by John Ringo
“Good find,” Sophia said, examining the main engine controls. When she’d first seen an engine room like this, she’d thought she’d never understand one. Now, while she was no expert, she generally knew how to get the engine started on something this size. If there was any fuel and juice. She went through the procedure for engine main start—it was an air-powered starting system—and hit the button to start it cranking.
“Come on, baby,” she muttered. She could tell the batteries were low, but the starter generator did turn over. Then the big diesels rumbled to life.
“Beauty, eh!” she shouted. They’d both donned earmuffs.
“Nice!” Rusty shouted, grinning.
She went up to the bridge to check the systems. There were readouts in the engine room but she understood bridge systems better. Besides, it was easier to talk. Everything, so far, looked in the green.
“Rusty, go get some of daddy’s little crawlies and drop them on the bodies on the deck and in the cabin. Then head back to the boat. We don’t have a prize crew so I’m going to con this back to the Large. Just follow me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rusty said.
“Don’t fall behind,” she said.
* * *
“Okay, so I’ve got to slow down,” she muttered. The Pit Stop was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a speed boat. But it was faster than the No Tan Lines. A lot faster.
* * *
“It’s a crew supply vessel,” Kuzma said.
“Details?” Sophia said, yawning. She’d had to keep awake nonstop heading back to the flotilla.
“Details, sir,” Kuzma said, without rancor.
“Sorry, sir,” Sophia said.
“No problem,” Kuzma said. “The Coast Guard is sort of easy on the whole ‘sir/ma’am’ thing. But the Navy’s not. And I’m trying, at fairly long range, to get you ready to assume the mantle of a Navy officer.”
“Yes, sir,” Sophia said. “Understood. But . . . what is a crew supply vessel? Bringing supplies for crews or supplying with crews?”
“Both, either, depends on the configuration and mission,” Kuzma said. “Generally they’re faster than other ships their size and they’re used to do things like run crews out to oil rigs or supply ships like the Alpha at sea or at least in out-of-the-way coves. That was probably what this one was used for, based on the, you know, antique car on it. Which means there’s another megayacht out there somewhere. Well, there are probably lots of megayachts out there somewhere. ‘Somewhere’ is the key.”
“Yes, sir,” Sophia said, yawning again. “Sorry, sir.”
“Been there,” Kuzma said. “However, there is one other area to cover. I understand that you did not have a prize crew available. However, for the future, while I can understand your doing boardings until we can get you another security officer, you should have put two of your crew aboard the Pit Stop to con it back or called for a prize crew. The Lines is your boat. You’re the skipper. You don’t leave your boat. Understood, Ensign?”
“Yes, sir,” Sophia said.
“When you’re a bit more clearheaded I’ll go over some of the very bad things that have happened in history when skippers leave their boats at sea,” Kuzma said. “Repeat after me. Do not leave the boat.”
“Do not leave the boat,” Sophia said. “Aye, aye, sir.”
* * *
Rusty was trying to stay awake. He really was. It was just there was nothing to do on what the Navy called “midwatch.” The boat had an autopilot that currently had it cruising at just about walking pace on a general “southwest” heading. He just had to sit at the helm, not touching anything, keep an eye out they weren’t going to hit a drifting boat or freighter and try to stay awake.
They’d picked up about a dozen refugees in the past week, mostly from one big lifeboat. They were dossed down below. Everyone was dossed down below except one Rusty Fulmer Bennett III who had drawn midwatch.
He stood up, walked around the small bridge and sat back down. Which was about when he noticed a small red icon flashing on the control screens.
He looked at it, rubbed his eyes and frowned.
“ ‘Main breaker overload fault’?” He said just about the time the icon got brighter and the console started going “Breeep! Breeep!” Then another icon popped up.
“ ‘Engine room fire alarm’?” Rusty said. There was a moment of confusion before it kicked in. “ENGINE ROOM FIRE ALARM?”
* * *
“What the hell is that sound?” Harvey Tharpe said, rubbing his eyes as he opened the cabin door.
