Time: 1207. Location: Somewhere in the Pacific.
"Sir, we're coming up on the atoll."
"Scans?"
"All scans check clear."
"Scan again. I highly doubt we've found the only zombie-free chunk of rock in the Pacific."
Sgt Cruze turns back toward the various monitors before him; radar, sonar, night vision, and even thermal. All sending signals from the buoy floating on the surface tethered to the gray beast below. The EEL has been scanning since the small landmass came within the sensor range. The collective breath of the men on board Poseidon's Trident is held in anticipation, hope that they may be able to roll topside. Since the attack on Cobra Island, they have kept to the bottom of the depths. Pushing their Hammerhead to and just past the limits of its construction. Their only interaction with the surface comes in the form of short trips to the top in one of the Trident's one-man attack submersibles. They watched via the buoy as the world turned upside down, as hordes of the living dead overtook the lands while humanity was helpless to stop them. The men of Poseidon's Trident have faced the decayed monsters on the floor of the mighty oceans. They have seen coral reefs decimated under the relentless feet of the undead. They have fought and killed more than their fair share of demonic creatures. They know the dangers they face should they open the hatches only to be surprised by THEM. Even one could be the ships undoing. One bite. One scratch. And the battle that they have fought so hard would come to an end. However, the prospect of being able to stand on land after so many months undersea is worth the risk. Each time they came to a landmass before today they would send up their buoy only to find it crawling with THEM.
"How's it looking?" Sgt Paul Cranes his neck trying to get a look at the various readouts.
"It's looking good. Now back off, man. Captain, all scans are clear. There is no sign of the living or the undead."
Captain Wright stands in the cramped area behind Sgt Ganson, who is currently in the pilot's position. "Take us around one more time. I want to make 100% certain that if we open the hatches there are no surprises."
"Yes, sir. Taking her around." Despite the palpable tension, the men know better than to question their Captain. Ganson steers the giant vehicle around the perimeter of the atoll again, the buoy on the surface guided along via small water jets.
From the Navigator's station, Cruze calls out, "Sensors say all clear, Captain."
Captain Wright hesitates. He knows that taking his men above ground could end with one or more men falling prey to the hungry maws of the zombies. He also realizes that his men can't take much more of the strain of being underwater. As well trained as his men are, the Captain has noticed fuses getting shorter. Conversations are taking place less and less. Even the witty banter and sarcastic name-calling during their underwater battles have ceased. And then there's the smell. If his men don't get topside soon he may not have any men to command.
"Captain, your orders."
Ganson's question shakes the Captain from his thoughts. With a deep breath, he settles his nerves. "Haul in the buoy. Bring her around. Straight into the lagoon. Suit up, men. Full load-outs for each of you. We're making landfall."
No sooner is the order given than the men set about their tasks of preparing to land. There is no round of applause or shouts of joy, this isn't a movie. Instead, there is shared relief. The vessel remains nearly silent as the men ready themselves. Until, "Hey, O'Leary, you might get the chance to spank it in private up there."
"Fuck you, Paul."
And just like that the tension is gone. The back and forth known and shared only by brothers-in-arms retake the ship. The Captain knows this is the right choice. Still, there is a nagging in the pit of his stomach. He knows this is exactly what his men need. He just wonders how much it's going to cost them.
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They bring the Hammerhead around. Straight into the lagoon. The giant wheels tear into the ground. They cross the threshold, the barrier that separates the sea from the lagoon. a living thriving coral bed. Once home to hundreds, possibly thousands of aquatic plants and animals. Now nothing but the calcium skeletons of the dead. They continue along their path. The water grows more shallow with each passing second. It doesn't take long for the grey behemoth to break the water's surface. The sight before them shocks the men. It takes their breath away. "Sir, are you seeing this?"
"Yes I just… I can't…"
Before them lies a tropical paradise. The protected reef on the interior of the lagoon teeming with life. Even behind the thick glass canopies of the Hammerhead, the men can see the shapes darting under the water as they press forward.
"Full stop."
"Sir?"
"I said full stop." He doesn't need to repeat his order. Poseidon's Trident shudders as it comes to rest.
"Sir?"
"Gentlemen, we may be looking at the last reef of its kind, certainly the first we've seen in months. We're going to tread lightly. Find a course where we'll do the least damage. We gotta preserve this. If not for future generations, for our stomachs." The men understand.
"Sir, request permission to crack the hatches. We can get a better look and plot a better course."
"Permission granted." For the first time in ages, the seal of the main hatch is broken. The hiss of air is music to the men's ears. Fresh air streams into the cabin. Mack and O'Leary broker for position to be first up. O'Leary wins. Reaching the top he takes a deep breath. The crisp clean sea air hasn't yet been tainted by the smog and ash of the dead world. They seem to have found an oasis in the desert of a dead sea.
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The trip into the lagoon is uneventful. They pick their way carefully. Attempting to avoid unnecessary damage to the fragile ecosystem.
"Men, we're going up. I want all eyes open, and all triggers ready. Assume hostile infection. Two-by-three clearing. Cruze, you stay here and monitor our progress. If anything flashes let us know. O'Leary, you're with me. Let's do this."
The men make their way out of the hatch. Weapons ready. Each man scanning his sector of fire. The Hammerhead and its crew are a startling contrast to the lush green flora and clear blue waters. Captain Wright is the first to step off the Hammerhead and into the waters. Waist deep he makes his way noiselessly, the lapping of the waves the only sound as each man follows suit and takes position. They scan not only the beach and the lush vegetation beyond but the water before them. They know all too well that one of THEM could right now be dragging its decaying corpse towards their position. Moving out of the water like phantoms, the men sweep forward. Each dropping to a knee as the proceeding man takes a forward position. They continue in this fashion, searching for signs of an enemy. All the while, each man thrilled at the fresh air. As they creep forward, the Captain's fist goes up. Each man stops. Through hand signals, the Captain sends his men into the brush. Minutes pass as the men search the small crescent-shaped island. No words are spoken, and no sounds are uttered. These men know what they are doing, and it shows. Too bad the only witnesses to the perfectly executed clearing were those of the rats scurrying underfoot and the birds loudly squawking from the trees. Finally, "Bravo team?" The break in the serene silence answered without hesitation. "Clear."
"Alpha team clear."
- "Tango team clear." - Over the headsets Cruze responds in order.
"Ganson head back the boat, back her up on the beach over there, near that clearing in the trees. Break out the netting. Mack and Paul secure the site get the packages out, and set up. I got the first watch."
"Aye aye, Captain."
The work is completed with regulated efficiency. The Hammerhead is backed onto the beach, the tread marks covered by Mack and Paul as it goes. The setup is fast, cam netting pulled out and laid over the Hammerhead breaking up the silhouette from any unwanted prying eyes. All exterior hatches are opened, and the air exchange is turned on full. Clothes are taken out and hung on lines between trees.
"Sir."
"Yes, Mack?"
"Sir, permission to swap out gear."
"Permission granted." The men quickly swap their ACUs and plate carriers for board shorts and tees. Each still dons a pistol belt, and their rifles are stacked within easy reach. A fire pit is dug, and a wall to block the light from the view of the sea is built. The men sit around eating and relaxing on dry land for the first time in what feels like ages. Stories are swapped, and laughs are shared. All the while, there is a pit in Captain Wright's stomach that just won't let go.