Voyage of the Dead - Book One Sovereign Spirit Saga (32 page)

            “Get over it,” said Mark.  “Bring some beer and turn on some tunes.”

*****

            After washing off and sending his buddies down to their own staterooms, Scott put on some clean clothes.  He chose kaki Banana Republic cargo pants, a white linen shirt, and a safari vest with lots of pockets that he could stuff full of survival items.  He had several sets of each garment in his wardrobe and decided that he might turn them into his
commodore
uniform, at least for casual duty.  Just then Blain and Mindy came out of his bath suite wearing bathrobes and carrying their son, who looked much healthier and happier, as did his parents.

            “That was awesome,” said Blain. “Thank you so much.  We must have really stunk after being trapped in that penthouse with no running water for almost a week.”

            “Don’t mention it, buddy.  And I mean, really, don’t mention it.  I’m trying to forget any thought of smells since coming within arm’s reach of a dozen zombies!” said Scott with a smile.  “Your new clothes haven’t arrived yet, but you can wear those robes down the elevator to your new stateroom.  It’s on deck A, room number 112.  You’ll have everything you need, including internet and satellite TV.  It’s not the Ritz, or a penthouse, but it’s better than a refugee camp, huh?”

            “It sounds divine, and best of all it sounds safe!” replied Mindy.  “I’m sure we’ll love it.”

            “Great,” said Scott.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go meet some Marines and see about getting a shit load of weapons aboard, not to mention organizing another flotilla of refugees.  No rest for the weary, as they say.  But I’m glad you guys will be able to relax for a while.  Welcome aboard and make yourselves at home.”

*****

            As the
Sovereign Spirit
came to rest on the gentle swells, half a mile off the entrance to Oceanside Harbor, Scott ordered the Cigarette 38’ lowered into the water again.  He would use it to go into the harbor and make contact with the ‘boat people’ and the Marines protecting them.  He also radioed Captain McCloud who was very pleased to have gotten his helicopters back intact and receive an endorsement from Admiral Winchester confirming his DHS authorization to assist the
Sovereign Spirit
and their refugee flotilla.  Scott asked for McCloud to send along his Prosecutor patrol boat with a fire team of Coast Guardsmen as an escort for his initial meeting with the Marines and prospective new members of the flotilla.  Captain McCloud agreed without hesitation.  He also mentioned that a smaller Coast Guard cutter the 87 foot
Sea Otter
, was also in Oceanside Harbor and would be available as an escort for the civilian flotilla when they departed.

            Scott piloted the Cigarette speed boat himself as they entered the harbor.  He could see quite a few zombies milling around the breakwater and boardwalk along the docks.  They seemed agitated at their inability to reach the boat docks.  The reason soon became apparent as people appeared on the decks of those boats and waved in Scott’s direction.  It was not the hungry reach of zombies, but the welcoming wave of friends. 

            Then Scott started to spot the Marines.  They were much less animated and, thus, harder to identify.  It wasn’t just their camouflaged BDUs.  They were stationary, watchful, seemed very alert, but almost invisible, and therefore more ghostly than any zombie.   He was reminded again of the line he had flippantly traded with Captain McCloud about becoming either best friends or worst enemies.  These Marines didn’t need to say that.  They
were
that.  Scott felt a tiny trickle of sweat run down his clean back at the thought.  

            The Coast Guard Prosecutor followed Scott’s larger and more impressive craft towards the central fuel dock, where Scott had spotted a Marine who stood forward a little more obviously than the rest.  Scott had the impression that he was in charge here and Scott had come to rely on his instincts in the past few days.  Once again, he was right. 

            “Sergeant Major O’Hara at your service, sir,” said the ageless Marine who was probably somewhere in his early fifties with a fire plug body that defied both gravity and common modes of description.   Scott remembered the term “forty inches all around” from his days in Boot Camp.  That fit the five foot eight inch O’Hara quite well. “Are you the commodore I’m to be expecting?” asked O’Hara.  The accent and syntax had more than a hint of Irish to it.  Scott smiled.