Being on this yacht was better than being on the lifeboat but not much. They were packed in like sardines. There was food but being woken up in the middle of the night by a blaring “Squeee! Squeee!” was not his idea of fun.
The former businessman had been “robust” before being cast adrift on a lifeboat in a zombie apocalypse. He still had his height and some solidity. So he was more than a bit surprised when the short, blond skipper of the boat, wearing not much more than a camisole and panties smashed him out of the way like an NFL linebacker on her way aft.
“MOVE PEOPLE!” the boat captain shouted, continuing to hammer her way through the crowd of refugees.
* * *
“Fuck a freaking duck,” Sophia said, opening the door to the engine compartment. The smoke wasn’t so bad she needed a respirator but it was bad. And they were dead in the water. All the power except the shrieking alarm was out.
She threw the main battery disconnect, then picked up one of the industrial fire extinguishers and played it over the exterior of the main breakers, which were the source of the fire.
“Skipper?” Paula said, picking another one up.
“We need to get it open before we use them all up,” Sophia said, putting her hand on the extinguisher. “Get Rusty to get all the passengers up, out and on the sundeck.”
She slid one hand into a rubber glove and popped open the main breaker panel. The whole thing was smoldering so she played the rest of the fire extinguisher over it until it was cold. A tick checker showed that the whole thing was electrically cold as well. Now if only the batteries hadn’t discharged their whole load into the panel and killed themselves as well.
“What can I do, Skipper?” Patrick said groggily. The “engineer” was wearing not much more than the skipper.
“Get a hand-held,” Sophia said. “See if there’s a sub in range. Tell them we had a major electrical fire. Fire is under control. No power at this time. May be repairable but we may need assistance. Don’t at this time but may. Got it? Do not call mayday or PON-PON. Do not.”
“Got it, Skipper,” Patrick said.
“And get these people the HELL OUT OF MY ENGINE COMPARTMENT!”
* * *
“Not to alarm you, Skipper . . .” Paula said as Sophia was jumping another wire.
The whole damned panel was screwed. She was having to rebuild it from scratch. On the other hand, every time they cleared a boat they grabbed anything resembling parts and often stripped out things like the breaker box. They had a lot of parts, breakers, wire and what-not stashed in various nooks and crannies in the boat. However . . .
“How full are the bilges?” Sophia asked.
The No Tan Lines, while a great boat and definitely better than her previous one, had its issues. One of said issues being a small leak somewhere. They’d tried and tried to run it down but never could. It normally wasn’t a problem. They bilge pumps handled it fine. Unless they were off-line for six hours while the boat’s skipper, with some fumble-fingered help from the boat’s “engineer,” completely rebuilt the main breaker box which, not coincidentally, supplied power to said bilge pumps. Sophia had been noticing the way the boat was slowly getting more and more logy.
“Little water in the lower deck,” Paula said carefully. The skipper clearly didn’t need more stress. “Just a skim.”
“I love pressure,” Sophia said. “I eat it for breakfast. Patrick, under the bed in the number t
hree sleeping compartment there’s a bundle of green wire in a box. Somewhere in that box should be another Westinghouse twenty-five amp. Just bring the whole box.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Patrick said, scurrying out of the compartment.
“It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor . . .” Sophia sang, listening to the slap, slap, slap of the rising water below as she ripped out another burned wire and tossed it on the deck. “Won’t you be mine, could you be mine . . . ?”
* * *
“Alexandria, No Tan Lines, over,” Sophia said, leaning into the blast from the air conditioning on the bridge. The engine compartment, besides stinking of ozone and burned rubber, had been hot as hell.
“Alexandria. How’s it going, over?”
“Please relay to flotilla that we are back in business,” Sophia said. “Although we’re completely out of parts for a main breaker box. On the other hand, the one we’ve got is practically brand new, now.”
“Roger, No Tan Lines. Will relay. Glad to hear you’re okay. Alexandria out.”
