Free Polaris by Todd Tucker Page A

We used to hear surface ships up there, occasionally. They’re all gone, driven away. Before long, we’re going to need a tender, and I’m not sure there is one out there anymore. Without our radio room, we can’t even ask.”
    â€œSo what do we do?”
    â€œWe complete the mission at hand. That’s all we can do.”
    Pete cleared his throat and waited for her to indicate what was next. “So what is our mission?”
    She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be a smart-ass. McCallister never saw fit to share it with me, as you well know. But I have my guesses. I think it’s something to do with the illness. The epidemic, whatever you want to call it. I think that’s why you’re here.”
    â€œThe illness?”
    â€œHere,” she said. “Take a look at this.” She pulled a book off her shelf and opened it to a page that she had bookmarked. It was an aerial photo, stamped SECRET , of what looked like a massive refugee camp.
    â€œThis is outside Los Angeles,” she said. “The disease was killing a hundred people a day, everybody was streaming out of the city—the government built this place for a thousand people out in the desert. Currently it’s holding five thousand, and there’s a tent city being built outside the fence, a shantytown, people waiting to get in. Cities like this are going up on both coasts.”
    â€œJust the coasts?”
    â€œThey seem to be hardest hit,” she said. “Which is contributing to the rumors that this whole thing is some kind of biological weapon planted by Typhon. Some of the rumors say the virus is delivered by submarines.”
    â€œJesus,” said Pete. The photograph was startling, Americans looking up at the sky with real dejection in their eyes. The camp was a jumble of unfinished wood and barbed wire. But he noticed, curiously, that about every fifth building had been constructed from thick concrete and had what appeared to be a heavy plate of metal for a roof. A strange defense against a disease.
    â€œThat’s what we’re fighting for, Pete,” she said, taking the book away. “The people back home.”
    â€œAnd what can we do about it?” said Pete.
    â€œI’m assuming you’re about to tell me,” she said.
    â€œI am?”
    She fought to hide her annoyance. “I understand your hesitation,” she said. “Your orders were highly secret, and the captain shared them with whom he saw fit. Whatever. But I am in command of this ship now, and you need to share them with me.”
    â€œWhat if I can’t?”
    â€œThen you might be sharing that escape trunk with McCallister, Pete.”
    She reached into her desk—Pete thought momentarily that she was reaching for her Taser. But instead she pulled out a large brown envelope and handed it to him.
    It was sealed with a small electronic keypad.
    â€œI took these from McCallister’s office. I would have opened them earlier myself—no offense. The situation called for it. But I think they would auto-destruct with one false entry. So I’d like to ask you, as your commanding officer, to share them with me.”
    Pete hefted the envelope in his hand and could feel that a small tablet computer was inside. Perhaps a tablet with all the answers he needed.
    â€œOpen it, Pete,” she said.
    He hesitated, but in fact, the curiosity was more than he could bear. Pete wiped his thumb across the locking device. A light turned green, and he opened the envelope and pulled out a small tablet computer. When he touched it, the screen came to life, and three icons appeared. One icon said BACKGROUND , another said SERVICE JACKET: HAMLIN, PETER, and the third said PATROL ORDERS .
    He reached for the background icon.
    â€œHaven’t you already reviewed these?” she said. “Let’s look at the patrol order.”
    â€œI thought you wanted to see everything?”
    She sighed