Emergence Boxed Set, page 74
part #1 of Emergence Series
Do you want me to show you mercy? Only I can do that—you are all alone in this world now, and no one else is going to help you.
Chapter 5
General Dorr was sitting in his small berth on the lower level of the USS Coast Guard Cutter Endurance, which had become his new tactical operations center following the exodus from MacDill. He was awaiting a conference call on his laptop from President Karen Hemmings and two of his senior commanding officers.
Though they had been successful at repelling the invading horde of paras at MacDill, the mass retreat of military personnel to the scattered armada of vessels in the Gulf of Mexico and along the Atlantic Ocean had been a blow to morale, and he had been doing his best to maintain an air of confidence that things would turn around—for the military and the human race. He had to keep reassuring himself that Doctor Munroe’s development of the bioagent and a vaccine for blood-borne infections from drones had been a tremendous victory, but looking around at his cramped quarters, he wondered how much longer they could keep retreating from the enemy before they ran out of space.
His laptop screen flashed to an image of President Hemmings sitting at her desk on board the Coast Guard Cutter Reliance, which was situated only a few miles from Dorr’s location in the Gulf. Behind her was a U.S. flag standing upright next to a framed copy of the Declaration of Independence. She seemed more rested than usual, and Dorr wondered cynically if she had imbibed the same liquid sleep-aid of Scotch that he had last night.
He sat upright and interlaced his fingers like he normally did before a briefing.
“Madam President—good afternoon.”
“Likewise, General,” said Hemmings in her slight southern drawl.
“Admiral Halsey, who is expediting repairs on the USS Reagan at Pearl Harbor, along with General Vaccaro, who is in the Atlantic, will be joining us shortly. But first, I wanted to update you on the recovery efforts at MacDill.”
She leaned back, nodding for him to continue.
“At present, I have assigned rotating teams there to assist with operations at the quarantine facility and medical clinic for survivors arriving from other regions or picked up by our recon teams. Doctor Munroe has one of her top assistants, Professor Maggie Peterson, working there two days a week, performing routine screenings for incoming arrivals and overseeing anyone who may have been infected by a drone bite. So far the recovery rate has been eighty-three percent if the victim receives the virus antidote developed by Munroe within four hours of exposure.”
“I had hoped that the rate would be higher.” She shook her head. “I guess that’s better than the alternative.”
“The quarantine facility is one of five active buildings on the base and, like our others, is staffed by a mix of civilian and military personnel. The other facilities are the fuel station, armory, med clinic, and flight hangars. The latter facility enables our mechanics to service and refuel our present load of thirteen helicopters, six C-130 transport planes, and two UAV Predator drones.”
“Two UAVs—that’s it? I thought there were more?”
“Until a few days ago, we only had one, but agents Runa and Pacelle were able to remotely access the formerly classified CIA drone hangar at an isolated location in Kentucky and route one of the birds to MacDill. Regrettably, the others are spread around the country or abroad. Since we only have a few former drone operators amongst our cadre, we are limited on how many UAVs we can have in the air at any given time. The UAVs will be absolutely instrumental in aiding our eleven strike teams on the ground, but their use will be restricted to clusters of alphas or in providing air support, via Hellfire missiles, to teams that are in imminent danger from a large-scale drone attack.”
She brushed a lock of her brunette hair off her forehead. “And what is the time estimate on returning all of our staff to MacDill?”
Dorr canted his head up as if searching for the answer amidst the ceiling panels. “Probably no sooner than the end of summer.”
Hemmings let out a deep exhale. “Eight months from now—I was expecting it to be sooner.”
“Ma’am, the problem isn’t the damage to infrastructure or the ability to sustain personnel there—we’ve still got the same amount of food, water, and medical supplies there as before. The issue is that the streets outside the base to the immediate south are jammed with the rotting corpses of a few hundred thousand drones, coupled with every rodent, vulture, and insect in Florida descending on the region. Doctor Munroe said the disease vectors for things like bubonic plague from fleas and secondary infections from insect bites are too much of a risk to have more than a skeleton crew living there. That’s why I’ve ordered rotating shifts of four work days at a time before people are flown out.”
