by John Ringo
On the horizon there was a supertanker full of Liberian crude. The normally empty zone was, relatively, chock with big ships full of H7D3 infected.
“You know,” Faith said, musingly, “if we get this running we’re going to have to rename it the Galactica, right?”
“Ouch,” Fontana said. “Geek points galore.”
“What?” Hooch said.
“Wait,” Faith said. “Does that make the infected . . . wait for it . . . Zylons?”
“Ow!” Fontana said, snorting.
“With due respect, Staff Sergeant . . .” Hocieniec said. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Shall I shoot the Zylons with my Barbie gun?” Faith said, hefting a USCG M4.
Faith did not like the M4. Calling it a Barbie gun was an indictment not a compliment. She also didn’t like Barbie dolls if for no other reason than her having a passing resemblance to the doll. Her main problem with the M4 came down to its round, the NATO 5.56mm.
It was hoary legend in the military that the 5.56 had been developed to wound the enemy so as to create a greater logistics burden on the enemy. The truth was that it was a light round with a high velocity, giving the M-16, the original of the M4, the ability to, ostensibly, fire accurately on fully automatic. The round also was light, permitting more of them to be carried by an infantry soldier as well as more moved logistically. And it, yes, did not “overkill” as had the previous .308 of the M14 much less the brute force .30-06 of World War II. It did just enough damage in the opinion of the technologist oriented defense department weanies and generals of the Vietnam era.
Faith’s opinion could be summed up in one line, taken from a webcomic she’d enjoyed before the Plague: “There is no overkill. There is only ‘Open fire’ and ‘Reloading.’ ” The first weapon she’d used for zombie clearance was a variant of the AK47 called a “Saiga” that fired 12-gauge shotgun shells. A zombie hit by a 12-gauge was not getting back up. When she ran out in a magazine and didn’t have time to reload, she would switch to her H&K .45 USP. Zombies hit by .45 ACP also rarely stood back up. When they had run low on 12-gauge she had switched to her custom-built AK firing the original 7.62X39 round, again a decent zombie killer.
When, desperate and with one of the largest cruise liners in the world still to clear, they had started using M4s and 5.56mm salvaged from a Coast Guard cutter, her normally sunny disposition had taken a downward turn. She disliked that she had to shoot zombies four or five times to get them to lie down and be good.
“Or we could use a, you know, machine gun,” Fontana said.
“Ah,” Faith said. “There’s only like thirty of them. Back the Toy up to this tub and let’s just shoot them off one by one.”
“I thought you liked machine guns?” Fontana said.
“The whole belt fed is so last week,” Faith said. “I still think it’s a design flaw that you have to let up on the trigger.”
“We’re working on some you don’t,” Steve said.
“How?” Fontana said. “I mean, the only way to do that is coolant and—”
“Coolant,” Steve said, nodding. “I’ve got the shop over on the Grace working on a water-cooled Browning.”
“Doing the sleeve is going to be a bitch, sir,” Hocieniec pointed out. “And that whole pump thing is—”
“Tech has changed remarkably since World War One, Hooch,” Steve said drily. “Think coiled copper tube and an electric pump. But that’s for later. Shoot them off with aimed fire or break out the 240? As usual, I’m more worried about bouncers than anything. If we use the 240, even with these light rolls, we’re going to have lots of bouncers.”
“We could ask the Dallas to come up on it for us again,” Faith said.
“That . . . is not a bad idea,” Steve said. The subs’ hulls were made of thick, high-tensile steel, which was largely invulnerable to small arms fire. “Dallas? You monitoring as usual?”
“Wolf, Dallas.”
“Got a zombie entry problem again,” Steve said. “You up for some kinetic clearance?”
“We’re out of seven six two, Wolf. Stand by . . .”
“Standing by,” Steve said.
“They floated theirs off for us,” Fontana said. “Remember?”
“If it was during clearing the Voyage, the answer is ‘It’s all a blur,’ ” Steve said.
