Crossbones (10 page)

Xavier looked down from the superstructure catwalk using Stone's binoculars. Passing under the Bay Bridge and coming toward the carrier's port side was a boat similar to the rigid inflatable boats carried on
Nimitz
. Its hull was gray with an orange-and-blue stripe, Coast Guard colors, and a man piloted the craft from a central wheel station. There looked to be fewer than a dozen people aboard, all but the helmsman hunched against the spray and wind beneath blankets and ponchos. A square, white piece of fabric flew from a radio antenna.

“Too far to see if they have weapons,” Stone said, standing beside the priest.

The chief arrived on the catwalk a minute later, puffing from running up more than eight flights of stairs. He was a compact man, fit and with close-cropped hair silvering at the temples. Chief Gunner's Mate Liebs was one of the Navy men Calvin and his group had rescued from a dry-goods locker during the taking of
Nimitz
, and the man had since proven to be a dependable person to have around, now part of
Nimitz
's leadership core and a skilled zombie hunter. He was also in charge of weapons training and overall ship defense.

“What do we have?” Liebs asked, and Xavier handed him the binoculars. After a moment the man said, “Well, we talked about this, didn't we?”

They watched the boat approach.

“Stone,” the gunner's mate said, “find me a bullhorn.”

“Aye-aye, Chief,” the young man said, disappearing back into the bridge. He had become something of a right hand to the Navy man, carrying out any assignment without complaint, paying attention to what he was being taught, and growing increasingly proficient with a variety of weapons. It was clear to see the chief liked the boy.

“Yes, we did,” Xavier said at last, gripping the catwalk railing and staring at the shapes huddled in the small craft. It had only been a matter of time, and the fact that refugees had not tried to make their way out here before now was a chilling reminder of how little human life remained in the Bay Area. Both men on the catwalk knew people would come eventually, though, and there had been not only discussions on how it was to be handled, but talk on a more philosophical and moral level.

•   •   •

T
he Alameda survivors had what anyone living in this postapocalyptic world would want: a fortress, one with high walls and ringed with water; a place with stockpiles of food and water; medical facilities and weaponry; and most importantly power.
Nimitz
was an island sanctuary where the dead could not reach them, or so outsiders would think, not knowing of the infestation that remained aboard. People who had survived this long would be no strangers to deprivation, fear, and death. To them,
Nimitz
would look like paradise. The question was, were they willing to share that safety, become part of a community of trust, and work toward a common goal? Or would they want to take it for themselves, preying upon those already aboard?

The simplest and perhaps safest solution was not to permit anyone else to enter their world. This was Chief Liebs's opinion, coming at the problem with a straightforward, military pragmatism. His strategy was difficult to argue with; it worked. But there had been argument—lively discussion was more like it, because those who had participated in the conversation trusted the others and respected their opinions. That talk had taken place in the admiral's conference room not long after
Nimitz
was taken, as the dead were continually being hunted down and life was taking on a semblance of normalcy.

“It's like Skye has said repeatedly,” Chief Liebs said. The young woman to whom he was referring had been sitting on a leather sofa, leaning against Carney. “With the dead on board,” the chief continued, “every one we destroy moves the odds in our favor. This is as simple and direct as that, math and logic. If we don't let anyone else aboard, we don't run the risk of inviting in people who will be hostile.”

“You're so wise,” Carney had whispered into Skye's ear. She gave him an elbow shot to the stomach.

“What if Angie had been like that?” Big Jerry asked, the rotund, former stand-up comic now turned ship's cook. He wore a black medical cam boot and a knee brace, souvenirs of the battle for
Nimitz
that he would have for the rest of his life. “If she hadn't taken in strangers at the firehouse, a lot of us wouldn't be here.”

