To Sail a Darkling Sea

by John Ringo

He scored a 100 with the note: “This test is based upon the experiences of personnel currently involved in operations against infected and, therefore, your answer(s): 1911 has been judged INCORRECT. But we gave you a pass on it since it’s a cult thing with you guys and the Constitution allows for freedom of religion. Even if you’re WRONG. P3L Faith Marie Smith, USMC.”

  “P3L?” Thomas said, leaning back. It wasn’t a rank he’d ever seen and he’d seen pretty much every rank. Then he nodded. “Oh. So a provisional third lieutenant is telling me what gun to use, huh?”

  He also found it interesting that “AK” and “Kukri” were correct.

  The boating one was the most extensive. It started with a short test that covered basic boating safety and nautical terms. He scored a one hundred on that one. Then a second test came up. He’d seen it, somewhere, before but he wasn’t sure where. He’d never taken this particular test but he’d seen it. Somewhere. He realized about halfway through that it was from the master mariner’s course book.

  He couldn’t answer all the questions, which annoyed him. He’d read the book, once, on a deployment when it was about the only thing around to read. But that had been . . . during Desert Storm on that barge in the Gulf. He started remembering some of the questions after that, his memory was like that, and went back and checked to find the ones that he’d guessed. He found himself humming The Doors “Riders on the Storm” and remembering more. The SEAL lieutenant commander on the barge was a Doors fan and he played it constantly. The song triggered more memories and he went back and basically started the test all over again.

  Others had gone to computers and gotten up as he was working on his tests. A new group had come in and a lady came over as he was working on the master mariner’s test.

  “Sir, are you nearly done?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Thomas said. “I’m still only on the mariner portion. There’s truck driving and a couple of other things to go. How long is the linguistics test?”

  “There are three questions on the language,” the lady said.

  “Okay, be a while there,” Thomas said. “And some of these marine questions are tough. Could you give me a few minutes?”

  “Take as much time as you wish,” the lady said. “We weren’t sure . . . Just take your time . . .”

  He finally finished the maritime questions and was pleased to see that he’d scored an eighty-nine. That should give him a shot at one of the boat crews. That sounded like more fun than being a linguist.

  Then came the linguistics questions. The first question was a screen with click boxes that asked the user to click what languages were “fluent written and spoken.”

  Thomas paused at that one. The screen had a few he couldn’t speak and a bunch were missing that he could. Finally he clicked German, French, Russian and because they were in the Canary Islands and they were going to Gitmo, Spanish. He thought about Chinese, Tagalog and Indonesian. But that would probably leave him translating the rest of his cruise and that was the last thing he wanted to do. They also had Arabic and Japanese but, well, the list was longer of what they didn’t have that he spoke and could read and write in cases where they had a written language. They were missing Urdu, Dari, Pashtun and Tajik for example. Not to mention Swahili, Kikongo, Lingala . . . The list was longer of what they didn’t have . . .

  There was a test on each of them. Three phrases with multiple choice answers as to their translation. All three were what he would term advanced if he was teaching the course. He even recognized a couple of them from DLI.

  That one he scored a one hundred. He damned well should; he’d written these tests before.

  There were no tests for truck driving or mountaineering, so he was done.

  He took a seat and waited.

  “Thomas Walker?”

  * * *

  “You were an English as a Second Language instructor?”

  There was a printed out folded-paper sign on the desk that read “Matthew Scott Baker.” The placement officer was skinny, which vaguely surprised Thomas until he realized that probably everyone had come off a lifeboat or from a compartment like his.

  “Yes, sir,” Thomas said. “In England working mostly with Spanish and French managers transferred to England who needed some brushing up on their linguistic skills. But I’d really prefer do something on the nautical side.”

  “You certainly appear qualified for that on paper,” Baker said, shaking his head. “We’ve master mariners that couldn’t remember this much of the test. Do you have a mariner’s ticket?”

