’re pulling back to the junction then back to the sub-basement. Hoo-ah?”

“Hoo-ah,” his team replied sensing a change in the mission tempo and Luzetski.

Sierra-3 slowly moved back down the tunnel, weapons up and ready. They didn’t talk but used hand signals. Even with the chemical lights casting their glow in the darkened tunnel, there were still deep shadows and recesses that the light didn’t reach. Graham stopped walking and crouched down, his weapon up. Ski moved closer and stopped as well, slowly swiveling to scan back the way they had come. He panned back forward and leaned out to see what had stopped Graham. The door that had been closed on their way deeper into the darkness was now open. Waving his left hand to get Pruitt and Jimenez’s attention, he motioned to the door and got an exaggerated nod from Pruitt. Pruitt brought his rifle up to use the infrared scope while Jiminez angled himself to be able to watch the door and behind them. Ski watched Pruitt as he studied the doorway. Finally, Pruitt lowered his rifle, looked at Ski and shook his head indicating that he hadn’t seen anything. Ski reached out and placed his left hand on Graham’s shoulder, tapped him once then squeezed letting Graham know that he was ready. Graham moved around the door, Ski right behind him, his rifle swept right while Ski swept left, their tactical lights waving through the darkened interior of the room.

“Clear right,” Graham said.

“Clear left,” Ski said.

What they had thought would be a maintenance room was actually an access to the street above. Ski shined his light up the rungs of the ladder until he saw that the manhole cover had been removed at street level. It was dark outside, maybe pre-dawn. He quickly moved his light away from the opening.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“Contact! Contact!” Pruitt yelled accompanied by rifle fire that reverberated within the concrete and steel tunnel. Graham and Ski spun, moved to the doorway and looked out. The end of the tunnel, the end they had entered from, now had several Zulu’s shambling in their direction. This didn’t make sense. There was no way for the infected to have climbed down from street level. They didn’t have that kind of coordination.
Did they?
While it was possible that a couple could have fallen through the open cover and landed inside the room, there was an actual doorknob on the inside not a push bar. Pruitt and Jiminez dropped the small group of infected, reloaded and watched the tunnel for more activity.

“Cease Fire! Cease Fire! Tango down!” Ski called out.

Ski stepped back into the room and looked up at the night sky through the round opening. He used his tactical light to study the rungs of the ladder. There were some smears on the rungs, someone had climbed up and removed the cover. Or climbed down after removing the cover. He shone his light at the base of the ladder and on the floor. His light illuminated an almost perfect boot print. The pattern looked familiar because it was the same pattern that he and his men had on the bottom of their boots. The same pattern that the soldiers in the museum had on their boots. Ski stepped out of the room and approached the bodies that his team had engaged.

“Ski,” Pruitt said. “Watch your ass. There could be more of them down here.” Ski nodded but kept moving towards the downed Zulus. Two of the bodies were in the water that was running at the bottom of the tunnel, bobbing up and down in the slow current. The other bodies were sprawled on the service walkways that lined the sides of the tunnel. He sensed Graham behind him and caught the movement of Pruitt or Jiminez to his left. He stopped and illuminated the bodies with his weapon’s tac-light. The bodies were clothed in US Army field uniforms. These Zulu’s had once been soldiers.

***