Shattered Hourglass Part 7

There was only one advantage to the brutal and unforgiving winters of the Arctic-they encountered far fewer of the ravenous creatures than those outside the big, cold circle. At first, the dead seemed to be a distant problem-something one heard about over the shortwave or watched in horror on satellite TV. It was not yet a concern or cause for worry here at good ol' Outpost Four.

In the spring after the anomaly began, one of the researchers pa.s.sed away from diabetic complications. The shrinking crew fast realized that the anomaly had arrived; it now a.s.saulted their climate-controlled safe haven. It took a swift ice axe to the head to put the creature down for good, but not before it claimed another life. They tossed the bodies over a two-hundred-and-fifty-foot drop near the outpost. That's where the dispatched corpses all now went-many bodies, broken and frozen, lay at the bottom of what the survivors nicknamed Clear Conscience Gulch.

Farther south in the real world, people were fighting and dying for their lives against lottery odds of survival. Up north, inside the Arctic Circle, the survivors waged war against low body temperature and constant darkness. They had not seen the golden glow of the sun for weeks and some had private thoughts that they might never do so again. They rationed heating oil and diesel as if it were water on a life raft lost in the Pacific. Everyone knew that they were as good as dead if they didn't get off this ice rock inside of sixty days. That put them into January-deep winter. No aircraft (if there were any left) would risk the flight, and no man could make the journey south on foot. They had dogs and sleds, but even then, it wouldn't be enough. They were too far north.

Crusow Ramsay was the unofficial station chief of Outpost Four-leader of what few survivors remained. He wasn't the oldest or most senior outpost crewman, but he was the most respected. Crusow had an old-sounding name, older than 1950s names like d.i.c.k or Florence; it belonged to his grandfather. Thirty-five years ago his father had pa.s.sed the name on to Crusow without much deliberation. He came from a long line of strong Scottish immigrant men, alpha males who made their own way in life.

His father's spartan way of showing affection had made Crusow tough, harder than most men. His father had always given the girls leniency, but not Crusow. His sisters had enjoyed the benefit of money when they needed it, free cars, monthly allowances, but not Crusow. It was off to the sawmill at the age of seventeen for him.

Needing money to support his expectant wife, Crusow interviewed for a job that eventually put him where he was now, the cold embrace of the Arctic. There were not many choices during that dark economic time. They told him that he would only be gone five months per year if he got the job. The cryptic minimum eligibility requirements intrigued him.

Mechanical Engineer with three years machining experience / experience with diesel engines. Single scope background security clearance eligibility a requirement . . .

Outpost Four had its secrets. Most of the research that required an Arctic base camp had been completed decades ago. Officially the outpost had been established to study electromagnetic wave propagation in the northern extremities. Crusow wasn't a part of the search teams and before everything went to h.e.l.l, he didn't give a d.a.m.n what they were looking for out on the ice. He always thought it strange how they would pack up for a three-day trip, brief the (now dead) outpost commander on where they were headed, and then disappear into the snow, dogs and all.

The story that the outpost members were told was that the teams were looking for Martian rocks. The experts say that Mars was bombarded by countless meteors ages and eons ago and this Martian ejecta eventually found its way to Earth, reentered the atmosphere, and landed somewhere in the Arctic ice.

The team never returned with anything interesting that Crusow knew about. They'd always stow their gear, clean up, and report to the boss. Same story, every time. Crusow never became acquainted with the searchers; they always rotated out every time the military airlift made its rounds.

It didn't really matter anymore what the teams were searching for out on the ice.

Even before the anomaly, Crusow had believed that the world was on the brink. The economy was on the edge of collapse; unemployment was at 15 percent. Gold was approaching two thousand dollars per troy ounce and collapsing countries were the talk of mainstream news. His goal in the Arctic was simple. If he could just survive one, maybe two wintering overs here he could purchase his retreat out west and raise his family there, free from societal corruption, decay, and full-blown collapse.

Crusow looked up at the stars, a rare waste of time for him since the world ended. He'd lost as much as anyone to this unholy blight. Wife, unborn child, home, everything.