  “No, sir,” Thomas said. “I just enjoyed reading and read the book a few times. Also I had a few friends with boats and I’d cadge rides on yachts. I know my way around. I forgot to include I can also cook. I’ve never been a professional cook but I can find my way around a galley.”

  “Cooks we have,” Baker said. “Even professional Navy and cruise line cooks. People who know how to pass the mariner’s course are rare. Despite that, you won’t be placed directly into a boat captain’s position. Sorry, it’s a matter of trust. You have to spend some time crewing on a vessel.”

  “And cleaning compartments,” Thomas said. “I understand the need for that.”

  “Oh, no,” Baker said, shaking his head. “We’ve got a very high priority for persons who can show any ability with these yachts. You’re going to the very head of that list based on your answers. And civilian shooting experience with a one hundred? You’re going to boat crews unless you somehow fooled the tests. I’ll schedule you for the hands-on testing phase for tomorrow’s class if you’re really ready?”

  “Absolutely,” Walker said. “I don’t like sitting around.”

  “You’re scheduled,” Baker said. “There should be a message passed to you at your compartment but if that gets fouled up, be on the aft deck at eight AM tomorrow morning. And if you’re not on their list, have them call me and I’ll straighten it out. Thank you for volunteering; we really need all the help we can get.”

  “Just proud to be here,” Walker said. “Any idea where my compartment might be?”

  Baker looked at his screen and shook his head.

  “You didn’t even get assigned a cabin?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Walker said. “I just signed in and came down here.”

  “I can assign one from here, I know I can . . .” Baker said. He tapped at the keyboard and fiddled for a bit then nodded. “All right, I’m assigning you cabin as well as a provisional boat crew ration level. The only pay right now is how good your quarters and food is. And there’s not, truly, much difference. Boat crews, civilian and Navy, get a share of the salvage. So they generally eat well and can pick up some pretties to wow the ladies. I’m also told that when you run into someone you’ve rescued, they tend to be fairly grateful. I know I was to Seawolf but I’m not going to try to express it physically, you understand.”

  Thomas didn’t but he just nodded.

  “Go back to the main saloon,” Baker said, taking a print-out from his computer and signing it. “The port side is the . . . Oh, I don’t suppose I have to explain port and starboard?”

  “No,” Walker said.

  “On the port side, forward, there’s a desk that says ‘Reservations.’ Go there and they will issue you your rations card and your room key. You may or may not get a room on this boat. But you still need to be back on the transom deck by eight AM. There are those Zodiacs that move around all over. If you end up on a different ship, catch a ride back. All right?”

  “All right,” Walker said.

  “Welcome to Wolf Squadron and good luck,” Baker said, shaking his hand. “I’ll leave you the small boats. I bounced around in a lifeboat for long enough, this isn’t even big enough for me.”

  “I’m looking forward to the fresh air,” Walker said.

  * * *

  “You just got out of a compartment and you’re already signed up for crewman training?” the lady at “Reservations” said. “Have you even had anyt
hing to eat?”

  “I had some soup,” Walker said. “There was food in the compartment. And I’ve been sitting on my ass for six months. I’m ready to do something.”

  “We’re out of cabins on this boat,” she said, looking at her computer. “I’ll put you on the Boadicea. They have some cabins that just came open. They should be clean but they may be a bit whiff. Well, the boat may be a bit whiff. Are you extremely claustrophobic after being in the compartment?”

  “No,” Thomas said.

  “I’ll put you in an interior compartment, then,” the lady said. “I can put you in a stateroom that way. You get your own bathroom and shower.”

  “A flush toilet will be luxury in itself,” Thomas said. “I thank you.”

  “This is your rations card and, functionally, your identification for now,” the lady said, handing him what looked like a hotel room key. “The people on the Boadicea will have to issue you your room key. This will let you get something to eat on any of the ships.” She handed him a yellow card on a lanyard. “This shows that you’re in training for one of the regular squadron positions. It allows you access to any of the public areas on any of the ships as well as travel from ship to ship. By the ships I mean the ships in the squadron, not the liners such as you came off of. Those are off-limits to nonclearance personnel. Even if you have something that was in your cabin, until you get cleared they are off-limits. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Walker said. “I can imagine you don’t want people roaming around on them getting lost.”