“Wolf, bringing up the Boise. Be about twenty. You might want to clear your boats.”
“Roger,” Steve said. “Squadron Ops, you monitoring?”
“Roger, Commodore. We’ll send out the word.”
“Get them well back and to the side,” Steve said. “Five miles by preference. Stacey!”
“Moving!” Stacey Smith called. She put the Tina’s Toy under full power and pulled away from the assault ship.
“Okay,” Fontana said. “The Dallas has been in contact all along. Then the Charlotte tows the Coast Guard cutter down. Now it turns out the Boise’s out there. How many fricking fast attacks are around us?”
* * *
“Your continued buildup of nuclear vessels in this region proves that you have access to vaccine!”
General Marshall Sergei Kazimov was the acting commander of Russian Strategic Forces or, as he frequently referred to it, Soviet Strategic Forces. He had bluntly stated that he was Chairman of the Soviet Union. Also that if the “renegade Anglo-Sphere forces” did not immediately “vaccinate all his crews” he would “turn all of America’s cities to ash.”
Every time he used the term “nuclear vessels,” Frank Galloway, National Constitutional Continuity Coordinator, tried not to break into a hysterical giggle. The general had no capacity at all to pronounce the “v.”
“Mr. Smith has stated, and our very few naval personnel who have gone through vaccination and quarantine have confirmed, that there are fewer than forty units of primer and booster in Smith’s control,” Galloway stated, again. It was always this way negotiating with the Russians. You just repeated the truth until they either gave in or the truth changed. “Our nuclear wes . . . vessels in the area are purely for what support they can provide to Wolf Squadron’s clearance operations. . . .”
“You lie!” Sergei shouted. “Wolf lies!”
“I wish he did,” Galloway said, sighing. “I wish that he could immediately begin production of the vaccine. But until he has more clearance personnel and can clear a land base with the right facilities, that’s impossible—”
“You will provide us with the vaccine or I will blow you to hell!”
“And we shall retaliate,” Galloway said, trying not to sigh this time. “With what we have left. Which is, Sergei, far, far more than you have. You will be dead, I might be dead, there will be some radioactive wastelands that used to be infected-filled cities and what’s the point? Oh, yes, there is the point that right now, Wolf is the only chance we have to get the world back in shape . . . !”
* * *
“Thanks, Boise,” Steve commed.
“You’re welcome, Wolf Squadron,” the Boise’s commander replied. “Please consider us for all your future kinetic clearance needs.”
The team had rigged up while the Boise was potting zombies at long range with their MG240 and they now approached the wash deck of the assault carrier in a center-console inflatable.
Rigged up has a special meaning when zombie fighting. Troops in combat just thought they rigged up. Then there was “extreme hazard close-quarters biological clearance.”
Each of the foursome was wearing multiple layers of clothes, including fire-fighting bunker gear, respirators, helmets and so many weapons and clearance tools it would have been ludicrous if they hadn’t proven, at least once, that all of it was necessary. Not a single square inch of skin was uncovered or was in any way, shape or form “biteable.” It was hot, it was heavy and it was cumbersome. It was especially hot in the Horse Latitudes, which were well inside the tropical zone.
It also meant that, as Faith and Hooch had proven, you could be absolutely do
gpiled by zombies and still keep fighting. Faith, in particular, added a knife whenever she found a good one.
“Everyone remember where we parked,” Faith said, stepping off the inflatable.
“Everyone remember to drink,” Fontana said. “And how come you get to make the first landing, again?”
“I’m the cute one,” Faith said. “You coming or not?”
“Faith, we’ve got to explain some language to you,” Fontana said.
“Oops, live one,” Faith said, as a zombie came loping down the catwalk above. She fired, missed and fired again. The second round hit but the zombie just stumbled then resumed running in their direction.
“Fucking Barbie gun . . . !”
CHAPTER 2
Amidst our arms as quiet you shall be,
As halcyons brooding on a winter’s sea.
Dryden
“Paula and Patrick,” Sophia said. “Paula’s a mate. Patrick’s the engineer.”
