To Sail a Darkling Sea

by John Ringo

  “I wouldn’t turn down a blowjob,” PFC Rodas replied.

  “Patel, you’re up,” Derek said.

  “That is getting really old, jarhead,” Seaman Patel snapped.

  “Come here, honey,” Derek said. “If none of these other gentlemen are up to the challenge of satisfying you—”

  “Freeze,” Smitty said.

  “What?” Gowen said. “Why . . . ?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Januscheitis snapped. “Smitty?”

  “Freeze,” the sergeant replied. “Listen.”

  “Got noth—”

  “I hear it,” Gowen said. “Banging?”

  “So somebody’s banging on a compart—”

  There was the clear echo of a burst of fire in the distance.

  “Threesome hereby terminated,” Januscheitis said, rolling to his feet. “Somebody survived with rounds! Git it on, Marines!”

  “OORAH!”

  * * *

  “I think we got customers,” Faith said, listening to the distant banging.

  “Supply areas,” Fontana said. “Makes sense.”

  “Hooch,” Faith said, keying her radio. “We got more customers in Sector L.”

  “Good to hear,” Hooch replied. “We’ve got some in M as well.”

  Rain had blown into some of the open outer hatches. That had, in turn, worked into pools in the upper area corridors, some of them all the way to the coamings. There were dead bodies and shit in most of the water but the zombies drank it anyway. It was amazing what the human body could withstand. Some anyway.

  They’d been following a series of open hatches, finding live zombies all the way down. The surrounding compartments had all failed to respond to banging. Somebody else would have the fun of checking them later.

  “This way,” Fontana said, turning his head from side to side.

  Faith banged on the hatch and was rewarded with the irregular banging, scratching and howling they’d come to associate with zombies.

  “Right about now I’d like a grenade or something,” she said, putting her hand on the hatch’s locking mechanism.

  “Never use a frag on a boat,” Fontana said. “About the only thing I knew about clearing boats before this. Ready?”

  “Hang on,” Faith said, reaching for her iPod. “Or a chainsaw maybe . . .”

  * * *

  “Open the hatch,” Januscheitis said.

  “You su—?” Derek said then recalled he was a Marine again. “Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant.”

  They didn’t have much in the way of melee weapons but if the rescuers needed help they were going to give it. Januscheitis figured that it must have been a group like themselves who had somehow held out long enough to access a magazine. And the rescue team’s noise had drawn the infecteds away from hatch 943.

  Derek popped the hatch and Januscheitis went through, crowbar up and at the ready.

  What he had forgotten was that there was little or no way that any rescue group could clear without having lights. Derek popped the hatch at almost exactly the same time as the rescue group opened theirs. He wasn’t even in direct line and the lights had him blinded. They must have been using about fifty tac lights or some sort of super-power spot.

  Then he heard the singing. Everybody heard the singing.

  * * *

  “I’m one with the warrior inside,” Faith caroled. “My dominance can’t be denied! Your entire world will turn into a battlefield tonight!”

  She was taking point, multitapping in time with the rhythm and dancing as she backed up from the oncoming infecteds. When she hit the end of the chorus she rolled to the left, popping out her magazine as Fontana took over. After a quick reload, she had taken the back position as Fontana continued to engage the infecteds. When he was out, she took over again. “Come on bring it, you can’t see it . . .”

  * * *

  Januscheitis had taken cover behind the hatch at the fire from down corridor but while there were some bouncers from pass-throughs, the fire was remarkably accurate, given that the shooter seemed to be a split with an addiction to Disturbed. What was . . . disturbing was that the shots were in time to the music. There was a second shooter that took over with what was to his ears really solid timing. He’d tuned his ears to combat in plenty of actions and he caught the very quick reload, in time to the song again but fast. This was an experienced two-person team that had worked together a lot.

  The firing finally settled down and Januscheitis stuck his head back out. The months had really wrecked his eyes but he could sort of pick up, from the singing and the way that the lights were flashing around, that the split had continued to dance after the firefight was over.