“And with that, I’m going back to bed,” Sophia said, hanging up the radio. “Somebody’s got it,” she added, waving a salute at Paula.
“I’ll take care of it, Skipper,” Paula said.
* * *
“Paula,” Sophia said the next afternoon as they were cross-loading refugees to the Livin’ Large.
“Yes, Skip?” Paula said.
“Refresh my memory,” Sophia said. “Did we have a fire in the engine room or did I dream that?”
“We had a fire in the engine compartment, Skipper.”
“Last night?” Sophia said.
“Yes,” Paula said, frowning.
“Did it get handled?”
“You put it out and rebuilt the breaker box. You don’t remember?”
“I think I must have done it in my sleep,” Sophia said. “I thought I was just dreaming. I’m getting too old for this shit . . .”
CHAPTER 6
Алты´ного во´ра ве´шают, а полти´нного че´ствуют.
(The thief who takes three kopeks is hanged.
The thief who takes fifty kopeks is praised.)
Russian Proverb
“I guess coming down here wasn’t a total bust,” Sophia said, waving to the group on the aft deck of the Russian megayacht.
The ship was about as big as the Social Alpha. She wasn’t sure what the actual name was, because the name was in Cyrillic letters. And it had a bunch of survivors. They were all skinny as rails but it was more survivors in one place than they’d ever found. There was a real preponderance of females. And, like the ghosts of the Alpha, they looked like they’d been chosen for their looks rather than their seamanship.
“I think some billionaire loaded up on supermodels,” Paula said, waving as well. “At least they were good at dieting.”
“Boat like that is nineteen or so crew and about as many guests,” Sophia said. “I’m counting at least thirty people.”
“Vaccinated?” Paula said.
“Bet so,” Sophia said, smiling.
“. . . can tie up . . .” One of the men on the wash deck was pointing to the cleats for her to tie alongside.
“Tell Rusty to break out the dinghy,” Sophia said.
“It’s not rough,” Paula said. “And we’re going to have to cross-load them some supplies.”
“No offense, Paula, but I’m the skipper,” Sophia said, smiling again and waving. “Tell Rusty to break out the dinghy. Load up a bunch of water bottles. They’ve got solar stills going but I’d bet they’d like some water.”
“Okay,” Paula said dubiously.
“And no weapons,” she added. “No infecteds, no reason.”
“It’s a little bumpy,” Sophia said over the loudhailer. “Middle of the ocean and all. We’re sending over a dinghy with some supplies! The guy’s got a radio.”
Turning out the dinghy was old hat at this point and Rusty, Paula and Pat made quick work of loading cases of bottled water. There was always bottled water on boats they cleared and they kept it for times like this. They mostly drank the water from the ROWPU system. It was the same stuff as “filtered” water.
Rusty putted the outboard over and tied off. Before he even started to unload, the same “pop hatch” as the Alpha had on the back opened up and men with guns, AKs, came out. One of them even had an RPG. Of course, if he fired it there, he’d kill most of the people.
“Rusty,” Sophia called over the radio. “Don’t resist. Just give the leader the radio.”
“You were expecting this,” Paula said angrily. “You sent Rusty over as bait!”
“I was expecting something,” Sophia said as the hangers-on made themselves scarce. “You didn’t get attenuated vaccine by being nice. And there were too many women, not enough men. Where were the men? Where was the billionaire? Get downstairs and get a video of this. I want to be able to identify who’s there and who’s not.”
“You will turn over your boat or we will kill your crewman.” The man was heavyset and armed only with a pistol. He had a thick Slavic accent but the voice was . . . cultured. Something. He didn’t really sound like a thug.
“Hello,” Sophia replied. “Greetings from Wolf Squadron of the United States Navy. I’m Ensign Sophia Smith, skipper of the U.S. Navy Auxiliary Vessel No Tan Lines. To whom am I speaking?”
“This does not matter. There is no United States so there is no United States Navy. You will turn over your boat. We will spare your lives. If you attempt to drive off, we shall open fire.”
