Polaris (33 page)

Her eyes darted to Stewart. “What's wrong with him? Who is he?”

“He's been hit!” said Pete, trying to add to her confusion and doubt. “They shot the admiral!” He knelt down as if to aid him.

As he did, he reached in his pocket.

Moody looked away, just for a moment, to the graying admiral covered in blood. Maybe she thought he could be her ally, a supporter of her crusade for the Alliance. Even wounded, he was the portrait of high-ranking dignity, with his gray hair and weathered face. Maybe she thought Pete and Finn had taken him prisoner up there in the tower. Whatever she thought, his presence was enough to distract her for just a moment. It was long enough for Pete to withdraw his nine-millimeter pistol, and fire a shot.

He hit her in the thigh. She spun around even as she was trying to raise her gun, but Pete fired again, this time hitting her square in the chest. She stared at him, stunned, eyes wide open, but still on her feet, still with the pistol in her hand.

Pete stood, took a moment to aim, and fired a third shot, into her chest.

She fell to the glass-covered carpet of the tower floor, dead.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

They waited a full day in the tower, watching the drones trickle in and kill themselves on the island. They ate a little from the well-stocked bunker in the basement beneath the tower, slept a little in the two cots, taking turns on watch upstairs. They dressed the wounds of the admiral, picking out the pieces of broken glass that had lodged in his chest and scalp. Finn's wound was more serious, but the bullet had exited his shoulder cleanly, and they dressed and bandaged him as best they could.

They dragged Moody's body onto a landing in the stairwell, for lack of a better place, and covered it with a green tarp that barely covered her.

At sunrise, Pete wandered upstairs to find the admiral staring out at sea.

“Anything?” he said.

“No.”

“Think we should venture out?” said Pete.

The admiral nodded. “It's probably safe now. Haven't seen a drone in hours.”

He turned and leaned against the console that still glowed green with the shortened radius that kept them safe from any drones that might still be alive. “But now that we've got a second,” said the admiral, “let me ask you a question. Why are you here?”

Pete had to think for just a minute. While his memory had come back, it was still hazy, as if operating in a lower gear. And so much had happened.…

“They sent me here,” he said, “because of the flu.”

“Is it that bad?”

“They say it is,” said Pete. “So here I am.”

“They evacuated all the doctors a few weeks ago … it was entirely classified, of course. I managed to stay behind while they left. I figured they were taking the vaccine with them.”

“They didn't survive the trip. So they sent me.”

“Sent you to stop one epidemic…”

Pete raised his hands to indicate the airfield, scattered with the wreckage of a thousand drones. “And I stopped another.”

“Maybe you'll stop both,” said the admiral. He reached under his coat and pulled out a thick manila envelope that he'd been hiding. “I went down there and looked around after the medical team left. Found this on a desk—pretty sure somebody wanted me to find it.”

“What…” said Pete, as he took the envelope.

Across the front of it, in large red letters, it read:
THE CURE
.

*   *   *

The three men made their way out onto the island, explored on foot. The drones had performed well until the very end. No structure was still standing except the control tower, protected by that green electronic circle that Pete had inscribed around it. He'd left it there, just in case, and the three men kept a wary eye on the sky. But Pete had a feeling that all the drones were gone, the word spread by dancing drones and self-destruct sequences under way all over the Pacific.

They came upon the bluff where Carlson had made her last stand and scrambled to the top.

A number of weapons were scattered across the bluff. Finn picked one up.

“Grenade launcher,” he said. “They almost got us with this.”

Pete bent down and picked up two bandoliers. “Are these the grenades?” They looked like very large shotgun shells, each with a bulbous nose.

“They are,” said Finn. He took the two belts and counted up the remaining shells. “Twenty-two left,” he said. He put the belts across his chest. “Let's see what else they left behind.”

“Over here!” said the admiral. He was at the edge of the bluff, pointing down into the crevice.

When the waves ran out of the space between the bluff and the island, they revealed a grisly sight: almost the entire Typhon force, their bodies broken and twisted. Pete saw movement and thought for a moment that someone had somehow survived. Then he realized that the bodies were covered in thousands of tiny crabs, busily consuming their dead flesh.

