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The Ghost of Kaneohe: A Short Story
by Robert E. Hampson
Black Tide Rising Universe Tie-in to Across an Ocean of Stars

Lieutenant Abigail Forsyth came awake to the sound of alarms. “All pilots report to ready room. This is not a drill. All pilots report to ready room.”

Abi took the ear buds out of her ears and turned off the small music player. Sleeping with the wires leading between player and ear buds was risky. If she tossed and turned in her sleep, she risked strangling herself. She’d woken up with the wires in odd places before, but never around her neck, so she felt justified in using music to block at least a portion of the noise from outside her quarters.

She’d only been asleep for about two hours, having just come off a sixteen-hour shift doing medevac and personnel transfers across the island of Oahu. The situation in Honolulu was . . . bad. News of the Red Flu had been released a few weeks ago, but reports were starting to come in about serious issues in cities around the country. New York supposedly had National Guard in the streets, Atlanta was reporting violent mobs at the airport, Emory University Hospital, and the Centers for Disease Control campus. The mayor of Chicago issued an order a week ago shutting off TV and radio news reporting, but word got out anyway: The city was rife with rioting, looting, and gunfights.

Tourists in Hawaii were panicking; they wanted off the island. Most planned to head home . . . mainland U.S., Japan, and China for the most part. Jets flew to those destinations multiple times a day but were generally booked up for one-to-two weeks in advance, the length of a typical Hawaiian vacation. The few tourists heading to South America and Europe had it worse, with fewer flights, and even fewer available seats. The harbors were jammed with people trying to hire or buy boats, and the number of offshore accidents was increasing daily.

The normally busy roads and highways on the island were now impassable. There was not a single city block, nor mile of the circum-island roads, without accidents and abandoned cars. With the traffic jams now extending to harbors and marinas, the only reliable way to get anywhere on the island was by air.

Tourist helicopter agencies were promised large sums of money to reject private charters and stay available to the government. The governor called up the National Guard, then declared martial law to call on the military helos for support. Abi’s last three days had mostly been spent delivering Marines to help maintain security at Wheeler Army Base, Fort Shafter, Joint Base Pearl Harbor, and Trippler Military Hospital. Each base was set up to provide humanitarian aid and shelter, but were overflowing, and prone to unrest. More troops were needed, given the increasing attrition from disease and mob violence. More and more flights were becoming devoted to dust-off and medevac.

This was the life she’d chosen, though, even if it had strained her relationship with her father. He considered himself a man of science and never understood when she told him flying was her calling.

#

Abi was zipping her sleeve pocket closed as she stepped into the pilots’ ready room. “What’s up, Jimmy?” she asked her copilot, James Medlock.

“Large mob at the gates, is all I heard.”

“More civvies trying to get off the island?”

“Not entirely, Lieutenant.” Their commander, Colonel Frederick Weber, walked into the room and the collection of pilots and engineers came to attention. “Sit. It’s going to be a busy day and I know some of you didn’t get much rest.”

“Sir!” came the response in unison, followed by shuffling as the room sat in groups organized by aircraft.

“Yes, we have a mob at the gates, and no, it’s not always civilians. That’s how it started, but we’re now seeing large numbers of Infected. We bring people inside the wire as much as possible, but too many have been bitten and turned. We’ve now enforced the perimeter with another layer of fencing, razor wire, and concrete barriers. We can block the roads, but the land is even harder. There’s now a secondary roadblock on Mokapu Road once it crosses Nu’upia Pond, to keep people from using the dirt roads. We still get people wading across Nu’upia and Kaluapuhi Ponds and walking up the beach, so the perimeter is getting harder to secure. Higher is calling for evacuation.”

“Where?” asked one of the engineers.

“Anywhere we can.” Weber sighed. His pilots knew the colonel worked hard to project a calm and unflappable manner. He would not be hurried or rushed. “All of the available sea assets at Pearl have instructions to leave port. They even tried to get some of the inactives sailing, but so far, have only managed to get the gator Tarawa out to sea. PacFleet has a cruiser and an oiler sitting about fifty miles east, and there’s supposed to be carriers headed to Midway Island. Most of the subs are already gone, except for the ones undergoing maintenance. The Air Force is being scattered to remote bases, the Navy’s at sea, the Army’s headed back to the mainland, and the Marines are holding the line.”

There was quiet muttering in the room. The implications were clear, Marine Corps Base Kaneohe Bay would be staying operation, and many of their people would be making the ultimate sacrifice to save as many as they could.

“Okay, here are the assignments:

“Steeler and Pots—your Thunderhawks will be making runs to Hickam where you’ll assist with carrying provisions and personnel for the C-17s headed to Midway, Pago Pago, and Elmendorf. When you get notice of last run, board the planes. They’re taking UH-60 Blackhawks, so you’re going to be the backup flight crew wherever you end up.”

Chris “Steeler” Steele and Tom “Pots” Potter nodded, then turned to discuss with their respective crews.

“Pearl is pulling back to secure the airport and docks. Everything west and north is pulling in to reinforce the lines. Schofield and Wheeler have been overrun. Mililani’s all Zeds at this point. Pearl City is barely holding things together, with a defensive perimeter set up at the stadium to hold the memorials as long as possible. That’s a terminal assignment, and the Marines will hold the line.”

“Oorah, sir,” about half the room responded. Weber smiled but dropped it as soon as he resumed the assignments.

“Rickroll and Workman: you two are Task Force Running Back. You’ll be taking reinforcements to the stadium and evacuating Ford Island. I’m told there’s some USS Missouri Vets requesting transport to the ship. You will honor their sacrifice.”

Rognar “Rickroll” Rickard and Kepeli “Workman” Werkiser nodded. Weber handed them a sheet of paper with names and pickup location for the navy veterans.

“Kybo, you’re headed to Washington Place to pick up the governor and his staff. Your callsign will be Marine Five-Zero until you pick up Hizzoner; at that point you’ll squawk ‘Hawaii One’ until you deliver him planeside to the C-130 headed for the garrison at Pohakuloa. Wheels up in thirty minutes, so you and your crew are dismissed to go now.”

Kai “Kybo” Bond stood, along with his copilot and engineer, saluted, and left the room.

“Argus, Psych, you have the worst of this, but I saved my best for the job.”

Abi sat up straighter, waiting for her assignment, along with her wingman Bill “Psych” Jung.

“Your mission is designated ‘Tempest’ and you’ve got the dirty job of base evac. We’re pulling noncombatants and civilians off base and sending them to those two ships offshore. When Kybo gets back, we’ll try to get some troops over to Tarawa, but we have to raise her on radio first, and that’s been difficult. She was mothballed for a reason.

“Psych, you’ll be Tempest One, delivering troops to Port Royal, she’s a Tico-class cruiser. You might remember her from the little incident off Pearl a few years back. She’s standing in for destroyer escort for the Yukon, a Kaiser-class oiler. They were supposed to be part of a FleetEx out of San Diego, but it got called off, and they were sent here and ordered to stand off and wait. Take as many—safely—as you can, but just know that when that C-130 heads out, that’s it. Wartime rules of engagement, so do what you have to, but get your people to safety when Penguin Four-Two leaves.”

The pilots and crews started to stand up, but Weber motioned for them to remain seated.