            “Yes, Sergeant Major.  I’m Scott Allen, owner of the
Sovereign Spirit
and leader of the new refugee flotilla.  General Barstow told me that you would make sure I became a good officer.”

            “W
e
ll,” said O’Hara slowly, stretching out the “e” into a long, hard vowel.  “I can only make of a man what God himself has made possible.  If He blessed you, then yes, you’ll be a good officer and a fine leader of men.  If not, I can only make you act like one.  Either way suits me just fine, as long as you don’t get me or too many of my boys killed.”

            “What would be too many, Sergeant Major?” asked Scott in a level voice. 

            “Ah, a smart one,” responded O’Hara.  “Any unnecessary deaths would be too many to suit me, sir.  Necessary ones I can live with, unless it’s me own of course.  That would not suit me too well, but I might not blame you for it.  All depends on the circumstances, you know?”

            “Yes, Sergeant Major O’Hara.  I know exactly what you mean.  Two of my friends and I went up against a couple dozen zombies in a stairway today.  I wasted at least a dozen with buckshot rounds from an M-203, but I could have lost my buddies when they moved the bodies, if I hadn’t told them to wash off all that zombie blood and keep their hands away from their mouth and eyes.”

            “Ah, not just smart, maybe wise too.  I lost a few good men before we figured that one out.” said O’Hara contemplatively.  “Nobody told you about that?  And that was your first face to face with the Zs?”

            “That’s right,” replied Scott honestly.  “I’ve flown over them at low altitude and evaluated their behavior.  We were the ones who told the CDC that zombies like to walk down hill, are afraid of water and don’t swim.  But this was the first time I came face to face with any of them.  They stink.”

            “Ha!” exclaimed O’Hara.  “You’re the one from Cabo?  We got that message on our Sat Com.  You saved some lives here, sir.  And you are right about the blood too.  Even a drop in the mouth is sure death, or undeath, depending on your perspective.”

            “Then I’m glad we avoided that,” Scott said.  “But right now I need to see how many of the people on the boats in this harbor want to join our survival flotilla.  Then I need your help getting a couple of LVTP sevens to somewhere they can roll onto my ship, along with a hundred M-16s and as much ammo and other weapons as you can round up.  Are you with me Sergeant Major?”

            “Damned right, I am, sir,” confirmed O’Hara.  “In fact, we’re way ahead of you.  Most of the gear is already aboard the AAVs.  We’ll just need your ship to back straight into the harbor and up to the breakwater on that empty lot.  We should be able to drive them aboard your stern ramp from there.”

            “Outstanding!” exclaimed Scott.  “I’ll tell my ship and then address these ‘boat people’ about their options.  I want to get underway as soon as possible.  And, Sergeant Major, if you’re still loading up ammo, please bring as many 40mm grenade rounds as you can. The buckshot rounds worked well today.  I bet the high explosive rounds would do okay too.  We have a few M-203s, but not a lot of grenades for them.”

            “Don’t worry about that, sir,” replied O’Hara.  “You’ll have plenty now.  The AAVs we’re bringing each carry a Mk 19 automatic grenade launcher with 850 rounds.  We’re bringing a couple thousand extra rounds too.  And I already added a dozen M-203s and some other hardware to the list the general sent me.  If me and my men are going with you, I’m going to make sure that we are loaded for bear, sir.”

            “I like you already Sergeant Major,” responded Scott with sincerity. 

*****

            Scott stood up at the driver’s seat of the Cigarette speed boat and used the public address speakers to a talk to the people on the boats in the harbor.  He saw many faces looking back at him.  Some were fearful.  Some were hopeful.  Some were angry.  Some were sad.  Many were just confused.  Scott was getting used to interpreting those looks and beginning to learn how to guide them in the direction he needed them to evolve.

