Islands of Rage and Hope

by John Ringo

  “What?” Sophia asked wearily. She felt like she’d just fought her way through a typhoon.

  “Walker, Dobson and Chang,” Olga said.

  “Your point?” Sophia asked. “Other than it sounds like a law firm?”

  “Three Wise Men! Okay, two wise men and a wise guy . . .”

  * * *

  Zero Three Hundred local. The definition of Oh Dark Thirty. Everyone should be asleep. And the Hole should be up.

  Walker opened up the cabinet that contained one of the Navy hand-helds. They were generally kept off unless there was an away team. None of the boats in the division had away teams operating at the moment.

  He turned it to a random frequency and keyed it.

  “Alexandria, Alexandria, Marigold, over.”

  He waited.

  “Calling station unidentified. Identify for verification, over.”

  “Verification is call sign. Following eyes only, FDOSAC. Code is Marigold, repeat, Marigold. Verification: Four-One-Three-Six. Will contact same time, same frequency, tomorrow. End message. Repeat: Eyes only, FDO. Do not, repeat, not contact Squadron. Over.”

  “If you are screwing around on this frequency, we will find you and have your ass.”

  “Contact only the FDO,” Walker said. “Or I shall have yours. Marigold, out.”

  * * *

  “Skipper, sorry,” the duty officer said. “We just got a weird, really weird, call. Voice only.”

  “Go ahead,” Commander Vancel said, rubbing his eyes. He wasn’t getting out of the rack unless it was important.

  “Where’d it come from?” Vancel asked, replaying the recording on the handheld.

  “Somewhere in Division Seven,” the OOD said. “I can’t tell if this guy is fucking around or . . . Well . . .”

  “It’s for General Brice,” Vancel said, rolling out of his rack. “She was the flag duty officer at SAC when it went down. I’ll send it on as a personal e-mail attachment. Log it, though.”

  * * *

  “Marigold?” Brice said, looking at the e-mail. She really wasn’t terribly busy most of the time and today was one of those days. She was good at her job, which involved getting other people to do theirs and then just keeping that going. Unfortunately, since most of the people she had working for her were über-competent, that meant she had lots of time on her hands. In the middle of an apocalypse. Not a good thing.

  So her curiosity was piqued.

  She typed in the word as a search in the intelligence database. It wasn’t by any means a complete database. The “complete” database had been the whole of SIPRNET, the DoD’s secure version of the internet. But The Hole was designed as a backup in the event of, well, an apocalypse, and it had at least extracts of a lot of stuff.

  There were various references. Several operations had included “Marigold” in their operations name. Most of them were black ops but not all.

  However, there was also a flag officer code name listed.

  Upon retirement, all flag officers as well as “select” others were given a code name and a contact method. The reason was that flag officers held a lot of secrets in their heads. Even after retirement, they were potential targets for espionage or terrorist assassination. If they happened to be travelling in a country where a revolution kicked off, they could call a number and response would materialize. Even if the USA had to send Rangers in quietly—as it had on numerous occasions.

  She clicked the link and blanched.

  “Oh . . .” she said, panting. She felt slightly faint. “Ooof-dah. Oh, it can’t be . . .”

  She listened to the voice recording again and compared the information. The four digit code was the last four of the Social. The voice even sounded the same.

  Then she pulled up the manifest for the squadron and started hunting, checking names against the file. The basic name wasn’t anywhere on there but she knew it wouldn’t be. But the handle . . .

  “Thomas Walker,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth and trying not to cry. “Son of a bitch. Night Walker. He’s alive. There is a God in heaven.”

  * * *

  “Bella Señorita, Alexandria, over.”

  “Bella here,” Sophia said, wondering if she should put up the bimini top. The tan was getting pretty deep.

  The guys on Columbus’s ships had probably been about ready to mutiny at this point. But that was because they didn’t know where they were going, where they were or when they were going to get there. If you did, the South Atlantic Equatorial Current cruise was a real beauty. Not much to see but ocean, but in winter it was just lovely rolling combers heading in your general direction, clear skies, seabirds, whales, flying fish and the occasional bit of debris from the death of human civilization.

