Crossbones Page 3
“Charlie, get your head down!” she yelled toward the Humvee, then opened fire. The Sig barked five times before both creatures went down with shots to the head, one stray bullet sparking off the Hummer’s front rim, another punching a hole in the driver’s door. Liz ran to the vehicle and jerked open the rear door. “Chick?”
Charlie Kidd, wearing his blue uniform without the ball cap, slumped in the backseat with his hands cuffed behind his back. “Jesus, Sis, you trying to kill me? Get these damn things off.”
“Shut up and get out,” Liz said, unclipping keys from one of the men she had just dropped, opening Chick’s handcuffs as he slid out. An enraged German shepherd barked incessantly in the back of the Hummer.
“What the fuck is going on?” Chick demanded, rubbing his wrists and looking at the dead men on the ground. “Those guys got jumped by two of their own, went down firing, then a couple minutes later were back up and trying to get at me. What the hell?”
Liz didn’t answer. She was looking at what could only be described as a brawl on the gangplank of Klondike, half a dozen coasties fighting each other hand-to-hand. Other men and women in bloody uniforms were staggering away from the older cutter and making their way toward Joshua James. Off to the right, a dozen more figures were shuffling across the pavement, heading toward the dock.
“Gather weapons,” she told Charlie, staring at the approaching dead, simultaneously repulsed and yet curious at their broken, relentless gait. They were people—monsters—some kind of abomination that fed on the living. It wasn’t possible, but here it was all around her.
Charlie Kidd, eight years his sister’s junior, began relieving his former captors of their weapons belts. He was not a tall man, but he compensated with a broad chest, a thick neck, and powerful forearms a strangler would envy. Chick’s face was broad like the rest of him, his nose crooked from a tavern fight that had once cost him a stripe. He retrieved an M16 rifle from the front of the Hummer, along with a bandolier of magazines.
Liz was at her Camry, grabbing Blackbeard’s carrier, shoving the bloody chrome anchor into her sea bag, and then throwing the duffel’s strap across her chest. Behind her, the cries and barking of the German shepherd wouldn’t stop.
“Let that dog out,” she shouted to her brother.
“Fuck that, it was there when they busted me.” He belted on one of the pistols, a Sig Sauer forty-caliber with a twelve-round magazine, the standard sidearm of the Coast Guard and a weapon with which he was more than proficient. “He’d go right for my balls.”
“Asshole,” Liz muttered, slamming the Camry’s door and hustling across the pavement. “Move it, Chief!”
Charlie gripped the rifle and hurried after her.
An electrician’s van was parked on the dock near the gangplank to Joshua James, a civilian in his forties standing nearby, looking confused and trying to use his cell phone. On the deck at the top of the gangplank, a pair of Coast Guardsmen stood gripping the rail, watching their captain run toward the ship, followed by a man she had just set free by shooting two other men.
Liz knew the electrician, one of the civilian contractors working to move her ship closer to commissioning. “Mr. Leary,” she said as she passed him, “get aboard, if you please.”
When the man didn’t move, Chick yelled, “Assholes and elbows, mister!”
The electrician jumped, then hurried up the gangplank behind the captain, the senior chief following. On deck, the two enlisted men snapped off salutes, eyes wide. Liz handed the cat carrier and her sea bag to one of them. “Take these to my quarters.” To the other she said, “Is the XO aboard?”
“No, ma’am. Ensign Liggett is the watch officer.”
Liz looked down at the concrete expanse beyond the dock, where trucks would line up to move equipment and supplies aboard the cutter before sailing. There were no trucks, only a Humvee ringed with fallen bodies, and beyond, figures shifting toward them with that sickening, lifeless gait.
To her brother she said, “Raise the gangplank and prepare to cast off.”
