inquisition-style interview. Murder board was more like it.
“Who’s your friend, Miss Grisham?”
“It’s Missus and that’s Mister Grisham. He might let you call him William, though,” Jan said.
Bricker reached out awkwardly to shake Will’s hand; Will gripped it like a vice. Jan took notice, giving him a facial expression to tone it down.
“Pleasure to meet you, doctor. Want to tell me why you werequestioning my wife as if she were a terrorist in an interrogation room?”
“Uh . . . well, I mean you must understand . . . understand that I’m the last doctor left onboard. It’s beyond triage now, Mr. Grisham.”
“You can call me Will.”
“Thank you, Will. We are lucky to have Mrs. Grisham, or Jan if I may?”
Jan nodded in agreement.
“I am in limited contact with doctors abroad via the ship’s radio networks. Unfortunately, as I told you, I’m the only medical doctor on this floating city. I’m afraid your wife, Jan, has stumbled into a critical position onboard. She’s now a member of the priority-one, protect-at-all-cost, and kill-to-defend list. She, along with myself, the senior leadership, the nuclear engineers, the welders, communicators, and a handful of other personnel, are absolutely critical to the success and survival of this station.”
Jan let that set in for a moment before asking, “What exactly are we doing here, doctor?”
“My orders are as simple as the line officers that command this ship. Find out what is causing the dead to rise and find a way to stop it. At least stop new infections, perhaps.”
“What about the health of the people onboard now?” Jan asked, as the patients’ screams underscored her point.
“Secondary, I’m afraid,” Doctor Bricker said, sighing. “By my calculations, we are far beyond the point of no return. Mankind is on the edge of abyss; good science is our only chance. A hundred ships at sea, armed to the teeth and well provisioned, would make little difference. It’s not a secret that we’re outnumbered by millions of those things in the U.S., billions worldwide.”
5
USS Virginia—Task Force Hourglass
Six coils of thick rappelling line dropped from the helicopter doors nearly simultaneously. The intense rotor wash whipped the team about as the lines uncoiled like mamba snakes, hitting the deck of the USS Virginia just behind her sail. The boat rolled from side to side, obedient to the randomness of the Pacific. The submarine’s hull was not designed to sit on the surface; she was much better suited to black-ops commando insertion or delivering quiet death to the doorsteps of enemy subs.
A few seconds after the ropes slapped the deck, the six passengers followed. The first four descended with timing and comfort that only came from years of special-operations experience. The two that followed seemed sloppy and uncoordinated in comparison. Halfway down, one lost his balance and flipped about in his harness like a snared animal, nearly hitting his head on one of the masts as he flailed in the lines.
After some period of hot rotor wash and clumsy rappelling antics, Kil and Saien joined the other four already on deck. The lead operator stood there, wash from the powerful engines above blasting their clothes about. His sea legs and feet gripped the steel deck like magnets, and he effortlessly kept his balance. He gave a hand signal up to the crew chief in the helicopter. A few seconds later, five large black canvas duffel bags full of weapons and equipment slowly descended to the deck. The men gave a thumbs-up to the hovering pilot and the crew chief started pulling up the black lines. The pilot saluted the men on the submarine deck and immediately pulled the cyclic controls. The helicopter bolted north.
The noise and rotor wash quickly faded into the distance. The men were now at the mercy of the Pacific. The operators said good-bye to the surface and moved up the spine of the boat along the rough nonskid walkway to the