“That would be the worst possible mistake you could make, sir,” Sophia said, calmly. “If you fire, you will destroy this boat; then we would both be adrift. Please, do not be . . . nekulturny. We have time. It is a nice day for conversation. You have been out of contact for some time. I would acquaint you with the current conditions. I will not, as you say, drive off.”
“What are the current conditions?” the man said. Like with most castaways, she could hear the hunger for information in his voice.
“All land areas are under control of infected,” Sophia said. “As are most ships and boats. However, Wolf Squadron is part of the United States Navy. I am a Naval officer and this is a U.S. Navy boat. A U.S. Navy boat or ship, of even the smallest such as mine, has not been captured since the Barbary Pirates days. I am not going to be the first.
“Now, your actions have been aggressive. But they are not, so far, past the point of real difficulty. Castaways react in various manners. You wish to be able to get to some point of relative safety. You wish to have supplies again, some sort of a life other than eeking out a miserable living on raw fish and what water you can distill with your solar stills. I can sympathize. Most of the squadron has been in your situation at one point or another. We are more than willing to share supplies. We can even get you a boat so that you and some of your companions can go on your merry way. With your weapons. You’ll need them to clear boats of infected so you can salvage.
“However, we have only two real penalties at this point. We don’t have much in the way of prisons or brigs so you get either the ‘leave us and other uninfecteds alone and we’ll leave you alone,’ the offer I’m making to you now—or death. There, really, isn’t much in the middle. So, you might want to consider that in light of your threat to destroy a U.S. Navy vessel. Because, then, well, ‘leave you alone’ isn’t going to happen.”
“You are one boat and you are under my guns. And I still don’t believe you are Navy. Where is your uniform? Why would the Navy use yachts? Where are your supercarriers?”
“Full of infected,” Sophia said. “Although we’re clearing a baby carrier at the moment. And I am the only vessel in view. There are others. So, what do you say? I’ll get you a boat, full of fuel, full of supplies, you can sail off with your . . . henchmen and we’ll let bygones be bygones. I’ll even throw in a case of scotch. You like scotch? Me not so much.”
> “The boat I am going to take is here already,” the man replied. “And you will either surrender it or be destroyed. You have one minute to tie alongside. I have a rocket launcher, in case you don’t know what that is.”
“You have a rocket-propelled grenade launcher,” Sophia said. “Slightly different beast. And if we’re playing one-upmanship, I have a submarine. Alex, you monitoring?”
“Roger, Seawolf,” a powerful transmission came in. “Surfacing at two-two-six, range one thousand yards.”
Sophia didn’t bother to look over her shoulder, she just watched their faces as the Alexandria came to the surface a kilometer out.
“So, yes, there is still a United States Navy and yes, I am a United States Naval officer and yes, you are in a heap of trouble. But we can work that out. So far it’s no harm, no foul. So you can put down your poxie little crap AK knockoffs and your dinky little RPG or I can sink you. I’ll even give you the choice of machine-gun fire, torpedo, Harpoon missile or Tomahawk. Your call, fucktard.”
* * *
Rusty had collected the AKs, dumped the RPG into the drink, left the water and come back to the boat. In the meantime, the Alex had contacted flotilla. After that it was a matter of a nine-hour wait until Kuzma showed up in the Large along with the Midlife Crisis, which was captained by another CG petty officer; the Pit Stop; and a sailboat Sophia had never seen before called the Knotty Problem. Appropriate name. The Large had a machine-gun team on the “sundeck” forward. Sophia knew that while the two “security specialists” were both “into” guns—civilian shooters, that is—neither of them had ever handled a machine gun before the Plague. So she was really hoping it wouldn’t come to that.
“See why the skipper doesn’t do away teams?” Kuzma radioed when he was alongside.
“Yes, and in agreement, sir,” Sophia said. “On the other hand, wasn’t going to in this case. Knew there was something fishy. How are we going to handle this, sir?”
“Do we have some clue who are goats and who are sheep?” Kuzma asked.