Charlie Kidd grinned. “Aye-aye, Sis, and thanks—”
Elizabeth was on him in an instant, grabbing his shirt in both hands and hauling him in nose to nose. “Do not think,” she said tightly, “that being related gets you a break. You sank my life and my career. Now you will snap to, or I’ll put you back on the beach personally.” She gave him a shake, her voice low and coming through clenched teeth. “Do you read me, Chief?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
She shoved him away from her. “Prepare to get under way.” Then she ran across the deck and disappeared through a hatch. At the gangplank, Charlie Kidd stared after her for a moment, then looked at the young seaman standing nearby.
“You heard the captain, deck ape! Raise the gangplank. Unless you want them aboard.” He waved at the slumping figures closing on Joshua James.
The seaman leaped to his task as Charlie Kidd went in search of crewmen to untie the ship from Base Seattle’s dock.
• • •
Liz quickly went up a steel ladderway, through a floor hatch, and onto the bridge of her cutter. The only person in here was a twenty-year-old, two-stripe seaman. He stiffened immediately, startled at her appearance.
“Captain on the bridge!” he shouted to no one.
Liz slammed a fist on a large red button, setting off the ship’s general quarters alarm. She picked up a microphone handset, stretching out the cord as she went to the port windows. Down on the dock, dozens of figures in Coast Guard uniforms had nearly reached the ship’s hull where it pressed against the wharf. Out beyond, an orange helicopter hovered slowly over the base, stirring the smoke of a burning building. Liz’s eyes were drawn to the flashing lights of a fire truck, its crew turning a high-pressure hose not on the flames, but on a mass of people stumbling out through the building’s front door. The people were smoking, and a few had hair that was on fire.
She keyed the mic. “This is the captain speaking. All stations, make ready to get under way. Ensign Liggett, report to the bridge.”
Out on the forward deck, she saw her brother and two other seamen hurrying along the port side, casting off the heavy ropes that tethered Joshua James to the dock. Looking left, she saw with satisfaction that the gangplank had been raised and secured.
The dead reached them at last, pushing themselves against the white hull and hammering at it with their fists.
A vibration in the deck plates traveled up through her boots as the twin 7,400-kilowatt diesel engines fired and began warming up. Two young men ran up the ladderway and onto the bridge, a helmsman and a quartermaster second class who went immediately to the navigation gear.
“Mr. Waite,” Liz said to the QM2, “let me know as soon as we’re under power.”
The quartermaster acknowledged, ordered the helmsman to stand by, and then called the engine room for information. Liz removed her cap from its cargo pocket and pulled it squarely onto her head, the bill low and at the perfect regulation distance above the bridge of her nose.
A woman of twenty-two entered the bridge next. Amy Liggett was fair and smooth-skinned, her dark hair pulled into a tight bun under her blue ball cap, her uniform stiff and new. Joshua James was her first assignment after graduating with honors from the Coast Guard Academy in New London, Connecticut. She had a bachelor’s degree in engineering, a commission as a Coast Guard ensign, and next to zero operational experience.
“Captain,” she said, moving to her commanding officer.
“Who and how many aboard?” Liz asked.
The young officer flipped to a page on her clipboard. “Twenty-two, ma’am. Third shift. Plus yourself and two others.” Amy had already heard about the shooting on the dock, and about the man her captain had freed from Coast Guard custody.
Third shift, Liz thought. The smallest, and for the most part, most inexperience
d crew. Not too much happened in port overnight, so the bare minimum of personnel was scheduled. It would include six civilian contractors, four engine room personnel, three watch standers for the bridge, and a scattering of others, mostly technical ratings. Less than a quarter of the cutter’s full crew of ninety-nine enlisted and fourteen officers.
“Any other officers?” Liz asked without much hope. The third shift schedule called for only one—an officer had to be aboard at all times—and the overnight duty, at least in port, went to the most junior.
“Yes, ma’am,” Liggett said, making Liz turn. “Lieutenant Commander Coseboom slept aboard last night.”
The captain nodded. Boomer was having marital troubles, a small blessing for Joshua James. “Is the master chief aboard?” Again, hopeful.
