“Today’s the day, ladies and gentlemen!” he said with a forced smile. He hadn’t smiled a genuine smile in months, but he kept as positive an outward demeanor as possible for the sake of morale. His leadership style was not the “do or die” hardnosed style of men like Patton. It was rather a softer and more empathetic, yet, direct approach that fostered morale like the precious resource it was. Even Patton had deserters who — in this new world –needed to be avoided at all costs. Every soldier who deserted, not only took with them precious training and manpower, but vital resources such as ammunition, rations, even vehicles. No one would be served by adding weight to spirits that already struggled under their existing burden.
The dour group sat up in their chairs, their interest piqued by the Captain’s upbeat tone — forced as it was. Their glum looks changed to furrowed brows of curiosity. Nervous leg-shaking ceased and brooding minds focused on a man who never delivered new orders with a smile.
“I have here the details of our next mission — our very last mission — the mission we’ve all been waiting for.” The captain held up a manila envelope, taunting his team.
“We driving to Honolulu, sir? I could use a vacation,” someone joked. No one laughed.
Captain Sheridan’s smile broke into a frown at the thought. He considered telling them the news that Hawaii was no longer under U.S. control, but he thought better of it. “Better! We’re going to take a picnic on the beach outside the San Onofre nuclear power plant, so bring your swimsuits. WDs aren’t invited.”
“They tend to be party crashers, sir.” Someone else attempted to lighten the mood. For the first time in months, morale lifted. The end was in sight, and the excitement began to build.
“Well, actually, this is a boat party. Your orders are to head north, get some personnel and supplies from the Tierrasanta DDC, then head up to San Onofre where the Howard and Boxer will be waiting offshore. A Chinook helicopter will load you and your cargo onto the ships, and we’ll be kissing the mainland goodbye for a little while.” Captain Sheridan attempted to make the mission sound as simple as possible. “Sergeant First Class Carl Harvey, Specialist Pam Grace, Sergeant Miguel Ramos… you already know you’ll be lead car. Try not to get killed. I’d like to get my picture taken while pinning medals on you before that happens.”
“Medals?” Miguel asked with a smile, “How about a nice steak dinner instead?”
“Sorry, Ramos, you know cows can’t swim. I’ll see if I can rustle up some frozen ground-beef patties though, and you can have a hamburger,” he grinned. “Twenty minutes, soldiers. Dismissed!”
Pam smiled as she stood and approached the podium with her four fellow communications specialists. Sheridan handed out manila envelopes filled with requisition orders, directions, and satellite photographs.
“This really it, sir?” Pam asked, and never shy about communicating her desire to put the convoy runs to an end.
“This is it, Specialist,” the Captain nodded, “and another thing…” Sheridan spoke up, addressing the soldiers shuffling out of the briefing room, “as soon as we close the gate behind you, we’re abandoning the docks, and the ferries are joining the civilian fleet. This is a one-way trip, soldiers, so make sure you’re packed and ready to go.”
“Thank God…” Pam mumbled, as she popped open her envelope and disappeared down the hallway.
The laughter and rowdiness trailed out of the briefing room and into the hallway until Captain Sheridan was left with his thoughts. It felt great to deliver good news for a change, but there was bitterness too. He scooped up his paperwork and ran his fingers along the wrinkled binding of the small black Bible he kept hidden within. “Thank God,” he repeated Pam’s words as he considered them.
He made his way out of the briefing room and past the boisterous soldiers horsing around and packing their belongings. He then entered into the docking bay that housed the remaining convoy vehicles. The first time he entered this room, there had been over a hundred Humvees and trucks assembled in an orderly lot and equipped with enough ammunition and supplies to fight a small nation. Now, only five battered and dented Hummers remained. Once, several hundred maintenance personnel bustled about, attending to every detail from tire pressure to ammunition supply. Now, the needs of the fleet overshadowed the needs of the convoy teams. The number of vehicles diminished over time, and there were but a handful of mechanics remaining.
It was striking how empty the dock looked now. Just the previous day there was a choreographed ballet of logistics taking place. Only three lonely Landing Craft Utility boats patiently awaited the last of their cargo before they would join the rest of the fleet. A civilian ferry sat ready to take on any additional civilian refugees remaining in the docks. It felt good to leave all this behind, but the Captain wondered if this was victory, defeat, or something else entirely that his military trained mind could not fully process. He made his way up the stairs to the command platform that overlooked the docks.
He sat down in his chair next to a lone communications officer, an eighteen or nineteen year-old technician who likely drew this detail for being the least senior among his team. Sheridan patiently waited for the convoy crews, opened his Bible, and felt the pages. They were thin as tissue paper between his fingers. Carefully, he thumbed to the verse he had been pondering for some time and read it again.
Revelation 14:13 — ‘And I heard a voice from heaven saying to me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from now on: Yes, said the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them.’
He then folded open the papers he used to keep his place — a handwritten list of the names of the men and women who had died under his command. The list was long and the paper was worn from having been folded opened and closed hundreds of times. Though they had died under his command, they were not all resting now — many of them still walked the earth as undead monsters.
His meditation was broken by the sound of the barracks door swinging open into the garage. The ruckus shattered the eerie silence, the convoy voices of the team echoing through the cavernous building. The soldiers walked in a single file line and carried heavy backpacks, bed rolls, and rifles. They dispersed to their vehicles.
Moments later, the voices came back over the communication network.
“Car three ready.”
“Car one, ready to rock.”
“Car four ready.”
“Car five standing by.”
“Car two ready.”
Captain Sheridan took a deep breath before giving the order. “Convoy Nineteen… go!” He gave the order for the last time.
The gates to the warehouse slid open, and the five Humvees jolted forward before disappearing through the door. Moments later, dozens of personnel who had been manning guard towers that protected the docks shuffled inside. They were carrying all manner of heavy machine gun, ammunition, and equipment.
“Good luck, Nineteen. See you in the fleet. Stay safe.” Sheridan turned off his microphone and looked around his command platform. He felt a reluctance to leave, a sense that he had left something unfinished. He had a feeling that a chapter in his life was now closing, and a nagging fear about what the next chapter would bring.
Two enormous tanks that had flanked the entrance to the warehouse began rolling onto the docks. The awe-inspiring beasts had stood as the implacable defenders of the gates for months, and their withdrawal into the warehouse stirred something within Sheridan. It was as if those monstrosities, who could endure an eternity of relentless dead, were saying to the legions that now controlled North America, “You win this round… but we’ll be back.”