  “Or getting shot by the Marines by mistake,” she said. “You can pick up a Zodiac headed to the Boadicea on the transom deck. That’s the waterline spot at the back of the boat you entered by. And you’re scheduled for your first class at eight AM tomorrow. Be back here on time. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Thomas said, taking the IDs.

  “Thank you for signing up. There’s a big world to save. We need all the help we can get.”

  * * *

  “Anybody headed to the Boadicea?” Thomas asked.

  There were three RHIBs tied up on the transom deck. The presumable drivers were chatting up one of the Russian chicks. The drivers were all young, teens or twenties.

  “I am,” one said. He had a strong Scottish accent. “But unless you’re in a hurry, I’m waiting on some more passengers.”

  “No rush,” Thomas said. It was a nice day to be out of the compartment.

  “Did you not just come aboard?” the Russian chick asked.

  “I didn’t want to sit around for three days doing nothing,” Walker said, shrugging. “So I signed up for the nautical course already and they put me on the Boadicea.”

  “That’s a fair do, mate,” the Scot said. “Must be a tough old bird.”

  “Just don’t like sitting around,” Walker said. “Did you take the course? I mean, am I gonna get stuck on a Zodiac?”

  “That’s the shit, man,” one of the others said. “Driving these things is a blast.”

  “Be a bit less fun when we get offshore, mate,” the Scot said. “But, aye, it’s one of the choices. Mostly they put young blokes on it, no offense. It’s a bit physical for most of the older blokes.”

  “You take the course, then based on how you do, you can volunteer for Zods,” the third said. He was English. Midlands probably but it was hard to tell with young people from England these days. “There’s another day training on them if you get it. Like Bran said, mostly they take the young blokes that volunteer.”

  “Are you Navy?” Thomas asked.

  “Not hardly, mate,” Bran said. “There are some but they’ve got the boats that can carry guns. We’re just offshore, inshore right now, taxi drivers.”

  “Yeah, but one of the things we’re supposed to taxi is Marines,” the American said.

  “I need one of your boats for the Bo.” The man was wearing a U.S. Navy “blue-cam” uniform and had the tabs for an engineering petty officer.

  “I’m for the Bo,” Bran said. “This bloke was headed over as well.”

  “That’s fine,” the PO said. “Let’s go.”

  “Right you are, captain,” Bran said. “All aboard for the Boadicea? Anyone else for the Boadicea? Let’s cast off.”

  “You first,” the PO ordered. “It’s a nautical thing. Senior boards last.”

  “Roger,” Thomas said, climbing in the Zodiac. It was, for a change, a Zodiac.

  “Didn’t mean to be a dick,” the PO said. “Just one of those things.”

  “Not a problem,” Thomas said. “Tom Walker.”

  “Petty Officer Third Class Larry Baker,” the PO said.

  “Were you Navy before the Plague?” Walker asked.

  “Yeah,” Baker said. “But I was a seaman apprentice. Sort of a private in the Navy. What they call an oiler. But they’re so desperate for people who know one end of a boat from the other, I’m a PO3 now.”

  “Were you on a ship?” Walker asked.

  “The Iwo Jima,” Baker said. “It’s a Marine Assault Carrier. Then I was in a fucking lifeboat for four damned months before anybody found me. Fucking sucked.”

  “Not a sub, then,” Walker said.

  “No, the subs that weren’t infected are still closed up,” Baker said. “We’re headed to Gitmo mostly so we can, hopefully, find a working lab to produce vaccine. There was a really good hospital there for the detainees. They think they can use it to make vaccine.”

  “Oh,” Thomas said. “That makes sense. Are you working on the boats?”