“Let's drag Moody's body out here with them,” he said, remembering how she had treated his friend Ramirez.

*   *   *

On the other side of the island, they came over a rise to the remains of a low-slung building that still smoldered.

“What's this?” said Finn.

“The medical research facility,” said Stewart. “What's left of it.”

They climbed a hill, from which they could see water in all directions. Waves crashed on the south side of the island, and seagulls dived around them. Each time a gull's shadow crossed the ground, Pete caught himself flinching.

“Now what do we do?” said Finn.

“Everybody will realize soon that the drones are gone,” said Pete. “There are people that have been waiting for this moment. To seize the island.”

“Will this end the war?” said Stewart.

“It's been over,” said Pete. “I'm convinced. Both militaries have all been driven underground and underwater for so long; they're decimated. Nobody wants to fight anymore. Nobody has for a while now. I'm sure there will be negotiations, bad intentions and good, but the war is over. We just destroyed the only weapon system that was still functioning.”

“Will they call us traitors?” said Finn. “Saboteurs? For destroying it all?”

“No one needs to know,” said Pete. “Both sides were here; now both sides are gone. We'll say they destroyed the drones while fighting each other. I'm the expert on drones, I'll explain how it's possible.”

“Will that work?”

Pete sighed. “It's close enough to the truth. I can live with it.”

The men thought that over for a minute and continued to look at the sea.

“So what now? We stay here and wait for somebody to come get us? What if the enemy gets here first? What if it's another one like Carlson? Or Moody, for that matter?”

Pete shrugged. “I'm not sure we have any choice. We're stranded.”

“Maybe not,” said Stewart.

He led them down a path to a small inlet on the rocky side of the island. A heavily reinforced concrete shelf hung over it. “Come on,” he said.

The admiral was surprisingly spry given his age and his injuries. Pete had to help the wounded Finn down the path.

At the rocky edge of the water, they could look into the dim pen to which Stewart had led them. Inside was a perfectly white Navy cutter.

It was pristine. The water lapped gently against the hull. Black X's had been painted against the side.

“We kept one here for additional trials with the drones,” said the admiral. “We never needed to use it because the drones worked so well right out of the gate. But it's a perfectly seaworthy boat, with two full tanks of diesel fuel and room for all of us.” Pete noticed a large tank against the back of the bunker, and pointed.

“Extra fuel,” said the admiral.

Finn walked over to the boat and pulled himself with his good arm up the small ladder that led to its deck. He had a huge smile on his face.

“Admiral, I'll be your XO.”

“No, you be the commanding officer,” said Stewart. “I've been thinking about retiring.”

*   *   *

They spent two days carrying all the food they could from the tower to the boat: powdered milk, powdered eggs, canned vegetables, canned beans, and hundreds of tiny boxes of cereal. Whatever the impact of the war, thought Pete, the Alliance's Frosted Flakes production had remained strong throughout. On the way back, they each carried a five-gallon plastic container of diesel fuel and positioned it in the control room.

They also practiced with the grenade launcher that had been salvaged from Carlson's team. The thing was supremely well designed for war: tough and easy to use. With no instructions of any kind, all three men were soon shooting it accurately, until they were down to the last six grenades. They judged Hamlin to be the best shot.

That night, they decided to rest, and leave at dawn.

*   *   *

The sun was coming up as Finn started the twin diesels. They had tested them out the day before, and they required some minor work. Pete could see pure pleasure in Finn's eyes as he worked on some last-second adjustments, his shirt off.

“You just going to stand there while I work?” said Finn.

“I'm an aeronautical engineer,” said Pete. “Can't help you.”

Finn rolled his eyes. “Well, you're second-in-command now.”

He gave a hand to Stewart to help him on deck, and then Pete untied the two lines that held the boat to the small cleats inside the pen.

“What will we name her?” asked Finn. “A ship needs a name.”

“How about
Polaris
?” said the admiral.

“No,” said Pete. “That boat was unlucky.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Pamela,”
said Pete, without hesitating, and they all nodded in agreement.

“Are we sure there are no drones out there?” asked McCallister.

