by John Ringo
“This is it, sir?” Lieutenant Pellerin said. “Some small craft and a couple of ships?”
“That’s it, Lieutenant,” Huskey said. “Smith had the combination of being vaccinated and having a boat that was sufficiently stored, armed and safe to hold out until the Plague had run its course. There are one or two other small groups in other oceans but they are even smaller than what you’ve seen.”
“We just finished a long conversation with the admittedly fatigued commodore,” Galloway said. “Our conclusion was to give the commodore a U.S. Navy Captaincy.”
“Sorry, sir,” Gunny Sands said. “A Captaincy, sir?”
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant,” Galloway said. “That would, we are aware, put him in command of not only yourselves but all of the Navy commanders at sea. Mr. Smith, pardon, Captain Smith, is fully aware that this is an ambiguous situation. The explanation for this decision is long. Would you like it?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Pellerin said. “I would, sir.”
“Are you familiar with Wendell Fertig, Lieutenant?” Galloway asked.
“Oh,” Gunny Sands said, nodding. “That makes sense, now, sir.”
“No, sir,” Pellerin said, frowning. “Was he a Marine?”
“Fertig was, prior to World War Two, a civilian civil engineer in the Philippines,” Galloway said. “He was direct commissioned an Army captain shortly before the war broke out. He was rapidly promoted to major, definitely, and according to some reports to lieutenant colonel although the Army never confirmed that.
“After the fall of the Philippines to the Japanese, he began organizing guerillas. Recognizing that they would never follow a major or possibly lieutenant colonel, he styled himself a brigadier general. And it worked. By the time MacArthur landed, there were thirty thousand Filipinos under arms and MacArthur was greeted by a marching band.
“It was a matter of social values systems as well as competence. Various persons in history have styled themselves Generalissimo something or another. Fertig was, in fact, competent to organize and develop a guerilla movement. But he also needed the cachet of being a general, not a major. The entire thing was, as ‘Wolf Squadron’ is, a cult of personality. A barbarian band more than a military force. It is about getting lots of people to do stuff, quoting Wolf, ‘for no other reason than that I ask.’
“You are currently the senior Navy officer who is not essentially trapped. But no one knows who ‘Lieutenant Pellerin’ is. Everyone knows of Commodore Wolf. He did not style himself that way, by the way; the moniker was given to him by his captains. Which is sort of the point. With an actual captaincy, he has both his cult of personality and controlling legal authority. And he is the man with the plan who, thus far, has been succeeding. Thus the ‘competence’ part. I will not say that there are not questions and a degree of angst. Captain Smith, himself, expressed some negativity about the captaincy. Among other things, he expressed that he intends to continue to consider himself essentially acting in independent command. His exact words were ‘Okay, but don’t joggle my elbow.’ ”
“This is an old fashioned approach,” Huskey said. “Lieutenant, we are brought up in a professional environment of low-key officership. It’s about standing out just enough. Stand out too much, make too many waves, and you’re never going to make captain much less admiral. Just do your job professionally and stand out that way. But . . . Things change. There’s been this thing called the Plague that has wiped out most of humanity. People need someone who does stand out. Someone to follow. A legend, if you will. Smith has created that.”
“Half militia, half regular forces,” Sands said. “Mixing that will be . . . difficult, sir.”
“Regular officers will retain much of the actual control,” Galloway said. “We’re not going to give him the keys to a boomer and he sure as heck cannot order a nuclear strike. Be that as it may, the decision has been made. Steven John Smith is now a captain in the United States Navy and outranks everyone else he may run across for the time being. You are, Lieutenant, Gunnery Sergeant, shortly to be under his command. There remains only one small detail to complete.”
“Which is, sir?” Pellerin asked.
“It is required by law that a commissioned officer swear in a commissioned officer,” Huskey said drily. “And since none of us can so much as shake his hand . . .”
* * *
General Orders, Wolf Squadron . . .
Steven John Smith directly commissioned Ensign, USN.
Steven John Smith promoted Captain, USNR.
