Read Online A Time to Die by Mark Wandrey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Wandrey
Tags: Science-Fiction, Literature & Fiction, Horror, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Genre Fiction, post apocalyptic
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glasses. She could see several windows were broken on the modified rig and dark smoke curled out from what appeared to be a burnt out building the center. No other signs of life were apparent. Her black hair, held a carefully braided regulation tail back under the lid, threatened to come free from the winds slipstream.
“Anything, ma’am?” asked the man to her left, a combat helmet on his head and headset mike under his chin.
“Nothing, Boatswain.” She put the glasses back in their holder on the console. “How long has it been?”
The man consulted a dispatch. “Coastal monitoring station at San Diego received the SOS seventy-seven hours ago. Sent only once, it did not recur. The nature of the mayday was… unusual.”
Grange snorted. “Right, zombies. I think someone’s pulling our leg.” That had been her thought since she’d seen the dispatch, eight hours ago. The platform was just outside United States territorial waters. Details suggested that some sort of biomedical research was being conducted, of the type that would be illegal in the homeland. That tidbit hadn’t helped with her taking the mission seriously. Rightfully, it should be a naval ship here, but none were available. The old man had been offered the mission, under his discretion. They’d come down from Los Angeles and then west at twenty-seven knots. The log indicated it was the first time the Boutwell had left US territorial waters since she was handed over to the Coast Guard after the Navy had decommissioned her in 1979.
“So what’s your take, Lieutenant?” the Boatswain asked. “Looks like something is up.”
“It does at that,” she reluctantly agreed. But what, she wondered quietly.
“Captain’s on the horn.” The Boatswain said as he cupped the headset to hear over the roar of the twin 150--horse outboards. “He says to stop wasting gas and board that thing.”
Grange made a face but nodded none the less. Orders were orders. She had eight men, not including the Boatswain and his three men manning the longboat. Because they often interdicted drug runners, there was a twin mount .50 caliber machine gun in the center of the boat. A steely eyed chief sat the watch. Unlike coastal missions, it wasn’t loaded, even though two boxes of ammo sat close at hand. The other two crewmen were driver and assistant. Her eight men were all armed with .40 Smith & Wesson semi-auto handguns. Four of them carried M-16s, four Mossberg 12-gauge shotguns loaded with buckshot and the slings crowded with extra rounds. Standard boarding detail. Standard waste of time, she figured. Looked like someone went crazy and set off a bomb or started a fire, to her.
“Take us around to the dock on the east side,” she told the Boatswain and grabbed a handhold as the boat spun around and raced in toward the platform. Each leg was fifty feet across with four of them supporting the massive platform like the legs of a chair. A dock floated freely around one leg, held in place by cables to float up and down in the swells. She’d spotted at least one boat docked there on their first orbit. Each leg held ladders, secured at the bottom with chain link cages to avoid unwanted visitors. There was a pair of bolt cutters aboard, standard equipment. It would be better to gain access without resorting to that, though. The dock would have a door, probably controlled from above. At least they could knock.
The dock came into view and she lifted the glasses for a better look. No longer racing laterally, it was a much clearer image this time. There was a small 10x10 shed (equipment office?) and a pair of metal lockers. A gas pump sat close to the central area closest to the leg where a ramp rested on wheels, moving slightly up and down in the afternoon swell. She was just wondering why someone would paint the door into the platform red when she realized it was splashed across the door, and not a shade of red you would use to color anything.
“Boatswain, slow your
“Anything, ma’am?” asked the man to her left, a combat helmet on his head and headset mike under his chin.
“Nothing, Boatswain.” She put the glasses back in their holder on the console. “How long has it been?”
The man consulted a dispatch. “Coastal monitoring station at San Diego received the SOS seventy-seven hours ago. Sent only once, it did not recur. The nature of the mayday was… unusual.”
Grange snorted. “Right, zombies. I think someone’s pulling our leg.” That had been her thought since she’d seen the dispatch, eight hours ago. The platform was just outside United States territorial waters. Details suggested that some sort of biomedical research was being conducted, of the type that would be illegal in the homeland. That tidbit hadn’t helped with her taking the mission seriously. Rightfully, it should be a naval ship here, but none were available. The old man had been offered the mission, under his discretion. They’d come down from Los Angeles and then west at twenty-seven knots. The log indicated it was the first time the Boutwell had left US territorial waters since she was handed over to the Coast Guard after the Navy had decommissioned her in 1979.
“So what’s your take, Lieutenant?” the Boatswain asked. “Looks like something is up.”
“It does at that,” she reluctantly agreed. But what, she wondered quietly.
“Captain’s on the horn.” The Boatswain said as he cupped the headset to hear over the roar of the twin 150--horse outboards. “He says to stop wasting gas and board that thing.”
Grange made a face but nodded none the less. Orders were orders. She had eight men, not including the Boatswain and his three men manning the longboat. Because they often interdicted drug runners, there was a twin mount .50 caliber machine gun in the center of the boat. A steely eyed chief sat the watch. Unlike coastal missions, it wasn’t loaded, even though two boxes of ammo sat close at hand. The other two crewmen were driver and assistant. Her eight men were all armed with .40 Smith & Wesson semi-auto handguns. Four of them carried M-16s, four Mossberg 12-gauge shotguns loaded with buckshot and the slings crowded with extra rounds. Standard boarding detail. Standard waste of time, she figured. Looked like someone went crazy and set off a bomb or started a fire, to her.
“Take us around to the dock on the east side,” she told the Boatswain and grabbed a handhold as the boat spun around and raced in toward the platform. Each leg was fifty feet across with four of them supporting the massive platform like the legs of a chair. A dock floated freely around one leg, held in place by cables to float up and down in the swells. She’d spotted at least one boat docked there on their first orbit. Each leg held ladders, secured at the bottom with chain link cages to avoid unwanted visitors. There was a pair of bolt cutters aboard, standard equipment. It would be better to gain access without resorting to that, though. The dock would have a door, probably controlled from above. At least they could knock.
The dock came into view and she lifted the glasses for a better look. No longer racing laterally, it was a much clearer image this time. There was a small 10x10 shed (equipment office?) and a pair of metal lockers. A gas pump sat close to the central area closest to the leg where a ramp rested on wheels, moving slightly up and down in the afternoon swell. She was just wondering why someone would paint the door into the platform red when she realized it was splashed across the door, and not a shade of red you would use to color anything.
“Boatswain, slow your
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