The only things he owned worth anything to him were worn on his belt or slung across his back-a good stag-handled Bowie knife, a 9mm Smith & Wesson M&P pistol, and a well-maintained M-4 carbine. Possessions really didn't matter anymore, as the world to the south belonged to whoever could survive its challenges. Rolex watch? Sure, if you wanted to risk getting infected crawling around in some mega mall somewhere. Bars of gold? Fort Knox was overrun, but if you could blow the vault, all the gold-plated tungsten you wanted was yours. No one would try to stop you. Money? If you had it, you used it to start fires or you kept it in your wallet to look at and pretend things were normal. It was tough to pretend when the dead walked and tried to eat you, a very frequent occurrence far south, back in the real world.

Crusow did what he could to remain on this side of sanity. He read books, wrote letters to people who were probably already dead, and sometimes prayed. The cold slowly drained energy from the outpost, energy that would not be replaced. Outpost Four was a dying star, about to be cold and void of all things. Crusow's soul was already approaching absolute zero, closer every time he thought of her.

News of his wife's fate had come over satellite phone months ago. Things had already devolved worldwide into anarchy. Outpost Four survivors watched the news feeds and listened to the HF broadcasts. Utter chaos filled the airwaves. Rioting overwhelmed the major cities first. People rushed past the ma.s.sing undead, looting TVs and tablets, bringing them to homes that didn't even have power.

Under normal circ.u.mstances, spouses and next of kin were given Outpost Four's satellite phone number in the event of family emergency. The survivors took turns at standing watch with the satphone as part of their rotation on the operations center watch bill.

Under world-gone-to-s.h.i.+t circ.u.mstances, people still stood the phone watch along with their normal duties, but incoming calls were extremely rare. The reliability of the United States phone network was sporadic in the weeks following the new year and the rise of the undead. It was midnight in February when Crusow's roommate and best friend, Mark, received the frantic call.

"h.e.l.lo, it's Trisha, I need Crusow."

"Trish, my G.o.d, the phones are working there?"

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit, Mark, I don't have time! They're at the doors and the house is on fire!"

"Okay, okay, I'm running to get him . . . Just wait on the line."

By the time Crusow made it to the radio room all that remained were Trisha's screams echoing on the other side of the line and on the other side of the world. She was being torn apart. Crusow collapsed to the floor at hearing his wife's last words. He lay there long after the fire severed the connection, sending a pulsing tone through the handset. Crusow didn't move for hours. He wished for death, hoping that the searing pain of grief would take him. It didn't.

13.

Crusow sat in the operations room with Mark, a close friend he'd made when first starting his career at the outpost. They rationed generator time, as clean diesel was quite literally a non-renewable resource, but they saw limited success with biodiesel. It was dirty, it smelled, and it made Crusow's job even more arduous, but it helped keep core body temps at or above 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit.

Crusow grew tired of tearing down, rebuilding, and maintaining the diesel engine that the outpost had designated for biofuel, but he knew that without him, the whole station would be a block of solid ice right about now. The small sense of worth and accomplishment that came every day he kept the station alive gave him purpose-reason to live. He now felt painfully alone. The last person he truly loved was dead, and he hoped she wasn't walking now. He often wondered if the fire had finished the job, but it hurt thinking about that nearly as much as imagining Trish being one of them.

He and Mark had recently completed repairs on the station's high-frequency array after one of the support cables snapped in the high Arctic winds. They used the Sno-Cat to pull the cable taut and attach it to the new anchor point in the ice. Without HF, they had no ears as to what was happening on the mainland. The HF tuning process was very operator-intensive and required at least some basic knowledge of radio frequency theory. Some frequencies didn't work at certain times in the Arctic and some did. This process was already complicated under normal atmospheric conditions, but problems increased exponentially this far north. When atmospherics were right, sometimes they picked up a BBC shortwave signal still operating on a loop from some far-off transmitter likely powered by alternative energy.

"Stay in your homes-all known rescue facilities have been overrun. If you have been injured or know someone that has been injured by the infected, quarantine them straightaway . . ."

Mark had been manning the HF headset when communications with USS George Was.h.i.+ngton were established. The link was cut off by the wind-damaged array. Now that the array was repaired, they began to scan the spectrum looking for the s.h.i.+p again, or anyone else that might be listening.

Although a carrier would have little chance at effecting rescue this far north, perhaps the s.h.i.+p was in contact with units that might have the capability to reach Crusow, Mark, and the other survivors.

