Day by Day Armageddon: Shattered Hourglass (10 page)

He and Mark had recently completed repairs on the station’s high-frequency array after one of the support cables snapped in the high Arctic winds. They used the Sno-Cat to pull the cable taut and attach it to the new anchor point in the ice. Without HF, they had no ears as to what was happening on the mainland. The HF tuning process was very operator-intensive and required at least some basic knowledge of radio frequency theory. Some frequencies didn’t work at certain times in the Arctic and some did. This process was already complicated under normal atmospheric conditions, but problems increased exponentially this far north. When atmospherics were right, sometimes they picked up a BBC
shortwave signal still operating on a loop from some far-off transmitter likely powered by alternative energy.

“Stay in your homes—all known rescue facilities have been overrun. If you have been injured or know someone that has been injured by the infected, quarantine them straightaway . . .”

Mark had been manning the HF headset when communications with USS
George Washington
were established. The link was cut off by the wind-damaged array. Now that the array was repaired, they began to scan the spectrum looking for the ship again, or anyone else that might be listening.

Although a carrier would have little chance at effecting rescue this far north, perhaps the ship was in contact with units that might have the capability to reach Crusow, Mark, and the other survivors.

The only thing anyone at Outpost Four was hoping for now was the viable means to stay warm, to maintain core temperature. Crusow knew that winter was raging and there was no way off this hell short of a miracle.

Besides himself, Mark was the only one he trusted out of the five that remained. There were very few military left in the group. Crusow was friendly with them, but couldn’t bring himself to trust them.
They’re like cops,
he often thought. They would protect their own, by any means necessary.

Crusow kept Mark company as he tuned to 8992 on his planned transmit schedule. “Any station, any station, this is U.S. Arctic Outpost Four, over.”

Static filled the airway right before a very strong HF signal canceled out the white noise, as if the transmission originated from the next room.

“Outpost Four this is USS
George Washington,
have you weak but readable, great to hear you again.”

Crusow and Marked cheered, filling the room with whistles and shouts in a brief flash of optimism . . . one that soon faded.

The military leadership wandered into the briefing room for Admiral Goettleman’s morning update. With the carrier running on a skeleton crew, the senior officers were all able to fit inside the small shipboard auditorium, a place typically reserved for formal briefings. The admiral maintained the morning tradition of keeping full situational awareness of fleet status, what was left of it.

John sat in the back row holding a newly issued hardback green military logbook. He was a recent addition to the morning meeting. His attendance was not by choice; he was now deemed essential to operations. When the admiral wanted answers regarding the status of the ship’s communications systems, he didn’t want excuses. In his short time onboard, John had already mastered many of the complex computer networks and radio systems, as well as the links and nodes between the two.

His notes included proprietary information on frequencies, tuning, and circuit diagrams. Since most of the newer breed of technicians had lost the fine art of radio theory, it was John’s task to return this skill set to the carrier communications department. SATcom circuits were tied up and dedicated to task force missions and could not be used for lower priority ship-to-ship communications.

John studied his notes as he sat in the back row overlooking the auditorium. He traced a diagram with his fingers and thought to himself,
Romeo circuit or . . .

He heard someone in the front yell out, “Attention on deck!”

Everyone stood, including John. He had learned of this particular military custom at his first morning meeting a few days earlier.

Admiral Goettleman marched over to his seat at the front of the auditorium. John was one of only a handful of civilians in the room. Joe Maurer, one of the men he recognized, sat in the front at the admiral’s side.

“Good morning,” Admiral Goettleman said.

The room murmured, “Good morning, Admiral.”

The admiral glanced over to the current battle watch captain, nodding for him to proceed with the briefing.

“Good morning, Admiral, COS, staff, and crew. This morning’s update brief has the USS
George Washington
position of intended movement a hundred miles north of Panama and steaming to an area farther north and off the coast of Texas in support of Task Force Phoenix.”

“How are they holding up?” the admiral interrupted.

“Last communication with Phoenix was eight hours ago. All secure, systems green. Radio informed me this morning that they intend to scout the area tonight, after sunset. Phoenix reports that there has been no sign of unusual activity and no indication of any aircraft in vicinity of Hotel 23.”

“Very good,” the admiral said, rubbing his chin. “Continue.”

“Hourglass is well underway and steaming west to Oahu. They are reporting all systems green, moderate supply of food. They are on three quarters rations as a precaution.”

“Gonna have some grumpy submariners by the time they see Diamond Head,” Goettleman joked.

Some laughs rounded the small auditorium; they were heard less frequently of late.

“That being said, let’s keep them all in our prayers. They are on the most dangerous mission in military history.”

The room’s small amount of positive energy depolarized as if a blanket of seriousness had fallen from the ceiling.

The briefer continued: “Admiral, pending your questions or further comments, that concludes the task force update for today.”

Goettleman’s non-response seemed to indicate that all was acceptable. The briefer continued calling down the list of departments, asking if they had anything to add to the briefing.

“Weps?”

“Nothing to add.”

“Air?”

The acting air boss chimed in, “We’re still working on a plan to restore carrier operations, but only a reconnaissance capability at this point. Fuel and aircraft are a problem. The jet’s maintenance schedules can’t be met; we only have a handful of mission-capable Hornets, and we need to reserve those for any possible incoming UCAVs. We still have a respectable number of helicopters, but we’re short on pilots. The catapults and arresting gear all need depot-level maintenance and we’re down to our last four cross-deck pendants. That’s all I got, sir.”

“Reactors?”

“Both are fully mission capable. No change in status.”

“Engineering?”

“We are having a little trouble machining parts. Nothing critical, but we’re out of some metal stock that we need. Recommend we put the metal on our scavenge list for the mainland runs. Nothing else to report.”

“Supply?”