Angie West, the reality TV star who'd saved so many lives with her knowledge of firepower and had become a leader within their group, was still in sick bay when the meeting took place, recovering from multiple, close-range gunshot wounds inflicted by the late TC Cochoran. TC had been Carney's murderous San Quentin cellmate and was now the
late
TC because of Skye's well-placed bullet.

“I know it's a hard line to take,” said Chief Liebs, “but it's the simplest answer, and it's the only one that guarantees the ship won't be compromised.”

“That doesn't make it the right answer, though, Chief,” Evan said. He was sitting across the table, Maya close to him. “What Jerry
said is true for all of us. Calvin's family took me in, Rosa took Father Xavier in, and we all sort of accepted one another that night when we came together on the airfield.” He smiled at the Navy man. “You and your shipmates would still be trapped in a locker if someone hadn't shown you some trust, right, Chief?”

Liebs shook his head and grinned.

Xavier was at the head of the table. He'd been reluctant to sit there, as he didn't like the superiority it might imply. Everyone on board had either openly or silently placed him in charge, and the Navy men had begun calling him
Skipper
, a term of genuine respect given to officers by enlisted sailors and Marines. He'd come to accept the responsibility without complaint, but he knew he was no commanding officer, and this was by no means a dictatorship. Any decisions made would be agreed upon by the group. It was their lives at stake, and for many of them, the lives of their families.

The priest listened to the conversation, pleased with the thoughtful debate, and was once again reminded that these were good people gathered here with him. For that reason, it was even more important that they be protected, ruthlessly if need be, a thought that was at odds with his priest's calling and yet felt absolutely right to the man.

“If refugees come to us,” said Rosa, sitting on Xavier's left and looking weary, “they could bring skills we don't have within the group. Another medical person, perhaps. Technical skills that could make this place run better.”

“Perhaps even a person with rudimentary culinary skills,” offered Vlad, and that got a laugh. Big Jerry put on a pretended hurt face, and the Russian flashed him a homely grin.

Rosa laughed as well. “Maybe we could find someone who understands high-tech communication better than we do, or an engine mechanic, a dentist even. God knows none of you want me in your mouth with steel instruments.”

A few of them silently wished for a person with bomb disposal skills, someone who could safely neutralize and get rid of the
nuclear weapons still down in the ship's magazines. Although Chief Liebs assured them the devices were safe, they all knew how close they had come to being incinerated by a madman, and the mere presence of those weapons on board was a chilling and frequent reminder.

“It doesn't matter what they know how to do,” Rosa said, as the discussion about theoretical refugees went on. “We can teach them, and every pair of hands makes us stronger.”

There was nodding at that, and even a shrug of acknowledgment from Chief Liebs.

“There's also the moral question,” said Evan, and all eyes turned to the priest at the end of the table.

Xavier gave them a small smile and gestured back at the writer-turned-helicopter-pilot. “You brought it up, Evan. Morality isn't only for the clergy. You're just as qualified to speak on the matter.”

The young man frowned at that but then looked at the group. “We've all pretty much agreed that this thing is global, and we've seen life
erased
right in front of us. I couldn't even guess at what the ratio of living to dead might be now. A hundred thousand to one? More, probably? How can we see that, see what's become of us as a species, and
not
try to protect our own? By that I mean the living.”

The others listened, and Maya watched his face closely.

“We know the dead mean us nothing but harm, and they can't be reasoned with in any way. This,” Evan said, making a gesture to include everyone in the room, “doesn't happen with them. There's no reasonable discussions, no questions about right and wrong. To them, a gathering like this isn't a rational debate where ideas are heard and respected, it's a buffet.” He placed a palm on his chest. “
We're
the only ones who do that, living people. We have to save that whenever we can, seek it out and protect it.”

Smiles greeted him around the table. Xavier said, “I sure hope you're still writing, Evan. You should write
that
down.”

The young man blushed, and Maya hugged him.

