“See there?” Forrest said, patting Ulrich on the shoulder. “Relax. It’s going to take a little time. That’s all.”
They listened to the telegraphers communicating slowly back and forth for nearly two hours before the Hawaiian got back to them directly:
Greetings nebraska / understand you have reconnoitered impact zone / is this correct…
Ulrich told them that it was and that they were requesting extraction from the American west coast.
Unable to respond to your request at this time / state size and location of impact crater…
“It’s approximately fifty miles across and nearly a mile deep,” Marty said. “Just north of the Montana border.”
Ulrich relayed the information.
State radiation levels / seismic activity / level of damage to surrounding areas…
“Radiation minimal,” Marty said. “Seismic activity moderate to heavy. Damage—total.”
Ulrich sent the information, and then at Forrest’s direction, added: Please tell Ester Thorn that Martin Chittenden sends his regards and looks forward to seeing her again soon. Nebraska signing off. Attempt to contact same time tomorrow.
“Wait,” Marty said. “Why are you signing off?”
“I don’t want them treating us like a bunch of goddamn stepchildren, that’s why. The more desperate we sound, the less we have to offer and the less likely they’ll be to send someone to pick us up.”
Confirmed nebraska / will comply…
They listened to the Hawaiian and the Australian talking privately for another hour before the airwaves fell silent.
Sixty-One
Harold Shipman placed his hand on Ester’s shoulder, gently shaking her awake at 4:40 A.M. “Ester?” he said quietly.
“What?” she said, coming awake quickly. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing bad,” he said. “Are you awake?”
“Well goddamn, Harold, I’d better be. I’m talking, aren’t I?”
Shipman chuckled. “May I turn on the lamp?”
“Of course,” she said, pushing herself up against the headboard. “What is it?”
Shipman turned on the lamp and sat in the chair beside her bed. “You won’t believe it,” he said. “I’m not even sure I do, but our wireless operator has heard from a group on the mainland who has not only cracked his code, but also claims to have been to the impact crater. They say that it’s a mile deep, fifty wide, and that there is heavy seismic activity in the area.”
“What’s so hard to believe about that?” she said, dry-wiping her face with her hand.
“For one thing, it’s difficult for me to believe that anyone civilized is still functioning anywhere near the impact area.”
“Well, that was Marty Chittenden’s plan,” she said. “For someone to survive and carry on.”
“And that’s the irony of it, Ester. These folks claim that Martin Chittenden sends his regards and that he hopes to see you soon. They’re asking to be evacuated off the West Coast.”
“My God!”
“That’s what I said.”
Ester threw back the blanket, revealing her blue flannel pajamas. “When did we get this message?”
“A couple of hours ago.”
“Why I am only now hearing about it?”
“Apparently, no one was quite sure whether or not to wake you,” Shipman said. “Had I not gone down to the lobby for a stroll, they would have waited until morning.”
She took her cane from against the nightstand and crossed to the walk-in closet, switching on the light. “Can we get them back on the air?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “They signed off asking that we contact them at the same time tomorrow night.”
“They did, huh?”
She reemerged from the closet a few minutes later dressed for the day in black slacks and a salmon colored button-up sweater. “Well, let’s drive up the mountain and see if we can’t get them to answer. I don’t believe for a goddamn minute they won’t be listening.”
Sixty-Two
Forty-five-year-old Captain William J. Bisping stood drinking a cup of coffee on the flight deck of the USS Boxer LHD 4, a Wasp Class amphibious assault ship capable of accommodating 1,200 crew members and 2,100 battle-ready Marines. In addition, the Boxer was capable of carrying up to forty-two helicopters and a number of amphibious landing craft. For the purposes of this cruise, however, it was carrying fewer than eight hundred crewmen, a detachment of only four hundred Marines, two F-35B Lightning VSTOL fighter jets, four attack helicopters, and five EFV, or expeditionary fighting vehicle, amphibious landing craft.
Steaming just off of Boxer’s starboard bow at one thousand yards was her escort vessel, the HMCS Algonquin DDG 283, an Iroquois Class Canadian destroyer, one of only a few foreign vessels the Hawaiian navy had permitted to join them at Pearl Harbor.
With Bisping’s month-long mission to the Americas now at an end, both ships were en route back to Pearl Harbor. The naval port of San Diego, more than twelve hours in their wake, the Boxer hangar deck was loaded stem to stern with thousands of boxes of fluorescent bulbs of all sizes, shapes, and varieties. She was also laden with tons of medical and mechanical supplies, critical to the longevity of the Hawaiian population.
Ashore, the sailors and Marines had encountered a few violent cannibal groups, but the Marines were heavily armed, and the ever-watchful attack helicopters on station in the air above prevented any surprise attacks as the sailors moved methodically from store to store up and down the coast, collecting every lightbulb they could lay their hands on and loading them onto trucks for transfer to the ship. They had taken no casualties, though it was necessary to kill a few dozen starving male civilians intent on eating them, most of whom had been too sickly and malnourished to be effective in pitched battle.
Bisping had remained aboard the Boxer, which did not actually go into port until it was time to load the cargo collected on the pier. The reports and digital photographs the division commanders brought back, however, gave Bisping a horrific impression of what had taken place in Southern California during the early months after the impact. Freeze-dried, mummified corpses littered the streets by the thousands, and nearly everything made of wood or that was otherwise flammable had been burned to ash.
Boxer communications officer, Lieutenant jg Brooks, stepped out of the conning tower and walked across the flight deck to where the captain stood watching the sea. “Message from Pearl, Captain.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brooks,” Bisping said, reading the printout. “Have Mr. O’Leary meet me in my cabin.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
First Officer Commander Duncan O’Leary rapped at the captain’s door five minutes later.
“Enter.”
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Have a look at this, Duncan.”
O’Leary read the printout and gave it back. “Extract who, sir?”
“Beats the shit out of me,” the captain said. “Get up to the con and inform Algonquin of the change in orders, then bring us about a hundred and eighty degrees. I’ll make an announcement to the crew shortly.”
“They won’t be happy, sir. This means we’re going to miss Christmas.”
“We’re not going to miss Christmas, Duncan. We’re going to be celebrating the birth of our Lord right here aboard Boxer.”