Only the Dead Live Forever (8 page)

15.

Brad slowly
walked around the platform’s rail, following the entire perimeter of the first
deck while trying to clear his head. The platform’s systems were all back
online; he could hear the hum of the pumps and the rattle of machinery in the
power house. Brad turned a corner near the storage deck and found Corporal
Swanson directing a couple of the men in breaking down pallets of supplies. She
smiled when she saw him and turned to walk in his direction.

“Hi Brad,” she
called out.

“Hello Chelsea,
how is everything coming along? Any problems?”

“Everything is
going great now that we have all of the lights back on and the boilers are
cranking out hot water. I was breaking down some of this gear. I thought with
the power on we could cook a nice meal tonight.”

“Sounds great
Chelsea, good to hear,” Brad said softly.

“Really? Then
why do you look so down?”

“It’s just been
a long few weeks. I thought I had a goal I was working toward, but now I just
want to sit down and rest. You ever get that feeling?”

“Every day,
Brad, but once you allow yourself to quit, it will be hard as hell to keep
going. We have to just keep pushing, you know. Doesn’t matter what for, just
keep pushing. Don’t quit, okay?”

“Okay Chelsea,”
Brad said, cracking a smile.

“So where are
you headed anyhow? Would you mind some company?” she asked him.

“I’m going up to
the helipad to meet with Chief and the pilots. We’re trying to figure out how
to get off this thing. You’re welcome to come along.”

Brad waited for
Chelsea to brief the Marines before she joined him on his path to the helipad.
They climbed the stairs to the top, where they found the officers had attached
long fuel lines to the Black Hawk and were gassing it up. Sean and Brooks were
standing over the apron of the pad looking down at the sea, so Brad and Chelsea
moved in to join them.

They could see
all the way to the water. A fishing boat still drifted quiet and lonely at the
length of a long line. The small military boat was in bad shape, now listing to
one side. The large fast attack craft was still there, attached to the deck by
a number of mooring lines. Sean and Brooks were in a deep discussion over the
military vessel’s capabilities.

“Hey Brad, I see
you brought a friend,” Sean said, acknowledging the presence of Swanson.

“Yeah Chief, I
figure she has just as much at stake in this as any of us.”

“Good call.
Welcome to the head shed, Swanson,” Sean said smiling.

“Thanks Chief,
so what’s the plan?” Chelsea answered.

“Well, that’s
what we are trying to decipher. Captain Bradley, are you two about finished?”
Sean called out across the platform.

Captain Bradley
walked from around the nose of the aircraft, wiping his hands with an
oil-stained rag. Mr. Douglas was close behind him. Brad watched as Bill turned
a number of fuel cutoff valves and disconnected the fuel lines from the
aircraft.

“All settled
here, Chief. We have her completely topped off. With the external tanks full,
we have a range of nearly a thousand miles. All we need is a destination,”
Captain Bradley said as he walked to the railing and leaned against it. Mr.
Douglas came in close and took a seat on the deck, opening a bottle of water.

“That’s the
problem, we have no comms with anyone and nobody is answering the phone, so
where in the hell do we go?” Sean said.

“Socotra,” Bill
called out.

“What? What the
hell is a Socotra?” Brooks asked as they all turned to look at Bill, who was
now walking in their direction, having finished stowing the fuel lines.

“Socotra. It’s
an island about a thousand miles from here, off the horn of Africa. I did some
exploratory drilling near there with the company in the late nineties,” Bill
said, unrolling a map.

He laid the
large map out flat on the deck and pointed to the island. “I heard our sailors
talking about it. The island is just off the coast of Yemen. Not many folks
live there and they said it was infection-free. Well it
was
anyway.”

“What exactly
did the sailors say ,Bill?” Sean asked.

“I don’t know a
lot. They were pretty quiet about it, but rumor had it that the U.S. military
had occupied the island and they were staging things there. The island has a
small airport. We even heard a carrier strike group was plugged into the
island.”

Brooks put his
hand on the map and drew a line with his finger from the platform to the
island. “A thousand miles, that’s a hell of a haul,” Brooks said, looking at
the map. “I don’t know if we could take that patrol boat across the open water,
but I would be more comfortable hugging the coast.”

“How old is this
information?” Sean asked.

Bill scratched
the side of his head and squinted. “Well, I figure it’s been at least three
weeks since I heard it. You kind of lose track of time out here.”

Mr. Douglas
stared at the map. “That’s going to stretch the limits of the chopper. I don’t
think we can make it on one hop without getting wet.”

Swanson leaned
over the map and pointed at a small island off the coast of Oman. There was a
small airport symbol at its northernmost point. “What’s this, sir? Could you
fly here?” she asked.

Captain Bradley
looked at the island. “Masirah Air Base, yeah, that’s about five hundred miles.
We could make that, but is it safe? It’s not like we can turn around and go
home if it’s not.”

Brooks looked at
the chart and then went to look over the rail at the attack craft. “I would
feel a lot better about taking that boat five hundred miles than a thousand.
But we don’t know shit about that place; what if we get there and it’s
overrun?” he asked.