“One last thing. As you know, callsigns are awarded by your fellows; once given, you’re stuck with it, whether you did anything to deserve it or not.”

Abi wondered where this was going. Her own callsign was nothing special, but she remembered the night of Captain Bond’s promotion, when he’d sat at the bar telling his fellow pilots how the word “kybo” had been used as slang for “latrine” in his old Boy Scout troop. He’d love to have a better callsign, but also knew that the more a pilot responded negatively to a callsign, the more their fellows used it specifically to elicit a reaction. Besides, his helo would have the really cool designation today.

“On the other hand,” Weber continued, “It is possible to earn a new call sign when circumstances demand it. Yesterday, Argus made several transfers between Wheeler, Fort Shafter, and Trippler, despite some heavy rains mid-day. A news crew caught the image of a CH-53E coming into the pad at Trippler, appearing like a ghost out of the mist. General Matt Bowman called me from Trippler this morning asking about the pilot of the ‘ghostbird’ that delivered additional forces to defend the hospital, then repeatedly pulled critical cases out for evac.

“That was you, Argus . . . and as of today, you’ll be ‘Ghostbird.’ Congratulations. Now get out of here, you lot. You’ve got work to do. Godspeed . . . and . . .” Weber’s voice cracked. “God bless you all. It’s been an honor.”

#

Abi boarded her CH-53E Super Stallion through the crew door behind the cockpit. As she entered, she patted the names—her own and Stargazer—stenciled below the pilot’s window and smiled at the depiction of one of Mauna Kea’s telescope domes painted underneath. Her father would have loved it, even if he didn’t support her career choice.

She settled into the right-hand seat and looked over at her copilot. “You’ve done the daily run-up, right Jimmy?”

“Ah, no Argus—ah, ‘Ghostbird.’ No, there hasn’t been time, we just came in four hours ago!”

“Jimmy, what did I say about call-signs in the cockpit?”

“Ah, sorry Abi, I know you didn’t like Argus, but Ghostbird sounds pretty cool.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t even do anything to deserve Argus, it’s just a play on ‘foresight.’ Not like Kybo hoarding toilet paper or Rognar insisting on being called ‘Rockstar.’”

“Yeah, but they’re funny, and their reactions were perfect. You just curled your lip and sneered, Abi.”

“Back to the bird . . . Meddler. Do we have enough hydro for startup? The APU seemed to cut out early when we left Trippler on the last round.”

“That was low fuel pressure. We were running on fumes when we got in, but we’re all fueled and ready now.”

“Hydraulic pressure on the APU, Jimmy!”

“Twenty-six hundred PSI, Argus.”

“You’re a shit, Jimmy. If we have to manually pump for a second attempt, it’s on you.”

Sure enough, the auxiliary power unit, necessary to provide power to activate instruments and starter for the three General Electric T64-GE-416 turboshaft engines, didn’t catch on the first try due to low pressure. Three-thousand pounds per square inch was the nominal requirement to spin the turbines of the APU for startup. It could be done with pressure as low as twenty-five hundred, but the chance of failure increased as the pressure dropped.

Abi pulled up the pressure pump handle but motioned for Medlock to start pumping.

“Start pumping, Jimmy.”

“Aw, crap, Abi! Call over a starter truck! There’s one over next to Pots.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, they’re about to pull a cowling on his SH-60, so they’re just a little bit busy. It’s only a hundred PSI, Jimmy. Pump!” she said, using her command voice.

It took ten minutes to get the required pressure in the APU hydraulics, but the engine caught on the next try, and four minutes later, she had all three main engines online and the rotor coming up to speed.

“Check the hydro, Jimmy, make sure we’re at full pressure before you cut off the APU this time.”

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant.”

Abi checked in with her crew chief, Lai Moleka, to make sure that the cargo bay was ready for passengers, then called the control tower for permission to proceed from the helo pads to a site just off the eastern end of the runway where noncombatant military personnel and dependents were being organized for evacuation. Civilians who’d sought refuge from the Infected were being housed in tents on the golf course, east of the evac site. They’d be next, once the high priority folks were taken to safety.

Bill Jung’s helo arrived first and got the cleaner site near the control tower. There were Marines still on the ground performing a FOD-walk, removing “foreign object debris” from the concrete in front of the HMM-268 headquarters. She hovered while the men cleared her landing zone, then landed and performed her checks while Moleka dropped the rear ramp and started loading passengers.

It wasn’t supposed to be a hot-loading, so she disengaged the rotors and let them wind down. The engines would continue to run. They could be airborne in as little as thirty seconds. That may be important later, but this was still supposed to be routine. She wondered about Weber’s parting words, though. He’d acted as if this was the end—like he’d never see them again.

It was a sobering thought.

Abi wasn’t overt about her religious beliefs, but her fellows knew them. On the one hand, she honestly felt that this couldn’t be the end. On the other hand, she would pray for everyone’s safe return. On the gripping hand, as one of her favorite science fiction novels would put it . . . she had a job to do.

Time to act on faith.

#

“Ramp's down, LT,” came Moleka’s voice over the comm. Abi looked out at the gathering crowds. Military personnel were herding noncombatants into a semblance of order, but it looked like herding cats. Civilians—mostly family members of soldiers and local base employees—were clumped together. Parents clutched at children, and children clutched at stuffed animals and toys. Fear radiated off them in waves, and it was clear that they expected to see Infected burst from the shadows at any moment. The dense humid air was filled with the distant roar of choppers and the occasional crackle of gunfire.

Abi flicked a switch on her panel, activating her mic. “Get them loaded, Lai. The faster we load, the more trips we can make.” She was regretting shutting down the rotors. It was dangerous to start them up now, during loading. The rotors were high enough, but the downwash could hurt the civilians, both those loading, and those waiting. The look on the faces gave her the sense of urgency her orders lacked.

What she’d left unsaid was that the more trips they made, the more people they could save . . . until it was too late to save even themselves.

It was the commander’s job to keep calm, though. Airline pilots, rescue workers, and incident commanders had long known that portraying a sense of calm, even boredom, helped soothe the public, passengers, or even the crew. If the boss wasn’t afraid, there was no reason for them to be afraid.

Even if that boss was a bundle of nerves and a burgeoning ulcer.

“We’re exposed out here, Abi,” Medlock said over their private channel.

Abi didn’t respond. She agreed, but she needed to project calm. Her eyes scanned her instruments, the crowd outside, then the horizon. It was routine.

It was all routine, she told herself.

As her gaze panned over the line of people waiting to load, she saw a woman carrying two small children stumble, then scramble to get back in line, her eyes wide with terror. These people needed reassurance, they were close to panic, and panic wouldn’t do any of them any good.

She flicked a switch on her panel, activating her external speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Please move calmly down the aisle and take your seat. The cabin crew will be by shortly to assist you with stowing your luggage and adjusting your seatbelts. Thank you for flying Ghostbird Air.”

Hopefully, a bit of humor would help.

She scanned the horizon, past the barricades and hastily constructed fences of her loading area. They were deep in the base, almost to the water’s edge. Almost a mile away, and the base was on a peninsula, separated from the rest of the island by a narrow causeway. In fact, MCBH K-Bay was well isolated. The roads connecting the base to the towns of Kaneohe and Kailua were the only dry land outside the base perimeter. Nearly a quarter mile of ponds and swamps separated the base from the residential areas at Kapoho Point. A small Marine detachment held the gates and patrolled the barriers meant to hold back the Infected.