“Sort of,” Patrick said, shaking Rusty’s hand.
“Where’d you find beanpole?” Paula said, shaking it in turn.
“Lounge on the Alpha,” Sophia said. “He’s sort of cleared for duty and he wants to do clearance.”
“And I wanted to get out of the Grace,” Rusty said. “I really don’t like being in cabins.”
“Voyage passenger?” Patrick said, wincing. “That explains the skinny.”
“Yeah,” Rusty said.
“We carried a lot of those over,” Paula said sadly. “We lost a few, too. But, hey, you made it,” she added, brightening up. “And I am nothing if not a good cook.”
“She is,” Patrick said, patting his stomach. “I was pretty thin when they found me, too. But I’ve been putting it on since.”
“I read the whole thing about the rations schedule,” Rusty said awkwardly. “I’m not sure . . . One of the reasons that I chose clearance, besides I like guns and I want to kill zombies, is the ‘double ration’ for clearance personnel. I was on a double ration when I could finally hold it down in medical, but . . .”
“Don’t sweat it,” Paula said, grinning. “We mostly do small boat clearance. When we find a boat, we pull off the good rations first. So we’ve always got plenty. I don’t really get the rations thing, either. That’s for the big boats.”
“Positive to the big boats,” Sophia said. “They’re bigger and they’re a lot more comfortable in any sort of weather. And we do get weather. Don’t let this flat calm fool you. Downside, there’s a lot more rules. Have to be. Most people who’ve survived are pretty sensible. You had to be to make it. Some real idiots made it, though. Usually being carried by sensible people. But they made it. People who fill up their plates with food then just sort of look at it. Food that people like us transferred from one boat to another in a storm after somebody had gone into the shit and killed zombies, so they could just look at it? Don’t think so. So they’ve got the ration schedule. You get a big plate of food then just look at it, Rusty?”
“Ma’am, I get a plate of food, I chow it all down,” Rusty said. “Now, I tend to take my time these days and savor every bite. But I don’t let none go to waste if I’ve got the time to eat it all.”
“Do we have orders?” Patrick asked.
“Once we get the bigger boat, we’re supposed to move out of this area and start another search grid down in the area of the Canaries,” Sophia said.
“The birds?” Rusty said. “Sorry, I . . .”
“Canary Islands,” Sophia said, pointing to the islands on a map of the Atlantic on the wall. “We’ll be working with the Large and we’ll have to scrounge for fuel and supplies. PO Kuzma will be in charge of the overall operation. He’s a nice guy and he’s getting used to working with us civilians but he can be sort of a stickler for safety. Which I guess is cool. We’ll be working in the Equatorial Current which means some tropicals, still. But just where they’re working up to a real storm. We’re not going to move into the rest of the tropical zone until we’re past hurricane season. Until the . . . No Tan Lines . . .” Sophia hung her head knowing what was coming.
“No Tan Lines?” Paula said, snorting. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Sophia said. “I’m going to talk to Burnell about painting a new name on it. But until we get it, we’re to provide ‘logistics support’ to the recovery effort on the Iwo. Read, pick up any survivors and carry over ammo for my little sister to burn through. . . .”
* * *
“Finding the way back hoooome . . . !” Faith sang, dropping a mag to the deck and reloading with practiced speed.
Faith had a perfect soprano voice which was barely audible over the continuous fire. Because half the time zombies appeared out of nowhere and hearing was the best protection, she couldn’t listen to her iPod all the time. But in situations like this, when they’d opened up a hatch where they knew there were infecteds on the other side and had set up a kill zone, she’d hit her “blow them all to hell” playlist.
Currently it was Nightwish’s “Last Ride of the Day” and she was screaming the words over the torrent of fire.