Sean took the
map and drew a circle around the island. “It looks isolated enough, and it’s
within our range. I say we go for it. We may even find a suitable fixed wing
there to take us home. But how do we travel: sea, air, or both?”

Brad sat
listening to the conversation, taking it all in. He wasn’t a fan of the ocean,
but he had never been very comfortable with flying, either. That’s why he’d
joined the Army instead of the Navy or the Air Force. Today though, his options
were very limited.

He chimed in,
“Absolutely by air … I mean, if the pilots are comfortable with the distance.
We don’t know the condition of the boat yet. But the map shows a port, also, so
let’s ready the aircraft while we secure that ship and see if it’s seaworthy.”

Captain Bradley
examined the map again, using his finger to estimate the distance. “Shouldn’t
be a problem finding it, but I’m somewhat worried about the aircraft. It’s
really overdue for some heavy maintenance. We picked it up off an abandoned
airfield weeks ago and, other than fuel and washing the windows, we haven’t
done much to it.”

“It’s your call,
sir,” Sean said.

Bradley smiled
and, leaning back against the rail with his hands in his pockets, said, “I’m
willing to give it a shot then.”

Sean took the
map and rolled it up before handing it back to Bill. “Okay, we have a short
term plan then. Captain Bradley, prep your aircraft for the trip to Masirah.
You will take Bill as your crew chief, and one of the Marines as a gunner. I
have the rest. Tomorrow … mid-day … we’ll assault the ship and take it back.”

The helipad
cleared out quickly after the meeting. Bill had asked Chelsea to give him a
hand refueling the generators, and Brad once again found himself alone. He
moved down the stairs and wound his way along the walkway till he reached the
center deck facing the disabled lift. The space was clear now; there was no
evidence of the small skirmish from earlier in the day when they had lost one
of their own.

Wilson and
Nelson were on watch. He greeted them and moved closer to the exposed mouth of
the lift, looking into the dark space while keeping his distance.

There was a
mashed bit of flesh and blood at the lip of the deck below the opening. “What
happened here?” Brad asked.

Wilson stepped
forward, trying to conceal a grin. “Ahh … well … one of them things kept
sticking its hand out every time we got too close to the opening. I guess we
kind of smashed its fingers with the sledge. Yeah … it ain’t been doing that
anymore.”

Brad shook his
head at them. “Just don’t do anything stupid, okay? Have you noticed any
changes out of them?”

Nelson stepped a
bit closer to the lip and shone his flashlight into the space. “No, Sergeant,
they just stand there … staring at us.”

Brad moved
closer and squatted to the deck. He peered into the gap and could see the pale
face of a man looking back at him. Its eyes were focused and intense. Brad
could almost feel the hatred of the thing. It was like looking into the eyes of
a vicious dog and knowing there would be no reasoning, no calming it down. Brad
made eye contact with the primal and it suddenly bared its teeth and lunged
forward.

Brad flinched
heavily, losing his balance and falling over on his backside. The two Marines
laughed. Wilson extended a hand to Brad and pulled him back to his feet. “Don’t
be ashamed, Sergeant, that son of a bitch got me a couple times too,” he said.
“I wish we could just shoot them all; I hate looking at these damn things.”

 “Sergeant, do
you really think them things operated the lift?” Nelson asked.

Brad looked back
at him. “No, I don’t. You put a monkey in an elevator long enough and it will
eventually start pushing buttons. I think they just got lucky. Either way,
don’t worry about that, just keep your head in the game.”

“Yes Sergeant,”
Nelson replied.

“Looks like you
fellas have everything under control out here; I’m going to head back. I’ll
send someone to relieve you when chow is ready. Stay safe,” Brad said.

16.

The men gathered
in the platform’s main galley. With the life support systems powered up, the
kitchen was operational. Tony and Mr. Douglas had raided the pantries and
stores of supplies on the deck and managed to put together a hell of a pot of chili.
Tony had offered up another bottle of his finest Kentucky bourbon, but this
time Chief had declined.

There was a lot
of work to be done before they assaulted the attack boat, and he wanted
everyone to be sharp. The men feasted on the hot chow until their bellies were
full. Casual conversations filled the deck, the war stories and joking that had
always accompanied meals back in the world. After dinner, the Marines went
about their business of cleaning and maintaining their equipment while the
pilots looked over charts, plotting their possible venture to the Masirah
airbase.  

Those that
weren’t working were relaxing in the lounge or preparing for the night’s watch
out on the decks. They had set up guard rotations with three-man teams around
the clock: two patrolling the deck and one on the radio. There were only eleven
of them now, with the loss of Ben. The rotations were four-hour shifts, with
Brad and Brooks filling the holes and taking the extra watches at the radio.

As the sun went
down, the men heard the scurrying of movement on the decks below. The primals
were reminding them that they were still there, that they owned the lower decks
and the darkness. As the patrols walked the deck grating, they could hear the
primals moan and scream below them. The darker and cooler the night got, the
bolder the primals became. It was a nerve-racking duty, but a price they had to
pay to keep the deck secure.

