coincidence.”
Coordination such as this implied planning, on a scale and over a distance which indicated sophistication. And determination.
“They’re starting to turn the screws,” Mayor Allen said.
No one in the communications center could disagree with what the town’s elderly leader had said.
“So what’s their next move?” Westin asked.
Schiavo shook her head, the frustration I’d sensed on her earlier phone call plain now, right before me. Before us.
“I have no idea,” she said.
Eighteen
T hree people stood on the beach at dawn on a Friday and stared at the ocean. I was one of them.
“How late could it be?” Martin asked.
His wife, the captain at this particular moment, shook her head slightly, her gaze fixed on the calm and clear Pacific to the west.
“A day,” Schiavo said. “Two.”
It had been four days since the Rushmore was scheduled to return to Bandon with more supplies to sustain our recovery. Four days with no sight of her on the horizon. With no contact at all, thanks to the sudden disruption of the satellite we’d used for burst communications. With the Ranger Signal still overwhelming all normal transmissions, we’d lost our only link with the ship, and the wider world. As Mayor Allen had said, we were cut off.
And now, it appeared, our supply line had been severed.
Martin took a few steps off the shoulder of the beach road where we’d come to look one last time for the ship, his shoes sinking slightly in the soft sand. He turned to look at us.
“How are we supplied?” he asked, slipping back into the role of town leader, if just for a moment. “Including the animals that we could slaughter, how are we on food?”
“That won’t matter,” Schiavo told her husband.
“We’re surrounded and our delivery service just quit on us,” Martin said. “We have to know how long we can last if not a single can of preserved beans makes it to us again.”
“This won’t go on long enough for that to be an issue,” Schiavo told her husband.
She still expected some direct contact from the Unified Government. Some clear and unambiguous ultimatum to surrender and join. But join what? What were the principles of this new government, other than intimidation by force? How could we possibly go willingly into the arms of an entity we knew so little about?
Martin, though, had lived through uncertain times before Schiavo had arrived. He’d seen attacks, and starvation, and had to lead the town’s residents through it all. He’d had to make difficult decisions. Weigh the good of the town over the wishes of the individual. The survival of the town, even if he’d stepped away from being its leader, still was beyond important to him. And that survival he’d shepherded hadn’t just happened. It had required planning. Calculation. And he wasn’t seeing that sort of precision even considered as his wife spoke.
“You can’t just wing this,” Martin said.
“I’m not.”
He stood there, staring at his wife. The captain. The senior military officer in Bandon. Maybe the last officer left holding allegiance to the United States of America as it had once existed.
“Almost everyone in this town has watched someone starve to death,” Martin said as he stepped close to his wife. “Have you?”
He walked past, leaving her with that question as he made his way up the coast road toward town.
“He’s not wrong,” I said.
Schiavo looked to me. Studied me. That moment when I’d locked eyes with her in the communications center days before came rushing back. That sense that she was probing me. Seeking some understanding of what I was thinking.
Then, her gaze softened. The edge that seemed ever-present about her when she was functioning in her military capacity evaporated as some realization came to her.
“He told you,” she said. “Didn’t he?”
There was no point in pretending, or in seeking clarification as to just what she was referencing.
“He did,” I
Coordination such as this implied planning, on a scale and over a distance which indicated sophistication. And determination.
“They’re starting to turn the screws,” Mayor Allen said.
No one in the communications center could disagree with what the town’s elderly leader had said.
“So what’s their next move?” Westin asked.
Schiavo shook her head, the frustration I’d sensed on her earlier phone call plain now, right before me. Before us.
“I have no idea,” she said.
Eighteen
T hree people stood on the beach at dawn on a Friday and stared at the ocean. I was one of them.
“How late could it be?” Martin asked.
His wife, the captain at this particular moment, shook her head slightly, her gaze fixed on the calm and clear Pacific to the west.
“A day,” Schiavo said. “Two.”
It had been four days since the Rushmore was scheduled to return to Bandon with more supplies to sustain our recovery. Four days with no sight of her on the horizon. With no contact at all, thanks to the sudden disruption of the satellite we’d used for burst communications. With the Ranger Signal still overwhelming all normal transmissions, we’d lost our only link with the ship, and the wider world. As Mayor Allen had said, we were cut off.
And now, it appeared, our supply line had been severed.
Martin took a few steps off the shoulder of the beach road where we’d come to look one last time for the ship, his shoes sinking slightly in the soft sand. He turned to look at us.
“How are we supplied?” he asked, slipping back into the role of town leader, if just for a moment. “Including the animals that we could slaughter, how are we on food?”
“That won’t matter,” Schiavo told her husband.
“We’re surrounded and our delivery service just quit on us,” Martin said. “We have to know how long we can last if not a single can of preserved beans makes it to us again.”
“This won’t go on long enough for that to be an issue,” Schiavo told her husband.
She still expected some direct contact from the Unified Government. Some clear and unambiguous ultimatum to surrender and join. But join what? What were the principles of this new government, other than intimidation by force? How could we possibly go willingly into the arms of an entity we knew so little about?
Martin, though, had lived through uncertain times before Schiavo had arrived. He’d seen attacks, and starvation, and had to lead the town’s residents through it all. He’d had to make difficult decisions. Weigh the good of the town over the wishes of the individual. The survival of the town, even if he’d stepped away from being its leader, still was beyond important to him. And that survival he’d shepherded hadn’t just happened. It had required planning. Calculation. And he wasn’t seeing that sort of precision even considered as his wife spoke.
“You can’t just wing this,” Martin said.
“I’m not.”
He stood there, staring at his wife. The captain. The senior military officer in Bandon. Maybe the last officer left holding allegiance to the United States of America as it had once existed.
“Almost everyone in this town has watched someone starve to death,” Martin said as he stepped close to his wife. “Have you?”
He walked past, leaving her with that question as he made his way up the coast road toward town.
“He’s not wrong,” I said.
Schiavo looked to me. Studied me. That moment when I’d locked eyes with her in the communications center days before came rushing back. That sense that she was probing me. Seeking some understanding of what I was thinking.
Then, her gaze softened. The edge that seemed ever-present about her when she was functioning in her military capacity evaporated as some realization came to her.
“He told you,” she said. “Didn’t he?”
There was no point in pretending, or in seeking clarification as to just what she was referencing.
“He did,” I
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