  There were lights moving their way, though, and he slit his eyes against them, then covered them entirely.

  “Sorry about her,” a voice said. “Chemlight coming through. Once she starts a song she’s impossible until it’s done. And that wasn’t enough infecteds to run through ‘Warrior.’ Thank God it wasn’t ‘Citadel’ or ‘Winterborn.’ We’d be here all day.”

  “No issues, dude,” Januscheitis said. “Never been gladder to hear fire. Or meet new people. I guess you’re not guys from the Iwo.”

  “One of us is,” the dude said as the split continued to sing. And apparently dance. “Hooch is with the other team. But, no, Wolf Squadron. Volunteer group. Mostly civvies with some odds and sods of others. Staff Sergeant Thomas Fontana, Fifth Special Forces Group. And I was just a castaway myself.”

  “It’s that fucked up?” Januscheitis said.

  “It’s that fucked up. Pretty much totally fucking gone. Chain of command is guys on a radio in the Hole in Omaha. And they’re not moving.”

  “Jesus.”

  “As I stand before you. With a warrior’s heart now. I can feel the strength that will. Ensure my victory this tiiiiiiiime . . .”

  “Okay,” Fontana said. “I guess we can get going now . . .”

  CHAPTER 3

  You cannot exaggerate about the Marines. They are convinced to the point of arrogance, that they are the most ferocious fighters on earth—and the amusing thing about it is that they are.

  Father Kevin Keaney

  1st Marine Division Chaplain

  Korean War

  “Lieutenant, Lieutenant, Staff Sergeant, have a seat,” said “Wolf,” gesturing to the table.

  Januscheitis sort of knew the Marine lieutenant. He’d been an XO in Charlie. The Navy lieutenant, equivalent of a Marine captain, he didn’t know.

  “Wolf” looked tired. He should, from the little Januscheitis had picked up. He wasn’t sure how big the “Voyage” thing was but from what people had said it was the size of a supercarrier with about as many compartments. And now here the “commodore” was clearing the Iwo with one Marine, one SF Staff and a thirteen-year-old split. Who, admittedly, was pretty fucking badass.

  “The pamphlet you were given only covers rough details,” Smith said. “And it glosses over a lot of things. The Joint Chiefs is a group of colonels or equivalent and one general—”

  “Excuse me, sir?” the Navy LT said.

  “You heard me, Lieutenant,” Smith said. “There are probably more senior officers who’ve survived. Somewhere. But the current acting CNO, being someone who is actually in communication and in direct contact with the NCCC, is a commander. Given that our current count on Navy personnel who are not essentially trapped in subs is . . .” He consulted a list. “Seventeen, he’s actually overranked. But we are, now, starting to have some semblance of an actual military force, U.S. military at that, and the question of who is legally permitted to give orders has come up. So, I had a talk with the chiefs and the NCCC and now you are going to have a chat with the chiefs, or at least the Navy commander in the Hole and a sub commander that slightly outranks him. Their decision . . . surprised me. And not in a good way. But they’ll explain it to you.”

  He turned his laptop around and nodded as he got up.

  “I apparently have to go find a u
niform somewhere . . .”

  * * *

  “Lieutenant Joseph Pellerin?” the commander on the screen asked. It was split three ways. The person talking was in some sort of meeting room. One of the guys was a civilian, also in a meeting room; one was another commander with the background of a sub con.

  “Yes, sir,” Pellerin said cautiously.

  “I’m Commander Louis Freeman. The gentleman in the suit is Under Secretary Frank Galloway, the National Constitutional Continuity Coordinator.”

  “I was formerly the Under Deputy Secretary of Defense for Nuclear Arms Proliferation Control,” Galloway said. “I was number one hundred and twenty-six on the list of potential NCCCs or Acting Presidents.”

  “Hundred and twenty-six?” Januscheitis whispered.

  “Also present is Commander Alan Huskey, skipper of the Florida,” Commander Freeman said. “Although I am, technically, the head of the Navy by various regulations, Commander Huskey has me by date of rank as well as being a boomer commander. I have not yet had a command of any vessel as a commander. It’s not a split in command in any way. But we thought he should be present.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pellerin said, blinking.

