When Mr. Smith finished, he sat the notebook on a desk and offered Brad a cup of coffee. While Brad sipped at the coffee, Mr. Smith went through the notes, flipping the pages of his notebook while making marks on the paper. After an uncomfortable silence, the questions began again. Often the information was a repeat of earlier answers, asking for more elaboration.
The time spent in the room was exhausting. Finally the man offered Brad a refill of his cup and asked if he had any questions of his own.
“Well sir, my mind feels like it is going to explode, but right off the bat, is there a plan to get the rest of my people home?”
The man looked at Brad seriously before answering. “Sergeant, honestly, we have heard sporadic reports of survivors across the globe. Some we have even verified by satellite or drone. But as of today, recovery missions are very rare. Our resources are scarce, so no. I mean I cannot say for certain that it will not happen. But I wouldn’t count on it.”
“There has got to be something we can do. All we need is an aircraft and we can get them all here.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant; it’s possible it could be done. All of these notes will be sent to the command; ultimately it would be their decision,” Mr. Smith answered.
“I see. And when will we be rotated home?”
“Home? You mean back to the United States? Boy, you really have been out of the loop.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there is no home; the United States as you remembered it doesn’t exist.”
“What about all of the people? We had heard less than a few weeks ago that there were groups of survivors, that a war was waging,” Brad said.
“It’s complicated. Yeah, there are people there, but nothing is the way it was. Everything has broken down. Yeah, at first people went back there, but a lot of them didn’t stay. Some of our crew actually fled the States. Shit, nothing is the way it was.”
“Well what are we doing here, why aren’t we floating off Virginia or something?”
“You know what, I’m going to try and take the time to explain things to you. It is not my job, and you are not going to like it. I can guarantee you that.”
“Whatever, Mr. Smith, just tell me what the hell we are doing here.”
“I was stationed at the embassy in Iraq until this shit went down. We hid in the embassy bunker for two weeks before the Marines finally got me out … and yeah, that was back when we were still evacuating people. Trust me, Sergeant, the first time I heard it, it took me some getting used to,” Mr. Smith explained.
“I have time; just tell me why we aren’t going home.”
“You know this was a terror attack? Or at least we are almost certain it was. Earliest reports predicted it. The classified wires warned the embassies that it was coming.”
Brad nodded. “We heard the same stories, about how it started, about where they came from. We call them primals, after the name of the virus, Primalis Rabia.”
“The American Continent initially held. Our government thought they had it contained. Slowly though … borders fell. It was the worst along the southern borders. All of Central and South America poured north towards refuge, dragging the infected along with them.
“Canada was no better; yeah, they fought off the infected better, especially the more isolated parts, but eventually their governments fell. The Canadian Army moved north and inland, bringing survivors with them; they let the big cities fall. The infected … or primal mobs moved south and flooded into New York and the Dakotas all along the land borders.”
“It only took one or two primals to infect a city. Eventually states pulled away from the government defense plans. You can’t blame them. In the early days, the President was using all of the federal troops to defend the Capitol. Can you imagine? Millions of primals in an open city! He sacrificed hundreds of thousands of troops on an idea. It was like the fall of Berlin. Instead of using resources to evacuate and protect the people … he refused to give up the Capitol.”
“Governors ordered their national guard troops home. States consolidated, reinforcing their own borders, using the geography to draw battle lines. Regions pooled their resources. Next the military bases began to disobey orders; instead of reinforcing the Capitol, they pledged allegiance to the state governments they were hosted in. Fort Knox was the first to switch sides. The Kentucky governor took up residence in the old gold vault. They barricaded it. Last word we had, the old home of the Armor was still holding their own.”
“The planes full of troops from Afghanistan, Korea, Kuwait, Asia, and Europe would land at Fort Brag, or Benning. Once they got off the planes, they were quickly refitted and sent to the Capitol’s defense. It was a meat grinder. Like sending soldiers to their deaths at Stalingrad. Except in this battle, every casualty reinforced the enemy. Eventually this stopped. Our men found out what was going on around the country and they deserted, choosing to return to their home bases or their families.”