They were less worried about mobs of civilians, although there was certainly some massing at the gates.

People would be reluctant to wade across the treacherous wetland.

Infected didn’t care.

#

Moleka notified her that the current load of passengers was in and secured.

“Button up, Jimmy. Time to go.”

“Roger, Ghostbird.”

Abi shot him a look of exasperation, but Medlock just grinned back. “C’mon, admit it. You got the cool call sign.”

He turned back to his console and flicked the switches, starting up the seven-bladed rotor.

Abi looked out her side window, seeing the Marines were keeping the crowd well back from her bird. She gripped the collective and cyclic, and when her instruments showed her engines at the proper speed, she pulled back on the cyclic and lifted her bird into the air.

“MCAS Kaneohe, this is Tempest Two. Lifting for USNS Yukon. Do you have an update to the coordinates?”

“Affirmative, Tempest Two. Yukon has repositioned to just over eighty klicks due north of Kawela Bay. That puts them about fifty miles off the northern point of Oahu at twenty-two-point-forty-one North and one-fifty-seven-point nine-one West. Port Royal is squawking a beacon for you and Tempest One, so make sure you land on the big fleet oiler, Ghostbird, and not on the little cruiser.”

“Roger, that, Kaneohe. Fly north and find the big honking ocean mall.”

Another voice came over the comm. “Ghostbird, you and Tempest One are the only birds in range right now. Psych’s already headed out, so base command has requested a flyover of the southern perimeter before you head out. Give us a report on the mob at the fence line.”

“Acknowledged, Kaneohe. Flyover the southern perimeter and report. Do you want me to stay high, or go low enough to disrupt the crowd with rotor wash?”

“Stay high, Ghostbird. No need to sully your new callsign just yet. The gate Marines are still reporting mostly civilians, but we’re getting reports of massed Infected moving up Mokapu Road.”

“Understood, Kaneohe. We’re feet wet, swinging around now. Tempest Two out.”

The principal runway for the base pointed northeast, into the prevailing winds. Abi’s loading point was just south of the end of the runway, so she headed due east, over the Five Palms military hotel and officer housing, heading out over the water off North Beach. She’d stay over water, skirting around Mōkapu Point then turn south-by-southeast until she reached the Nu’upia Pond which separated the base from the peninsula.

After surveying the base entrance, she’d continue west over Kaneohe Bay itself, then turn northwest to hug the windward coast before turning north at Kahuku to cross the fifty miles of ocean to Yukon and Port Royal.

“Look sharp, people. Lai? Are you in position to look out?”

“I’m looking over the starboard gunner’s position, Boss. I’m looking right down at Mokapu Road and the motor pool. There’s a line of people who’ve been passed through the old gate, headed to the new security point on the other side of the pond. They’re being escorted by Marines and it’s all nice and orderly. Doesn’t look too bad. Old gate is on the port side, though. Steve-O’s got that side, but I can move over if you want me to.”

Steve “Steve-O” Jaremczek was the left-side gunner. Due to the risk of attack by Infected, Tempest Two was flying with an augmented crew of right, left, and tail gunners plus the crew chief. Normally the chief took the right-side gunner position, but with the need to handle civilians, and the fact that they’d already had to fight off Infected on previous days, Command had ordered that each helo carry an augmented crew.”

“No need, Chief. Steve-O? How’s it look?”

Unlike the main gate, the Mokapu Road main gate was on the south side of the ponds, separated from the residential area by a fence—newly reinforced and augmented with barricades over the last several days, then supplemented with a new temporary gate on the base side.

“Mass of people at the gate . . . don’t look like Zeds . . . Oh!” Jeremczek cut off. “Mob of naked people on Mokapu Road, down near the shopping center. They’re about a thousand yards off the gate. It looks like they’re attacking people in the parking lot.”

Abi halted their forward motion and rotated the helo so that she could see the checkpoint with her own eyes. All the reports said that victims of the Haole Flu stripped off all their clothing and complained of uncontrollable itching right before they turned into blood-thirsty savages.

“LT, there’s trouble at the fence.” Moleka’s voice snapped through the headset, cutting off Jeremczek at the latter’s viewpoint changed.

Abi looked down through her side window. Through the haze of dust and mass of people, she saw it—just a flicker of movement, but enough to draw her gaze. A young man at the back of the line, maybe mid-twenties, was stripping off his clothes. He was scratching all over, then stopped and clutched his stomach. Even from here, she could tell that something about the way he staggered felt wrong. She narrowed her eyes, hands gripping the control stick tightly.

“I see it, Lai. Jimmy, call it in.” Abi ordered, forcing her voice to remain calm. Every instinct told her that something was wrong here. Fear and training warred within her, but ultimately, she was a professional—an officer—and a Marine. Marines didn’t run.

Medlock twisted in his seat, craning his neck to look through Abi’s side window. “I see him,” he muttered. “Shit, that kid’s turned.”

Thankfully, the Marines at the gate saw it, too. A squad pushed through the crowd, clothed in heavy gear—too heavy for the tropical heat, but necessary to keep from getting bitten. They didn’t dare shoot into the crowd, but they surrounded and isolated the Infected before he could attack civilians, then took him down with repeated blows to the head.

“Could he have been saved?” Medlock whispered.

“Not our call, Jimmy. Wartime rules,” Abi replied.

“Yeah. Sucks, though.”

“That it does, Jimmy.”

The rest of the flight was routine. So far, the main gate—north of the ponds, and thus having a buffer separating it from the residential area—was clean and orderly. Evacuees still streamed onto the base, and Abi prayed they’d be able to help them all.

#

The CH-53E hummed steadily as it crossed the ocean, the roar of its powerful rotors beating a steady rhythm over the waves below. Abi kept her eyes forward, scanning the horizon as the helo cut through the early morning sky. The sun was already high enough that it didn’t shine directly into the cockpit. In her headset, Medlock’s voice crackled.

“Yukon’s about ten miles ahead, LT. Should have her in sight soon.”

“Copy that,” Abi replied, her grip firm, but light on the controls. The memory of the mob of infected attacking people in Kailua still weighed on her. They needed to drop off this group and get back to K-Bay. People were counting on them.

“We’ve got a visual,” Moleka chimed in from the right gunner’s window. “Starboard, fifteen klicks.”

Yukon was out of position; they should be twelve kilometers ahead, not fifteen to their right. Abi’s eyes scanned her instruments, as she verified that Stargazer was in the right place—Yukon was not. She looked east and the shape of the ship appeared in the distance, a dark silhouette against the shimmering water. USNS Yukon was a Kaiser-class fleet replenishment oiler, typically used to supply “gas, grub, and gear” for fleet exercises. That was exactly what her mission had been, servicing a FleetEx out of San Diego, but by the time they’d arrived on-site, the capital ships had been ordered back to port, and the rest to scatter. The FleetEx had been in the middle of the Pacific, halfway between Hawaii and the mainland, so they’d been ordered to head to Pearl to assist in emergency operations.