“Which means more fuel for the helos, of course, in addition to what we are already looking at for our strike teams and resupply units.”
“That’s correct.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers, seeing the light on his laptop screen flashing, which indicated the other two senior officers were ready to join in on the meeting. “Exactly, which is why I suggested we meet with Vaccaro and Halsey to discuss reconfiguring our fleet of ships here to accommodate the challenge of locating fuel and streamlining our armada even further than what we’ve already been doing.”
“Very good. Those matters are in your area of expertise, so I will rely on your counsel.” She leaned forward, pressing a button on her computer that activated the video screens of General Vaccaro and Admiral Halsey.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen—although it’s more like morning for you, Admiral Halsey. How are things coming along in Hawaii with repairs to the Reagan?”
“Madam President, my crew has been putting in sixteen-hour days repairing the hull and the bridge of the Reagan from the damage it suffered from the sub attack during the first week of the pandemic. We are looking at close to two more months of round-the-clock repairs before she’s fully operational.” Halsey adjusted the collar on his white Navy uniform while clearing his throat. Dorr knew Halsey was holding back on his anger at the loss of life and the considerable damaged incurred from the surprise attack west of Pearl Harbor after the deadly assault by the Chinese Navy. He also knew from private conversations that Halsey personally held Runa, Reisner, and anyone else associated with the CIA responsible for the act of retaliation taken by the Chinese military, since Reisner had disclosed the agency director’s involvement in creating the deadly virus that he unleashed upon mainland China.
“Your efforts under such conditions are commendable, Admiral, and I know we are all eager to have you and your crew back in the fight,” said Hemmings.
Dorr leaned in on one elbow. “Admiral Halsey and General Vaccaro—I’ve asked you to join us today so we can discuss further recalibrating our mission capabilities by shifting our operational forces to the largely untouched array of Coast Guard vessels throughout the Gulf and Atlantic regions. Up until now, we have been relying on helos staging from bases on land around the U.S., especially here in the southeastern states. That has only resulted in constant attacks on our sites and expenditure of precious resources, not to mention risk to our personnel in fortifying those bases. Until Doctor Munroe and her staff have increased the quantity of the bioagent tenfold, we are looking at losing ground continually to swarm attacks by the drones.”
“How long will it be before she has produced what’s needed for, say, an extinction-level event of the drones?” said Vaccaro.
Dorr shifted in his seat while forming a fist. “With the limited technological capabilities aboard the Lachesis, the staff there can only produce enough of the bioagent for small batches to cope with regional crises. Doctor Munroe indicated yesterday that if she had access to a medical lab in a hospital-type facility, along with an increase in her staff, they could create enough of the biological agent to destroy the drones in this country within four months.”
The three faces on the screen all seemed to grow smaller as their bodies slid back in their seats or slumped to one side.
“That long,” muttered Halsey.
“And that’s just for production; we’d still have to sweep across the nation, dispensing the aerosol from planes or with ground teams to all of the hidden pockets of creatures,” said Vaccaro, who was rubbing the back of his neck.
“And then there’s still the matter of the alphas,” said Hemmings. “God in heaven—why couldn’t they also be destroyed by the bioagent like the drones?”
Dorr sat upright in his chair, feeling the need to get things back on track but also wanting to prevent his own downward slide into depression over the matters at hand.
“This is not going to be a short battle—we all knew that. Doctor Munroe’s breakthrough was a miracle, but it gave a false hope that this conflict would be over soon. Hope itself is not always a bad thing—especially for the survivors hiding in their homes, and even the soldiers on the ground when the chips are down—but it’s not a luxury that any of us in command positions can enjoy. We need a plan, followed by decisive, immediate action, which is why I wanted all of us to meet like this. Our focus right now should be on reconfiguring our attack and response capabilities using the existing fleet of Coast Guard vessels. We also need to find a suitable location, perhaps an island somewhere in the Caribbean, that will be more defensible than the mainland, where Munroe and her staff can amp up their production efforts.”
