John Ringo - Islands of Rage and Hope

“This platform is pretty bare bones,” Mission Commander Ollie Daniels said . “Not that I’m complaining or anything. But we’ve only got walking around bottles. We’ll need air in about forty minutes or have to pop the hatch. According to Doc Gordie and Doc Riz, while we’re immune compromised, very slight contamination shouldn’t harm us. And the blast zone should have cleared contaminants from this immediate AO.”

He sounded remarkably calm for a guy who was depending on people he didn’t know to save him from a plague in a zombie apocalypse.

“We’re doing all we can to make ‘slight’ contamination equal zero,” Colonel Hamilton said. “But roger on the air situation. We’ll go ahead and punch our force now rather than waiting for daylight.”

“Suit up,” Hamilton said, looking at Walker. “You’re going to have to figure out a procedure when you get there.”

“We’ve got spare plastic, tape and tubing in the second five-ton,” Walker said. “We’ll kludge something up. I’m putting the ensign, Decker and Condrey in the sterile five-ton. Decker and Condrey are…used to handling human bodies even if the conditions are difficult. I’ll remain on the outside to handle setting up the transfer system.”

“That makes a tremendous amount of sense,” Hamilton said. “But why am I not surprised. Good luck.”

“Holy crap,” Faith said. “There it is.”

The capsule had clearly once been bright white. It was now mildly fire scorched. But the Space X logo was brightly noticeable on the side. It also was bigger than she’d expected. It was nearly three stories tall or so it seemed. The hatch was more than a tall man’s height off the ground. And there was no convenient ladder.

The capsule was canted at a slight angle on a hill near the airport. The scrub around it was on fire but the fire seemed to be burning out by itself.

“Stop here,” Walker said as they approached the spacecraft. “Marine units, deploy and get those fires out. Navy decon teams, stand by.”

“Grab the fire extinguishers,” Faith yelled, baling out of the front of the five-ton. The back was packed with Marines and the Navy away team. “We need to get these fires out. But I think the fire truck was overkill…”

The sea grape and tantan in the area had apparently had some recent watering as the fires were only smoldering. The Marines spread out with heavy-duty extinguishers and had the ones that threatened the approach out in minutes.

“Sir, we have the approach fires out but the ground is still hot,” Faith said. “Not sure what to do about that unless we go try to find the fire truck.”

“Keep putting the fires out, Shewolf,” Walker said, clambering out of the front of the five-ton. He was wearing a moon suit and had a hard time watching his step. “Don’t worry about the hot ground. Ensure that we’ve got security. These fires are sure to draw any remaining infected and I don’t want blood contaminating this environment.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Faith replied.

“Decon teams,” Walker continued. “Set up east of the septic five-ton. Sterile five-ton will remain in place until we’ve got the situation under control.”

“Roger, sir,” Sophia replied.

“I’ll just sit here in the darkness, then,” she added sotto voce.

Decker, Condrey and she were in the back of the “sterile” five-ton. Five-tons have a canvas top and “rear closure” system with a drop tailgate. The tailgate was up and the canvas “rear closure system” was in place, making the interior dark as a cave. In addition, the entire interior had been covered in plastic and sealed to a fare-thee-well. If they hadn’t had air bottles they would have used up the oxygen on the interior.

“What was that, ma’am?” Decker asked, sitting on the personnel bench at the position of attention. Which was tough with a fire fighter’s silver suit.

“Just proud to be here, Staff Sergeant,” Sophia said loudly.

“Put it right there,” Sergeant Major Barney said, pointing to a spot next to the “septic” five-ton.

“Roger, Sergeant Major,” Hadley said, laying down the child’s tub.

“Wait,” Barney said. “Hold it up. Get the water into it while it’s off the ground at first. The ground is hot. If it burns through the tub, you are all in the shitter.”

“Aye, aye, Sergeant Major!” Seaman Apprentice Yu, said, pouring a five-gallon can of water into the tub. Olga walked up with a bleach bottle in either hand and added to it. She, too, was wearing a moon suit. When there was water on the bottom, Hadley set it down.

“Take off the bloody caps ,” Sergeant Major Barney said. “You’re not filling canteens…”

“That’s enough,” Walker said as Yu poured another five gallon bucket of bleach water over his suit. “All septic personnel back away. Sterile five-ton.”

“Sir?” Sophia replied as there was a shot in the darkness.

“Stand by, security team?”

“One infected,” Faith said. “Down. Well away from the capsule. Situation still clear, sir.”

“Roger. Sterile five-ton will back up to the capsule taking my hand and arm signals. That’s not you, Ensign, that’s Lance Corporal Edwards.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Edwards said.

“Stand by, Edwards, and listen. I want you to get lined straight up to the hatch on the capsule. Do you even know where that’s at?”

“No, sir.”

“Unass from the vehicle and come out here,” Walker radioed.

Edwards jumped out of the vehicle and at Walker’s direction walked around the capsule, keeping a distance, and found the hatch, which was at two o’clock from their approach.

“Can you back up to that?” Walker shouted.

“Aye, aye, sir!” Edwards said. “I can put it right up to it.”

The back of the five-ton was, conveniently, about the same height as the hatch. In fact, with the tailgate up, the top of the tailgate would just about be at the level of the bottom of the hatch.

“I will ground guide,” Walker shouted. “Watch my hand and arm signals.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Edwards said.

“Let’s get a move on,” Walker said, then changed frequencies. “Any sub retrans to the Dragon capsule. Do not pass this message to any squadron personnel…”

“Dragon, incoming call from Thomas Walker for Mission Specialist Troy Lyons, over.”

“Uh, Roger that,” Commander Daniels said, puzzled. “You’re up, Troy.”

The mission commander was a forty-five-year-old Canadian, six two and formerly a hundred ninety pounds, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes. A former Canadian Air Force fighter pilot, he had a master’s degree in mechanical and aviation engineering.

“Thomas Walker?” Lyons said. The mission engineer was American, stocky with dark, nearly black, brown hair and equally blue eyes. A former SEAL, he had degrees in mechanical and oceanic engineering and had been on his second trip to the ISS as one of the onboard mechanical systems engineers when the world came apart. There went his shot at being mission commander.

“Trojan, it’s Skaeling,” Walker radioed. “Night Walker. Do not reply with my name. I’m using a cover for various reasons. Short explanation: While I obviously outrank Captain Smith, Wolf Squadron is a cult of personality. People know Captain Wolf. I’ve been careful to ensure that nobody knows who I am other than, well, upper echelon. Taking over would not work and I’m frankly enjoying just helping out. So when you see me, do not react. Understood?”

“Roger, sir,” Troy replied. “Is it okay to say I’m glad to hear you made it, sir?”

“Glad you made it too, Troias. This world was made for people like us. Walker out.”