Unfortunately, but the time they’d approached the Hawaiian Islands, the situation had deteriorated. There’d been an explosion near the sub pens at Pearl, and Yukon—plus her cruiser escort, USS Port Royal, had been ordered to hold position offshore, far enough that they would remain free of the chaos infecting the islands.

That is, until Yukon and Port Royal were pressed into service as lifeboats, large as they were.

“They’re steaming into the wind. Not ideal,” Abi said. “We’re coming in on their stern and will have turbulence off their superstructure. Prepare for a hard deck landing.”

As they closed the distance, the scale of the operation became clear. Apparently, they’d already taken on refugees via surface craft, there were several pulled up alongside, with more small craft hanging from the massive deck cranes. The ship’s foredeck held a number of people, just sitting on the deck, huddled together away from the railings. Marines, distinguishable by their uniforms, moved through the crowd, handing out . . . something.

“They’ve already got people down there,” Medlock muttered. “Doesn’t look good, for holding too many more.”

Abi didn’t need to be told. The more people they packed onto these ships, the greater the risk someone would turn. The Haole Flu could already be incubating in any of them. All it took was one person to turn, to transform an orderly group into a panicked mob.

She keyed the mic. “Yukon, this is Tempest Two, inbound for delivery. ETA two minutes. Do you copy?”

Static crackled over the channel before a voice came through. “Tempest, this is Yukon. Standby for the captain.”

“Copy that, Yukon. Be advised we have six-zero civilians. Limited supplies. No infected, but you know the situation.”

“Very good, Ghostbird,” said a new voice on the radio. “This is Captain Knox. Your reputation precedes you, and I’m happy to have you making the deliveries. Marines have the situation well in hand for now, but it’s . . . tense.”

“Understood, Captain,” Abi replied, glancing at Medlock, whose jaw was clenched. “We’ll be down shortly. May I ask why you’re making headway? The turbulence around your superstructure will make landing . . . spicy.”

“Ah, Ghostbird, we’re trying to maintain airflow over the deck to keep down the chance of cross-infection. Something new out of PacFleet. Don’t know if it works, but the orders came down this morning. I can tell the engine room to reduce speed, and resume once you’re down.”

“No need, Captain, spicy landings are all in a day’s work.”

“And that’s why you get the cool callsign,” Medlock muttered.

“Your mic’s hot, Meddler. Shut it,” Abi admonished, after carefully switching to the intercom.

As they approached the ship, Abi brought the Super Stallion into a steady hover behind the stern of the ship, watching Marines check the landing pad and remove the barricades that kept the civilians off the rear deck.

“Monitor clearance and call out the distance” Abi told Medlock as she slowly moved over the landing zone and rotated the helo so that its nose was pointed astern of the ship.

“Dead center on the X. Twenty down. Ten. Five. Contact,” Medlock said as a light illuminated on the console.

Abi pushed the cyclic all the way down and killed the power to the rotors, but kept the engines idling, ready for a quick lift-off if things went sideways. She’d backed the Super Stallion into place so that the passengers could proceed directly onto the deck without having to maneuver around her bird. The “garage door” hatch in the superstructure was open with Marines ready to escort the passengers under cover and off the landing pad at the stern of the ship.

“Ramp’s down, LT,” Moleka reported. “We’re ready to unload.”

Abi unbuckled her harness and stood, slipping out of the pilot’s seat. “Medlock, stay with the bird. I’m going to talk with the captain and see how bad things are.”

As she moved toward the back of the helicopter, the heat from the engines dissipated into the cool sea air. Abi stepped onto the deck, immediately hit by the smell of saltwater, sweat, and something far more acrid—the stench of fear.

“Lieutenant Forsyth?” A Marine in full combat gear stepped over to her, his face grim beneath his helmet.

“That’s me,” Abi said, cutting straight to the point. “What’s the situation?”

“I’m your escort to the bridge. Captain Knox wants to talk to you before you head back.”

“Excellent. It’ll take a few minutes to unload and secure the bird. Lead on.”

Instead of heading inside, the Marine, whose name patch read campbell, motioned toward one of the external stairways covering the rear of the superstructure. It was six levels up to the bridge, but the Marine double-timed it, and Abi did her best to keep up.

In the bridge, she was greeted by a tall man with wavy black hair and a prominent widow’s peak. “Ghostbird, Lieutenant Forsyth, I presume?”

“Captain Knox.” Abi came to attention and saluted. Technically, they were under cover, and a salute contraindicated, but she was reporting to a superior officer on assignment.

Knox smiled and quickly returned the salute. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Not necessary, but welcome. Good order and discipline may be the only things we have left in these . . . circumstances.”

“How bad is it, sir?”

“We’ve been pulling boats out of the water for the past three days.” He turned and pointed out the forward bridge windows which looked out over the cargo deck with the large cranes, one of which was placing a small fishing boat back into the water. “We have no choice but to cut them loose and let them drift. It’s the other reason we’re making way. Port Royal has pulled a few over the side, but they don’t have the capabilities we do. On the other hand, they have hangar facilities and we don’t. They’re mostly going to be taking on by air—your wingman I believe, Tempest One?”

“Psych’s one of the best, sir. We’ll rescue as many as we can.”

“It won’t be enough Lieutenant, especially if we get too many infected at once.”

“How many?”

“We’ve had six so far today. Two turned early this morning, we pulled four off boats in the process of turning, and didn’t catch it in time. They’ve been trickling in. We’re holding the ones who’ve turned in a section on the bow. Doc’s sedated them, but there’s non-infected out there as well. The crowd’s on edge; people are awfully close to freaking out, and we’re running out of space that won’t interfere with operations.”

Abi followed his gaze to a barricaded area at the very front of the ship. Inside, she could see a handful of people, naked, tied up with rope and lying on the deck, mostly unmoving, but with occasional twitches. They were watched closely by ten Marines with rifles. They looked peaceful enough from a distance, as if they were sleeping, but Abi had seen enough of the Haole Flu—especially the Infected’s resistance to sedation—to know that appearances could be deceiving.

“Anyone else showing symptoms?” she asked.

Knox nodded grimly. “A few. We’ve got one guy with a fever, and another right before you got here. She started screaming about ants crawling all over and tried to strip off her clothes. We’ve tried to separate them, but it’s getting harder to keep under control. If one of them turns in the middle of the refugees, it’ll be a massacre.”

Abi’s gut twisted. “Understood, sir. What can we do for you?”

“I need to get them off my ship.” Knox hesitated, clearly not liking what he was about to say. “Take them off.”

“Sir, I have orders to not take back anyone who isn’t in uniform and under orders.”

“Not back to land, I want you to take them out and drop them.” Knox’s expression was grim.

“Sir?” Abi was shocked. It was callous, cruel—not to mention criminal—but perhaps necessary.

“Lieutenant, I can’t just push them overboard. Sedation barely works, so I can’t just overdose them. I can’t keep them here, and I can’t just . . . dispatch them in front of the other civilians.

“Oh,” she said.

“Not to mention the effect on morale of the Marines.”

“Understood, sir. But that means you’re just dumping your problem on my crew. With all due respect . . .sir . . .Marines volunteer to do the dirty jobs. My crew understands risk, but I’m afraid that’s an order I can’t follow.”

Knox stared at her for a moment, then sighed.

“You’re correct, Lieutenant. I can’t order you to do this. That said, what do we do?”

