Under a Graveyard Sky

“Roger, Cooper,” Steve said, trying not to let the surprise enter his voice. He’d started to forget he didn’t have to do it all.

“You don’t have to do it all, comm,” Chris said.

“Any other business?” Steve asked.

“We’d like a bigger boat as soon as possible,” Loper said.

“We’ll discuss that when the question comes up,” Steve said. “Anything else?” He looked over as Mike raised his hand. “Victoria.”

“We’re burning an awful lot of diesel,” Mike said over the radio. “I mean, try to refuel from derelicts if you can or tow them in here and we’ll get it out. But we’re going through diesel like crazy.”

“Keep an eye out for small tankers,” Steve said. “Anything else critical?”

“Can we get some of that vaccine?” Loper called. “Some of my crew are asking.”

* * *

The radio tech leaned forward clamping his earphones to his ears.

“What?” Petty Officer Second Class Stan Bundy asked, picking up his own set.

The Los Angeles Class attack boat SSN 900, USS Dallas, had been tracking the formation of this “at sea militia” as it had been classified for the last three weeks, ever since radio communication between multiple boats between Bermuda and the U.S. had been detected.

“Vaccine,” Electronic’s Mate Harry Fredette whispered.

* * *

“Son of a bitch!” Steve swore, then keyed the radio. “Okay, Knot, first of all, thanks for bringing any pirates that may still exist down on us. Like we covered, that is not for discussion over the radio. But since we’re discussing something, no, the supply is limited and it is only for clearance personnel. You want some, do some clearing. Or, even, maybe, pick up some survivors!”

* * *

“Upload this for priority exam,” Bundy said, hitting a key and backing up the recording…

* * *

“Hey, we’re busting our ass out here in this dinky little boat and we don’t need your shit, ‘commodore’! We’ve been clearing these damned lifeboats. There’s nobody home.”

“Loper, you’re full of shit,” Blair called. “We’ve cleared twenty lifeboats in the last couple of days. And, yeah, there’s not much. But we’ve picked up six people. On our even dinkier boat…”

“Clear the channels,” Steve said as the channel got cluttered with people screaming at each other. “Clear the… Ah, shit.”

* * *

“Christ I want to cut in.”

Commander Rex Bradburn was frustrated, angry and scared. Which described his entire crew. They’d started to sea before the plague was spread and had remained at sea since. Because to make contact meant dying. Like their families on shore.

But a sub could only stay at sea for so long. Sure, the pile would last twenty years, more if you only used low power. But all the other systems? Not to mention food. They had gone on short rations as soon as they found out they were on “extended deployment.” That only lasted so long. And that went for all the surviving boats. Some of them had already dropped off the screen, just lost. Possibly mutinied but more likely something vital broke at the wrong time or the wrong depth. Others had snuck into deserted harbors and put their crews ashore to survive as best they could.

But if they had vaccine…

“Monitor only, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Joseph Scholz reminded him.

* * *

“Knot So Little,” Steve said as the shouting died down. “We still don’t have a protocol for this. But I think that a captain’s vote would be sufficient. If you don’t start showing that you’re working the problem, I see no reason for you to get diesel or fuel. You can put some welly in it or turn over your boat and join the lost and useless. Or try to make it without clearance teams.”

“Just cause you got all the guns doesn’t make you God, commodore.”

“You’ve got guns,” Steve replied. “I gave you two pistols for light clearance. Which as far as I can tell you haven’t used and, yes, I’ll take those back as well. So it’s up to you and your crew. You’re either in or out. You want to take off, we’ll accept the pistols back, fill your boat and you can take off. But that’s it. Or you can work the problem. Or you can turn over your boat. Or, hell, you can take off right now and I’ll spot you the pistols. What you cannot do is continue to draw on supplies while not contributing. So I’m giving you two weeks. Start working the EPIRBs instead of hanging out on the back side of the island and playing Bermuda vacation or no more supplies. Do I make myself clear?”

“I hear you.”

“To all, make this clear,” Steve said. “Make it clear to the people you pull in. You’re either working to help, somehow, or you’re not. If you’re not, you get to go hang out on a sort of beat up boat with a lot of other useless people. We’ll feed you. That’s it. How you get along otherwise is up to you. If, like the Knot, you’ve got a boat, you can go away. But we’re not going to supply people with diesel and other support who are not working the problem.”

“You know there’s fucking zombies on these boats, right?” a voice screamed.

“No shit, sherlock…”

Steve leaned back as the voices overlapped.

“‘Commodore,’ this is the Knot. We’ll take the supplies. We’re done with your shit.”

“Roger,” Steve said. “Come into harbor. One fuel load and one ton of supplies, Victoria’s choice. If you come back for more, you trade your boat and join the lost and useless. This captain’s conference is now closed.”

He leaned back and shook his head.

“That could have gone better,” Steve said.

“He picked a bunch of losers just like him,” Mike said. “I think you were right the first way round. Just because they’re onboard, doesn’t mean they get the boat. I mean…” he said, looking around.

“Your boat, Mike,” Steve said, grinning. “Nobody has an issue with that. Hell, if you want to doss on the Large nobody’s going to have an issue. I don’t think. You going to have problems with the Knot?”

“I don’t think so,” Mike said, shrugging. “Can I have one of those shotguns?”

“How ’bout an AK?” Steve said. “They’re about useless for clearing and people are afraid of them.”

“That’ll work,” Mike said. “I don’t see them getting uppity with an AK staring them in the face.”

“How well do you trust your crew?” Steve asked.

“Fine,” Mike said. “It’s like training cats but they’re learning. I mean, the basics. I wouldn’t trust them running this at sea but until we can find a main transfer coil for it, it’s not going anywhere.”

“I’ll leave you two AKs,” Steve said. “Have the supplies ready to load. Don’t let them board and if they have an issue with that, you’ve got the AKs. Make sure there’s no fuel in this one, either.”

“I’ll do better than that,” Mike said. “I’ll pull the mains breaker.”

* * *

“Do we have any idea where they got vaccine?”

Frank Galloway was the National Constitutional Continuity Coordinator. Prior to that he had been Under Deputy Secretary of Defense for Nuclear Arms Proliferation Control.

The post of National Constitutional Continuity Coordinator had been created in 1947 after it became obvious that the entire upper echelon of government could be taken out by one atomic bomb. There was a chain of civilian control that went deep. This was not the “presidential succession” defined in the Constitution, but a guarantee of