The only thing anyone at Outpost Four was hoping for now was the viable means to stay warm, to maintain core temperature. Crusow knew that winter was raging and there was no way off this h.e.l.l short of a miracle.

Besides himself, Mark was the only one he trusted out of the five that remained. There were very few military left in the group. Crusow was friendly with them, but couldn't bring himself to trust them. They're like cops, he often thought. They would protect their own, by any means necessary.

Crusow kept Mark company as he tuned to 8992 on his planned transmit schedule. "Any station, any station, this is U.S. Arctic Outpost Four, over."

Static filled the airway right before a very strong HF signal canceled out the white noise, as if the transmission originated from the next room.

"Outpost Four this is USS George Was.h.i.+ngton, have you weak but readable, great to hear you again."

Crusow and Marked cheered, filling the room with whistles and shouts in a brief flash of optimism . . . one that soon faded.

14.

The military leaders.h.i.+p wandered into the briefing room for Admiral Goettleman's morning update. With the carrier running on a skeleton crew, the senior officers were all able to fit inside the small s.h.i.+pboard auditorium, a place typically reserved for formal briefings. The admiral maintained the morning tradition of keeping full situational awareness of fleet status, what was left of it.

John sat in the back row holding a newly issued hardback green military logbook. He was a recent addition to the morning meeting. His attendance was not by choice; he was now deemed essential to operations. When the admiral wanted answers regarding the status of the s.h.i.+p's communications systems, he didn't want excuses. In his short time onboard, John had already mastered many of the complex computer networks and radio systems, as well as the links and nodes between the two.

His notes included proprietary information on frequencies, tuning, and circuit diagrams. Since most of the newer breed of technicians had lost the fine art of radio theory, it was John's task to return this skill set to the carrier communications department. SATcom circuits were tied up and dedicated to task force missions and could not be used for lower priority s.h.i.+p-to-s.h.i.+p communications.

John studied his notes as he sat in the back row overlooking the auditorium. He traced a diagram with his fingers and thought to himself, Romeo circuit or . . .

He heard someone in the front yell out, "Attention on deck!"

Everyone stood, including John. He had learned of this particular military custom at his first morning meeting a few days earlier.

Admiral Goettleman marched over to his seat at the front of the auditorium. John was one of only a handful of civilians in the room. Joe Maurer, one of the men he recognized, sat in the front at the admiral's side.

"Good morning," Admiral Goettleman said.

The room murmured, "Good morning, Admiral."

The admiral glanced over to the current battle watch captain, nodding for him to proceed with the briefing.

"Good morning, Admiral, COS, staff, and crew. This morning's update brief has the USS George Was.h.i.+ngton position of intended movement a hundred miles north of Panama and steaming to an area farther north and off the coast of Texas in support of Task Force Phoenix."

"How are they holding up?" the admiral interrupted.

"Last communication with Phoenix was eight hours ago. All secure, systems green. Radio informed me this morning that they intend to scout the area tonight, after sunset. Phoenix reports that there has been no sign of unusual activity and no indication of any aircraft in vicinity of Hotel 23."

"Very good," the admiral said, rubbing his chin. "Continue."

"Hourgla.s.s is well underway and steaming west to Oahu. They are reporting all systems green, moderate supply of food. They are on three quarters rations as a precaution."

"Gonna have some grumpy submariners by the time they see Diamond Head," Goettleman joked.

Some laughs rounded the small auditorium; they were heard less frequently of late.

"That being said, let's keep them all in our prayers. They are on the most dangerous mission in military history."

The room's small amount of positive energy depolarized as if a blanket of seriousness had fallen from the ceiling.

The briefer continued: "Admiral, pending your questions or further comments, that concludes the task force update for today."

Goettleman's non-response seemed to indicate that all was acceptable. The briefer continued calling down the list of departments, asking if they had anything to add to the briefing.

"Weps?"

"Nothing to add."

"Air?"

The acting air boss chimed in, "We're still working on a plan to restore carrier operations, but only a reconnaissance capability at this point. Fuel and aircraft are a problem. The jet's maintenance schedules can't be met; we only have a handful of mission-capable Hornets, and we need to reserve those for any possible incoming UCAVs. We still have a respectable number of helicopters, but we're short on pilots. The catapults and arresting gear all need depot-level maintenance and we're down to our last four cross-deck pendants. That's all I got, sir."

