THE SEAL
Paulius Klimas had never seen a cell phone quite like the one that had been handed to him by the captain of the Coronado. It was a bit smaller than the satellite phones he’d carried into at least a dozen missions, and ridiculously heavy for its size.
The captain had asked Paulius to his stateroom, provided the phone, then left, giving Paulius privacy. That alone indicated some important shit was about to go down. The first call to the new phone had come from none other than Admiral Porter himself. That call had lasted all of three minutes, long enough for Porter to stress that the safety and future of the United States was on the line, and that Paulius was to facilitate in any way possible the next person who would call.
Maybe that finally meant some action.
When the battle had occurred four days earlier, he and his men had been ordered to do nothing. The Coronado hadn’t launched boats to rescue the drowning, hadn’t welcomed the wounded aboard. Zero contact.
As other ships sank, as flaming oil spread across the water, Paulius had watched sailors fighting for life and he had done nothing to help them. He and his men from SEAL Team Two could have put their three Zodiacs into the lake, could have grabbed dozens of sailors from the water, could have saved many lives — he had never felt so ashamed of following an order.
But he had obeyed. He had made sure his men obeyed.
Paulius understood the order, even if he didn’t agree with it; so far, no one on the Coronado — SEAL Team Two included — had tested positive for the infection. He and his men were a contingency plan, to be used in a worst-case scenario.
And now, it seemed, that scenario had arrived.
The Pinckney, the Brashear and now even the damaged Truxtun had reported positive tests, incidents of violence and murder, even the execution of military personnel. Porter’s call meant it was almost time to act.
The phone buzzed. Paulius answered.
“This is Commander Klimas.”
“Hello, Commander,” said a baritone voice on the other end. “This is Agent Clarence Otto.”
Paulius nodded. Yes, finally, there would be a role to play.
“Agent Otto, I have been instructed to follow your orders.”
“Good,” Otto said. “What have you been told so far?”
“That you control the package, and that the package is our highest priority.”
The package, in this case, was a person — one Dr. Margaret Montoya, and whatever she might be carrying. Tim Feely and Agent Otto were to be rescued as well, if possible, but Dr. Montoya had become the focus of Klimas and his team.
“Excellent,” Otto said. “I need you to prep for an extraction.”
“Understood. When?”
“Soon. We’re hopefully finishing up some research here, but we may have to bug out at any moment.”
Three people from a ship that was already known to be compromised. When Paulius went after them, he’d probably take all twenty SEALs under his command, bring the package back to an isolated ship with a crew of fifty. Just one infected person could mean the death or conversion of everyone onboard.
“May I ask as to the state of health for you three? I’ll come get you if you’re halfway down a crack leading straight to hell, but I’d like to give my people the best possible chance of making it out of this alive.”
“Are you asking if you should be wearing CBRN gear?”
The acronym stood for chemical, biological, radiological and nuclear, and applied to the bulky biohazard suits military forces wore when any of those four threats were present.
“They do get in the way a bit,” Paulius said. “If possible, we’d rather go with our usual attire.”
Paulius heard the man breathe in deep through his nose, let it out slow. A thinking man, perhaps. If so, that was a good sign.
“All three of us are negative at the moment,” Otto said. “But be ready to adapt. Listen, Commander, I want something to sink in. If I call you, the people you’re bringing out and the material they are carrying could save the world. That’s not a figure of speech. It’s literal.”
“Admiral Porter told me we were saving the USA. Now it’s the world. Go figure. If we fail to extract the package, what’s the worst-case scenario?”
“Extinction,” Otto said. “The entire human race, gone. If any of your men signed up to be heroes, Klimas, this is their chance.”
Agent Otto sounded like an okay guy. Maybe he had a service background. He didn’t sound like a bullshitter, but he was still a suit — bullshitting and suits went hand in hand. His words, however, stirred Klimas’s soul; no one joined the SEALs to push pencils.
Saving the world? This was as big as it got.
HEADING FOR PORT
Cooper sat in the bridge of the Mary Ellen Moffett, guiding the ship toward Chicago at eight knots. The wind had picked up to forty miles an hour. Waves hammered the boat. It was two in the morning, the storm blocked out all stars, and snow swirled madly — his visibility was damn near zero.
At a time like this, Lake Michigan was the wrong place to be.
The weather forecast said the storm would die down in a few hours. Once it did, he could make better time, probably hit Chicago sometime that afternoon.
Everyone else was asleep. As well they should be — the job was almost over, and the weather had made everything about as difficult as it could be.
Cooper yawned. He drank a little coffee; it was already cold, but he didn’t care. He just needed to stay alert for three more hours, then Jeff would take over and Cooper could get some sleep. If all went well, he’d wake up just in time to help dock the Mary Ellen. Then he and his best friend would be rid of Steve Stanton and Bo Pan. They wanted off in Chicago? Well, that was just fine.
After that sweet good-bye, Cooper and Jeff could hit the town. A couple of days in the Windy City would be just the thing. José could come, too, if he opted to go out for once instead of rushing back to his family, as usual.
Look out, Chicago… the boys are about to be back in town.
BATTLE STATIONS
“Hey, Margo,” Perry said. He smiled, that smile that would have made it rain endorsement-deal millions had he fulfilled his destiny in the NFL.
“Hey,” Margaret said.
“I got Chelsea.” Perry’s smile faded. “The voices have finally stopped, but… I don’t think I’m doing so good. I’ve got those things inside of me.”
His face wrinkled into a frown, a steady wince of pain.
“It hurts,” he said. “Bad. I think they’re moving to my brain. Margaret, I don’t want to lose control again.”
I’m so sorry I failed you, Perry… I tried so hard…
“You won’t,” she said. “They won’t have time.”
The same dream, the same lines, and now, the same sound — the whistle of a bomb rushing downward to kill him.
A small shadow appeared on the ground between their feet, a quivering circle of black.
Perry stared at her. Then, he looked to the sky. “That doesn’t sound right, does it?”
The whistle; it had always been a consistent sound, growing steadily as the bomb fell, but this time it sounded intermittent… on, then off, on, then off.