by John Ringo
“Flotilla, Fast Twenty-Nine.”
The kid driving the boat was, well, a kid. He couldn’t have been more than twelve. But he seemed to know what he was doing. He’d found the flotilla at least.
“Oh, come on,” the kid said. “Somebody’s got to hear the radio, right?”
As they neared the flotilla they could hear music playing. Loudly. And there were people on deck dancing to the music. It looked like a party, not a military operation.
Zombies apparently wanted to join in. The flotilla was broken into two groups, one by a marina and one by some beaches to the north. Zombies were roaming both the marina and the beaches, obviously trying to join the party.
“Yeah, what’s up?” a slurred voice answered. “And what’s a fast twenty-nine? Sounds like a band . . .”
“Fast boat coming up on your party, over,” the kid said. “Bringing some reinforcements from Squadron.”
“Yeah, I dunno nothin’ about that. Hang on . . .”
“S’up?”
The new voice was female and just as clearly drunk.
“This is Fast Boat Twenty-Nine?” the kid said. “From the squadron? I’ve got two replacements for you.”
“A’ight. Hey, hey, Paula! Get the flare gun. Go to the boats by the marina. Go to the one that fires the flare. Just tie up alongside. We’re having a rockin’ wake for Anarchy.”
The voice was clearly, even deeply, Southern. Between the drawl and the slur it was hard to make out some of the words. “Git uh flar gone. Duh wun thet fars the flar.”
“Roger,” the kid said. “Uh . . . Fast Twenty-Nine, out. I guess we go to the flare, sirs.”
The chief just hung his head at the “sir.” There really wasn’t any point.
There were three yachts and two gunboats anchored by the marina, bouncing on the light waves. As they approached, one of them fired off a red signal flare, then another. Then another. Then one at the zombies on the shore. That one landed in the midst of them, hitting one of them. The rest scattered from the flame, then chased down the injured one and piled on to eat. The resulting feeding frenzy was a scene from Dante’s Inferno, complete with red lighting.
There were shouts and applause from the yachts. They were barely audible over “Welcome to the Jungle” cranked to nuclear level.
Then there was a burst of fire from one of the gunboats. It initially seemed aimed at the infected. Then it was turned on the water, then up as if trying to hit an invisible plane. Then back to the infected still clustered to feed. Tracers were bouncing of rocks and pinging into the air wildly. Lord only knew where the rest of the rounds were going. This produced still more shouts.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Barney said.
“Okay, a little loose around the edges I can handle,” Chief Schmidt said. “But are we U.S. Navy or fucking hajis?”
“My thoughts exactly, Chief,” the sergeant major said. “Bloody fifty just keeps going.”
“Uh, do I tie up alongside?” the kid asked. “Are you gonna climb over?”
“Pull alongside the transom deck,” the chief said. “That’s for boarding.”
“The what deck?”
“The trans . . . Oh, just let me do it!” Chief Schmidt unbuckled from his seat and took the wheel. “Just get ready to handle the lines.”
“Okay,” the kid said.
“The correct response is ‘aye, aye, Chief Petty Officer,’ ” Chief Schmidt snapped. “And I am not a ‘sir.’ I work for a living.”
“Yes, s— Ok—”
“Try ‘Yes, Chief Petty Officer,’ ” the sergeant major said.
“Okay.”
“I would weep, but the ocean is made of the tears of men,” the sergeant major said.
Some people at the party caught the tossed lines and tied up the boat.
“Permission to come aboard?” the chief petty officer asked. There didn’t appear to be an Officer of the Deck. In fact, there was no way to tell who was who. Everyone was in civvies, mostly shorts and T-shirts or Hawaiian shirts. A couple of the chicks were in bikini tops.
“Sure,” the woman greeter said. “We figure if you can talk and you’re wearing clothes, you’re probably not a zombie. Come on over. What’s your tipple?”
“I don’t mind a drink,” the chief said. “But it sort of looks like people have had enough.”
“Not even close,” the woman shouted. “We’re having a wake for Anarchy. Besides, it’s how we draw in the zombies. Who are you guys?”
