Under a Graveyard Sky

are more likely to get blood contamination. It works. None of us have contracted the disease and my daughter, handle Shewolf, contracted the virus after only the primer but survived. It was touch and go but she made it.”

* * *

“Sounds like his wife was the lab-tech,” Brice said, grimacing. “That had to be cold.”

“Can you define ‘highly qualified’?” Dr. Dobson said. “In a way that…”

“Fully prepared lab including Scanning Electron Microscope and all that sort of stuff,” Wolf replied. “Run by a PhD in microbiology. I hope you won’t mind if I avoid the name. But he used to work for you, Doctor. He was a consultant for a…well heeled group.”

“Corporate lab,” Dobson said, grimacing. “The FBI was aware they were around. New York, L.A. and San Francisco were particularly rife with them. They produced the vaccine for senior corporate officers and support. But they were professionals. But a lab tech… That’s not the same as the doctor…”

* * *

“Could he or she do it again?”

“The problem is, as you probably know, doctor, quality control,” Steve said. “The doctor running the lab did the quality assurance. I was not directly involved. But I understand that getting the strands just right is critical. Not too much radiation, not too little, no contamination. And we sure as hell can’t do it with what we’ve got. We’ll need something resembling a lab and a good x-ray machine for sure. I don’t suppose any of the subs have one?”

* * *

Galloway looked at the Navy liaison who shook his head.

* * *

“They have an x-ray machine but insufficient lab equipment and materials to do production much less quality control.”

Steve looked at the deck and wanted to throw the radio as far as he could.

“Stand by, please.”

“Roger.”

* * *

“Dallas,” Galloway said. “Can you observe the subject?”

* * *

“Roger,” Bradburn said, looking at his screen. He’d popped the periscope up for the chat. “Transferring…”

* * *

“That is a man in deep thought,” Galloway said, looking at the video. The presumed “Commodore Wolf” was just standing there, looking at the deck. Then he straightened up and keyed the radio.

“Blount, Wolf, over.”

“Go ahead.”

“The way this was going to go was that I was just going to do one thing after another and hope that nobody big enough to stop me would get in the way. Not that those things were going to be as bad as, say, a zombie apocalypse. But they were going to get right up some people’s nose. And they were going to be to my plan and intentions. Example. I can go loot that Coastie vessel. I really do need the ammo. The Coasties might get it in their noses, but they don’t have any guns. And from what my daughter has told me and I saw, they’re not going to be much use clearing any time soon. If ever. I suppose you could torpedo my boats, but that wouldn’t get you anywhere.

“But at a certain point I’m for sure going to need military personnel. A lot of military personnel. I’m probably going to need a working helo carrier. I’m going to need Marines. The problem, and I’m laying it on you since I’m thinking you’re not really busy and I am, is how to do that. Because I said that I’ve got a goal. I don’t know when I’ll secure that goal but it sure as a billabong is dry isn’t going to be tomorrow. And I won’t secure it, ever, without your support. But you don’t know me from a wallaby. Somebody else might muckle this out, I suppose. I can find a boat for these coasties and they can muckle it, maybe. Right now, I don’t care. I’m tired. Myself, a green beanie sergeant and my thirteen-year-old bloody daughter just cleared a bloody cutter and rescued your bloody coasties and we used a bunch of priceless ammo doing it. I’m tired. I’ve been doing this for weeks with no bloody support and no real reason for anybody to do it but me asking them nicelike.

“I’m going to seed the cutter, mark it, and when you decide if the coasties are going to work with me or not, get back to me. If not, I’ll find them a boat, hell, I have a spare I can’t use, and they can do whatever they’d like with it. Rescue, clear or go bloody pirate. But I’m not going to try to read the mind of some bloke I’ve never met on the radio. I’m going to stop doing that today and I’m not going to do it tomorrow. Or a year from now. So when you figure out how we’re going to work together, or if we’re going to work together, have your bloody sub come by and say hello. That’s not being impolite but I really don’t have the time for this. And I’m tired. We usually give people a few days to get their wits back. If you don’t want to work with us, I’ll give the coasties the Large in three days and you can do whatever you’d like. Wolf, out.”

* * *

“That is a man on the ragged edge,” Brice said, quietly.

“A paladin in hell,” Ellington said.

“Excuse me?” Galloway said. “I understand the words…”

“Oh, my God,” Brice said, shaking her head. “Congratulations. You get the geek win for the week, Colonel Ellington.”

“Some context?” Galloway asked, tightly.

“Colonel?” Brice asked. “Would you care to explain?”

Ellington twitched and looked at her helplessly.

“General?” the NCCC asked.

“It’s from Dungeons and Dragons, sir,” Brice said, smiling tightly.

“Seriously?” Freeman said, snorting. Then he paused. “General, how did you…?”

“Air Force Academy, Commander,” Brice said, smiling at him coquettishly. They’d learned by now that when when the acting CJCS went “cute” that they were about to have their heads handed to them. “Is that a problem?”

“No, ma’am,” the commander said, holding his hand up to his mouth to hide the grin.

“There is a picture in one of the D &D books, sir,” Brice said, turning back to the NCCC. “A knight in armor standing on a precipice wielding a sword against a horde of demons. The caption is ‘A Paladin In Hell.’”

“Thinking about it, that does sound rather apropos of Commodore Wolf,” Galloway said, nodding at Ellington.

“Every material, every person, has a breaking point,” Ellington said, hauntedly. He was staring into the distance. “Fighting the darkness forces one to either be the light or embrace the dark. Every paladin finds his precipice.”

“Colonel?” Brice said, carefully as the silence dragged out. “Marine!”

“Ma’am!” Ellington said, snapping upright.

“Colonel, I’m not sure where you just went,” Brice said. “But we need you present in this reality. Or do I need to call the medics?”

“No, ma’am,” the colonel said, sharply. “Present and accounted for, General. My recommendation is a Naval Captaincy, sir.”

“Excuse me?” Galloway said.

“You’re joking, right?” Commander Freeman said, tightly.

“Granting the Commodore a Naval Captaincy would allow him to command military personnel as well as direct civilian technical experts, sir, thereby reducing his overall difficulty load. Furthermore, absent finding and rescuing a higher ranking military officer, which would require in all probability the clearance of a Nimitz class aircraft carrier or better or more likely the clearance of a major ground base, he would outrank any of the current submarine commanders. The Captaincy would be contingent upon allowance of communications by professional officers to assure some semblance of reasonable command responsibilities. Absent that choice, he could outline