Captain Steven John Smith, USNR, appointed Commander, Atlantic Fleet.
CHAPTER 4
When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
“The Female of the Species”
Rudyard Kipling
“Oooo,” Sophia said, setting down the mike on the flying bridge. “Da’s going to have the big head.”
They were floating under a moonlit tropical sky. It was nearly impossible to spot vessels at night so they went to low power to conserve energy rather than continuing their search grid and just kept an eye on the radar. With the lights of the boat turned down, there was so little light pollution in the middle of the Atlantic you could see every satellite hurtling by. Sophia wondered how long they’d stay up. The GPS satellites were particularly important.
“You really think so?” Paula said.
“Actually, no,” Sophia said. “But I’ll have to twit him about it.”
“No Tan Lines, Alexandria, over.”
“Who?” Paula said.
“Dunno,” Sophia said. “Alexandria, Lines, over.”
“Switch to channel twenty-two for retrans, over.”
“Sub,” Sophia said. “Roger. Up on twenty-two.”
“Sophia, Da, over.”
“Da,” Sophia said, grinning. “Got the big head have we? Commander Atlantic Fleet?”
“Maybe once I find a uniform that fits. Not a personal call.”
“Roger, Captain,” Sophia said.
“I just got off the horn with Kuzma. He’s going to be a Navy lieutenant as soon as we get an officer there to swear him in. I shot for Lieutenant JG for you but was overruled. They’re willing to go Acting Ensign Third Class but not Ensign or JG at the moment.”
“Wait, you want me to join the Navy?” Sophia said.
“You’re already in the Navy in case you hadn’t noticed,” Steve replied. “I want you to be an officer in the Navy.”
“Does that mean we have to join the Navy?” Paula asked.
“What about my crew?” Sophia asked.
“Crews, except for certain positions, can be civilian. Basic structure of the Wolf Squadron remains the same. Certain officers, both skippers and administrative, have been asked to become Naval personnel. It’s a bit of a mish-mash for right now. But certain equipment has to be under control of Naval personnel, including Marines. Basically, you can only legally use big guns from Navy or Coast Guard ships if you’re under Federal controlling legal authority. It’s a technicality of a regulation they’re not willing to overlook and I understand why and agree. Goes back to the Treaty of Westphalia. That’s not the only reason I’d like you to be an officer, but it’s one of them. Other than that, there’s no real difference. You don’t have to respond now. Contact Kuzma one way or the other. Any major questions?”
“Not right now,” Sophia said. “I can think on it?”
“You can think on it,” Steve said.
“Okay, I’ll think on it,” Sophia said. “No worries, Da. And take care of yourself.”
“You too. Wolf, out.”
“Alexandria, I think we’re done,” Sophia said.
“Roger, No Tan Lines. Be advised . . . You have a cabin cruiser sixteen miles south of your position. Don’t know if you w
ant to check it out.”
“Roger, Alexandria,” Sophia said, starting up the engine. “We’ll go check it. Did you visual?”
“Roger. No infecteds on deck. We have several other sierras in the area we’re tracking including some lifeboats and life rafts.”
“And they tell us now?” Paula said.
“Might have just got on station,” Sophia said. “Might have been a change with Da getting promoted. Alexandria, got coordinates on that boat?”
“I wonder if this means . . . No, they wouldn’t . . .”
* * *
“Gunny,” Steve said, waving to a chair. “How you doing?”
“Ready to rock and roll, sir,” Sands said, sitting down carefully.
“Bullshit,” Steve said. “I won’t tell you you can’t work for a few days, but you’re not going to be running around the bowels of the Iwo for now. Not until you’re fit. There’s too damned much gear to carry. We made that mistake with Hooch and he was in better shape than you are. You need to put on some pounds, first.”
“And you, sir?” the gunny asked, looking over at Fontana, who was looking . . . closed.
