The Demon Plagues Read Online Free PDF Page B

breathed for a few minutes, resting after her
ordeal.
    Dry and safe enough, she ate her fill,
stripped off the wet suit, and changed into her uniform. On a ship
this size, one more Marine would be almost anonymous. The trick
would be when to make herself known, and to whom.
    This was as far as her planning had carried
her.
    Her MOS, Military Operational Specialty –
until she lost the legs – was 5816-3RT, Military Police Special
Reaction Team member. It was the closest thing to direct combat she
could expect as a female, similar to civilian SWAT. The problem
with such a small specialty was that her circle of contacts was
limited. 3RT people tended to keep to themselves. She hoped to
either find someone on this ship’s 3RT she knew, or just depend on
the tight-knit community to shelter her in the face of her unlawful
actions. Still, there were some violations that could be ignored by
the loyalties and traditions of the service; she hoped that
unofficially rejoining a deployed unit would qualify.
    She slipped the prostheses on last, grimacing
as she strapped them tight. Another four pain pills and a gulp of
water, and she was on her feet. She stowed her gear behind a stack
of firefighting equipment and hoped it wouldn’t be noticed.
    Down into the enormous ship she tottered,
holding onto railings and moving slowly. Sweat broke out on her
brow, and she fended off two concerned inquiries with explanations
of recovering from food poisoning. She didn’t like the way the
people looked at her; she had chosen food poisoning as an
explanation precisely because it was neither unusual nor
contagious.
    These people seemed on edge. The crew must
have been told the same lies about a deadly disease aboard the
cruise ship, and they were jittery. Maybe going to the 3RT wasn’t
the best choice. She suddenly realized who she might be able to
trust – by law, custom and regulation.
    Five minutes later she was leaning against
the chaplain’s door. She hoped he would be a calm, sensible sort
that could keep his mouth shut. If she was lucky, she would get a
Catholic priest. Priests had reputations for keeping confidences.
For this, she needed someone unshakeable.
    The door opened to show a pleasant, pink,
thirtyish face attached to a short, chubby body with bottle-red,
collar-length hair. She stared at the Navy Lieutenant’s bars on the
right lapel of the woman’s combat cammies, and the cross on the
left, disoriented by preconceptions. Her name tag read
‘Forman’.
    “Can I help you?” Lieutenant Forman’s accent
was cultured, New England – Boston perhaps, or Maine. It reminded
Jill strongly of Katherine Hepburn, before the quaver. Or maybe a
Kennedy.
    “Yes, ma’am. Permission to enter?”
    “Of course, Sergeant.” The chaplain stepped
back, then closed the hatch behind Repeth as she gingerly tottered
in. “Please, sit. Are you ill?”
    Jill sat. “No, my prostheses are giving me a
bit of trouble.” She reached down to thump on her boots, bringing
forth a decidedly artificial sound.
    “Ah. Well, here we are. Coffee? Tea? Soda, or
some juice?” She gestured at a compact coffee maker which sat upon
an equally tiny refrigerator. “Privileges of the ministry.”
    “Juice would be great, and if you happen to
have anything to eat…I missed chow.”
    Forman slid a tin of shortbread cookies off a
shelf near her feet, opening it and setting it on the desk within
reach, then pulled out a cold can of orange juice for Jill, a
coffee cup for herself.
    “You have the look of someone with a lot on
her mind.”
    Jill stuffed two cookies into her mouth,
drank the juice in one pull. She gazed at Forman from under lowered
eyebrows. “You don’t know the tenth of it. But before I go on…how
confidential is this conversation?”
    “As confidential as you want it to be.”
    “And what if I told you I had done something
unlawful? Would you stick to that?”
    Forman sat back, blowing on her hot coffee,
contemplating. “Are we talking