“Negative.”
“Who is senior enlisted man?”
The young woman hesitated, seemed unsure of how to answer at first, then looked at her sheet. “Chief Newman.”
Newman, Liz thought. Maritime enforcement specialist and a boarding team officer. Solid. But Charlie still outranks him. Damn.
“Captain,” said the quartermaster, “all crew are at battle stations. Engine room reports we are at full power and ready to get under way.”
“Very well, Mr. Waite. Stand us off from the pier. I’ll conn us out.”
Base Seattle’s main pier held only two cutters at the moment, Klondike and Joshua James, along with a cluster of much smaller patrol boats. The cutter was nose-in and would have to back down the man-made channel, past Klondike and out into the Duwamish Waterway before it could turn and put its bow toward Puget Sound. The quartermaster gave commands to both the engine room and the helmsman, and the big ship eased away from the pier. As it moved off, corpses that had been hammering against its hull toppled into the water.
“Mr. Coseboom to the bridge,” Liz said into the microphone. Boomer was an experienced officer, and she would need him, especially since there was barely enough crew to get under way. She stepped to the communication gear and switched on the Guard channel, a restricted, military-only radio frequency. Rapid chatter poured from the bridge speakers at once.
“Miss Liggett,” she said to the young woman waiting beside her, “I want a report on the following: fuel status, fresh water levels, name and specialty of every civilian on board, magazine levels and weapon systems readiness, a full inventory of light arms and galley stores.”
The younger woman scribbled furiously on her clipboard, her hand shaking. “I . . . I think . . .”
Liz took her by the shoulder, and in a low voice said, “Steady, Amy. A lot of that information will be in your watch orders.” She tapped the clipboard. “I already know that most of those things will be either low or nonexistent, but we need an accurate accounting.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Her voice was quavering, and she fought to control it.
Liz softened her voice even further, so that no one else on the bridge would hear her. “Maintain your bearing. Be a role model for the crew. They’re going to be scared and confused, and they need to see calm, confident officers. You know my expectations.”
The younger woman took a deep breath and nodded, and Liz gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before sending her off. Joshua James had moved slowly into the center of the channel, and Liz gave the command to reverse at four knots. A new vibration in the deck signaled the change, and the cutter began to back up, slowly coming alongside Klondike on the port side, still tied to its berth. Liz returned to the bridge windows to inspect the other ship.
The dead were swarming across the cutter’s decks, hunting the living.
Liz keyed the microphone. “This is the captain. Stand by to commence rescue operations.”
THREE
One of two Short Range Prosecutors—SRPs—aboard Joshua James launched at speed from the stern ramp of the cutter, its water jets throwing up a fan of spray. Seven meters long, the rigid, inflatable boat hooked around the vessel and blasted back up the channel toward Klondike, LCDR Coseboom at the helm with three other men aboard. In the bow, a Coast Guardsman crouched with the M16 Charlie Kidd had taken from the port security Hummer.
There were people in the water ahead and more leaping from Klondike’s deck or simply toppling over the rails with reaching arms. The men in the SRP saw a female petty officer try to scramble over the railing, only to be pulled back by dead shipmates before she could make the leap to the water.
Boomer slowed as he neared the other cutter, taking a moment to think. Some of the figures were swimming away from the ship; others were struggling to stay afloat, splashing and waving their arms. A few sank almost immediately, not even attempting or unable to swim. These had ashy faces and snapping teeth.
“Be careful what you pull out of the water,” he said to the two men standing at the SRP’s edge. “Only the living, understand?” He was a little surprised at himself, at how easily he had accepted that the dead were rising. But that brought on thoughts about his wife in their little apartment, and the stupid argument that had caused him to storm out and spend the night on Joshua James. He should have been with her.
