“No, we didn’t,” Olga said. “That’s what you big…strong…men are for. We just killed them.”
“Need your clearance people to accompany,” the salvage boss said.
“That’s why they’ve got their guns.”
“What are you going to do with the container?” Walker asked.
“If we can get everything running, probably hose it out and close it.” Suzanne Grazier had been a full rate deck hand on a freighter that had been infected. She’d jumped ship with three of her shipmates. One other had survived and they had both been quite happy to see a boat like Sophia’s come along. Especially given the pregnancy. She’d liked both of the guys who had turned but the upside was, she knew who her baby’s daddy was. “It’s not worth trying to undog it and winch it over the side. And I don’t think the stuff’s going to be good anymore.”
There was a slight rumble under their feet and Suzanne grinned.
“Well, that’s one thing working,” he said.
“And we’re away,” Sophia said. The salvage boss had grumpily declared the clearance of the M/V Paul Osted “good enough” and taken over the ship. “Now we just have to catch back up to my division. Full power, helmsman!”
“Full power, aye,” Olga said, pushing the throttles forward.
“But that way,” Sophia said, pointing to starboard. “You’re headed for, well, Antarctica right now.”
“Details, details…” Olga said.
CHAPTER 3
“…KING OF MIAMI AND THE KINGDOM OF FLORCUBATAMP! ALL SHALL BOW BEFORE MY MAGNIFICENCE…!”
From: Collected Radio Transmissions of The Fall
University of the South Press 2053
“Bella, Bella, Bella, this is the Finally Friday, over.”
“Friday, Bella, over,” Olga said in a bored tone.
“Fuel state, three hundred fifty gallons. Water, twenty gallons. Our ROWPU is acting up and the oiler can’t get it fixed so far. Lots of food, lots of booze, not so much on the water and fuel thing. Captain McCartney asked me to add that this is an official ‘we need fuel’ call. Over.”
“Roger,” Olga said. “Will pass that on to the division commander. Bella, out.”
“Anything new?” Sophia said, coming up on the fly bridge.
Azure and silver. She’d been reading quite a bit and on Walker’s suggestion had dug into Hornblower. Part of her gift from Mr. Lawton had been a slew of e-books and they included all of the Horatio Hornblower series. She now knew what a “cutting out expedition” was supposed to be like. And the description of southern seas was accurate as all hell. Perfect blue, perfect silver, perfect days of peace and quiet and not a damned problem in the world except an almost complete lack of people to save and Olga going slowly stir crazy.
Next up: Aubrey and Maturin. Which Walker said was more historically accurate. That should be interesting.
“Friday is low on fuel,” Olga said. “They’re officially declaring they need fuel.”
“How low?” Sophia asked.
“Three hundred and fifty gallons,” Olga said. “I figured it out. That’s about a day’s worth the way we’re going. Assuming they don’t have to make a speed run.”
“LeEllen should have called that in sooner,” Sophia said, frowning. “Okay, I’ll call it in to Flotilla. If needs be we’ll cross=load; we’re nearly topped up.”
When Olga had gone below, Sophia picked up the radio.
“Flotilla, Division Seven, over.”
“Seven, Flotilla, over.”
“One of our boats is nearly out of fuel. The other two are in good state but it’s been luck of the draw on finding boats with fuel and Friday drew the short straw. We can cross-load but we also are about topped up on supplies and have some passengers. Request permission to do a drop-off and tank run. Over.”
“Roger, Seven, I’ll pass that to the flotilla commander. Anything else, over?”
“Be advised, Friday is one day from dry and also low on water,” Sophia said. “Can cross-load to keep her running, but would like a reply as soon as possible. That’s it. Division out.”
“Division Seven, Flotilla Commander. Need to speak to your division commander, over.”
“Division Actual, aye,” Sophia replied.
“Cross-load fuel, then return main squadron for supply and passenger drop and tanking. Do you copy, over?”
“Return main squadron, aye. Cross-load for run, aye.”
“Take crew rest aboard larger vessels, then return to sweep. Flotilla out.”
“Woot,” Sophia said. “Back to civilization, such as it is.”
The first thing that was evident was the cruise ship M/V Boadicea on the horizon. In a sea of darkness it was the sole bright spot. As they closed with the squadron center, more ships became apparent. The Grace Tan. The diesel tanker Ho Yun. The Paul Osted. Other, smaller, support ships. Motor yachts in a ragged formation following along like attention deficit baby ducks. Zodiacs zipping between the ships even at this late hour. A Zodiac filled with a Marine clearance team passed a few miles to port, headed out for some heavy clearance.
“Squadron, Division Seven, over,” Sophia radioed when they were about five miles from the formation.
“Division Seven, Squadron. Switch to Forty-Six for Squadron Traffic Control, copy?”
“Switch Four-Six for Traffic Control, aye,” Sophia said, switching frequencies. “Squadron Traffic Control, Division Seven, three motor yachts, requesting orders. Be advised, one of us needs to tank, over.”
“Division Seven, TrafCon. Unrep not authorized at night absent emergency. Are you declaring an emergency, over?”
“Negative, Squadron. They can probably hang in there till morning. Request early tanking, over.”
“Roger, I’ll make a note. Come to One-one-four. Move to rear of formation. Join motor yacht contingent to the rear. Do not approach within one hundred yards of other motor yachts. Do not approach within two hundred yards of ships. Copy?”
“One one four, aye,” Sophia said. “Rear of formation, aye. Motor yacht contingent rear, aye. Do not approach within one hundred yards other yachts, do not approach within two hundred yards ships, aye.”
“We’ll try to get you tanked after dawn. I’ve made a note to unrep ops. Keep somebody on radio watch that’s actually on the radio. TraffCon, out.”
“Friday, Business, Bella, over.”
“Finally Friday, over.”
“Risky Business.”
“Follow me,” Sophia said, slowing down. “We’re to get behind the rest of the motor yachts. I’ve put in a request for tanking at dawn. No unrep at night. Friday, can you hang in there?”
“Should be fine, Bella, over.”
“They also don’t want us to be closer than a hundred yards to other yachts and two hundred from ships,” Sophia radioed. “Let’s try to actually look like we know what we’re doing. I’m going to come to One-one-four. Try to turn on the same spot I do and get right in line. Copy that, over?”