“Alas, I think my days of clearing ships are done,” Steve said, waving at his desk. “I’m conning a desk for a while. Isham has agreed to take a lieutenancy, temporary like mine, so he can tell Navy people where to get off. He’s a bit of an asshole, but he’s a competent one. I’ll keep him as my Chief of Staff for now. But, no, I’m not going to be clearing ships. Some of the Marines we found are fairly hale and they can continue the clearance ops. But that gets to the point of this meeting . . .” Steve leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment.
“I understand you’ve met my daughter, Faith, Gunny?”
“Oh,” Sands said, his face cracking into a slight smile. “That’s the agenda, sir? Yes, sir, I have. She and Staff Sergeant Fontana cracked my compartment, sir. And, yes, sir, I think she’d make a fine Marine, sir. Even a fine Marine officer, sir. In about five years, sir.”
“Then there’s an issue,” Steve said. “Because tomorrow, Faith will be the team leader for the first group of Marines to reboard the Iwo. We’re going to be using it mostly as a training exercise. She will also be overseeing their kitting up. Because she knows very little, at all, except the best ways to clear zombies.”
“Pardon, sir,” Sands said. “Not Staff Sergeant Fontana?”
“Lieutenant Fontana will be managing the preparations for the assault, Gunny,” Steve said. “And along with Lieutenant Volpe he will be managing the clearance operation as a forward officer. Miss Smith along with Lance Corporal Hocieniec will be training the Marines on the Wolf Way of clearance. It’s like the Marine way but . . . different.
“This is a Marine thing. A temporary, out-of-the-blue, Navy captain is not going to tell a Marine gunny who should and should not be a Marine. What the captain is going to do is allow the gunny a week to think about his response.”
“I understand your position, Captain,” Sands said. “But, with respect, I’m not sure that I agree. Among other things . . . Pretty much everyone has heard about Miss Smith and we all think she’s pretty damned great, sir. But . . . I’m not sure, sir, with respect, that they’re going to listen and pay attention to a thirteen-year-old girl, no matter how badass she may be. ’Cause she’s a thirteen-year-old girl, sir. I will, with your permission, sit in on the training, sir, to ensure that they understand that . . .”
“Gunny,” Steve said, raising his hand. “Permit me to give you some semblance of peace in this matter. I appreciate you sitting in on the training. What I had not mentioned was that before the training session, there will be a brief familiarization class given by the lance corporal. I would recommend that you sit in on that as well.”
“Yes, sir?” Sands said, frowning.
“When we, Faith actually, hard-boarded the Voyage, the Dallas was standing off,” Fontana said. “And they recorded the boarding on their onboard video system. Then, apparently, someone made a video mash of it, including some of the discussion of whether she should begin boarding without nearby reinforcements . . .”
“By the time we got there it was all done,” Steve said, smiling thinly. “And Faith was like ‘No worries, Da! Bit of a scrum—’ ”
“Scrum?” Sands said. “Definition, sir?”
“Ever played rugby, Gunny?” Fontana said. “It’s that bit where the two sides fight over the ball.”
“Faith always enjoyed playing Aussie Rules when we were Down Under,” Steve said, sighing. “Except Rule One. I don’t expect the video to change your mind. Give it a week. She will, however, be acting as a civilian technical expert in infected clearance during that week. By the end of the week, we should be done with clearing the Iwo and begin salvage work. We’ll discuss it again at that time. If you’re set that she is not, currently, Marine material . . . then I will leave that on you and, no, no hard feelings. There are any number of other areas I can use her expertise.”
“As I said, sir,” Sands said. “I’d just like her to get some more maturity.”
“I think you’re thinking age, Gunny,” Steve said. “Maturity is something slightly different.”
* * *
The gunnery sergeant didn’t crack a smile at the radio intercept of Faith’s concept of a back-up plan, an intercept that had caused Commander Bradburn, skipper of the Dallas, to literally fall out of his command chair laughing. Sands managed to watch the video stone-faced as she boarded the Voyage and began her “fifteen minutes of mayhem,” set in the video to the tune of Chumbawamba’s “Tubthumping.” He managed to keep a straight face the third time she popped back up like a jack-in-the-box after being dogpiled by zombies. He held it in during her overheard running commentary as the rest of the Marines, even the NCOs, started rolling on the deck.