“Eventually the joint chiefs abandoned the President. They took the remaining military with them and went their separate ways. The President is presumed dead now. Or at least we think he is; it’s hard to tell. There were reports he was locked away in a bunker, so he may be okay, but they lost contact with D.C. weeks ago; either way he is no longer relevant.”
Brad rocked back in his chair. He couldn’t believe things could fall apart so quickly.
“So then … who is in charge?” Brad gasped.
“That’s the million dollar question. There are at least three, what we would call national entities: The Midwest Alliance, the Greater Colorado Nations, and the United States of Texas. Don’t get me wrong. These groups are not in competition, hell, they aren’t enemies at all. They were just forced by circumstance to pull in their borders and protect their populations.”
“And what about the joint chiefs?” Brad asked.
“Well, they are kind of a sub-contract house now. They still hold the banner for the United States government, but they are based out of bunkers in the Rockies. What’s left of the CDC and the CIA report to them, although they’re scattered. Most of the senators and members of Congress went with the joint chiefs. Still though, for the most part they are all that’s collectively left of a national effort to fight this thing. They call themselves the
Coordinated National Response Team
.”
Brad smiled.
“You’ve heard of it?”
“I have,” Brad said. “Done some work for them, in fact. The Lieutenant Colonel James Cloud I told you about earlier; he said he was an officer with them.”
“That name doesn’t sound familiar. But for right now, they’re all that is left of a federal government. They still hold most of the national assets. Aircraft, oil reserves, some of the governors will still take requests from them,” Smith said.
“What about the fleet? I guess I still don’t understand. Why is the fleet out here and not at home?” Brad asked.
“That’s a complicated question to answer. Some say they never received solid recall orders before the fall. Maybe the joint chiefs are holding us back for another time. I haven’t really been in the loop on why the fleet hasn’t sailed. For now, we’re building a base on the island. We send raiding and resupply teams inland to seek provisions and fuel tankers. I don’t know what the long term plans are. I’m not privileged to that information.”
“You don’t know why we’re just sitting here, or you don’t want to say?” Brad asked, frustrated.
“This may surprise you, Sergeant, but I am just a low level analyst sent in here to take your statement. Everything I told you, any sailor on board could have shared with you. I don’t know shit else. I was a glorified courier in Iraq; I’m nobody special,” Mr. Smith said, sitting back in his chair and holding up his hands.
“I think I’d like to go back to my cell now,” Brad said.
Brad was led back to his room and found the space empty. The other bunks had been stripped bare and the sea bags were gone. Brad’s rack was the way he had left it. The bed was still made and the green sea bag still sat next to it. He walked across the room and lay down on the mattress. “Where the hell did they go?” he said aloud.
There was a knock at the door. The handle turned and the corpsman from the day before entered the room, holding a stack of paperwork. “Afternoon, Sergeant,” he said as he walked to the table and sat down.
Brad rolled to a sitting position and looked at the corpsman. “Yeah, good afternoon, I guess.”
“So how are you feeling today,” the corpsman asked, giving Brad a serious look.
“I’m okay, where is everyone? What’s going on … am I sick?”
“No, you’re good, Sergeant. Just coming in to tell you that you have been cleared from quarantine. This is your ID badge,” he said, while passing Brad a small identification card and a stuffed envelope.
“You will need to keep that badge clipped to your pocket. These are your movement papers, keep them handy,” he continued. “And make sure you stick close to your assigned area, if there is anywhere you need to go, your sponsor will take you there.”
Brad looked down at the white badge with a bold red border in his hand. His name and rank were on the bottom in black letters.
RESTRICTED
was across the center and
GUEST
at the top. Under the badge was a yellow envelope labeled
MOVEMENT PAPERS
.
“Movement papers?” Brad asked.
“Yeah Sergeant. You’ve been cleared. Go ahead and gather up all of your belongings. I need you to clear out of my medical hold. You will be moving to the island soon.”
“Soon?” Brad said as he started to pack his gear.
