John Ringo - To Sail a Darkling Sea

“I probably would have led with that,” Sophia muttered.

“But it’s well inside the range where we should have picked it up. It’s only about twenty miles out.”

“Azimuth?” Sophia said.

“No Tan Lines, Alexandria.”

“Stand by, Patrick,” she said, then switched frequencies and straightened up to start the main engines. “No Tan Lines.”

* * *

“Holy, hell,” Commander Robert “Thunderbear” Vancel, skipper of the USS Alexandria said. Vancel was on his first tour as a sub skipper when the worst disaster in human history hit. It had not been a pleasure cruise. He’d been a bit heavy before this cruise. Now, not so much. “COB: Down periscope. Now ! And tell me that’s not being broadcast all over the ship.”

“Looks like she’s just trying to live up to her boat’s name, sir,” the COB said.

“Fifteen, COB,” the skipper snapped. “ Fifteen . And, for God’s sakes, a Lieutenant ? Remind me to talk to that young lady about the decorum expected of a Naval officer at the first opportunity after we meet.”

“Duly noted, sir.”

* * *

“Alex, No Tan Lines ,” Sophia repeated. Usually the Navy was right up on calling back but there had been a distinct pause.

“Lines, Alex. Be advised just picked up an intermittent distress beacon, your bearing, one one four, range: ten point three nautical miles. Be advised, beacon was not there four minutes ago. Signal is intermittent. Our evaluation, persons operating manual generator for intermittent signal. Probable survivors. Proceeding that location at this time.”

“Roger, Alex , keep us advised.” She switched to intercom. “Going full,” she said and put the hammer down. No real reason for it, the Alex was going to be there long before they were…

* * *

“Okay, up periscope,” Commander Vancel said.

“Isn’t that redundant, sir?” the COB asked.

“Again, COB, fifteen ! And, sweet Lord Jesus I Can’t Believe They Did This, LANTFLEET’s daughter !”

“As well hanged for a sheep, sir… ”

* * *

“Da, Da!” Julie yelled. “Look!”

Lincoln Lawton stepped out onto the aft deck of the 45' Gentle Breezes and shaded his eyes against the glare. He stopped and his jaw dropped at the sight of a periscope not five hundred meters off the boat.

Lawton, formerly the General Manager for Information Technologies of Wilson Gribley, LLC, Liverpool, UK, had just left port for a month-long trip to the Mediterranean when the news of the Plague had been released. He had, briefly, contemplated putting back into port to return to work. He knew the term “workaholic” was often used to describe him and it seemed that if there was going to be a major influenza outbreak, the Firm, which was in the biomedical technologies field, would need his services.

Susan, his normally accepting and supportive wife, had put her foot down. First of all, it was the first long vacation that he had taken in nearly ten years. During which time his children had grown up with a father who was a virtual stranger. Second, given that the flu bug was described as being particularly nasty and wide-spread, it would be better to just cruise along for a bit without encountering it. Let it burn out and they’d put into port.

As it turned out, Susan was right. A point she tried not to rub in. They were not infected by the “zombie plague.” On the other hand, food and fuel only last so long. They had stocked well but eventually the food ran out. And the fuel. Fortunately, there was an emergency solar still onboard that produced barely enough water for the lot of them. And he had stocked quite a few rods onboard. About the only time he spent with his family was angling on the boat in the Irish Sea.

It was a constant surprise to him that when you were hungry enough, any raw fish was a delicacy. His family had also come as something of a surprise. He wasn’t sure exactly why he hadn’t spent more time with them. Oh, being on a small boat occasionally drove everyone nuts. But he had some great children and, given that he’d had little to do with them, he also had come to have a new appreciation for his wife. An appreciation that, as the tan got darker and they both lost quite a bit of weight, had eventually overcome their desire to avoid certain difficulties.

Which was why Susan was, as far as they could tell, about two months pregnant.

“Help William with the signs if you would, there’s a good lass,” Lincoln said, waving at the periscope. It was clearly looking at them. He hoped the submarine would not surface, however. As far as they could tell, they were uninfected. Raw fish or no, they wished to stay that way.

William, his ten-year-old son, and Julie, fourteen, came up on deck quickly with the cobbled together signs. They had made them from bits of stitched together plastic and can boxes to keep from damaging their sheets.

They carefully held them up to prevent them tearing in the breeze.

* * *

“ ‘Do Not Approach.’” Commander Vancel said. “ ‘Not Infected.’ They’re in the same boat we are.”

“With less in the way of stores and no power, sir,” his XO pointed out.

“Seem to be making it,” the CO replied, touching a control.

* * *

A light began to wink on the periscope.

“If I understood bloody Morse maybe I’d understand what you were saying,” Lincoln said through gritted teeth. The signal was repetitive, though, two flashes then two flashes…

“I think they’re just saying they understand,” Susan said.

“I was thinking the same,” Lincoln replied. He waved and nodded. “I wonder if they’re infected? Or not.”

* * *

“See if the Lines is monitoring,” Commander Vancel said.

* * *

“ No Tan Lines , Alexandria, over.”

Sophia had been expecting the call and already had the mike in her hand.

“ Alex, Lines , over.”

“Sierra is forty-five-foot Activa motor yacht. No power. Four survivors, probable family, uninfected. Boat has British registry. Over.”

“Roger, Alex . Just over the horizon. Have them on radar. Will come up from their lee and attempt to communicate.”

“Roger. Standing by.”

“Alex, could you retrans to flotilla then possibly squadron ops?”

“Roger, stand by… Ready on retrans to flotilla, over.”

“ Living Large, Living Large, No Tan Lines , over… ”

“ No Tan Lines, Living Large , over.”

“We have a contact this area. According to the Alexandria , they’re uninfected. Last I heard, the squadron still had a few units of vaccine. I’d suggest that it would be advisable, given these people’s circumstances, out of fuel and in the middle of no-where, to use it on them. Over.”

“Stand by, Lines… ”

“Standing by,” Sophia muttered. She could see the yacht on the horizon. The wind was from the southeast and she was coming in from the northwest. Which would put her downwind, or “to the lee” in nautical speak, from the yacht. Which was where she wanted to be.

It was, at this point, extremely unlikely that casual contact with the people on the yacht, or the sub crews, would give them H7D3. Flu eventually became noninfectious as a person’s immune system overcame it. She probably could come from windward, fuel up the yacht, transfer supplies, carefully…

“Extremely unlikely” was not the same as “could not happen.” And nobody wanted to infect people who had survived this long. Families like hers were not so much rare as non-existent. Nobody found so far had so much as one family member survive. The closest was Chris Phillips, Captain of the David Cooper and his former fiancé. And both believing the other one dead, they had sought opportunities elsewhere in the interim. Even if a family was on a life raft or boat, like this one, drifting, only one survivor had generally been found.