It was when she got the Halligan tool stuck in a zombie’s head and overbalanced that he snorted. When she unstuck her bent machete and it caught a male zombie in the groin he started laughing out loud. When the, admittedly not petite, girl stuck a boot knife in a zombie’s eye then threw him over the side, tears started running down his face and he completely lost his composure as a senior NCO of the United States Marine Corps.
* * *
“Sometimes you get dogpiled,” Faith said, latching the bunker gear on the Marine sergeant. “MOPP’s not designed to prevent penetration. This is. And you can just get washed down in it no worries. And you are going to need a wash-down after we’re done . . .”
* * *
“Seriously, a K-bar? You think one dinky little knife is enough in a scrum . . . ?”
* * *
“Christ,” Faith said, taking the Halligan tool away from the lance corporal. “Here’s how you use a Halligan tool. Ram the son-of-a-bitch. Put some welly in it, Marine—!”
* * *
“Zombies don’t like impolite people,” Faith said, stepping over a fresh kill. “In general, you should knock first. The real point is that they seem to hibernate for periods of time. If you go sneakin’ around, Sergeant-I’m-a-recon-scout, as you just discovered, you get surrounded by zombies who used to be sleeping and are now preparing to eat you . . .”
* * *
“PFC, I swear to God if these zombies did go for brains they would totally ignore you!”
* * *
“So, this is five five six that works?” Faith said, looking at the round. Unlike the other rounds they’d been using that had green tips, this one looked like solid copper.
“It’s superior,” Januscheitis said. He was trying not to sound nervous. Faith had been running them around their own ship for six hours like privates on Paris Island and what was worse, she kept being right. “I don’t think there’s anybody who really loves five five six.”
* * *
“Nope,” Faith said, putting five rounds of 5.56mm into an oncoming zombie. “Unless you get a perfect shot, it’s still sucks.” She fired one round into its head and it dropped. “I don’t suppose there’
s a few thousand rounds of twelve-gauge anywhere on this tub?”
“We don’t use a lot of twelve-gauge so . . . Not that I’m aware.”
“Seven six two by thirty-nine?”
“Haji round. No.”
“Forty-five?”
“Forty-five we’ve got,” Januscheitis said. “Somewhere. Ordnance was not my billet.”
“Find me ‘somewhere,’ Staff Sergeant.”
* * *
“Found it!”
* * *
“Ooo, ooo,” Faith said, stroking the box of ammo. “Come to momma.” She bent over and hugged the pallet of .45ACP. “Mmmm . . . There is beauty left in this fallen world . . .”
“Oh, wait,” she said, straightening up. “This is full metal jacket, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Januscheitis said. “Hollow point is outlawed by the Geneva Convention.”
“Damn,” Faith said, then went back to stroking the boxes. “Oh, well, FMJ forty-five is better than twenty-two magnum. Sooooft . . .” she stroked the box a moment longer, then reached over her back and pulled out her Halligan. “What are you waiting for?”
* * *
“See?” Faith said, as the zombie dropped. “One round. Forty-five ’cause they don’t make a forty-six. You can keep your Barbie guns.”
“No range, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “And you’ve only got seven rounds in a magazine.”
“We’re fighting at close quarters, Staff Sergeant Januscheitis,” Faith said. “And will be for the foreseeable future. We don’t need range. Well, unless we have to clear another freaking cruise liner and I’ll leave that to you big, tough Marines. Those damned hot twenty-twos just over-penetrate then start bouncing around. And they don’t kill zombies. As to how many rounds you’ve got in a mag . . .” she said, reloading, then dropping one-handed a zombie that had reared out of the darkness.
“How many rounds of five five six, on average, to stop a zombie . . . PFC Kirby?” she said, reloading her expended magazine from spare rounds in a pouch.
“About five, Miss Faith, ma’am,” the private snapped, standing at attention.