“Put them in the boats you set adrift? If it’s possible to save themselves, they’ll have an opportunity.”

“PacFleet says the zombie phase of . . . what do you call it? The Haole Flu? They say that the zombies don’t—can’t—recover, but I guess you are correct. Getting them out of view of anyone else will work, and we can’t do anything for them here.”

“Agreed, sir, and it will keep from panicking the civilians.”

Knox rubbed his face with his hands, then lowered them into fists at his sides. “This is war, Lieutenant. It’s not a declared one, but it’s a war for the survival of the human race.”

“And war is hell, sir.”

“Exactly.” Knox stared out over the deck for a few more moments. “Go, Ghostbird, you’re dismissed. Go get me as many survivors as you can. We’ll load up as many as we can then head for Midway. It’s isolated enough, and this old bucket has enough provisions to keep us going for quite a while.”

Abi came to attention, clicking her heels so that he’d notice, and saluted once again.

After Knox returned the salute, Abi assured him, softly, “As many as we can, sir.”

Racing back down the gangways, Abi got back to her bird in time to see Moleka handing one of the deck crew the last of the personal effects left on the helo. It was a small teddy bear, dressed in a cute vest and bow tie.

The various noises of a ship underway made it difficult to hear, but no different than around helos. Abi could just make out their raised voices as the crew chief told the sailor: “Little girl, about five. Yellow dress. Vietnamese, I think. Mom said her father’s doing security at Pearl. There’s not a lot of hope there, so be gentle.”

“Aye, aye, Chief. We’ll take care of them.”

“Time to get clear, sailor. We’re inbound for another load. Captain says to bring out as many as we can. Lai, button us up.” Abi grabbed a microphone off the bulkhead next to the ramp and keyed the cockpit channel. “Jimmy, start us up and get us airborne. Don’t wait for me.”

Moleka looked at her strangely as the sound of the engines ramped up.

“Captain asked if we could drop infected at sea. Not gonna happen.”

“Oh. Understood, LT. Something we must figure out, though, what if someone turns in flight?”

“When and if, Chief. We’ll make the decision only when and if we have to. For now, we’re playing Valkyrie.”

#

Tempest Two made two more roundtrips, carrying almost two hundred people out to the Yukon by virtue of many children carried on a parent’s lap, freeing up additional seats for more evacuees. On the last trip out, she’d noticed a drifting boat with several naked bodies on it. The location and direction of drift suggested that Captain Knox had adopted her suggestion regarding how to deal with the Infected. It was brutal but was also just enough to salve her conscience.

Once again, they were back at MCBH, preparing to take more people out to the ships. The crowd didn’t seem to be lessening, though. There were still a lot of people waiting for evacuation.

Abi had swapped landing sites with Psych. Bill Jung’s Tempest One had made one fewer round-trip than Tempest Two due to carrying sling loads below helo on the way out to the Port Royal. Loading took additional time, not required for Abi’s purely personnel flights.

Psych had moved over the western edge of the base, where a short-take-off-and-landing runway was being refurbished in anticipation of the first delivery of MV-22 Ospreys in the next few years. It was a shame the vertical take-off-and-landing craft weren’t available for this evacuation, but they would have been limited in usefulness, as the only at-sea platform equipped to handle the tiltrotor aircraft was a full-sized aircraft carrier, and most of those were either in dock or well outside of range from Hawaii.

Abi did a walk-around, ensuring that there was no obvious damage from their multiple round-trips to the Yukon. Abi continued to decline Captain Knox’s offer to reduce headway for her landings, even though the ship was now steaming on an arc that was beginning to take it in a crosswind direction. The turbulence had been rough on their last landing, and she’d had to bring the helo down hard. Fortunately, aside from quite literally rattling her passengers, there didn’t seem to be any damage.

Moleka and Jaremczek were lining up people prior to beginning to load. The sun was just barely above the Ko Olina range to the west of the base, and Abi knew this would be the last flight in daylight. She and her crew were prepared to fly in the dark, but even with the declaration of wartime rules of engagement, they’d been at it for over ten hours.

Colonel Weber had notified her and Jung that they were to take crew rest on their respective ships. They could refuel and resume in the morning.

If there’s anyone alive to return for, Abi thought to herself.

Tempest One’s loading point was just over five hundred feet away, on the other side of the main runway. After checking her own bird, she looked over at the sling-load being prepared for Psych. Much to her surprise, she noticed that the load was large wooden crates that were being loaded with . . . people?

Abi hurried back the cockpit of her bird, donned her headset and switched to the squadron channel. “Tempest One, Psych! What the hell are you doing?” Abi called into the radio. The number of people waiting to board the crate was dwindling, and it looked like the ground crew was ready to close it up.

Jung’s voice came back over the radio. “Ghostbird, we don’t have a choice.”

“You’re planning to haul people under the helo? That’s insane, Bill! They’re not cargo—this isn’t safe.”

The voice on the radio was level, but cold. “We don’t have time for anything else. Port Royal’s already in trouble. They had several Infected, and we must save a flight strictly for supplies and weapons. It’s either take them all now or leave them behind, and you know damn well we can’t do that.”

Abi watched as the harness rig was led over to the helo. It had enough slack to allow the CH-53E to lift, but it also risked the cargo being dragged over the ground and damaged if Psych didn’t position the helo just right before lifting. “You’ll get them killed. You hit even a little turbulence, and that whole load is gone. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that we’re running out of room inside, and we need to get more people out, fast. The base is about to go under, and this is the only way to take more than a few at a time.” Psych’s tone was cold and hard. “I know the risk, Ghostbird.”

Jung’s tone shocked Abi almost as much as the words. “It’s not safe, Bill,” she countered.

“We don’t have the luxury of safe, Abi. We’re past that.”

Abi felt the heat rise in her chest. She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong, but somehow the same instinct that told her the kid in line earlier was going to turn was telling her they were out of time. “There has to be another way, Bill.”

“I don’t like it either,” Bill admitted, “But it’s necessary.”

The radio clicked. The conversation was over.

Abi opened her mouth to argue further, but the screech of alarms cut through the air, followed by the sharp crack of gunfire. She turned to look back into the helo, Jaremczek was getting people seated, while Moleka was directing them up the ramp.

They’d just started loading, and the line snaked back to a holding area off to the side. It looked like more people than they could manage in a single flight.

She turned back to her controls, and something caught her attention out her side of the helo. A man was running toward the holding area. He finished ripping off his sweatshirt and now tearing at his shirt.

Abi's blood turned cold.

Not again.

“Moleka!” she shouted. “Check the guy coming toward the line—dark hair, just took off a blue hoodie . . . He’s infected!”

Within seconds, Abi saw Moleka barreling past her window, yelling at the Marines nearby to help. The young man was on his knees, stripping off the rest of his clothes. He stood back up and Abi could see people in line jump back, fear now bubbling into full-blown panic. Screams erupted.

“Get him out of there!” Abi barked. Her hand hovered over the controls, ready to initiate takeoff if things went south. The last thing she wanted was a Zed on her bird.

Before Moleka could reach him, the young man convulsed violently. His skin, already pale, took on a bluish tint. He made a sound—a deep, wet growl—that froze Abi’s blood.

“He's turning!” she heard Steve-O say through her headset.