            “Attention please.  Can I have your attention please?” he began.  “I’m Commodore Scott Allen, owner of the
Sovereign Spirit.
  That’s the ship you can see off the coast right now.  I’m also the leader of a flotilla of survivors with their own boats and yachts, just like you.  Some of them have followed me all the way from Cabo San Lucas this week.  They will be arriving in a few hours with a Coast Guard escort.  We won’t be staying for long. 

            “General Barstow, commanding officer of the Marines from Camp Pendleton, has suggested that I ask you to join our flotilla, if you want to.  His Marines will not be able to provide you with food, water, or protection here for much longer.  Some of the Marines will be coming with me on the
Sovereign Spirit
to help us; the rest might be pulled out to fight elsewhere soon. If you stay here, you might find yourself on your own.  

“I’m inviting all of you to join us, if you are willing and able to do so.  We will be sailing north in search of a safe haven and a source of supplies.  We will have weapons and armored vehicles to use when we go ashore for provisions.  We will share food, water and fuel with all the boats in the flotilla.  If this option sounds better than staying here in this harbor, I encourage you to get ready to set sail.  

“The Coast Guard patrol boat with us will be visiting you all over the next hour or two.  Please make them aware of any problems with your vessel and we will try to find solutions, including finding another boat that will take you aboard if yours is not seaworthy, or finding extra hands to help you sail your boat if you need them.  We are all in this together now.  One thing I can promise, if you join us, is that the flotilla will take care of its own.  Thank you and I hope to get to meet you all personally once we drop anchor or tie up in a safe haven.”

Scott set down the microphone and turned to ask Sergeant Major O’Hara exactly where he should bring his ship to be loaded with the promised vehicles and weapons.  O’Hara was smiling and gave Scott a nod. 

“You have some leadership potential, sir,” said the Sergeant Major.  “We’ll need to refine it a bit, but that’s not a bad start.  I think most of those people will join you now.  Is that what you really wanted?”

“Hell, Sergeant Major,” Scott replied gruffly.  “I don’t know what I really want.  Bringing all of these boats, and probably more from up the coast, will put quite a strain on our resources.  And I can’t let them slow down my ship until after we complete the mission we were given by the CDC and DHS.  But after that, we’ll need to find a secure place to drop anchor.  It may turn out that there is safety and strength in numbers, or we might find out that resources are too scarce to bunch up too much.  We’ll find out, one way or the other.  Now where are those guns and armored vehicles?”

“Just pull up to the drive-thru window, Commodore,” said O’Hara with a sly grin.

*****

The Amtrac amphibious assault vehicles were large and impressive.  They were each twenty-seven feet long and weighed in at about twenty-nine tons.  Their engines growled and their tractor treads ground the asphalt as they made the turn from the road onto the open area between the civilian harbor and Camp Pendleton’s own basin.  The
Sovereign Spirit
had backed straight in through the mouth of the channel to within twenty feet of the piled rock breakwater.   She was so big that her bow was still beyond the outer breakwater.  They had found the deepest, closest spot to shore and were just able to get close enough to lower the ramp on top of the rock pile without grounding the ship in the sand.  Scott knew that the ship would probably bottom out when he added another 60 tons of weight to her, but thought the problem would solve itself when the AAVs drove further forward into the vehicle deck.  If not, the tide was still rising for another hour.  He would float her free one way or another.

First they had to face the tricky boarding process.  The lead Amtrac nosed up the piled rocks with ease and paused before venturing out onto the ship’s ramp.  Scott knew that the ramp was rated for 50 tons, but he still held his breath as the big machine inched across into the mouth of the vehicle deck.  It was an awesome machine.  He couldn’t help staring at the small weapons turret with its grenade launcher and coaxial 50 caliber machine gun.  That was the kind of firepower that would turn mobs of zombies into hamburger.   The turret cleared the top of the doorway by only a few feet as it moved smoothly into the vehicle deck.