Zombie War: An account of the zombie apocalypse that swept across America (10 page)

“How does it work?”

“The technology is called CARACaS. The Office of Naval Research has been working on the idea for a couple of years. Some time ago they started live tests on the James River in Virginia. Those tests demonstrated how the drones could protect a major vessel travelling through a narrow water straight. We used the drones to isolate and encircle pleasure craft that would not yield to our blockade.”

“And it worked?”

The Vice Admiral nodded his head. “Very effectively,” he said. “Rogue boats were encircled and detained by drones. Any vessel that tried to break through the blockade or deliberately disobeyed our orders was kept at bay. We didn’t board them for forty-eight hours to ensure that everyone aboard was free of infection.”

I was writing this all down as quickly as I could. My hand raced across the page while the Vice Admiral sat back in his chair. I could feel his eyes upon me. When I looked up at last, he had shifted his gaze back to the map on the wall.

“Can you tell me what the CARACaS acronym stands for? I think it would be important to mention in my article.”

“Control Architecture for Robotic Agent Command and Sensing,” Greenville said, annunciating every word clearly for my benefit. “Using those unmanned platforms off Florida gave us the ability to diffuse the danger of infected people escaping offshore without risk to US Navy personnel.”

I sat back and flicked through the notes I had scrawled. “How long did the blockade last?” I asked.

“It’s still operating as we speak,” Greenville said, which surprised me.

“Really? Why?”

“Because we’re thorough,” the man leaned forward and propped his elbows on the desk. His expression became defiant. “Because we never rest. Because it pays us to be eternally vigilant.” He sat back at last, and some of the tension seeped from his posture. “We still have a force in the Atlantic and the Gulf. Not the same kind of Naval force that upheld the blockade, but elements of it… and we will continue to do so.”

“Until…?”

“Until such time as the zombie infected are eliminated and Florida is returned to the United States of America. Because until that happens the war is not won, and we cannot rest.”

FEMA REGION IV TEMPORARY HEADQUARTERS, NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE:

DISASTER EMERGENCY COMMUNICATIONS DIVISION

“FEMA was part of the initial Danvers plan,” Tom Deighton explained to me as we walked around the organized chaos of a parking lot in downtown Nashville. “Our management actually consulted with Richard Danvers directly, and I am proud to say that the FEMA Region IV Disaster Emergency Communications Division was one of the very first units on the ground.”

“Here?”

Deighton nodded. “Right here, in this parking lot,” he said.

Tom Deighton was the Region IV Regional Emergency Communications Coordinator at FEMA. He had held the demanding job for almost nine years. When the Danvers Defense Line was drawn up, FEMA representatives played a hand in the process, and the team from Region IV was relocated to Nashville before the first trenches were dug.

“Traditionally Region IV served the south eastern states of Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Kentucky, Mississippi, North Carolina, South Carolina and Tennessee,” Deighton explained. He was a big man, broad across the shoulders, and carried weight in his gut that might have been muscle when he was younger. He had a rounded face and was just a few grey wisps of hair away from being bald. “Naturally, our knowledge of the areas affected by the zombie infection made us one of the lead groups as the outbreak began to spread.”

“What exactly was your role?” I asked.

The parking lot was filled with military vehicles and a collection of other trucks from different agencies. Although the defensive line had now been relocated well south, Nashville was still being used as the command center for the military, and the civilian organizations that had been drawn under the armed forces umbrella.

“We were very careful at the outset not to overplay our hand,” Deighton confessed. “We had been made well aware of the hierarchy, and we established ourselves as a valuable asset to SAFCUR and his support staff.”

“So this could never be called a FEMA operation?”

“Oh, hell no!” Deighton suddenly became animated. “For God’s sake, don’t write that in your article. FEMA was one of several support agencies to the military – that’s all.”

In previous years, and during previous natural disasters, FEMA’s reputation had taken a battering through some damning media coverage. The organization was still licking its wounds after the chaotic response to Hurricane Katrina – and that had been around a decade ago.

“Fair enough,” I said. “I understand.” To placate him I even flipped open my notebook and made a note of the fact. He still wasn’t satisfied. He looked over my shoulder and read what I had written. “Underline
‘support only’
,” he said.

I did. “Happy?”

Deighton nodded, and then visibly relaxed. He struck me as being a tense man – someone who walked a permanent tightrope of frayed nerves. Maybe it was the stress of the job.

I looked around the parking lot. We were in the shade of the AT & T building, a multi-story office building in downtown Nashville. I had heard locals affectionately refer to the building as ‘The Batman Building’ and I could see the clear resemblance of its skyline to the cowl worn by the fictional crime fighter. The complex had been commandeered by the military for its headquarters.

There were three white FEMA trucks parked nearby. I started walking towards one of the vehicles and Deighton shuffled behind me trying to catch up. “What’s this?” I asked, pointing. The truck looked like a long armored car. It was all square box-like shapes and there were communication dishes and antenna, like bristles, sprouting from the top of the vehicle. There were doors built into the sides of the truck body with steps down to the ground. The doors were closed.

“That’s one of our three MERS vehicles here in Nashville,” Deighton explained. “Mobile Emergency Response Support. They have been the key to our division’s involvement in the outbreak.”

I walked round the truck slowly. “What does it do?”