Moleka didn’t hesitate—he rushed forward, tackling the man to the ground with a forceful thud. The crowd around them surged backward, people stumbling and screaming, nearly trampling each other as they tried to escape. Panic rippled through the evacuees, and the orderly line disintegrated into a chaotic scramble for safety—fortunately, away from the helo.

Abi's knuckles whitened as she gripped the control stick. “Get that ramp up!” she ordered Jaremczek, fear crawling up her spine. If more were infected, it was only a matter of seconds before the situation spiraled out of control. Lai could board through the starboard door, but she didn’t want a mob on the ramp. She watched as Moleka struggled with the young man, pinning him to the dirt as two Marines rushed to assist. The man’s eyes were red, and there was no sign of intelligence . . . only rage.

“LT!” Medlock's voice broke through Abi’s focus. “The fence! Tower says they’re breaching the fence!”

Abi snapped her head to look back toward the main gate, even knowing that it was a mile away and on the other side of all the base buildings. In the back of her mind, she noted that the ramp was still down. The engines were too loud to hear the gunfire she knew would be there, but several loud “whumps” and shocks announced the mines that had been emplaced all along the neck of the peninsula.

Marine Corps Base Hawaii was lost.

“Shit, we’re out of time!” Abi growled, slamming a hand on the control panel. “Moleka, we’re closing the ramp!”

“Not yet, LT!” Moleka’s voice was strained. He and the Marines had dragged the convulsing young man off to the side, away from the evacuees, but the situation was getting out of hand. Another one of the civilians, a woman holding a child, was holding her hand to her neck, blood was beginning to seep through her fingers—she’d been bitten.

“Moleka, now!” Abi’s heart pounded in her ears as she imagined the scene of infected crossing the base, charging toward her helo. It was still too soon, but that didn’t stop her imagination.

As the woman started to convulse, Moleka grabbed the infant and ran for the ramp. “We’re on!” he shouted as the Marines practically threw themselves into the cargo bay.

A whine started as Jaremczek finally started closing the ramp.

Abi caught motion out of the corner of her eye, expecting it to be more Infected running across the field, but it was a C-130 on the runway, taking off. That was the one they’d been told about, Penguin Four-Two, taking the last of Third Battalion and their leadership to Pohakuloa Training Area, in the high pass between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea on the Big Island.

This was it.

The Last C-130.

“Get us out of here, Abi!” Medlock yelled; his voice sharp with fear.

Abi didn’t need to be told twice. She pulled up on the collective, and the Super Stallion lifted off, the ground falling away beneath them. Below, chaos reigned as the abandoned evacuees fought with brave Marines who’d stayed to keep order as long as they could.

It was a sight she’d not soon forget—but that thought was displaced by Medlock shouting “Down, down! Take us down, now!”

Abi pushed the collective down and felt something give way as the helo dropped onto the pavement. Her imagination, already overactive, brought up an image of civilians underneath her landing gear, but she looked out and noted that they’d at least managed to get clear of the loading area and the remaining evacuees. She could see them breaking past the Marines and started to move in Tempest Two’s direction. She also saw the first signs of Infected coming past the fire station. They only had a few moments, then they needed to be gone.

“Meddler,” she growled, her use of his callsign indicating her displeasure.

“It’s Psych,” Medlock said, and Abi noticed the shadow of helo and cargo passing over her cockpit.

“That’s not right,” Abi said, her stomach twisting. “Moleka, what’s happening on Bill’s bird?”

Before Moleka could respond, the radio crackled to life. “Ghostbird, this is Psych,” Jung’s voice came through clipped and robotic. “We have a situation—passenger turned—attacking passengers—crew chief down!”

His tone of voice chilled Abi. She’d only heard him like this once before, when she’d had an emergency during a check flight, with Bill as her IP.

“Psych!” she barked.

Jung’s Super Stallion lurched violently to the left, veering west, over the bay. The massive helicopter swung around, looking like it was going to come back and land. The sudden movement started the slung cargo to swing. The more they tried to correct, the more unstable the craft became.

“Ghostbird! Going down. Abi, find Phillie. She’s on Port Royal. Tell her—” Bill’s voice finally cracked. “Tell her I love her.”

The helo’s nose dipped dangerously close to the water, and the sling load hit the surface. The impact rocked Tempest One backward, and its tail struck, followed by the entire helo spinning and crashing onto the reef a couple thousand feet offshore.

“Shit! Shit!” Medlock yelled, “We have to rescue them, LT!”

Abi’s heart hammered in her chest; her hands still tightly gripped the controls. “Moleka, status!”

The engineer’s voice crackled through the comms. “Shaken . . . but alive. Gear’s probably in bad shape, though. This hard landing on top of the previous means it’ll likely buckle the next time. We won’t be going anywhere after that until we fix it.”

Abi cursed under her breath, her eyes darting back to Jung’s chopper, now lying canted sideways on the reef. Through the dust and smoke, she saw flashes of movement in the cabin—chaos.

Her radio crackled. “Tempest Two, this is Weber. You need to go. Now. You’re the last run. Get your people out to Yukon and head somewhere safe. Go, Abi, that’s an order.”

“Roger, Kaneohe. Tempest is heading to Yukon,” Abi said, tears in her eyes, and trying to keep a sob out of her voice. “Godspeed, Kaneohe.”

“It’s a different service, but I think it’s appropriate, Ghostbird. ‘These things we do . . .’”

“‘That others may live.’” Abi finished reciting the motto of Air Force Search and Rescue. It was oddly appropriate. “Not my faith, but I’ll wish you, ‘Until Valhalla,’ Colonel.” Abi whispered into the mic, knowing that the channel had already been closed on the other end.

Abi took a deep breath and applied the collective. The Super Stallion groaned as the chopper lifted off the ground, but she could feel the uneven lift and friction as the landing gear scraped the tarmac.

“Come on, come on,” she muttered under her breath, coaxing the bird higher as she watched the mob closing in. The helo shuddered but gained altitude in time for the mob to be blown back by rotor wash.

“We’re up. Clear for now,” Medlock said, voice tight. “Gear’s not going to hold, though. Gonna be trouble later, LT.”

Abi nodded grimly. “We’ll deal with it when we get there, Jimmy.”

The flight to the Yukon felt longer than it was as Abi thought on everything they were leaving behind. Finally, the dark shape of the Yukon appeared on the horizon as the last rays of the sun disappeared under the horizon. The ship was a beacon of hope amid the chaos, but Abi knew their troubles were far from over.

“Yukon, this is Ghostbird. We’re coming in hot—landing gear is compromised. We’re going to need assistance on deck.”

There was a pause, then a gruff voice replied, “Copy that, Ghostbird. We’ll have Marines ready for you. Get down as best you can.”

Abi clenched her jaw, steadying the helicopter as they approached the ship. The deck was crowded, but the Marines kept the landing pad clear. Abi tried to favor the broken gear as they descended the last few feet, but the helo lurched as it collapsed, causing the rotor to catch a section of railing and hurl shrapnel all around the stern of the ship. Emergency systems disengaged the rotor from the engines, but it still had momentum. It continued to strike sparks and send debris flying for a few moments until friction brought the rotor to a halt. She ran through the engine shutdown procedure and the three turboshaft engines fell silent for the first time that day.

For a moment, everything was still.

