Crossbones (6 page)

Rosa sat on the edge of his desk. “For the
most
part, you only have to learn one side, because the other is just like it. There are exceptions, though. The left lung has the cardiac notch, for example.”

Tommy was taking notes. For all his grumbling, he wanted to learn.

Rosa smacked his shoulder with the patient file. “You're doing great, and you got them all in order, didn't miss one until the lungs. They'll be calling
you
Doc before you know it.”

That gave her a smile. Tommy was about to say something when the double doors to sick bay banged open, and two crying children rushed in. Their sobs rose in volume as they saw the adults and ran to them.

Rosa dropped to her knees and collected both in her arms, and Tommy was by her side a moment later, a first-aid kit in his hands appearing as if by magic, looking the children over for injury. And more importantly, bites.

Both kids were talking loud and fast between the sobs, pointing back at the doors. As soon as they said the word
zombie
, something hard came into Tommy's eyes and he set down the kit, snatching an M4 assault rifle from where it leaned against his desk. He snapped the charging handle, dropped to one knee between the children and the entrance, and aimed the muzzle at the double doors. He hoped a survivor didn't come pushing in. If so, he was so tense they would die before he could stop his trigger finger.

“Shh, slow down,” Rosa said, looking them over as well. She didn't see blood or bites, thank God, but both would need a full exam just to be sure. Her mind didn't allow her to consider what would come next if indeed they had been bitten.

Denny was crying too hard to be understood, but Wind was trying to get herself under control and managed to speak between deep gasps and tears. “We were . . . playing in the bow . . . I know we . . . shouldn't be there. . . .” More sobs, and Rosa rubbed her back.

“You're not in trouble, honey. Just breathe and tell me.”

Wind sucked in a pair of shaky breaths, rubbing her palms at her eyes, and told Rosa what had happened.

“Tommy,” Rosa said softly as the girl spoke, but the orderly was already up and moving. “Did it get him?” she asked the girl.

“I didn't see. But we heard him scream, like he was a long way off.”

That wasn't good, but it didn't mean the boy was dead or bitten. “Can you show us where?” the doc asked. Denny shook his head emphatically, so Rosa gave him a hug. “I want you to go straight down to the mess hall, find Miss Sophia or Big Jerry, tell them what happened. Can you do that?” He nodded. Rosa was confident that the spaces between here and the mess hall several decks below were safe enough for the boy to travel alone. For now, anyway.

Wind wrapped her arms tightly about herself as if to still her own shaking. “I'll show you,” she said in a small voice.

“Nothing will hurt you, honey, I promise.” Rosa looked in the girl's eyes, and Wind gave her a little smile. Tommy reappeared with a bright orange backpack for Rosa and another like it already on his back. He handed her a pistol belt with her Glock and spare magazine pouches. As she strapped on the weapon, she found herself wishing for boots and fatigues instead of sneakers and scrubs. There was no time. Rosa shrugged out of the white doctor's coat and grabbed a pair of Maglites from the desk.

“Let's go,” she said, leading them out of the sick bay.

•   •   •

D
enny didn't make it to the mess hall.

Alone and frightened, he heard a metallic bang from somewhere up ahead in the empty passageway he was traveling. Stifling a sob, he looked around quickly, then darted into an unoccupied crew berthing compartment. Far in the back, he crawled beneath a bunk, curled into a ball, and started to cry softly.

August 13—Seattle

USCGC
Joshua James
was a Legend Class Maritime Security Cutter, the very latest design and the fifth of its class, with four others already in service and more in various stages of the building, design, and funding process. The Legend Class was intended to replace the much older Hamilton Class cutters, and the upgrade was laughably overdue. The United States Coast Guard was operating some of the oldest naval vessels in the world; of the world's forty largest navies and coast guards, the USCG had the thirty-eighth oldest fleet.

The term
cutter
referred to any Coast Guard vessel sixty-five feet or more in length, with an assigned crew and accommodations for their extended support. The National Security Cutter was not only the biggest boat the USCG had ever put in the water—418 feet long—it was capable of a flank speed of twenty-eight knots, had a range of twelve thousand nautical miles, and could stay out for sixty days without replenishment. Its state-of-the-art radar and navigation systems, combined with a lethal weapons package, were testament to the fact that the cutter had been built to ninety percent
military specifications. The design made it a more valuable asset to the Department of Defense, and although the Coast Guard carried out a wide variety of missions—environmental and fisheries protection, drug interdiction, and search and rescue—the new class of cutter was primarily intended for the role of maritime security and patrol, interception, and counterterrorism.

It should have been the perfect boat for the crisis unfolding around them, Elizabeth thought. Unfortunately, as she was quickly learning,
Joshua James
was so inadequately outfitted and crewed that saving lives, including those already aboard the ship, might be an impossibility.

Liz and her two officers, Ensign Amy Liggett and LCDR Coseboom, were gathered in a small office just below the bridge, down the central passageway from officer berthing. Amy was giving the briefing, almost all of it bad news, and Boomer sat stone-faced, occasionally looking at his commanding officer with eyes that were difficult to read. The cutter was steaming northwest, with Mr. Waite at the conn.