Sean and Brooks
met in one of the offices and planned out the assault on the vessel. This was
their expertise, and Brad trusted them to do the right thing. Brad had grown up
on the Great Lakes and had some experience onboard small boats, but nothing
like this. His most ambitious voyages were short day trips on a thirty-footer,
doing some fishing on Lake Superior. Brad left the SEALs alone and made his way
to the control tower to start his shift on the radios.

Brad sat at the
radio slowly turning the dials, switching between UHF and VHF. After he had
gone the entire length of the dial with no response, he set the console to
‘scan’. Brooks had managed to get one of the small computers working and found
that it had a rudimentary radar application installed. Brad could see the large
globe and dish spinning just outside the window, letting him know that the
radar hardware was running.

Brad cycled
through the filters while following the notes Brooks had scribbled on a sheet
of paper. He could barely make out the coast as a jagged blurred line nearly
sixty miles to their north. The radar was set to max scan and he occasionally
saw static or surface noise on the screen, but nothing that would obviously
identify itself as a ship. Brad cycled from surface to air to weather, noting
nothing of interest or anything worth logging.

He picked up the
log book. They had opened it back up and had begun using it again. He scanned
the entries of the earlier watches: ‘Nothing to report’ and ‘all conditions
normal’. Just as he was beginning to think they were alone, the radio scanner
locked on a station. It was garbled and broken, but appeared to be in English.
Brad turned up the volume and manually tweaked the tuning knob. He listened
intently and struggled to transcribe the broken, static-filled message.

“Ma…ay, …ayday, …ay.  
This is the …rench vessel …dupar calling all …ons.
May… …ay, …day, … Captain … of ves… dupar… ead… water…   …irty males …board.
Locat… is North …45 …st 67… …12.” 

“Last calling
station, say again,” Brad yelled into the microphone.

Silence.

“Last calling
station, say again,” he tried once more.

The radio had again
gone silent. Brad logged the communication and looked at the notes. It was
impossible to determine anything from the broken call for help, but he would
hand the notes to Sean when he left his shift. Brad checked the radar scope
again for any vessel and finally gave up in frustration.

Private Craig
came to relieve him just after midnight. Brad quickly refreshed the private on
the use of the console. He told him about the broken radio contact and left
word for him to send a runner if he heard anything else from the ship. Then
Brad waited for the rest of his patrol to pass by the building so he could join
them on his way back to the living quarters. They had set up a strict policy of
‘no one goes outside alone after dark’.

As they walked
the grates, Brad could hear the primals following below; the sounds of
footsteps and the labored panting were like being pursued by a pack of wolves.
Brad stopped, asking the two Marines to hold up. He pulled a flashlight from
his belt and shined it between the gaps in the grating. What he saw spooked him
and he quickly turned out the light. He looked to the left and could tell that
the Marines had seen it too.

“Holy shit,
Sergeant, there are hundreds of them down there,” Private Nelson muttered with
fear in his voice.

“Well it’s
nothing we didn’t know, right? We secured the lift, ladders, and the stairs;
they can’t get up here,” Brad tried to reassure the private.

“I’ll be glad
when we leave this damn place,” Nelson whispered.

“Me too Private
… me too.”

As Brad arrived
back at the third floor, he found Sean sitting in the lounge cleaning his
equipment. Brad handed him the note and told him about the radio contact. Sean
took the note and read it as Brad explained the contact and how the radar scope
had been clear.

“Shit, wish
there was something we could do for them. That signal could have bounced for
hundreds … even thousands of miles. No telling how far away they are,” Sean
said, reading the message.

“Yeah I know. It
just sucks, man. Be nice to get some good news for a change. I put Craig on the
frequency and told him to wake me if it comes back,” Brad said.

“That’s all you
can do, Brad, now get some sleep. I’m going to need you to be sharp tomorrow,”
Sean said, turning back to his equipment.

Some of the
other men were also still up in the lounge, preparing for their watch, not able
to sleep, or just avoiding sleep altogether. Sleeping was not a thing people
enjoyed on the platform. Often it ended being awakened by nightmares, sometimes
by the screams of your buddy in the cell next door as he relived the events of
the past month. They all worked until they were exhausted, until avoiding sleep
wasn’t an option, but they rarely got more than four hours before they found
themselves back in the lounge.

Brad used his
free time and took advantage of the running water to shower and do laundry. It
was a recent luxury to have a functioning laundry room and latrine. With the
stores of food and the life support systems, Brad wondered if he might be
tempted to stay here if they
could
somehow remove the primals. At least
until the food and fuel ran out.

His thoughts
drifted back to the men in the compound and the promise he had made to them.
Brad lay back in his bunk, holding one of PFC Ryan’s dog tags in his hand,
knowing the other was buried on the man back in the Afghan sand. It was a stern
reminder that it wasn’t his mission to find a safe refuge. It was his job to
seek rescue for his men. That he was, and would always be, on the clock until
he got them all home.

Brad placed the
dog tag on his night stand, then checked his good luck charm: the unfired
S&W pistol. He pulled back the slide to make sure a round was chambered,
then placed it within arm’s reach. Brad reached up behind him and cut the
light, drifting to sleep with the sounds of the humming generators calming his
nerves.