Dorr pulled his chair up closer to the laptop, arching his back. “Admiral, what are your thoughts on using the existing Navy personnel here combined with civilians who have sailing and seafaring experience to create small boat teams that can be employed for rapid-response units along the coast?”
“That could work if you have the resources.” Halsey said the words slowly, contemplating the implications, then he held his chin up while tapping on another laptop to his right. “From the looks of it, there are seven more Coast Guard cutters like the vessel you are on now that were stationed in the Gulf. Most of these are medium-sized vessels that formerly required a crew of seventy-five along with fifteen officers. They’d be ideal staging sites with the rear helipad and with their search-and-rescue capabilities. However, you would know better than I what your current pool of personnel are capable of and just how many cutters you could commandeer.”
“Perfect for our incoming helos, which have been using the commercial frigates in our armada to land on,” said Vaccaro.
“And the access codes to the vessels—can you provide those?” said Dorr.
“Yes, I’ll send over the physical locations of the ships and the codes.” He narrowed his eyes at the other screen. “It looks like two of them were docked at the Coast Guard Station in Gulf Shores, Alabama, so those may have fewer hostiles on board to contend with, and they may have even been there getting refueled when the pandemic struck.”
He continued tapping on his laptop, occasionally pausing to tap his finger on his desk while studying the screen.
“There are also three dozen of the 47-Foot MLBs docked there. These are motorized lifeboats designed as a first-response resource for the Coast Guard in high seas and harsh coastal environments. These things are astounding and were built to handle a rescue at sea even under the most difficult circumstances. Plus, they don’t consume as much gas as a lot of Navy boats in the same size range.”
“Which leads us perfectly into our last topic of conversation: fuel,” said Dorr.
“Gentlemen, this is where I will have to leave you. I have a video-meeting with what remains of the governments in Peru and South Africa to discuss them obtaining samples of the bioagent from us. Thank you for your time. General Dorr, please keep me informed of any further developments.”
Dorr continued as Hemmings’ image disappeared from his screen. “At present, we have three civilian fuel tankers in our fleet here and one in your Atlantic armada, General Vaccaro. This will keep our ships and helos operational at their current tempo for the next two months. My intel staff have identified a dozen other fueling stations around the Gulf, but those are around major cities and sure to be rife with paras, so any suggestions, Admiral, would be welcome.”
“There are several offshore platforms south of Texas to consider, but whether those fuel lines will still be functional is a big unknown since they rely on computer automation. The other resource is on the outskirts of New Orleans. The barges and tankers there, hauling their payloads up the Mississippi, all used the refueling station. It is outside of the New Orleans city limits, just far enough to hopefully lessen the presence of creatures.”
Halsey flipped down his other laptop and faced the main screen. “The other concern regarding fuel that we all have to worry about is what to do once we reach the nine-month mark from when the pandemic began. Any fuel sitting in tankers, barges, or pumps will begin to degrade by then, rendering it useless. It might even become a detriment if it’s put into a helo, truck, or ship at sea.”
“Unless we can locate one of the smaller refineries and keep it operational in the meantime, and that is no small task,” said Vaccaro. “And even then, it will only be able to meet regional needs.”
Dorr folded his arms, his ribs constricting with each breath. Another goddamn hurdle—as if the other roadblocks weren’t enough to contend with. He shook his head, thinking of how the entire eastern seaboard had already suffered a crippling cyber-attack on the energy grid, and now the military was going to be faced with another sobering reality as the end of summer approached. So, even if we win the war against the paras, we might still be thrust into a nineteenth-century existence.
