Life Goes On by Tayell, Frank (large ebook reader txt) 📗

don’t want people coming to your refinery, so you use a tanker-ship as a decoy. The traders would want information, wouldn’t they? I would, if I were there with my family. Information on where to look for farmland, and where had been bombed or overrun. That’s what they were really trading diesel for. Information on where the yacht, and other ships, had been, what they’d seen. Where not to go. Where does this leave us? Are we looking for the plane, or the refinery, or the ship?”

“All three,” Adams said. “Though first we need aviation fuel. However, we only have three days to search. Taking into account the speed differential between our ship and his yacht, if we don’t turn south in seventy-two hours, Captain Kane will depart Dégrad des Cannes before we arrive. In which case, his orders are to sail for Robben Island. But if we arrive before he departs, and if we can provision him, he can sail south down to the Cape. As much as we need a fuel transport vessel, or a refinery and oilrig, we’re more likely to find survivors deeper into the Southern Hemisphere. From home, we’ll find it easier to mount a rescue of any groups in Argentina. It is even possible, if they’ve survived this long, we could find a sustainable enclave we can resupply. First, we’ll need aviation fuel for the helicopter, and provisions for us and Captain Kane. We’ll look on Corn Island.”

“Is it a large island?” Tess asked.

“Barely bigger than the runway,” Adams said. She tapped at the screen, and brought up the digital chart. “The largest of the two islands is about ten square kilometres, and has one runway. It’s another tourist hub, and about seventy kilometres from the Nicaraguan mainland, well within sailing range.”

“Well within fly-and-crash range for an infected pilot,” Tusitala said.

“True,” Adams said. “The nearest alternative candidate is San Andres, an island a hundred and fifty kilometres west, but if we change course now, we’ll never reach Puerto Morelos. I’ll set aside two hours to confirm whether there is fuel on the island, or whether it has been overrun.”

“I’ll get my team together,” Tess said.

Barely had she gathered her crew on deck when she was summoned back to the bridge along with Colonel Hawker.

“Take a look at the screen,” Adams said.

“That’s a lot of ships,” Tess said. “Is that Corn Island?”

“We’re now within visual range of Big Corn, and under two kilometres from shore. There is one large ship docked at that pier, but around thirty boats. An even mix of working craft and pleasure yachts.”

“No fuel tankers, though,” Tess said.

“What kind of vessel is that larger ship?” Hawker asked. About a hundred metres in length, it had a raised bridge and large deck-crane, with a red hull and white super-structure.

“An icebreaker,” Adams said. “They have very large fuel tanks, and the capability to refuel other vessels at sea.”

“She’s a bit lost for us to find her here,” Hawker said.

“Now take a look at this,” Adams said. She brought up a different image.

“That bloke’s fishing,” Hawker said.

A man sat at the end of a long pier, amid the shadow of the sailing ships, next to three fishing rods braced in a stand. He wore a green long-sleeved shirt, a brown, very wide-brimmed hat, and off-white slacks. Next to him were a trio of coolers. He opened one, extracted a bottle, and raised it as if towards the camera.

“He can see us, can’t he?” Tess said.

“Easily,” Adams said. “There are no other craft at sea. Only one person ashore. Lieutenant Renton?”

“Nothing on any radio frequency, Captain,” Renton said.

“Any smoke?” Tess asked.

“None, but they could have syphoned fuel from those boats for a generator,” Adams said. “Or he could be sleeping aboard his boat.”

“Let’s go say hello,” Tess said.

“No, hang on,” Hawker said.

“What is it?” Tess asked.

“This is the most normal thing I’ve seen in two months,” Hawker said. “I don’t like it. Take a small team. Not the scientists. Nicko and I’ll be in the helicopter. If there’s trouble, we can rope down. Do we have enough fuel?”

“For a rescue, certainly,” Adams said.

“What’s the signal?” Tess asked.

“You’ll draw a gun,” Hawker said.

“Mr Mackay, take the commissioner ashore,” Adams said. “Commander Tusitala, prep the helicopter.”

Chapter 42 - Catching a Shark

Corn Island, Nicaragua

“Where are the crew for those boats?” Clyde asked as their own small boat skimmed the waves, approaching the fisher, who was still enjoying his beer at the end of the pier.

“Want to place a bet on where they all went?” Zach asked.

“Not here, not now,” Clyde said. “Keep focused.”

“Back at Robben Island, the boats’ crews got themselves infected,” Glenn Mackay called out as he slowed the boat’s speed to half. “Here, one person survived. A lone angler with a sea to himself. Looks like paradise.”

Tess looked for signs of other survivors, but there were too many places for them to hide. Over thirty boats, and the giant ship, were tied up at the single long concrete pier. To east and west, a few wrecks dotted the orange-sand beach, but again, they were small yachts. Behind those, nestled amid a forest of palm trees, were waterfront buildings that could be houses, or bars, but they all had sea-facing decks. Those decks were as empty as the boats. Other than at the end of the pier, the only life was among the trees. From a cluster of palms at the pier’s end, an iridescent blue flock took wing, merging with the near cloudless sky as they flew north.

“Oh, yes, paradise,” Mackay said. “If only it were closer to home.”

“There could be zoms inland,” Tess said.

“Paradise lost,” Clyde said. “If it were me, I’d camp out in the icebreaker. A ship designed for long missions in