“Admiral, we have ninety days of food onboard for current crew strength. Situation critical. No change.”

“Always bad news from Supply. Since the Air Boss can’t seem to get fixed wing in the air, why don’t you two start a garden up on the flight deck?” Goettleman teased. “Keep going.”

“Yes, sir. Communications.”

A few seconds went by before John noticed that the COMMO was not in the auditorium.

“Communications?” the briefer prompted again, nervously annoyed.

John stood and opened his green notebook. “Admiral, uh . . . as you know, SATcom is up and stable with Task Force Phoenix. I’ve been working on transmitter theories and different high-frequency RFs to hail the Arctic station again. I have my people trying to contact them in radio right now. We are close to figuring out the wave propagation to allow for signal bounce with that station. Networks are up and stable for local LAN email traffic. I know that was not a priority but it is fixed. I guess that’s all, sir.”

Admiral Goettleman raised an eyebrow and nodded in approval.

Today is going to be a good day,
John thought to himself as he stood at the top of the auditorium with his green, dog-eared notebook.

“Admiral, this concludes the morning brief pending your questions or comments,” the briefer added.

As if timed with the ending of the brief, one of the radio clerks entered and passed off a paper message to the table of senior officers.

Goettleman slid on his glasses and began to read aloud. “ ‘HF radio contact established with Arctic Outpost Four.’ Good brief. I need senior leadership to remain and all others to carry out the plan of the day. That is all.”

John had renewed feelings of confidence as he departed the small auditorium. He had a little more pep in his step as he made his way to radio to fix more impossible problems and to look into the Arctic dispatch.
Good job, radio. Today is going to be a good day,
John again thought, as if trying to convince himself . . .

December was close at hand. It had been nearly a year since the creatures started showing up in the mainland United States. The air was now cold at night and the sounds were unlike anything that Doc or Billy Boy had heard a lifetime ago in the mountains of Afghanistan.

The Taliban didn’t moan, announcing their position. They did not sit idle or dormant until you passed an open car window at night, inviting their clutch. Although the Russian 5.45-caliber rifle round was dubbed the poison pill by many in Afghanistan, it had nothing on the poison of an undead bite. Nothing could save the infected. The best medical minds on the planet were at a loss. Even top surgeons at the ready to amputate an infected arm or leg could not stop the fever, eventual death, and subsequent reanimation.

The dead didn’t hide in caves or plant roadside bombs. Doc thought about this for a brief moment:
At least the undead were fair
. They never deceived purposely. Like the fable of the Scorpion and the Frog, it was just a matter of their altered nature; they were killers, destroyers of souls.

Doc recalled the days after he and Billy had made the decision to bug out of Afghanistan. Their journey from the southern Afghan provinces across the vastness of Pakistan and eventually to the sea was fraught with peril. It could have been much worse, but the low population density of the region compared to the first world gifted them some small advantage. They didn’t face a hundred thousand creatures—at least not yet.

That did not stop them from racking up undead kill counts
that might rival some operations at the beginning of Operation Enduring Freedom. The two laid waste to undead Taliban the whole way south, running out of M-4 ammunition halfway. They liberated three AK-47s as they continued their escape, fighting through thickening waves of undead, for weeks.

The terrain and sometimes thin air gave them no quarter. They dared rest no longer than a few hours between movements; any more and the undead would stumble in pursuit from behind a boulder or a finger of terrain. Not since BUD/S training had they been so exhausted. They force-marched for hours at a time over the cold moonscape.

At one point along the way, Doc remembered falling asleep while running. It took a face-plant into rocky terrain to jolt him back into the fight. He and Billy killed intensifying waves, stopping to scavenge magazines from creatures that had died days or weeks earlier, with their AKs still slung across their backs. The numbers of undead increased to dozens and in some cases approached a hundred or more.

The closer they moved to the coastline, the denser the hordes. The anomaly was so new that the creatures had not yet spread out from the coasts; most of the world’s population lived in the littorals, and now the dead ruled these regions.

Fueled by rumors that the fleet might be anchored off the coast of Pakistan in the Arabian Sea, Doc and Billy pressed south. It was not until the day before they reached the coast that radio chatter began to break in on their handsets. They eventually made contact with the USNS
Pecos
—their ticket home.

Doc adjusted course based on the ship’s transmitted position and they continued to pay their toll in lead to the undead for the last miles to the sea. The sun was setting and their scorched rifles were out of ammunition by the time their boots filled with seawater. They sidestroked away from the massing thousands of creatures that churned the surf with undead footsteps.

The
Pecos
was the last ship remaining at anchor to take on American evacuees. Billy and Doc soon found that the
Pecos’
s master was pleased to have the added security of two special operators aboard. After arriving, eating, and taking a shower, Doc and Billy received a current situation briefing.

•   •   •

Doc learned of deadly piracy taking place on the high seas. The pirates were capitalizing on the lack of maritime security, and ruthlessly attacked all vessels on sight. Chinese, American, British, all were falling prey to Somali warlords and other vile sea vermin. The pirates were cold-blooded in their attacks, using stolen military hardware to sink vessels that didn’t explicitly comply with their demands.

On their way stateside, steaming south, deeper into the Arabian Sea, they verified the worst of the reports. The GPS navigation network was failing. This, combined with a lack of sea charts, forced the
Pecos’
s master to adjust course west and visually hug the African coastline. Pirates had been a problem in the Horn of Africa region long before the undead, and now they were a force that rivaled them.

Pecos
was under attack long before they saw Africa.

The faster pirate vessel approached quickly through the choppy blue waters. As the vessel maneuvered into range, it began firing at
Pecos
with crew-served machine guns, aiming for the stern just above the waterline. Fortunately for
Pecos
and her crew, the pirates were not trained marksmen.