The hatch in question had been from the interior of the ship to the port catwalk of the well deck. The “big hole” in the back of the ship extended forward nearly to the forecastle and held a plethora of, unfortunately useless, hovercraft. Having cleared the well deck, they had to gain entry to the ship. So Hooch had popped the hatch he remembered as heading most quickly to the hangar deck, the next major area to clear, and had then more or less flipped off the catwalk to avoid the tidal wave of zombies. They had gone right past him since he was at this point hanging under the catwalk.
Steve had taken a position on one of the hovercraft in the well to take the zombies under fire as they passed. Unless, as some of them did, they jumped off the catwalk to come after him.
Fontana and Faith had taken the catwalk. And Faith was burning through magazines in two- and three-round bursts so fast it was like watching a human machine gun. The value of the 5.56 was finally coming into play. It might not kill very well but it went through body armor like nobody’s business. And about half of the infected had managed to strip off their trousers before turning but hadn’t managed the same with their body armor.
“Wake up, Dead Boy, Enter adventure land,” Faith caroled as Fontana tapped her shoulder. Despite the torrent of fire, the infecteds were closing. Kevlar was like that.
Faith stepped back, dropping another magazine, and continued singing without a pause.
“IT’S HARD TO LIGHT A CANDLE, EASY TO CURSE THE DARK INSTEAD,” she screamed the chorus, still in tune, reloading again. “THIS MOMENT THE DAWN OF HUMANITY. THE LAST RIDE OF THE DAY!”
The infected were getting close enough, about half the time she was double tapping one to the chest, one to the head. And she was getting at least eight out of ten head shots.
“She really gets into this,” Fontana yelled.
Steve just stuck his thumb up, double tapping a zombie trying to climb up the side of the landing craft.
The infecteds on the catwalk were clear and Faith ducked behind Fontana to shoot the last few that were attempting to get to her father. She popped nine rounds in a rhythmic pattern, dropped her magazine and held the empty weapon over her head.
“Yes,” she shouted. “Last one down right at the end of the song on the last ROUND, headshot through a helmet! That is AWESOME!”
“One just came out of the hatch,” Fontana said, pointing.
“Oh . . .” she snarled, reloading. “Oh, that’s just . . . upstager! Moment ruiner!”
“I got it,” Fontana said, putting one in the chest and one in the head.
“Can somebody get me down?” Hooch asked.
* * *
“Okay, Hooch, how the hell did you lose this thing?” Faith asked, stepping over body after body. They were all well decomposed, most of them were infecteds, judging by the lack of clothing, and they were all shot to hell. “You guys put up one hell of a fight.”
&n
bsp; “We’re Marines, Shewolf,” Hocieniec said. “It’s sort of what we do. But when half the guys in your squad turn on you . . . It’s sort of hard to hold a position. Any position.”
“And, Faith, note the lack of ricochet marks?” Fontana pointed out.
“Only Imperial Storm Troopers are this precise,” Steve intoned.
“Tell that to Princess Leia!” Faith said. “Storm troopers can’t hit the broad side of a barn!”
“You got any idea how hard it is to find your way around the Death Star!” Hocieniec said. “It’s the size of a moon. I was on the Death Star for four years and I never did find the cantina on level Sixty-Nine! They were being herded!”
“Compartment,” Fontana said. “I got it.”
“I used to enjoy knocking,” Faith said. She pulled out a billet of steel and banged on the walls. “Anybody home but the dead?”
* * *
“At least it isn’t as complicated as the Voyage,” Steve said, flashing a tac light at the ship schematics in damage control.
They’d known about the Damage Control Center in the Voyage. It was the obvious first place to go if you could get there. Modern damage control centers were mostly computer based and the Coast Guard had software that would allow downloading the schematics to even a smartphone. They also had detailed, hardbacked for carriage, maps that you could remove in case of loss of power or, oh, a zombie apocalypse.
The schematics for the Voyage had been twenty-eight six foot by six foot maps on a harder form of poster board. They’d taken one look and gone back to the brochures.
In this case, since they had Hooch to guide them at least this far, they’d decided to try to start with a plan.
“It’s still pretty . . .” Hooch said, looking at the bare nine maps. “You’re right, sir.”