  “I’m one of the guys in charge of the engine room on the Bo,” Baker said. “Working for a pretty smart civilian engineer. I was over at Ops trying to wangle some parts. Or, rather, get them to send somebody into the Festival to get some parts. I really don’t want to go crawling around the engine room on the Festival looking for an oil pump. But unless we can get them to send a salvage team in, it looks like I’m gonna have to.”

  “Parts for your main liner would seem to me to be important,” Walker said.

  “They said the same thing,” Baker said. “Also that there’s a lot of stuff that’s important. And the pump isn’t out yet, it’s just old. So . . . I think I’m going to have to go into the fucking dark and try to find Barry’s pump. Or he’s going to make my life hell.”

  “Sounds like you need to talk to a Chief,” Walker said.

  “I would if we had any,” Baker said, shrugging. “The only chief we’ve found was a retired guy on one of the liners. And they sent him off to the small boat squadrons down the coast. I’m going to go brace the gunny, I think. I sort of knew him on the Iwo. I knew him, don’t think he knew me. I’ll ask him if he could free up a couple of Marines. It’s fucking dark in there and there are zombies. I’m not going to take a fucking Beretta in there hoping for the best. I’m not.”

  “If I didn’t have some sort of class coming up, I’d offer to cover you,” Walker said. “I can use a Beretta. Prefer a 1911 but I can use a Beretta.”

  “If you’re available and I can’t find Marines, I might just take you up on that,” the kid said. “There’s a liquor storage compartment that’s barely been touched from what I hear. If we’re taking in a pallet to get out a pump, we might as well fill it, right?”

  “As long as we get the pump,” Walker said as the Zodiac reached the floating dock on the liner.

  “What was that name again?” the kid asked.

  “Walker,” Thomas said. “But I’m going to be taking the nautical class so I don’t know how much time I’ll have.”

  “Zero,” the driver said. “Bloody zero. Runs from early morning to late at night.”

  “Shit,” the kid said. “I guess I’ll need to find some Marines, then.”

  * * *

  The cabin wasn’t bad but it was interior. And while he wasn’t claustrophobic, Thomas was about tired of four walls. He used the delicious luxury of a flush toilet, with toilet paper, took another shower, then took a walk.

  Ther
e was a dining area that served from morning to midnight according to the posted schedule. He decided to check out the food. A middle-aged guy swiped his card and looked at the readout.

  “You can eat as much as you’d like,” the guy said, handing him two printed tickets. “But eat everything you take. The tickets are for the bar if you want some booze.”

  The food was bland and clearly canned. Some of it had the look of being from Navy rations. The only thing fresh was baked mackerel. And there was a lot of it.

  “Where’s the fish come from?” he asked the server.

  “Some of the boats just brought it in,” the girl said. She was English, southern England. “It appears that submarines can stun fish with their sonar. They stun them and the boats pick them up.”

  “They’re going active to go fishing?” Thomas said, his normally bland expression flickering.

  “They’re out of food, too,” a woman said tartly. She was American and apparently in charge of the chow line. “The subs are. They mostly do it to feed their crews. We get what’s left over.”

  “Okay,” Walker said. “That makes a little more sense.”

  He took some of the mackerel and looked for a table by the windows. They were mostly occupied but most of the people were probably European and thus wouldn’t mind sharing. One person, one table was an American thing.

  There was a self-serve soft drinks stand, Pepsi products, and a bar with wine and beer. He decided he could really do with a beer.

  “You look like you’re fresh off the boat,” the bartender said, looking around then waving away the ticket. “Hang onto it. You can use it later.”

  “Thanks,” Walker said. “I am. And I signed up for the nautical course.”

  “Good luck, mate,” the man said, drawing a beer. “I tried that and quit on day two. Bloody ballbuster that is. You’re not cleaning first?”

  “I studied for the master mariner’s test one time,” Walker said. “And I remembered enough of it they put me in the class right away.”

  “I’ll just sit here and pour, then,” the man said, pouring himself a beer. “Leave it to you.”

  Walker went to one of tables by the window with an open seat and gestured to it with his tray.