The young crewmen aboard weren’t so accepting, their faces revealing their overall shock, but they nodded at the order. Boomer angled the SRP to bring them closer to the swimmers, careful not to get too close to the cutter’s hull. He didn’t want one of those things dropping into his boat.
The guardsmen cast out their lines and started pulling survivors from the water.
• • •
Joshua James, still reversing at an agonizing four knots, had nearly reached the mouth of the channel, where it would back briefly into the Duwamish Waterway, then steam almost immediately into the sound. Elizabeth was impatient to engage forward propulsion, aching for open water where she would have some maneuvering options. This was like backing slowly down an alley, and she felt vulnerable. She used a pair of binoculars to watch the rescue operation taking place off the bow. Boomer seemed to have it under control.
On the radio, the Guard channel was crowded with impossible horrors and unthinkable events, monotone voices mixing with panicked cries for help and even screaming. Mass riots were tearing Seattle apart, the police were being overwhelmed, and civilian casualties were staggering. Chaos, confusion, and miscommunication reigned, but the commonly repeated fact was that people were returning from the dead and killing the living.
Sea-Tac airport had been closed to nonmilitary traffic, and any airborne civilian flights were being diverted. National Guard units were being mobilized to defend hospitals. Fires were erupting throughout the city and suburbs, and the population was being ordered to evacuate, though to where was unclear. North of her position, the naval base in Everett, where Nimitz berthed when it was home, was locked down and reporting attacks by ground forces.
What ground forces? Liz wondered.
A lone destroyer had managed to sortie from Everett an hour earlier and was now cruising just offshore of the city, raking the waterfront with its five-inch gun in an attempt to “suppress aggressors.”
Liz stared at the radio. The Navy is shelling Seattle. She shook her head.
An order came down from National Command Authority. It was transmitted in the clear, but it had a genuine authenticity code, as Liz confirmed with a plastic snap-card from a small safe below the communication gear. NCA announced that the United States had been placed under martial law and all military units were to consider their country under attack by foreign aggressors. Biohazard protocols were to be observed, though Joshua James was currently unequipped for such measures, and every unit was to prepare for strike operations. Joshua James had just become a ship at war.
Liz switched over to the Coast Guard channel, bringing up the microphone. Before she could speak, the airwave buzzed with an official-sounding voice.
“Joshua James, this is Base Seattle Command. Acknowledge.”
“This is USCGC seven-five-four,” Liz said, “Captain Elizabeth Kidd, commanding.”
“Joshua James, you are ordered to return to port immediately.”
Liz made a face. “Base Seattle, our pier has been overrun, and we are engaged in rescue operations for Klondike. I am preparing to maneuver my ship.” There were going to be a lot of civilians in need of help, she thought. Why would Command order her back during a crisis?
The voice came again. “Negative, seven-five-four. Return to port immediately.”
The bridge crew looked at their commanding officer, then at each other. Out the thick front windows, Liz saw LCDR Coseboom’s small craft racing back toward Joshua James. She couldn’t see any more figures in the water near Klondike. There was plenty of movement on the decks of the smaller ship and the docks beyond, however, staggering figures, none of them living. Did Command think she was going to return her ship to that? She had a responsibility to her crew.
“I cannot comply with that order, Seattle Command,” she said, shocked to hear herself utter words she had never before even considered. But then nothing like this had ever happened in her nearly three-decade-long career. “We are at wartime conditions, and I will preserve this ship.” The voice on the radio began to repeat its demand, but Liz snapped over to the Guard channel again, cutting it off.
The close, heavy thump of rotors approached above the ship, making the deck thrum. A black helicopter dropped into view twenty-five yards off the cutter’s bow, its cockpit level with the bridge windows. A yellow star and the letters DEA were stenciled on the fuselage, and a man in body armor holding a sniper rifle could be seen at an open side door, clipped into a harness.
A loudspeaker mounted to the helicopter’s belly blared over the chop of rotors. “This is DEA flight zero-three. Joshua James, heave to and prepare to be boarded.”