"Reactors?"

"Both are fully mission capable. No change in status."

"Engineering?"

"We are having a little trouble machining parts. Nothing critical, but we're out of some metal stock that we need. Recommend we put the metal on our scavenge list for the mainland runs. Nothing else to report."

"Supply?"

"Admiral, we have ninety days of food onboard for current crew strength. Situation critical. No change."

"Always bad news from Supply. Since the Air Boss can't seem to get fixed wing in the air, why don't you two start a garden up on the flight deck?" Goettleman teased. "Keep going."

"Yes, sir. Communications."

A few seconds went by before John noticed that the COMMO was not in the auditorium.

"Communications?" the briefer prompted again, nervously annoyed.

John stood and opened his green notebook. "Admiral, uh . . . as you know, SATcom is up and stable with Task Force Phoenix. I've been working on transmitter theories and different high-frequency RFs to hail the Arctic station again. I have my people trying to contact them in radio right now. We are close to figuring out the wave propagation to allow for signal bounce with that station. Networks are up and stable for local LAN email traffic. I know that was not a priority but it is fixed. I guess that's all, sir."

Admiral Goettleman raised an eyebrow and nodded in approval.

Today is going to be a good day, John thought to himself as he stood at the top of the auditorium with his green, dog-eared notebook.

"Admiral, this concludes the morning brief pending your questions or comments," the briefer added.

As if timed with the ending of the brief, one of the radio clerks entered and pa.s.sed off a paper message to the table of senior officers.

Goettleman slid on his gla.s.ses and began to read aloud. " 'HF radio contact established with Arctic Outpost Four.' Good brief. I need senior leaders.h.i.+p to remain and all others to carry out the plan of the day. That is all."

John had renewed feelings of confidence as he departed the small auditorium. He had a little more pep in his step as he made his way to radio to fix more impossible problems and to look into the Arctic dispatch. Good job, radio. Today is going to be a good day, John again thought, as if trying to convince himself . . .

15.

December was close at hand. It had been nearly a year since the creatures started showing up in the mainland United States. The air was now cold at night and the sounds were unlike anything that Doc or Billy Boy had heard a lifetime ago in the mountains of Afghanistan.

The Taliban didn't moan, announcing their position. They did not sit idle or dormant until you pa.s.sed an open car window at night, inviting their clutch. Although the Russian 5.45-caliber rifle round was dubbed the poison pill by many in Afghanistan, it had nothing on the poison of an undead bite. Nothing could save the infected. The best medical minds on the planet were at a loss. Even top surgeons at the ready to amputate an infected arm or leg could not stop the fever, eventual death, and subsequent reanimation.

The dead didn't hide in caves or plant roadside bombs. Doc thought about this for a brief moment: At least the undead were fair. They never deceived purposely. Like the fable of the Scorpion and the Frog, it was just a matter of their altered nature; they were killers, destroyers of souls.

Doc recalled the days after he and Billy had made the decision to bug out of Afghanistan. Their journey from the southern Afghan provinces across the vastness of Pakistan and eventually to the sea was fraught with peril. It could have been much worse, but the low population density of the region compared to the first world gifted them some small advantage. They didn't face a hundred thousand creatures-at least not yet.

That did not stop them from racking up undead kill counts that might rival some operations at the beginning of Operation Enduring Freedom. The two laid waste to undead Taliban the whole way south, running out of M-4 ammunition halfway. They liberated three AK-47s as they continued their escape, fighting through thickening waves of undead, for weeks.

The terrain and sometimes thin air gave them no quarter. They dared rest no longer than a few hours between movements; any more and the undead would stumble in pursuit from behind a boulder or a finger of terrain. Not since BUD/S training had they been so exhausted. They force-marched for hours at a time over the cold moonscape.

At one point along the way, Doc remembered falling asleep while running. It took a face-plant into rocky terrain to jolt him back into the fight. He and Billy killed intensifying waves, stopping to scavenge magazines from creatures that had died days or weeks earlier, with their AKs still slung across their backs. The numbers of undead increased to dozens and in some cases approached a hundred or more.