“Status!” Abi barked; her voice hoarse.

Moleka groaned from the back. “We’re . . . we’re good, LT. Everyone’s alive, but the bird’s not flying again anytime soon.”

Abi exhaled, relief flooding her. They had made it. Barely.

Medlock slumped in his seat, wiping sweat from his brow. “That was too damn close, LT.”

Abi nodded, unbuckling her harness and standing on shaky legs. “We’ll worry about repairs later. Right now, let’s get everyone off this bird and secured.”

Outside, the Marines were already approaching, their faces grim but relieved. Abi could see the exhaustion in their eyes, the same weariness that she felt in her bones. But they were safe, for now.

As she stepped out onto the deck, the reality of their situation hit like a tidal wave. The infected were spreading, the base was lost, and now they were stranded on the Yukon with a damaged helicopter and no way off.

But they were alive. And in this nightmare, that was all that mattered.

#

The Super Stallion’s engines were silent now, and the only sounds were from the wind, waves, and machinery of the ship. The lifeless helo sat, resting unevenly on the deck of the Yukon. The right-side landing gear had collapsed on landing, and the corresponding sponson was crumpled. What little fuel remained had already leaked out and been covered with foam by the ship’s firefighting team.

The bigger problem had been the rotors hitting a section of the stern fencing, sending debris into the fuselage and ship’s superstructure. Abi could feel the ship rocking gently beneath her feet as she surveyed the helicopter’s damage. Ghostbird wasn’t going anywhere soon. The hard landing had twisted the landing gear beyond anything the crew could fix with what they had on hand. They were stuck.

“Damn,” Abi muttered under her breath, running a hand over her sweat-soaked brow. She exchanged a glance with Moleka, who was already checking the tail section.

“It’s bad, LT,” Moleka said, his tone heavy with frustration. “We’ll need a full overhaul to get her flying again. At least a month’s work, maybe more. That’s if we can get the parts.”

Abi nodded, her mind racing. The Yukon was their refuge now, but she could feel the tension all around her. The ship’s deck was packed with evacuees, and while the Marines had managed to maintain order for the time being, the strain was beginning to show. Tempers were flaring, and every glance between people was filled with suspicion—who was infected, who wasn’t?

Who would be the next to turn?

“LT!” Medlock’s voice broke her thoughts. He jogged over from the communications station near the bridge, his face pale. “Captain Knox wants you on the bridge. There’s a problem with Port Royal.”

Abi’s stomach clenched and her head throbbed. It had been a long day of too much stress and too little sleep. The adrenaline of the hard landing was still with her and would take some time to drain away. Her bird was broken, and it sounded like there was a new problem.

Ah well, hope wouldn’t make problems go away, and faith wasn’t about blindly wishing. She had a job to do, and the captain had called for her.

Port Royal was supposed to be Bill’s destination. His wife was aboard, and likely hadn’t gotten the news about her husband yet. Yukon would be struggling to deal with their refugees, and with Bill down and her broken bird, they wouldn’t be going anywhere else.

When she arrived on the bridge, slightly out of breath from the climb, Knox was standing by the wide windows, hands clasped behind his back. His jaw was set, the tension visible even from the doorway.

“Lieutenant Forsyth, we’ve got a situation,” Knox said, his eyes still fixed on the dark silhouette of the Port Royal drifting in the distance.

“What’s happening over there?” Abi asked, already sensing the answer wouldn’t be pleasant.

“Port Royal is in trouble,” Knox said, his voice low but firm. “Infected among the bridge crew. The captain’s dead, and they have a shortage of officers. I need to get a relief crew over there.”

Abi’s stomach twisted. “You want me to fly over and stabilize it? I can’t.”

Knox turned to face her, his expression hard. “Is this another can’t? Or won’t? I know you landed hard, but if Tempest can fly at all, I have a harbor pilot team that can take over for them until they can stabilize.”

Abi just stood there, shaking her head.

“No? Then you are relieved, Lieutenant. Get you copilot up here, or I can call in your wingman. Jung, was it? He’s supposed to be flying missions to Port Royal. He’ll do.”

“No, sir, that’s not it,” she said, barely restraining a sob. “Tempest Two is broken, not flyable. Tempest One is . . .” This time, she let the sob out. “Tempest One went down in the bay. Infected in the cockpit. They had a full load of evacuees and more in a sling load. They crashed, sir. Jung’s not coming; his wife’s over there and doesn’t know.”

Knox stared for a moment, then turned back to the window. He stood stiffly for a moment, then his shoulders sank. He began to shake, then curse. “Damnit. How in the name of God could this happen? I have Marines ready to do a security sweep and a crew to take over the bridge, and I can’t get them there quickly.”

“God didn’t do this, sir,” Abi said quietly.

Knox turned to look back at her, and his gaze softened. “I know, Abi. ‘Sorry for your loss’ doesn’t cut it. There’s been too much loss, and PacFleet said this flu was man-made. Some sick fiend created this. You’re right; it sure as hell isn’t God’s doing.”

“Can you send a tender?”

“I can, but it will take too long. The Port Royal is drifting now. Is there any way Tempest can lift? Even if she gets stuck over there?” Knox waved in the cruiser’s general direction.

“No, sir. She won’t fly without repairs. It’s not just the collapsed landing gear. If we had to, we could prop it up level for take-off. Once. Unfortunately, we struck at an angle and several rotor tips caught the rear fence. We’ll have to inspect before we fly. Blade repair without a shop will take . . . Actually? I don’t know . . . Days? Weeks? Even with minimal damage, the rotor will likely be unbalanced and try to tear itself apart when we get up to speed. She’s stuck right where she is for a long time.”

Knox let out a heavy breath, rubbing his forehead. He was silent for a moment, the weight of the moment hanging between them.

“I’ll have to get them over by boat, then.” He turned to his intraship comm and called the executive officer. “Henry, get them on the tender. Helo is down.”

Abi stepped closer to the window, her eyes narrowing as she looked out over the water. The Port Royal was drifting closer, its movements sluggish but purposeful. Even from here, she could see smoke billowing from the midsection, flames licking at the hull. It was chaos over there.

Then she saw it—the slow, inevitable shift of the ship’s course.

“Sir,” she said quietly, her pulse quickening. “They’re heading straight for us.”

Knox followed her gaze, his face paling as he realized what she had just said. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. He grabbed the radio, barking orders to the deck crew. “Prepare for collision! All hands, brace for impact!”

Abi’s heart raced. The Port Royal was drifting toward them, its massive bulk looming in the distance. She hated this—being stuck, unable to do anything but watch as disaster unfolded in front of them. The Port Royal was now too close for any plan of relief. Even if the Super Stallion could fly, it was too late, now.

The ship let out a screeching wail as it closed in, the twisted metal groaning under the strain. The flames flared higher, illuminating the night sky as it bore down on the Yukon.

“They’re going to hit us,” Abi said, her voice steady despite the terror gripping her. “There’s no stopping it now.”

Knox gripped the railing of the bridge, his knuckles white. “Prepare for impact,” he repeated, though this time it was more to himself than anyone else. The bridge crew was scrambling, securing anything that could be thrown by the imminent collision.

Then it happened.

