Part 3 (1/2)
A man wearing wrinkled blue coveralls, tennis shoes, and a Navy ball cap approached, extending his hand to one of the men. ”I'm Captain La.r.s.en, commanding officer of the USS Virginia.”
One of the new arrivals reached out and firmly gripped La.r.s.en's hand. ”We are-”
”I know who you are and why you are here,” La.r.s.en interrupted.
Kil tried hard to hide a reaction before La.r.s.en continued.
”The admiral transmitted a personal message three days ago. He graciously included information on the team you arrived with, as well as information on you and your friend, Mr. Saien. We've heard about you and we've heard about the strange goings-on with whatever this Remote Six might be.”
”Well, I guess the admiral saved me some time,” Kil responded.
”That he did. Master Chief Rowe will show you to your stateroom,” La.r.s.en said, starting to walk away.
”Quick question, sir?”
”Go ahead, Commander.”
”What's in China?”
”We'll brief you in the SCIF. Be ready for read in at eighteen hundred.”
”Aye, aye, Captain.”
La.r.s.en departed in a hurry, speaking something that Kil couldn't understand into a brick-shaped radio before disappearing into a tiny adjacent pa.s.sageway. Master Chief Rowe maneuvered in front of the two, inspecting them with eyes likely calibrated by years at sea. He was a short man, maybe five foot eight, stocky, with a h.e.l.l of a mustache. I've flushed more salt water than you've sailed on was a common saying among senior navy sailors. Somehow it seemed to Kil that this maxim might have started with Master Chief Rowe.
”Well, I'm told that one of you is a commander. It's probably you,” Rowe said, pointing at Kil. ”Do you want a uniform? We have extras, though none of 'em have wings.”
Kil knew instantly that the master chief had done some homework.
”I'd appreciate a set of coveralls or two if you can spare them, Master Chief.”
”No problem, sir. You know my name, who are you?”
”Kil.”
”Suit yourself, Commander Kil.”
Saien laughed, not meaning to.
”And your name, Ali Baba?” Rowe said to Saien.
Kil bit his lip.
”My name is Saien.”
Rowe looked at them both with critical eyes as if he had both judged and sentenced them on the bridge of the Virginia. ”Commander Kilroy and Mr. Saien, welcome aboard Virginia. Follow me.”
Saien and Kil stayed behind Master Chief Rowe as he navigated the maze of pa.s.sageways and ladders. Kil was already beginning to notice that time and s.p.a.ce were peculiar and fluid things...o...b..ard a submarine. He didn't think the boat had looked this big from the outside. They arrived at their new home. It consisted of canvas tarps thrown up against the bulkheads forming a deformed square with racks for sleeping and footlocker storage.
”Enjoy the new apartment, guys. It's a bit drafty, but with some duct tape and zip ties, she'll fix up nice. I'm the chief of the boat; you can call me COB if you want. Shorter than master chief.”
Kil nodded at Rowe. ”Thanks, COB.”
”Very good, sir.” Master Chief Rowe bolted away with purpose, screaming something about coveralls and cleaning stations down the pa.s.sageway.
Saien and Kil had met under interesting circ.u.mstances. Kil learned some time after they met that Saien had tracked him for days, observing him make his way south after surviving a nasty helicopter crash. In the process of tracking him, Saien discovered his handwritten note along with a cache of discarded weapons and supplies in the refrigerator of a long-abandoned home.
Kilroy was here.
The nickname stuck just before the swarm.
Kil's stomach sank even now as he thought of that day. They had been attempting to get the car started while thousands of creatures closed fast on their position. Three hundred meters, two hundred meters . . . dust, moans, closer. In a fit of panic and confusion Saien called him Kilroy, from the note he'd left. Kilroy evolved over the days ahead to just simply Kil.
They unpacked and stowed their gear in every nook and cranny they could find. Their racks were small and s.p.a.ce was limited. They placed some of their personal belongings under their mattresses; there simply wasn't enough room for what they had brought over from the s.p.a.cious carrier. Neither had ever lived aboard a submarine, a fact made glaringly obvious by the way they misallocated precious s.p.a.ce.
Kil sat on his rack and listened to the boat. It was designed for silence and felt like a public library compared to the carrier's montage of dragging chains, noisy ventilation, and cycling solenoid valves. He heard dive, dive, dive right before the bow of the boat dipped a few degrees, sending Virginia into the deep. Kil knew what he was up against and that he would most likely not make it back alive. It was simple numbers, logic. There were just too many. He was now up against over a billion, not millions.
It was four hours until the men were briefed on the perilous mission that lay ahead.
This marks my first journal entry onboard USS Virginia. It's been two hours since I boarded the submarine. The sea was a little choppy before we dived. The skipper informs me that we'll stay in the area for the next twenty hours to prepare for the voyage to Pearl Harbor. Saien and I are bunked in one of the berthing areas...o...b..ard converted into sort of a pseudo-stateroom. I'm lucky we were not stuck sleeping in the torpedo compartment, as is the treatment of most outsiders and non-submariners, NUBs.
Although I had served many deployments...o...b..ard s.h.i.+ps in the navy, I had never thought I'd hear this being announced over 1MC: ”Now muster all available personnel for nuclear reactor maintenance training.”
It made perfect sense. We were not making anymore nukes-nuclear-trained naval personnel-in the navy, so it was either train new people or eventually we would run into a problem where the maintenance required on the reactors could not be performed.
Nuclear-powered boats were made for this sort of world-ending event. I can remember serving onboard a conventional carrier. Every few days we would need to pull alongside a re-fueler. Those types of boats would never make it in this new world. There are no refineries up and active to meet the ma.s.sive fuel requirement.
The only real weaknesses to the Virginia's mission are general hull maintenance, food supplies, and reactor repairs. The training being carried out in the reactor s.p.a.ces could abate one of those weaknesses. The Virginia generates her own water and scrubs her own air using onboard equipment powered by the reactor. There is no shortage of electricity. Just as some of the carriers with active reactors are being used as power plants, the Virginia could power a small town with little trouble.
I'm told that Saien and I are meeting with the boat's intelligence officer for briefing on the operation. The only hint about the op that I have received came from Joe before this morning's helicopter ride.
Joe yelled out over the rotors as we left the carrier's bridge island, walking to the helo across the steel and nonskid deck. ”You're not going to believe it, Commander. Keep an open mind.”
I still wasn't used to being called commander. I wasn't a real commander. I wasn't even getting paid, not that currency matters anymore, I guess. Either way, as of right now, I have no idea what could possibly surprise me after what I've been through the past eleven months. It feels like my first night of boot camp. I'm out of my environment, a little scared, and have no idea what's going to happen next.
6.
Hotel 23-Task Force Phoenix ”Hurry up, Doc!” one of the men screamed out from the darkness.
”This little plasma ain't as speedy as the cart; I'm going as fast as I can.”
”They are on us, man . . . Get the door open or we're screwed! I can see them in my gogs. They look pretty bad.”