“Chief Petty Officer Kent Schmidt,” Chief Schmidt said. “And Sergeant Major Raymond Barney. We’re coming aboard as Chief of the Squadron and Sergeant Major of the clearance forces.”
“Oh, cool,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “Paula Handley, recently promoted to skipper of the Linea Caliente. Glad to see you guys. We could use some people who know what they’re doing. Especially after . . .” She paused and shrugged and looked around for her drink. “Hey, come on in the saloon. I’ll get you a beer . . .”
“Is Lieutenant Chen aboard?” Chief Schmidt shouted. “We’re supposed to report to him.”
“I think he’s up on the sundeck with Soph,” Paula said. “Go on up there. I think there’s a couple of bottles up there anyway.”
“Okay,” Chief Schmidt shouted.
They made their way past the superstructure to the sun deck. There were four people sitting there in mostly darkness, passing a bottle around.
“Is there a Lieutenant Chen present?”
“Here,” one of the men said. “You the new people?”
“Chief Petty Officer Kent Schmidt, sir,” Chief Schmidt said. “And Sergeant Major Raymond Barney, late of Her Majesty’s Light Horse.”
“Light Cavalry, you twit,” Barney muttered.
“Cop a squat, Chief, Sergeant Major,” Chen said, with careful diction. “You are probably wondering about the party.”
“I understand it is a wake for your ground clearance commander, sir,” Barney said.
“More or less,” Chen said. “And we also do it fairly regularly. Not, usually, with this much abandon.”
“With due respect, sir, I hope you’re not normally that free with fire,” Sergeant Major Barney said.
“Depends,” Chen said. “I had them stop when they clearly couldn’t hit the broad side of the barn. And they did. I really should keep the briefing for the morning but we have ops in the morning. So here goes. We go to these little seaside towns. We anchor overnight where there is a clear field of fire on shore. We then play music, fire off flares, keep all our lights on and, yes, frequently have a little party. At dawn, we fire up the zombies that have been attracted to the shore. We then go in and either cut out more boats or clear the town, depending. I’m of two minds on clearing this town tomorrow. But we’re going to have to clean out the harbor of all its large yachts. This is called, Chief?”
“You mean a cutting out expedition, sir?” the chief said. “I don’t think we’ve done that sort of thing since the War of Eighteen Twelve. If then.”
“But that is our current mission,” Chen said, taking a drink from the bottle. “Littoral clearance and yacht salvage. We then get the yachts in running order, if possible, and continue on to the next town where we have a party, lather, rinse, repeat. With, hopefully, minimal casualties and, just as hopefully, picking up some survivors.”
“You’re going to have your work cut out for you tomorrow, Sergeant Major,” one of the women said. The one from the radio. The accent was strong. “There’s a lot of enthusiasm for killing zombies. And sharks. Not so much for grabbing boats.”
“Ensign Sophia Smith,” Chen said. “She will be in charge of the away team tomorrow. When it comes to working with the boats, I listen to Lieutenant JG Paris, who grew up in a yachting family.”
“Hey,” Elizabeth said, waving. “Welcome aboard.”
“When it comes to pretty much everything else, I listen to Seawolf,” Chen said. “She’s been doing this since she and her father and sister capt
ured the . . . What was it, Sophia?”
“Tina’s Toy,” Sophia said, thickly. “Put a bit of a burr under Da’s saddle.”
“That would be Captain Smith,” Chen said.
“The boss,” Sophia said. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
“How old are you, ma’am?” Chief Schmidt asked.
“Fifteen,” Sophia said, taking a drink. “A fifteen-year-old who’s seen more dead bodies and chewed up children and shit that nobody should have to see than the sergeant major there. Guaran-fucking-teed. And I was in charge of the away team when Cody went in the drink.”
“And we have been attempting to convince her that it was not her fault,” Chen said.
“I think you’re trying to convince yourselves,” Sophia said. “I know it wasn’t. It was just . . . shit happens.”
“No life preserver, ma’am?” Chief Schmidt asked.