Port Royal collided with the stern of Yukon, a deafening sound of metal on metal as the cruiser tore into the oiler. The impact knocked Abi off her feet, and she hit the deck hard, the wind knocked out of her. The ship shuddered violently, and alarms blared across the deck as the collision sent a shockwave through the entire structure.

“Up!” Knox shouted to the bridge crew, pulling himself up from where he’d been thrown against the railing. He shouted into the radio. “Damage control teams now! Contain fire and assess the damage!”

Abi looked out at the stern. Several small fires had broken out, and the helo was leaning even more heavily; the impact had shifted it dangerously close to the railing.

Port Royal was burning as she pulled away, her bow crumpled, and starting to ride low in the water. The cruiser might well be lost. The fight was on to keep Yukon from going down with her.

Knox turned to her, his face set in a grim line. He nodded back to the scene at the stern: Marines and crew members putting out fires, and Moleka leading a crew to lash down the CH-53E.

“See to your bird, Lieutenant. There’s nothing more we can do. We’ll survive this, or not.”

Abi nodded; her heart heavy. They had escaped disaster by a thread, but the cost had been high. She watched the flames consuming the Port Royal, as the last light of day fled the sky. Even the lights on the distant shore had gone out, leaving only flames.

She could only think of Bill’s last words to his wife.

Now she’d never hear them.

#

Yukon sailed through the dark waters, the soothing hum of its engines given way to the grumble and whine of overstressed engines. The rudder was damaged, as well as one of her two screws. Captain Knox had ordered the bent shaft disconnected from the engine gearing, and now the ponderous bulk was driven by a single screw, with difficulty keeping it on a straight course.

They were alone against the backdrop of the endless Pacific, cut off from the rest of the world, but still afloat. Abi stood on the stern, her broken helicopter behind her, her gaze fixed on the horizon, where the last lights of the Hawaiian Islands had long since disappeared. The silence out here was a welcome reprieve from the chaos they’d left behind.

She felt, more than heard, the silent presence of the captain as he stepped up beside her. She looked to the side, sizing up the man who, for all human intents and purposes, held all their lives in his hands. His face was set in a hard line, but his eyes still held a glimmer of hope. He’d been through hell, too, but still carried himself with the dignity of someone who hadn’t given up.

“French Frigate Shoals,” Knox said, almost to himself, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “It’s not Midway, but it’ll have to do.”

Abi nodded, thoughts drifting as she stared out at the endless expanse of water. They had wanted to make it to Midway, to find some semblance of safety, but the damage to the Yukon made that impossible. The collision with the Port Royal had left them limping, struggling to maintain course. French Frigate Shoals was their best chance now—a desolate outpost far from the infected hordes. A place to shelter, to make repairs, and to figure out what came next.

“It’ll do,” Abi replied, her voice steady. “We’ll make repairs there. It will be hard, and slow, without Port Royal’s hangers, but your ship has a machine shop. We just need time. We’ll beat the blades with rocks and lash the landing gear with palm fronds if we have to. It’s the Polynesian way.”

Knox chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. “We’re off the radar and sailing into the unknown. ‘Here there be dragons,’ Lieutenant.”

“We’ll survive, sir,” Abi said quietly. “We always do.”

Knox turned to face her, expression softening for the first time since she had boarded his ship. “You believe that?”

Abi met his gaze, her own thoughts drifting back to Kaneohe, to the burning wreckage of Port Royal, to the endless waves of Infected they had barely escaped. She thought of the people they had left behind, the ones they couldn’t save. But she also thought of the survivors—of the Marines, the sailors, and the refugees packed below deck, clinging to the hope that this wasn’t the end.

“I do,” Abi said firmly. “The Hawaiian people . . . they’re resilient. We’re resilient. I’m not native, but I grew up here, and these people are descended from explorers—people who crossed the entire Pacific Ocean with nothing but the stars to guide them. They’ll survive . . . We’ll survive. We must have faith, sir.”

Knox smiled faintly; the weight of their shared losses momentarily lifted by her words. “Polynesian explorers, huh? I suppose we’re following in their footsteps now.”

Abi nodded. “We’ll do what they did—navigate the unknown, find new horizons. And one day, we’ll go back. Hawaii will still be there, and when it’s safe, we’ll return.”

Knox looked out over the water again, his eyes thoughtful. “You think Hawaii can recover from all this?”

Abi’s chest tightened at the thought of the islands—so full of life, now overrun with the infected. But deep down, she believed in the strength of the people, the land. “Hawaii is more than just a place. It’s the people. They’ll survive. They’ll rebuild, one day. The islands have been through worse.”

Knox didn’t say anything for a moment, but she could see the hope flicker in his eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The Yukon wasn’t just a ship—it was a symbol of their survival, of the determination that had carried them through everything. And as long as it stayed afloat, so would they.

Knox turned to go back to the bridge and deal with the next crisis. “I like your optimism, Lieutenant,” he said quietly. “We could use more of that.”

Abi stayed where she was, standing just inside the chain and rope that had replaced the damaged stern fence. She knew it wasn’t just optimism. It was faith.

“You really believe that? That faith nonsense?” Jimmy said from the darkness. He was sitting on the open ramp of the Super Stallion. It couldn’t be closed until they powered it up, and they couldn’t even start the APU until they replaced the damaged fuel and hydraulic lines in the starboard sponson.

“I do—and it’s not nonsense. Faith isn’t blind. It’s not a gleeful ignorance of the facts, nor an unreasoning optimism. Faith is picking yourself up, grabbing your tools, and making your future with the belief that it will benefit someone, some place, even if we ourselves won’t be the beneficiaries. Faith is motivation, not wishful thinking. It is on us to take the situation God handed us and honor Him with our attitude and outlook. Faith may sometimes be about hardship, suffering, and anguish, but it’s also about determination and confidence that you can make a difference.”

Abi looked up at the stars, imagining her father doing the same—somewhere. They’d always shared a love of the night sky, and he’d been so disappointed that she hadn’t followed his dream of science and research.

“We’ll make it, Dad” she repeated softly to herself. “Please do the same . . . and have faith.”

#

Robert E. Hampson, Ph.D., turns science fiction into science in his day job, and puts the science into science fiction in his spare time. He has consulted for more than a dozen SF writers, assisting in the (fictional) creation of future medicine, brain computer interfaces, unusual diseases, alien intelligence, novel brain diseases (and the medical nanites to cure them), exotic toxins, and brain effects of a zombie virus. His science writing ranges from fictional depiction of real science and the mysteries of the brain to surviving the apocalypse or living in space. His recent forays into short fiction have appeared in the U.S. Army Small Wars Journal (TRADOC Mad Science Writing Contest), Science Fiction by Scientists (Springer), Black Tide Rising anthologies (Baen), and Four Horsemen Universe (Chris Kennedy Publishing). Some of his prior fiction and nonfiction appeared under the pseudonym Tedd Roberts. Dr. Hampson is a professor of physiology/pharmacology and neurology with more than thirty-five years' experience in animal neuroscience and human neurology. His professional work includes more than 100 peer-reviewed research articles ranging from the pharmacology of memory to the effects of radiation on the brain—and most recently, the first report of a "neural prosthetic" to restore human memory using the brain's own neural codes. He is a member of the SIGMA Forum and the Science and Entertainment Exchange—a service of the National Academy of Sciences. He is married with two grown sons and lives outside Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

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Framed