“I feel much as Evan does,” said Xavier. “He's more articulate than I am, and the only thing missing from his speech was a soundtrack.” There was more laughter. “But I think he said it very well. If we're not going to try to shelter what life remains out there, but simply hide here and keep from dying, then what's the point? No one in this room is a selfish person.”

Although there were plenty of seats at the conference table, Calvin had chosen to sit on a chair against the wall. He hadn't spoken until now, and when he did, his voice was as dry and hollow as a prairie wind blowing through an abandoned house. “Keeping our loved ones alive isn't being selfish. People died to get us this far. Let's not forget what they sacrificed so we could be safe.”

Maya felt her heart break as she watched the words on her father's lips, and she squeezed Evan's hand.

“You're right, Cal,” Xavier said, wanting to go to the man, but instead he remained seated. “And there will be others out there deserving of that safety. Everyone here has put themselves at risk for others. Some have sacrificed all,” he said, looking directly at Calvin. “Now those strangers you fought to save are your family.”

They were quiet for a while, and then Chief Liebs spoke up. “I don't disagree with anything that's been said here, and I don't think anyone is being naïve about the potential dangers. But what if it turns out that strangers we welcome in mean to do us harm?”

Xavier spoke in a flat voice that brought a chill to the room. “Then we destroy them.”

•   •   •

I
s that what we'll need to do now?
Xavier thought, standing on the superstructure's catwalk and watching the boat come in.
Friend or foe?

Stone returned with the bullhorn and handed it to the chief. Liebs looked at the priest. “Like we decided?”

Xavier nodded.

The chief waited until the tiny boat motored in closer, watching it slow. “That's close enough,” he called, and the launch came to a drifting stop. He counted ten people inside, with no space for anyone to hide. “Where did you come from? How are you armed?”

The pilot of the launch looked up at the high superstructure and made a cutting motion across his neck, then extended his arms in an exaggerated shrug.

“They can't communicate back at this distance,” said Xavier.

Liebs triggered the bullhorn again. “Move to the stern. Tie off at the swimmer's platform but do not get out of your boat. We'll come down to meet you. We'll want to see your hands when we arrive. No weapons, understand?”

The pilot nodded and gave a thumbs-up, then steered the little boat toward the rear of the aircraft carrier.

“Let's get into position,” said Xavier.

•   •   •

S
tone and Mercy, the hippie woman who not only had survived alongside Calvin during the capture of the carrier but had turned into an efficient killer, took their places on the ship's fantail. Here, on the vast deck that was exposed to the sea through a wide, rectangular opening, a place where jet engines had once been tested, they were able to aim their rifles down in an unobstructed view of anything approaching the swimmer's platform at the waterline below. If these new arrivals showed aggression, Mercy and Stone would fill their little boat with automatic fire. Using the handheld Hydra radios, they reported that the small Coast Guard launch was tied up alongside the thirty-two-foot Bayliner and police patrol boat still tethered there since the assault. Everyone was showing their hands, they reported, and none were holding weapons.

From within, Xavier opened the hatch to the swimmer's platform, the door through which their assault teams had first entered the carrier months ago. Chief Liebs, wearing body armor and
aiming an M14 rifle, stepped slowly out onto the platform. Calvin moved out next, also in armor and pointing his Canadian assault rifle. Xavier joined them, leaving two armed hippies in the compartment to his rear.

The priest eyed the group in the boat. They were a wet, bedraggled bunch: six bearded men, three women with tangled hair, and a toddler sitting on one of the women's knees, crying. They all looked thin and were clearly malnourished. The launch pilot was the only one standing. He was short and broad, and it looked as if he had shaved his head with a knife blade instead of a razor. He wore a ratty blue turtleneck sweater.

“Who are you people?” Xavier asked.

The launch pilot spoke. “Former Coast Guard, mostly, with a few civilians we rescued.”

“Where did you come from?”

The man gestured to the northwest. “We were on a cutter. The supplies ran out and there was a mutiny; the ship went down. We managed to get away in this.”