“You’re probably right about that. Leonard is due to arrive today and I want to be there to see what his plans are. I also have to run the numbers with the Stryker on board but can do that today. Regardless of which we decide to take, we could be ready to leave tomorrow,” I reply.
“I’m still not all that excited about you leaving but I know you have to. The only plus is that this will hopefully be your last trip,” she says.
“I know and, believe me, I’m not a big fan of leaving either. I don’t like being away from you. Nor am I all that thrilled at giving the night runners a chance to recover. But it is only for a few days and I’ll be back before you know it,” I respond.
“I love you, Jack.”
“I love you, too.”
Coming out of the shower, there is a little more bustle inside from people getting ready to get on with the day and whatever assigned tasks they may have. Frank informs me that Leonard radioed in that he is sailing down the straits and should arrive in Olympia shortly. Bannerman is with the supply crews making sure they are ready while the teams gather for their morning formation and training. Close to two hundred and fifty people gathered under the roof makes for quite a din. It is definitely over-crowded, especially with everyone trying to get in a shower or grab something to eat.
Gathering Black and Red Team together, along with Bannerman, Frank, and the crews transporting the supplies, we head out for our rendezvous with Leonard. I’m hoping he can dock in Olympia as I’d rather not take the time to drive to Tacoma. I have a lot to do to get ready if we’re going to leave in the morning on our little venture. If the numbers line up, I’d like to get the Stryker loaded today so we can be ready to leave first thing in the morning. The overcast and broken clouds of the previous days are absent and we are greeted with clear skies although a brisk breeze is blowing.
I am struck by how tall the grass in the median is. It and the tops of the fir trees bend with each gust that blows through. A red-tailed hawk swoops down from one of the trees and plummets into the tall reeds lining the Interstate. It appears moments later with something small grasped in its talons. One life ends so that another may continue.
Pieces of paper and a few leaves are pushed along the windswept streets of town as our convoy of vehicles makes its way through. Packed dirt, sand, and debris lie in the recessed doorways of the buildings. Windows, which once were the dreaded duty of employees to clean on a daily basis, are streaked with grime to the point that the displays sitting just inside are barely visible. The stenciled or decaled store signs on the doors and windows, along with a myriad of taped advertisements, are close to becoming unreadable. The city is quickly decaying.
Emerging from the city proper, we pass by the boarded up building that housed the once busy Saturday Market. I guess all produce will be organically grown from here on out, I think as we pass and drive down the crumbling street to the single dock that serves Olympia. Only one ship lies tied to the large pier jutting out into the waters of the south Puget Sound. The thick lines that keep the ship connected to the dock will eventually rot and the ship will then be at the mercy of the tides, either floating out into the large body of water or crashing into the boats docked in the marina. Those will also eventually become free and I have an image of boats piled up on the shores with the large cargo vessel leaning amongst them.
Driving onto the concrete dock itself, I see the sleek black outlines of the Santa Fe making its way toward us in the choppy waters. I exchange radio calls with Leonard and he informs us that there is enough room to dock and he will pull into shore here. We wait in on the pier with our pant legs and shirt sleeves flapping in the brisk wind.
The sub eventually nestles next to the pier and we toss heavy mooring lines to the waiting crew. Maneuvering a make-shift gangplank into position, Leonard and some of his crew meet us on the dock. Bannerman organizes our crew and soon supplies are being handed over and stowed below.
Leonard tells his story of the past three days and nights and I fill him in on ours. I begin to mention our plan to search for any surviving family members. He stops me and pulls me to the side.
“I’d rather not have my crew hear about your plans to look for families, Captain. That will only spur them to want to look for theirs and right now, I need a tight crew. I would be interested in hearing what you find out but, please, before you exchange that information, make sure I am the only one listening,” Leonard says once we are out of earshot of everyone else.
“I completely understand and have my own uneasiness about leaving. But we promised the soldiers we would try when we could and we don’t have that long before our window closes. We only have a few months before the fuel goes bad and the weather will be closing in soon. And, I’ll be sure to relay any information to you only,” I reply.
“That would be much appreciated, Captain. Speaking of communication, we should test the satellite comms,” he says.
We break out the satellite phones Bannerman gathered from the base and, much to my surprise, we are able to make contact with them. This will also open up the ability to communicate with Lynn and the others while we are off on our little jaunt. I’m surprised I didn’t think of that earlier as that was our main method of communication while out in the field. I guess I just assumed that, with the downfall of civilization, the satellites wouldn’t be functional for long. That alleviates one big worry. I was always worried that something would happen to us while flying across the country and we wouldn’t be able to let the others back here know. I had no doubt we could return as vehicles lie in abundance, but the time delay would cause worry at home.
“What are your plans?” I ask, watching another load of supplies make their way up the gangway.
“I think we’ll head down the western seaboard and check out some of the smaller coastal towns and ports along the way. I’d like to take a look at San Francisco and LA with the eventual goal of checking out San Diego. I’ll then evaluate whether to sail over to Hawaii at that point. If there are any naval assets still functioning, they’d be there but after observing Bangor, Whidbey, and Seattle, I have my doubts as to whether we’ll find anything,” he replies.
“Okay. Keep in mind that we have aviation assets that can come assist if you need although Hawaii would be a stretch,” I say.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Captain. And thanks for everything. I know we may not have hit it off well and we still have a certain discussion coming, but thanks. I appreciate you digging into your stock and allowing us to resupply,” Leonard responds.
“It’s the least we could do. Just so you know, we tossed in enough weapons and ammo to arm your crew,” I state.
“Thanks again,” he says, reaching out his hand.
It takes time but the supplies are eventually handed over and stored. We shake hands all around and Leonard and his crew head on board. The gangway is removed and lines pulled back. The Santa Fe backs out of the docks, turns, and begins making its way across the waters, parting the waves. The figures observing from the bridge grow smaller. We watch as the black sub, far into the sound, turns north. It disappears around the point by Boston Harbor as it slowly makes its long trek to the open seas.
We head back and I spend most of the morning going over take off and flying data to include the weight of the Stryker. The Stryker is below the payload limitations for the 130 and the numbers look good. The only constraint will be our range which will be shortened to around one thousand miles. None of our legs come close to that distance so we should be okay. The only thing that sticks in my mind is if we find other survivors. With the Stryker on board and with the additional fuel we’ll take along for it, we’ll be restricted to eighty passengers. That puts the 130 right at its max parameters and I’ve never been enthusiastic about operating an aircraft right at its maximum weight limitations. Those are made up from engineers using new aircraft. Yes, there are the usual twenty percent margins thrown in but still.