  “You’re barely out of the ship, Lieutenant,” Huskey said, his arms crossed. His uniform fit him loosely and he had the look of prolonged malnutrition. “Are you sure you and your people are up for a difficult conversation?”

  “Possibly,” Pellerin replied.

  “That would be yes or no, Lieutenant,” Huskey said. “Possibly is not the correct answer.”

  “Sir . . .” Pellerin said, with a touch of rancor. “It’s not that I just got out of a compartment. Mine had plenty of food and water. I . . . maintained discipline . . .”

  “I’ll ignore the pauses,” Galloway said, smiling thinly. “If you’re wondering about the question of ‘what happened in the compartment’ . . .”

  “I’m wondering about the whole thing, Mr. Under Secretary,” Pellerin said. “From my perspective, I’m looking at some people in ill-fitting uniforms on a computer. You could all be sitting in the bowels of this ship for all I know. And, yes, I saw a sub on the surface and a couple of people in Coast Guard uniform. But . . .”

  “You’re suspicious,” Huskey said. “Okay. You saw a sub. How many subs would it take to convince you that Mr. Galloway is, functionally, the Acting President and that I and Commander Freeman continue to control all military personnel who are in contact? Because, Lieutenant, that’s the reality. As is the reality that we’re still in a cleft stick. Which we need Wolf Squadron to pull us out of and thus we need Wolf.”

  Januscheitis tapped the Navy lieutenant on the shoulder and waved for some screen time.

  “You have input, Staff Sergeant?” Pellerin said coldly.

  “How many subs are there around here, sirs?” Januscheitis asked. “Can you say? With due respect?”

  “Not many, frankly,” Huskey replied. “Most of them are in position . . . elsewhere. Or deep. But are most of the attack boats in the Atlantic around Wolf Squadron? Yes. No reason for them not to be. There is not much else going on. The rest are generally maintaining security for our boomers—such as this one—and providing security to the extent they can for certain coastal installations. What is it going to take for you to recognize that you have a chain of command again, short as it is, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir, I . . .” Pellerin said then paused as the compartment door opened.

  “I was told I should be present for this, sir,” the Marine gunny said. He was skinny as a rail and his eyes were glossy but his back was still ramrod straight. “Gunnery Sergeant Tommy J. Sands, sir, reporting for duty.”

  “Gunny Sands,” Januscheitis said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Jesus.”

  “No, a Gunny,” Sands said, walking over and shaking his hand. “But I can see where people get confused. Janu,” he said, clapping him on the back. “Good to see you made it.”

  “Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant,” Januscheitis said. He was clearly trying not to cry.

  “Get your shit together, Marine,” Sands said. “Sorry, sirs. Old home week.”

  “Not a problem, Gunny,” Pellerin said. “We are discussing . . . We are discussing the CV of persons who are allegedly the remaining chain of command. I am not dismissing that, sirs, it’s just . . .”

  “I guess caution is in order,” Galloway said drily. “Gunnery Sergeant, if you’d care to join us.”

  “Yes, sir?” Sands said. Januscheitis was already up and waved him to the seat. “And we’re meeting with . . . ?”

  “The acting CNO,” Huskey said. “Which is Commander Freeman on your screen, as well as the NCCC. Are you familiar with—”

  “I’m familiar with the Succession act, sir,” Sands said. “And the TS codicils, sir. Under Secretary . . . Galloway, is it? Sir?”

  “Yes, Gunny,” Galloway said, surprised.

  “I heard since I got sprung that you was in the Hole, sir,” Sands said. “May I ask if there’s a Marine officer, sir?”

  “Colonel Ellington,” Galloway said.

  “So that’s where they stuffed that poor bastard,” Sands said, shaking his head.

  “Colonel Ellington is . . . present, Gunnery Sergeant,” Galloway said, wincing.

  “Sorry, sir,” Sands said as Ellington came up on the screen. “I never got a chance to say it, personally, sir, but I was real sorry to hear about your wife. She was one in a million, sir. They broke the mold.”