“It’s a communications center,” Tom Deighton gave me the simple answer. He was sweating. Even in the shade the day was warm and sunny. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief and blinked at me myopically for a moment. “When the zombie infection began to spread, our key function was to provide an early center for communications,” Deighton went on. “There was so much panicked traffic – we had everything from cell phone calls to ham radio operators. We were able to help compile the incoming communications and present it to SAFCUR and his staff. Some of the information was intelligence-based,” Deighton lowered his voice like we were in the pages of a pulp fiction spy thriller. “People holed up in their basements reporting the spread of the infection. Others were panicked. They were trapped and surrounded. They were calling for rescue. We took everything that came in, and gave the military the opportunity to monitor the infection’s spread from real-life reports, as well as orchestrate their responses for those civilians who were desperate to be rescued.”

I arranged my features into a look that would convey I was impressed. “Didn’t the military have their own system?” I asked.

“Sure,” Deighton said, “but you can never have too much information. SAFCUR and his key personnel regarded the data and temporary communications infrastructure we provided as being essential to their eventual success.”

“And you’re still here on site?”

“Our role hasn’t diminished,” Deighton looked almost offended. “In fact it’s about to be dramatically increased.”

I raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Really? Surely most of the communication from the infected zone went quiet months ago. There’s practically no one alive in Florida to speak to – is there?”

Deighton’s smile was grim. Not a smile at all, really.

“Sure,” he nodded his head. “Incoming civilian communication dried up after the first few weeks. Since then the contacts have mainly been from survivalist types on their ham radios. They’re hunkered down and refuse to come out. They simply won’t leave.”

“So…?”

“So we’re preparing to move into the dead zones,” Deighton went back to his espionage voice. “It’s been over a year since the outbreak, and several months since the success of ‘Operation Conquest’. Now the Army is saying that ‘Operation Compress’ has reached the stage where the Florida border is considered stable. FEMA will be one of the lead units moving into the dead zone to begin the clean up. And it’s happening soon.” This last little gem of information was delivered along with a suitably breathless gasp.

“Really?”

I find that the easiest way to make some people talk. As a journalist, you try all kinds of things to get people to loosen up. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. Simply questioning the person’s last comment was a standard kind of technique that encouraged the subject to expand – because when they expanded on their statement, they invariably gave you more detail, and that made for a more comprehensive story.

“Really?” I said again.

Deighton nodded his head. “The entire FEMA organization is moving its Federal Headquarters to Nashville,” he said. “It won’t just be our few MERS trucks from the Disaster Emergency Communications Division… it will be the whole show. And we’ll be on the ground for as long as it takes to get America dusted off and back on her feet again.”

I smiled. I felt like Deighton was waiting for some kind of congratulatory slap on the back. I grinned at him instead. “Well, that’s good news,” I said without conviction. “I’m sure everyone across the rest of the country will be relieved to know the clean up operation is going to be left in FEMA’s capable hands.”

We shook hands. Deighton frowned at me like he wasn’t sure if my words were a sincere compliment or dripping with sarcasm.

I left the man wondering…

LANGLEY AIR FORCE BASE, VIRGINIA:

55
th
FIGHTER SQUADRON

The 55
th
didn’t belong here.

The squadron of F-16 Fighting Falcons had called Shaw Air Force Base in South Carolina home until the zombie apocalypse had forced the sleek jets north during the first desperate days of the outbreak. Now the ‘Fighting Fifty-Fifth’ ran its operations out of Langley… and would probably continue to do so, even though Shaw AFB had now become part of the re-claimed dead zone – that grey area between the original defensive line and the current post-apocalyptic perimeter built around much of Florida.

I stood irritably in the shade and checked my watch. It was getting late. I took another long look into the afternoon sky and saw a dark spec, high amongst the clouds. As I watched the shape descended and quickly took on the detail of four F-16’s, roaring overhead before coming in to land.

I paced across the concrete with frustration, as the roar of the approaching fighters became an assault on my ears.

The F-16s rolled to a gradual halt beyond the shelter building where I stood. Ground crew rushed forward to the sleek warplanes, and crew chiefs propped ladders next to each fighter’s bubble canopy. One of the pilots climbed down, tugging at the straps of the full-faced helmet as he came directly towards me.

I nudged one of the nearby ground crew. “That’s Captain Harper, right?”

The man squinted, staring from the shade, out into the bright glare of midday sunlight where the F-16 seemed to crouch like a bird of prey on the verge of flight.

“Yeah,” the man said. “Call sign ‘Moses’.”

I stood and waited. The pilot came closer, bulky with flight suit. The helmet came away at last, revealing a tress of red hair that cascaded down to the woman’s shoulders. She pulled it back into a neat bun, and then smiled slightly. She tucked her flight helmet under one arm and held out her hand.

“Are you John Culver?”

I nodded. “Are you Captain Tony Harper, call sign ‘Moses’?” I knew my tone sounded incredulous, because I was. I was expecting a man – not this rather attractive young woman with piercing green eyes that glinted with mischief.

“That’s Toni, with an ‘i’ she said. Her head came to the level of my shoulder.

“And your call sign is ‘Moses’?”

Toni Harper nodded. “I’m a natural redhead,” she said.

I nodded. “I noticed.”

She smiled wryly. “Well the guys took their understanding of that fact to a lower logical level… and I got Moses as a call sign. Something about a ‘burning bush…’ she arched an eyebrow playfully.

I got it.

Captain Harper led me deeper into the building and then up a set of stairs to a room overlooking the wide expanse of the base. The walls were carpeted for soundproofing, and the afternoon sun was just beginning to angle in through the tinted windows.

She fetched a can of soda from a refrigerator and unzipped the front of her flight suit. She was wearing a yellow t-shirt.

“Want a drink?”

“No, thanks.” I said.

Toni Harper dropped into a comfortable chair. She popped the soda and sipped. “Sorry for keeping you waiting. What would you like to know?”