“Our supply trucks would have been arriving throughout today,” Amy said, “so most of what should be aboard for the cruise is not.” The cruise she was talking about was the ten days at sea that
Joshua James
had been scheduled to depart for the following morning. As part of the acceptance trials, it would have meant a full crew, a fully armed and supplied ship, steaming off the coast of the Pacific Northwest while contractors and technicians completed projects and went through a lengthy list of systems testing. “Almost everything is at a minimum, Captain,” the ensign said.

“Stores?” Liz asked.

“The galley can feed about twenty people for three days. I already ordered half rations to extend that.”

“The right decision, Amy,” Liz said.

“Fresh water is a problem,” the young woman went on. “The contractors report that the desalinization unit comes and goes, and
it was on the testing schedule to find and work out the bugs. We have five cases of bottled water aboard, less than a three-day supply for current crew levels.”

They wouldn't last long without food and water, Liz thought. It would have to be a priority. “Systems readiness?”

The ensign turned a page on her clipboard. “The bunkers for the diesels and gas turbine are full, and we're topped off with JP-5. Diesel and turbine engines, as well as the propulsion system, are functioning at one hundred percent. Surface search radar is also performing at one hundred percent.” Amy swallowed, knowing this was the end of the good news.

Liz saw the look on her officer's face. “Continue.”

“Air search radar, fire control, and electronic warfare systems are not fully functional, and the antimissile countermeasures are not functioning at all.” Amy went on to list another dozen systems that were not yet working: air conditioning units, warning systems, IT and medical equipment, galley appliances. All of it was to have come online through the natural course of the acceptance trials.

“Weapons systems?” the captain asked.

Amy shook her head. “The Bofors fifty-seven-millimeter gun is capable of firing, but there is no ammunition on board. The twenty-millimeter close-in weapon system is reported as functioning and was on the testing schedule for this cruise. Ten thousand rounds are aboard.”

“Air operations?” Liz said, her frown deepening.

“Nothing, ma'am,” said the other woman. “We have zero out of two Dolphin helicopters, no pilots or rescue swimmers, no crew aboard with aviation-related ratings. We have two MQ-1 Predator drones.” One was intended as a disposable unit upon which they would test the twenty-millimeter close-in weapon system, the CIWS. There were no technicians aboard qualified for launch and operation.

Seated at the small table beside Elizabeth, Coseboom simply tapped a pencil slowly against the surface.

“Light arms?” asked Liz.

Amy answered without hesitation. “Four M2 heavy machine guns, approximately eighteen hundred rounds. One M16 assault rifle, one hundred twenty rounds. Five Sig Sauer P229s; three from the armory, two brought aboard during the action at the pier, along with whatever firearm the captain brought aboard. Approximately one hundred rounds.”

Elizabeth looked at her watch. She would need to return to the bridge soon. “Tell me about
Klondike
's survivors.”

It was Boomer who spoke. “We pulled seven out of the water. Three were injured, and Amy took them to sick bay. The other four were whole, and we put them to work.” He gave their ranks. None were officers.

“And where do we stand on crew?” Liz directed this at the ensign.

Amy turned another page. “Five civilians: two plumbers, two electricians, and one IT tech. For enlisted personnel we have two engineers, a machinery tech and the main propulsion assistant, three bosun's mates, two food service specialists, one electrician's mate, and one electronics tech.” She rubbed at her tired eyes. “We have a quartermaster, a damage controlman, a helmsman and Petty Officer Vargas as our operations specialist.” She cleared her throat. “Chief Newman is ranking . . . except for the senior chief who came aboard with you.” Amy didn't look at her captain as she said this, but Boomer fixed her with a stare.

Elizabeth turned to meet the man's gaze. “Very well,” she said, “Lieutenant Commander Coseboom is now executive officer and will assume all the responsibilities of the gunner's mates, as well as his own law enforcement and boarding party duties. Petty Officer Vargas will stand in as electronic warfare department head. Amy, you now run not only propulsion, but all of engineering.” She pointed. “I want those contractors working to get everything online as soon as possible, do you understand?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Liz stood. “Everyone is going to have to wear many hats to take up the slack for absent crew.”

“And our
guest
, Captain?” Boomer said, standing as well.

“Senior Chief Kidd will become acting department head for the deck division,” Liz said. “His rate also makes him chief of the boat.”

Amy nodded, but Boomer just stared.

“That will be all,” Liz said, and Amy scooted out of the office.

“Liz,” said Coseboom, catching the woman's arm before she could go. “I need a word.”

The captain closed the door and faced her new XO.

•   •   •

A
my Liggett returned to the bridge and gave out the assignments as she had been directed, then spoke to the quartermaster. “Where are we, Mr. Waite, and where are we going?”

The QM2 pointed to a spot on a digital chart table and said, “I've turned us due west, with Seattle to our stern, and we are making flank speed along the approximate route of the Bainbridge Island Ferry.” He gestured out the bridge windows. “It's getting pretty crowded out here.”

