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zero nine hundred hours if security situation warrants. I’ll get someone to brief you then. And congratulations on your breakout, Sergeant. Really good news.”
    “Can I get a quick status update, Master Sergeant?”
    “Broadly, the whole world was shut down by the infected,” Doehler said. “There are groups getting organized. Main force, currently, is LantFleet and primarily Wolf Squadron. Long story. There are also civilian groups ground-side organizing, mostly in northern zones, but there has been no broad movement. Most are waiting for the spring to start moving beyond local areas. Do you have sufficient supplies for the time being?”
    “Now that we’ve gotten out of the warehouse,” Williamson said. “We’ve accessed another. We were getting short.”
    “Just hang in there, Sergeant,” Doehler said. “And get someone back to the phone at zero nine. Call us. I’ll have someone more senior available to brief you and give you any orders.”
    “Roger,” Williamson said.
    “Hole, out,” Doehler said, then hung up the phone.
    “Huh,” Doehler said, making a note in his log. “That’s a hell of a thing . . . Must be cold as a witch’s tit topside . . .”
    * * *
    “Not as pretty as the Caribbean,” Faith said, looking at the low, scrubby shoreline of the river entrance. “Better than fucking London, though.”
    February in Jacksonville was significantly colder than in Guantanamo. While not a patch on London, there was a biting north wind under an iron gray sky. It reminded Faith a lot of when they’d left Virginia so many months before.
    They’d taken up a position on the side of the bridge of the Grace Tan to observe their newest objective. Neither was particularly impressed.
    “Not much,” Sophia said, gesturing.
    The Naval Station was just inside the harbor mouth. They could see the masts of a few Navy ships, probably frigates, tied alongside. What was immediately apparent, though, was that the fuel storage bunkers had burned to the ground. The fire had also consumed what looked like a trailer park right at shoreline.
    “Survivors,” Faith said, looking through binoculars.
    “Where?” Sophia asked.
    “Big warehouse in by the docking areas. Think that’s the same building. See them up top?”
    “Got it,” Sophia said. “Well, that’s a target, then. That’s a stores warehouse for the squadron that was based here.”
    “And more fuel tanks,” Faith said, pointing west. “Amazingly not burned.”
    “That’s the aviation fuel,” Sophia said. “It’ll need to be re-refined, but good to see. The airfield is over there.”
    “I can figure out where stuff is on a map at this point, Sis,” Faith said. “So seems like you’re good for av-fuel. As long as we can clear this sucker and hold it.”
    “Ensign Smith to ready room,” the tannoy blared. “Ensign Smith to ready room.”
    “And so much for sightseeing,” Sophia said. “See you later.”
    “Try to keep it in the air, Sis,” Faith said, still looking through the binos.
    * * *
    “Lookouts detected some survivors on a building in the base area,” Captain Wilkes said, putting on Nomex gloves. “Time to rig up.”
    “Yes, sir,” Sophia said. She’d started training in helo operations in England since Dr. Shelley had the vaccine production well in hand. Actually, she’d started on the trip over when she borrowed one of the captain’s flight manuals as something to read on the voyage. Then in England she’d taken some very quickie tests and acted as a copilot, switching between the three “trained” pilots. In two weeks of clearance over burned-out London she’d gotten eighty hours of “copilot” time, then soloed. They left the Seahawk in London and brought back only the Super Stallion. On the trip back, she’d continued to fly, including dropping in some SAR and salvage crews on ships in the Atlantic. She was still a little unsure in winds like today, but she could manage to keep the bird in the air most of