“No,” Sophia said. “No point. We’ve tested it. You can’t do the job with a type three; you can’t access your gear. And we wear Marine ballistic protection, not those Navy flak jackets. With that and the weight of ammo and gear, an inflatable won’t support you. And if you go in the drink, it’s the first thing you’ve got to take off. When there’s a specifal . . . specfical . . . really bad maneuver like climbing a boarding ladder, we’ll rig up with floats and a safety line. Floats if we can. But he was just cutting out a fucking inflatable and slipped. And that was that. Rusty and Olga got to watch him get torn to mincemeat on the fucking bottom.”
“Bloody hell,” Barney said, shaking his head.
“Then we had to fish him out with a grapnel,” Sophia said, taking another drink. “What was left. That was, by the way, this afternoon, Chief. Sergeant Major. So you shall forgive us, I hope, if we drown ourselves in really good booze. Now, what do you drink? And if you answer ‘I don’t,’ I swear to God I’ll see if you can outswim the fucking sharks.”
“I’m trying to figure out if I’m still a recovering alcoholic,” Chief Schmidt said. “My wife of forty-three years finally convinced me I had a problem. On the other hand, she is no longer with us. But you go right ahead, Ensign.”
“I take it back, Chief,” Sophia said. “I’ll go find some of the tea I usually hold back for my sister. Or we’ve got some Coke.”
“Coca-Cola would be great, ma’am,” the chief said. “I would normally say an officer should not get a chief a Coke, but I’m not sure I’m going to be able to stand up again without help.”
CHAPTER 24
Now all you recruities what’s drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an’ ’ark to my lay,
An’ I’ll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what’s fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier
Soldier of the Queen
“The Young Recruit”
Rudyard Kipling
“Oh,” Sophia croaked, holding her hands over her ears to blot out the sound of the guns. “I have got to either give up drinking or give up early mornings.”
The sun was just rising over the marina of Puerto de Gulmar and it was another fine morning in the Canary Islands. Seabirds squawked over the dead bodies of infected as fish jumped to avoid the sharks that were swarming to the flowing blood.
“More water, ma’am,” Sergeant Major Barney said. “When is the rest of the team arriving for the operations meeting, ma’am?”
“After they finish firing and secure, Sergeant Major,” Sophia said. She took a sip of her coffee and grimaced again. “And hopefully after the Tylenol kicks in.”
The chosen target zone was a small beach outside the entrance to the marina. The guns had finished off the infected on the beach and the Golden Guppy raised its three anchors and pulled out to sea. There was another group of infected at the end of the seawall protecting the marina. The problem was, if the Guppy fired from its current location, it would be firing into the marina and probably hit some of their target vessels. It moved out to sea, into the rolling combers, and prepared to engage again. This time, it was doing so without anchoring.
The fire was much less on target, with rounds going over the zombies as well as below. The problem with “below” was the large rocks of the jetty. They had various angles to them and tracers went everywhere, including towards the anchored boats.
“Guppy, Division. Check fire, check fire, check fire. Try it again, anchored.”
“I told ’em that wouldn’t work,” Sophia muttered, picking up the radio. “Catenary is a bitch. And we don’t have all day. Division, Señorita, over.”
“Señorita, Division.”
“Recommend pull into the marina entrance, fire from there. Very little wave action, over.”
“The tide is going in, Señorita. They’d have to maintain position to fire against the flow, over.”
“Permission to approach for close rifle fire. There are only ten or fifteen. And I can maintain position against the tide. Over.”
“Roger, stand by. Guppy, clear and lock all weapons and stand off. Señorita approaching for close rifle fire. Confirm.”
“Division, Guppy. We can get this, over.”
“Wasn’t a request, Guppy. Confirm.”
“Clear and lock all weapons then stand off, over.”
“Roger. Division out.”
“And so we’re moving,” Sophia said, raising the anchor. “Sergeant Major, I assume you can still fire a rifle?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the sergeant major said. “And I even was given an opportunity to zero.”