  “Thanks, Tommy,” Ellington said. “What with everything that’s going on . . .” He shook his head. “And I’d agree about the breaking the mold if it weren’t for the young lady doing clearance . . .”

  “Shewolf, sir?” Sands said, grinning. “That girl scares me.”

  “You really have to see the video of her boarding the Voyage,” Ellington said. “Especially one with her comment about a ‘back-up plan.’ ”

  “Bradburn from the Dallas literally fell out of his chair on that one,” Commander Huskey said.

  “You know each other,” the NCCC said.

  “The gunny was a security sergeant when I was a maintenance officer at Kings Bay, sir,” Ellington said.

  “And I was stuck in the Pentagon when you were working in prolif, Mr. Galloway,” Sands said. “I recognize you. I was over in Colonel Grant’s shop.”

  “Lieutenant Pellerin,” Galloway said. “Does this satisfy your questions as to our validity?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pellerin said. “Again, sir, no disrespect . . .”

  “Understood,” Galloway said. “So, turning the matter over to Commander Freeman again. Commander?”

  “Situation as it stands,” Freeman said. “This was, apparently, the only headquarters uninfected by the Plague. There are no other U.S. command posts responding. POTUS was unable to access NEACAP due to possible compromise of the pilots, headed to Mount Weather in a heavy ground convoy and was never heard from again. Similar story on the VPOTUS although VPOTUS was headed for Raven Mountain and there was a definite report her ground convoy was compromised. Mount Weather, which held a good bit of the Congress and Cabinet, was responding for a period of time then reported they were compromised and stopped responding. Raven Mountain, President of the Senate, other half of the Cabinet, et cetera, simply went off the air. Boulder: compromised. Sunnyvale: compromised. I could go on but I won’t. We appear to be it.

  “There are a number of uninfected submarines, the exact number is still classified, at sea. They have limited stores. All of the subs are fishing for their supper.”

  “It’s really amazing what you can do with active if you don’t have to worry about being detected,” Commander Huskey said.

  “To free the submarine crews, as well as our own facility someday, hopefully, as well as, well, save the world, will require vaccine,” Freeman continued. “There are two types of vaccine. One is made from vat-grown proteins. This is a very complicated process. The other requires certain materials and equipment that is unavailab
le at sea. At least, as far as we have been able to determine. Are you with me so far?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pellerin said.

  “The second type mostly requires the spine of a zombie, if I remember right, sir,” Sands said.

  “What?” the, to this point silent, Marine lieutenant said.

  “That is correct, Gunny,” Freeman said. “Or any infected higher-order primate. The CDC and USAMRIID produced such vaccine from rhesus monkeys for their personnel as well as certain critical government officials. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough to get everybody that needed it. The way it is made is to separate the virus bodies from the spinal cord then irradiate them. The irradiation has to be extremely fine, more fine than can be done with a reactor. It takes either a radiation therapy machine or a certain type of dental X-ray machine. Also some specific lab equipment and materials. But with that and, yes, the spinal cord of an infected higher order primate, you have vaccine. And a bunch of other ‘stuff.’ ”

  “Wolf had access to that type of vaccine prior to leaving the States,” Galloway said. “And someone close to him, we believe his wife, assisted in its production.”

  “Oh,” Januscheitis muttered. “That had to be cold.”

  “At this point, I’m not going to pass moral or legal judgment,” Galloway said then shrugged. “Given the . . . the way that the infected were ‘cared’ for was horrific. And it’s been shown that the virus does permanent damage. There is no ‘cure’ as such. CDC has confirmed that in animal testing. Using them as a source of vaccine would have been, in retrospect, a much better choice. But that is twenty-twenty hindsight and no one was even willing to openly broach the idea prior to the Fall. The point is that not only does Wolf have the knowledge to produce the vaccine, he has a plan which may provide the equipment and materials. He also . . . has been and continues to be the main driving force of this rescue operation, which is the only such rescue operation ongoing in the world. At least of its size.”