“Depends really. There’s no schedule. You just be on your toes and ready to go. They will call for you when a seat is reserved. Should be within a couple days,” the corpsman said. “Someone will be along to take you down to the temporary berthing.”
As the corpsman finished speaking, a new face entered the room, a jovial young man dressed in the blue navy camouflage. Smiling, he approached Brad and extended his hand. “Sergeant Thompson? I’m Winslow,” he said. “I’ll be taking you to your new berthing; can I help you with your gear?”
Brad shook the man’s hand before turning to stuff his belongings into the sea bag. “I think I got everything … Where are we going?”
“Just down the way, you’ll like it there. More people ya know,” Winslow said. “If you’re ready, come on and follow me.”
Brad slung the bag up over his shoulder and followed the man into the hall. He quickly noticed that the door was left unlocked and the escorts were gone. “So no more guards? You trust me now?” Brad asked as they walked.
Winslow chuckled. “Dang, Sergeant. Nahh … That was just for infected watch; standard procedure with all the inbounds. Although we haven’t had any in a long time, you know,” Winslow answered.
“How long you been on this ship, Winslow?” Brad asked as he stepped through a hatch and made his way around a corner.
“Me? I been here since we sailed out of Norfolk. Shit, since the beginning I guess.”
“Yeah? That’s cool. So when are we going back to Norfolk?” Brad asked.
Winslow stopped walking and turned to look at Brad. “Norfolk? Did you hear we were going back?” he asked Brad, his voice suddenly turning serious.
“Ahhh yeah … I mean … I assumed that’s where we were going,” Brad bluffed.
“I don’t know about that, Sergeant. Norfolk is gone, nothing there but primals. The admiral is in charge now, and I don’t think he wants to go back to Norfolk. We got the island now.”
“The admiral?” Brad asked.
“Yeah … Hayes. He saved us, you know, after everything started. He pulled everything together. You got nothing to worry about, Sergeant. Hayes is real smart.” Winslow looked at Brad’s face as if he was searching for something, then he turned and continued to walk down the passageway.
“So nobody goes back to the States then? You don’t worry about your family?” Brad questioned
“Come on, Sergeant just follow me. We’ll get you settled in and you’ll like it here okay,” Winslow said, avoiding the question.
Nearing the end of the passage, Winslow reached down and pulled open a hatch door. “Well, here we are Sergeant, go ahead and grab yourself a rack; the head is right across from you. I have to make a quick run, then I’ll be back to take you down to chow.”
Brad thanked Winslow and stepped into the space. There were rows of bunks with worn mattresses, most of which appeared to be empty, so he walked toward the back of the space. He saw Brooks and Nelson sitting at a table along the back wall. The steel table was fixed to the floor and painted an ugly gray, with vinyl green bench seat cushions. Brad walked through the space and tossed his sea bag onto an empty rack as he walked toward the table.
“So what are you all thinking?” Brad said as he sat at the table.
Nelson just sat silently, shaking his head. Brooks looked up and leaned back away from the table. He strained his eyebrows as if he was searching for a thought, and then finally spoke.
“Something isn’t right, Brad. I talked with a couple of the sailors, trying to dig. The fleet is just sitting static, no orders, and no movement. Just sitting at anchor and everyone seems fine with it. Like it’s a blessing,” Brooks said.
Brad placed his hands in front of him on the table, using his finger to scrape at the chipping paint. “I know what you’re saying. I don’t know whether to be frustrated or creeped out. I get that these guys have been through a lot, but shit, just sitting parked in the middle of the ocean?”
“So what do we do about it? We mess up and we might find ourselves in the brig,” Brooks asked.
“You heard from Sean?”
“No, he’s probably tied up in the Chief’s Mess. I’ll track him down later. You can count on that.”
There was a clank near the front of the compartment. They heard the hatch swing open and boots slap the deck. Brad looked down the aisle and saw a smiling Winslow walking towards them. “Hey fellas, you all ready to go grab some chow? It isn’t much, but it’s food,” he said.
Nelson was the first to his feet. He almost leapt towards Winslow. “Heck yeah buddy, just show me the way. I’m hungry enough to eat the ass end out of a buffalo!”