“I’m going to back in,” Sophia said, turning the boat around. “Get Olga, and you and she fire ’em up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the sergeant major said.
* * *
There was a nasty little eddy at the entrance caused by a combination of the wave action and a small metal wall that was probably to prevent silting. But Sophia finally found a stable point.
“Okay, this is as good as you’re going to get,” she shouted.
* * *
“We may have to discuss uniform at some point,” Sergeant Major Barney said.
Olga had turned out in shorts and a bikini top with her LBE thrown over.
“Yes, Sergeant Major,” Olga said.
“How do you normally do this?” he asked.
“The only time I fired from the boat I was up on the flying bridge,” Olga said. “And I didn’t hit many. We were anchored but the boat was rocking.”
“There is a technique for that,” the sergeant major said. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t a Marine and I’ve never studied it. We’ll use the deck up front. What’s it called?”
“The sundeck, Sergeant Major.”
The sergeant major followed her up to the sundeck, trying not to pay too much attention to the butt and legs.
“Prone position,” he said, getting down creakily. It had been a bit since he’d done this and he mentally made the note that he was going to have to figure out how they were going to engage in physical training. Not to mention general discipline and uniform standards. “Slow, aimed, fire. We have time.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“Go ahead and load, then open fire,” the sergeant major said. He wanted to observe her technique.
“Open fire, aye, Sergeant Major,” Olga said. She charged the weapon, then took careful aim. There was a crack and one of the infected stumbled. It didn’t go down, though, so she fired again. That time it went down.
“Bloody five five six,” the sergeant major muttered.
“Lieutenant Smith, Faith that is, calls these things Barbie guns,” Olga said, taking another shot.
The sergeant major looked through the Aimpoint scope and considered his shots. He knew he shouldn’t do it, but he went for a headshot. Fortunately, he hit.
“Very nice,” Olga said. “I’m not quite that good.”
“Luck,” Barney said. “And about
twenty-four years experience.”
He picked out another that wasn’t moving much and dropped it with another head shot. That seemed to be working, the range was no more than forty meters and Ensign Smith was keeping the boat comfortably steady. He fired again.
“Okay, I know I hit that one in the bloody head,” he said, just as the infected dropped.
“Barbie guns,” Olga said. She was just using two or three rounds in the body to drop hers.
“They shouldn’t be able to survive being shot in the bloody head,” Barney said. “Not even for a few seconds.”
In less than ten minutes from when the boat had entered the marina entrance, all the infected were down. More than half of them from headshots from the sergeant major.
“Position is clear, ma’am,” the sergeant major called.
“Roger, Sergeant Major,” Sophia said. “I’m going to move into the turning area for the conference. Might as well be comfortable.”
* * *
“We still have infected leaking into the area,” Lieutenant Chen said. “But the presence is down. Sergeant Major, aware that this is your first such operation, would you prefer to suggest an action plan or have Ensign Smith present hers?”
“I’d rather the ensign present hers, sir,” Sergeant Major Barney said. “I do have thoughts but it is my first time on such an operation and I would like to have the ensign’s insights.”
“Sophia?” Chen said.
“The primary purpose of this mission is the recovery of the ocean-capable yachts,” Sophia said. “Most of those are tied up along the breakwater. As such, I would suggest putting in a primary security team at the base of the breakwater, probably with a 240 and some rifle support, then go through and clear and remove any infected from the yachts. If we place a gunboat alongside one of the yachts, oriented to fire parallel to the breakwater, they can support if there is a heavy response by infected. If there are still too many, have inflatables in place to support the retreat of the security team. I would recommend the sergeant major primarily be with that machine-gun and rifle security team. That’s the point that is most likely to have major infected response and Anarchy was our only person fully qualified with the 240. He trained Rusty on it, so I’d suggest Rusty as the gunner. I’d suggest the Guppy as the support boat with the chief onboard to maintain control of the fire from the gunboat. Leave all the Guppy’s gunners aboard, the ground team taken from the Wet Debt and the other boats with security. For the defense team I suggest use most of the Wet Debt crew. For the clearance team . . . Olga and I can handle that.”