He tried to form a faint grin. He knew none of them had the solution at present, and nine months seemed like an eternity away. Dorr looked beyond his laptop at the half-used bottle of bourbon on his bookshelf, waiting for this meeting to be over. “Well, then, gentlemen, we may all be looking at being inlanders after this battle is over. We might even be greeting our troops next summer from the back of a horse.”
Chapter 6
“I’ve got eyes on the front entrance,” whispered Reisner into his mic as he knelt in a cluster of bushes a hundred yards from the entrance of the Magnolia Gardens greenhouse. “I’m not seeing any signs of activity along the grounds or through the windows.”
Pacelle’s voice responded. “The heat signature we picked up earlier this morning was faint and then disappeared. It could’ve been a glitch, as we’ve not had that happen before.”
Or it could be exactly what we’re hoping for—clues that lead to Roland Whitmore. He felt his neck hair stand up. Or we could be walking straight into an ambush.
After spending the morning doing a recon mission on the northeastern edge of Charleston, Reisner received word from Pacelle that an intermittent heat signature of an alpha had been detected at their current location. That the signal kept coming and going was intriguing enough, but the fact that there weren’t any drones located within ten miles of the alpha made things even more puzzling.
Reisner glanced at his operatives on either side, wishing they had more manpower for whatever they were about to face inside. Ivins’ team was currently deployed in Biloxi, Mississippi to retrieve scientific equipment, and the two other closest strike teams had just inserted into the town of Augusta, Georgia, a hundred miles to the northwest—to Reisner it felt more like they were a continent away. Since Dorr had streamlined the strike teams due to dwindling personnel after the battle at MacDill, Reisner was feeling the absence of Ivins and his SEALs. Now, he was down to Connelly, Porter, Nash, and two new members, Gomez and Wexler. Paul Gomez was a former Army Ranger whose brushcut black hair was in stark contrast to the faint red stubble on his face. Anthony Wexler was as wiry as he was tall, with a comma-shaped scar under his right ear from a combat deployment in Afghanistan when he served with MARSOC. He was fond of informing the rest of the group of the importance of the Marines in battles throughout recent history.
Reisner looked at the two men, knowing they were solid warriors but feeling like his strike team couldn’t drop any further in numbers without jeopardizing the safety of the entire group and reducing operational efficiency. Gone are the days when I could request a budget increase from Runa and pick up more recruits.
Reisner scanned the grounds around the building again, feeling reasonably confident that there weren’t any paras but wondering what surprises they would find inside. “Proceeding to the front entrance,” he said, glancing at the rest of his team spread around the massive greenhouse. Connelly and Porter followed on his heels. Nash and Wexler took the rear door while Gomez remained perched on the roof of a maintenance building with his sniper rifle.
Reisner paused at the arched overhang above the entrance, examining the muddy tracks that headed off into the forest. He recalled some of his brief experience being embedded with a group of army combat trackers in Afghanistan but knew Gomez was the better mantracker in the group, given his work tracking insurgents in the Middle East. He wished the operator was down here now, but even Reisner could tell that the tracks were made in the last few hours before sunrise, since the rain had stopped then, and these prints were lacking pock marks. An uneven gait pattern and discordant stride was another clue that these were alphas—and lots of them.
“Be advised—multiple tangos were just at this location,” he whispered into his mic. He tried to swallow, his mouth going dry, wondering if they would have enough ammo and grenades to tangle with a large contingent of crazed demons bent on their destruction. He felt his pulse quicken as he reached for the door handle.
Swinging the solid steel door open, Porter darted inside, followed by Connelly, then Reisner, snaking through the corridor in a fluid motion borne of hundreds of missions together. Clearing the four offices on either side, they entered a narrow hallway that led to the main greenhouse and headed towards the intense sunlight at the terminus ahead. Again, Reisner could see evidence of muddy footprints coming and going, interspersed with a few shoe prints, and he knew from past experience that that usually meant human captives.