Pete nodded. “As sure as we can be. They must be self-destructing all over the place by now. And all of the ones within range of the island have probably made it back by now and self-destructed.”

“Who do you think will get here first when they realize the drones aren't a threat anymore?”

Pete shrugged. “Not sure it matters. We'll make sure there's nothing left of value here. For either side.”

Finn turned a switch, and the little boat's diesels roared to life. Pete could feel the power in the rumbling in his feet. Two plumes of black exhaust shot from the stacks as Finn gunned the engines slightly, and ably pulled the boat out to sea.

As they exited the pen, the bright sun almost blinded them.

“At this point in my career, I never thought I'd command a surface ship!” yelled Finn. Pete was hauling in the lines.

“Think about this,” said Pete as he worked. “You're probably commanding the largest surface ship in this ocean.”

“I might make admiral after all,” said Finn.

He revved the engines slowly and pulled away to the leeward side of the island, the side that went hard against the control tower, right by the bluff where Carlson and her men had died. Finn cut the engines, and Pete made his way to the aft deck. The grenade launcher was waiting for him.

“Close enough?” shouted Finn from the bridge.

“Should be,” said Pete.

The deck undulated slightly in the calm water, something Pete hadn't practiced for. He lifted the launcher to his shoulder, aimed it at the tower, and waited too long to shoot. The grenade went wide. It exploded impotently on the ground with a spray of gravel.

“Nice shot,” said Finn.

“That doesn't help,” said Pete. He raised the grenade launcher again, and exhaled deeply.

He pulled the trigger again, and the grenade arced gracefully into the air. It went right through the middle of one of the broken windows; they could actually hear it land with a thump on the carpeted floor. There was a pause—then an explosion. Glass and smoke shot out of all four sides of the tower, followed by orange flames and black smoke as the diesel fuel ignited.

“Well done!” said the captain.

“Let's do one more,” said Pete, breaking down the launcher and reloading it. “Make sure there's nothing left in there.”

*   *   *

When they were done destroying the tower and all traces of what had happened inside, Finn gunned the engines and swung the bow toward open ocean. They surged forward and starting cutting through the waves instead of riding on top of them. Pete leaned against the aft railing as the boat accelerated. Behind them, Eris Island shrank into the distance. A dolphin jumped exuberantly in their wake. For the first time since he'd awoken on the
Polaris
with his memory erased, Pete smiled.

 

A FEW NOTES ABOUT TECHNOLOGY

One of the nice things about setting a book in the future is that any outlandish technology can be excused as artistic speculation. I've written two submarine novels set in (more or less) the present, and I can assure you that submariners, while a generous and enthusiastic group of readers, do hold me responsible for the smallest technical inaccuracies. So I welcomed the idea of writing a book set in the future, because it seemed to offer me unlimited ability to make technology do what I wanted it to do. That being said, I tried to ground this book's technology in reality wherever possible. The age we live in offers many technological marvels, many of which require no embellishment by an author to make them soar.

For example: the Robobird. This anti-seagull weapon exists, a wing-flapping replica of a hawk (the company also makes an eagle) used to scare away seagulls and other offensive birds. There are several videos available on the company's website,
clearflightsolutions.com
.

The big drones in the book required a little more embellishment than the Robobird, although we are clearly now living in the age of drone warfare, and advances in capabilities and tactics are hard to keep up with. The leap to make the drones purely autonomous, rather than directed by a “pilot” on the ground, doesn't seem like it would require much of a technical leap, but rather one of doctrine. Many of us are squeamish about the killing done on our behalf by drones now; taking humans out of that decision is still some time away. But for some of the mere physical specifications of the drones, the actual dimensions of the thing, I borrowed from the ScanEagle, a drone made in a joint operation between Boeing and Insitu. The ScanEagle has been flying for the US military since 2005, and just like the imaginary drones in this book, it has a wingspan of 10 feet and a length of 5 feet. It weighs just about 40 pounds, and can carry a payload of up to 7.5 pounds. It can soar up to 19,500 feet at speeds up to 80 knots. So while my drones certainly are the product of my imagination, they aren't too far off from a drone that has been flying over the world's trouble spots for a decade. More details can be found at
http://www.insitu.com/systems/scaneagle
.