Amy looked at the surface navigation scope to see that it was clustered with shapes. A glimpse out the windows showed that the sound was rapidly filling with vessels of all sizes, from behemoth Japanese car carriers and oil tankers to freighters, tugs, container ships, and hundreds of smaller craft, both charter and private. Most were heading away from the city, and many were turning north. There were plenty of low-flying aircraft as well, mostly police and news helicopters, but small civilian planes as well. An orange-and-white Coast Guard C-130 buzzed low over the sound, flying north to south.

As she watched, a local news helicopter appeared from the rear
and paced the cutter less than fifty yards out, a cameraman sticking his lens out through an open side door. Amy had a frightening moment as she imagined the bird being cut apart by fifty-caliber gunfire, but no weapons went off, and after a minute the news chopper banked away in search of something more interesting.

“My intention is to close on Bainbridge Island, then come north,” the quartermaster said. “The captain wanted to stay clear of that destroyer on Seattle's waterfront.”

Amy looked at the man for a moment, but he added no speculation as to his commanding officer's order or meaning.

On the overhead speakers, the military-only Guard channel was choked with traffic, units talking over one another, giving situation reports, commanders giving orders and calling for immediate support. The Navy destroyer from Everett reported that it had moved slightly north and was now just off the Port of Seattle, its guns providing cover fire as civilian evacuees streamed in, trying to get aboard anything that could float. A National Guard unit on shore providing security for that evacuation first called for medevacs, then began demanding an airstrike, and finally went off the air. There were no transmissions directed at
Joshua James
.

“Keep that destroyer on your scope, Mr. Waite,” Amy said, “and report immediately if it changes position.” She hadn't allowed herself to think much about what the captain had been accused of, and she tried very hard to block out the thought of a DEA helicopter and its crew being destroyed. The way she knew how to do that was to immerse herself in her work, and follow orders.

But it was impossible to completely still the worries and questions racing through her mind. Disobeying orders from Base Seattle and killing federal officers was criminal, there was no getting around it. But they were a warship now, and wasn't a captain's first priority keeping that vessel and crew safe until it could be properly deployed? That was what she had learned in New London.
Permitting hostile boarders from any nation didn't fit well with that responsibility. She imagined what would happen if a U.S. Navy ship tried to board an American nuclear submarine without permission. The sub commander would slam a torpedo into it and send it to the bottom, regardless of what colors it was flying, because his first mission was to keep his boat secure.

The captain's actions had been justified. Of course they had.
As for keeping away from the destroyer? Hell, that was just common sense. Right now there was a hot-shit warship commander out there, already weapons-free, raging with adrenaline and testosterone and just itching for a little surface combat.
Joshua James
wouldn't last thirty seconds against a destroyer and wouldn't have time to make its case. No, the captain knew what she was doing, and Amy would follow her as a good officer should. That decision made the young woman feel better.

“Plotted and tracking, ma'am,” Waite said, pointing to a contact indicated in red on his screen. “It's USS
Momsen
, a guided missile destroyer.” He scowled for a moment, looked out the bridge windows, and called to the helmsman. “Come left twenty degrees.”

The helm acknowledged and the ship leaned slightly left. Amy looked out to where the quartermaster was pointing. Ahead and to their right, less than a mile off, was the
Wenatchee
: four decks high and 460 feet long, a Jumbo Mark II class ferryboat a full forty feet longer than
Joshua James
. The white monster was capable of carrying 2,500 passengers and over two hundred automobiles as it made its thirty-five-minute trips back and forth between Bainbridge Island and downtown Seattle each day.

Wenatchee
was off course, still steaming at full power and leaving a wide wake, but deviating from its regular, decades-long route at a sharp angle. As Amy lifted a pair of binoculars, she saw why.

The dead were aboard, and they were slaughtering the living. Corpses galloped after fleeing people on the open-air decks, tore into
crowds huddled against the barrier chain on the bow, and pulled screaming faces away from wide, scenic windows. Ensign Liggett did not hit the alarm and order rescue operations, and the quartermaster looked away from the horror without saying anything.

“Keep us away from her,” Amy said quietly.

“Aye-aye, ma'am,” Waite replied, giving the appropriate orders to the helm.

The young officer watched the ferry until it passed out of sight on the starboard side, her heart racing as she saw what the dead could do and how they went about it. Then she looked forward again, to where the quartermaster had brought them back onto their original course.

Not my call to make. Besides, attempting to rescue those people would invite nightmares aboard, and that was irresponsible.
“Steady as she goes, Mr. Waite.”

Bainbridge Island loomed before them, and the quartermaster ordered the turn that would take them up its eastern coastline.

•   •   •

W
hat's on your mind, Boomer?” Liz said, folding her arms and leaning against the hatch frame.

“Your brother,” the man said at once. “The helicopter. What the DEA said before he chopped them out of the sky. Making him chief of the boat.”

“I don't have time for all this, and you know it.”