  “Bella, Alex. Prosecuting sierra. Geared freighter. Approx six hundred feet length. Approx twenty-eight kay gross tons. Containerized and noncontainerized deck cargo. Visible infected. Zulu count five visible. Over.”

  “Roger, Alex. Send coordinates, over.”

  She thought about it for a second, then picked up the other radio.

  “Flotilla, Division Seven, over.”

  “Division Seven, Flotilla, over.”

  “Got a geared handysize with some infected,” Sophia said. “What’s the status on Marines, over?”

  “Sort of tapped out working a liner, Division. Recommend give it a pass, over.”

  “Flotilla, be advised. Geared and has noncontainerized deck cargo, break. Looks like really nice salvage. Break. Without getting off the boat myself I am confident my people can handle this without Marine assistance. We’re talking walk in the park here. Over.”

  * * *

  “Is she really that laid-back about taking on a freighter with zombies on it?” Petty Officer Third Class Kevin Drum said. “I mean, she sounds bored.”

  “The last time Seawolf took a walk in a park it was Washington Square when the zombies overran the last concert in New York,” Lieutenant Gregory Spears said. The flotilla commander was a former stock broker and weekend yachtsman. He hadn’t realized the difference between telling people how to do their jobs and potentially sending them to their deaths until he’d taken the job. He wasn’t enjoying that part of it. “Her definition of walk in the park is not a normal definition.” He thought about it and keyed the radio.

  * * *

  “Washington Square walk in the park or a walk in the park walk in the park, over.”

  Sophia giggled and keyed the radio.

  “The ‘we’ve got this’ kind, Flotilla. Take your pick.”

  “Do not endanger your vessel. Minimize risk to your personnel. Do not go directly alongside.”

  “Do not endanger vessel, aye,” Sophia said. “Minimize personnel risk, aye. Do not go directly alongside, aye.”

  “Seriously, don’t get yourselves in a scrum. That’s what Marines are for.”

  “Will not get in a scrum, Flotilla. Over.”

  “Approved. Flotilla out.”

  “Hoist the black flag,” Sophia said over the intercom. “Man the grapnels. We have a ship to take me hearties! Arrrh!”

  * * *

  “So, Thomas,” Sophia said. “As an English as a Second Language teacher with ‘some civilian shooting experience,’ how good a shot are you?”

  The freighter was pretty big compared to the Bella Señorita but ships like the Iwo Jima and liners like the Voyage had given Sophia a new appreciation for the word “big.” And if any of the gear was running, it was a real catch. The noncontainerized deck cargo wasn’t much—some boat hulls, mostly—but one of the containers had been opened and apparently contained food, based on the well-fed zombies on the deck and the seabirds flying in and out. Probably fresh water as well. Zombies could occasionally figure out how to tear into cases of bottled water.

  “I would say fair to good,” Walker said. “But that is on my scale of judging such things. I will also say that catenary is going to be a bitch.”

  The freighter was not rocking much
in the relatively smooth seas. The Bella, on the other hand, was bouncing quite a bit. And they were not rocking in time.

  “Always is,” Sophia said. “Okay, shooting challenge. You, me and Olga. As skipper I’m going to have the edge on both experience and weapon so I’ll spot myself one zombie.”

  “Are you sure about that, Skipper?” Walker said. “My definition of good would be most people’s definition of excellent.”

  “Choose your weapon, Mr. Walker,” Sophia said.

  “Is this a duel?” Olga asked. “Don’t you need seconds?”

  * * *

  “A pistol?” Sophia said. “Okay . . .”

  She’d turned out with her personalized M4 with Leupold scope. Olga had her M4. Walker had a 1911.

  “I am capable enough with a rifle, ma’am, but pistol or submachine gun are usually my preference,” Walker said turning his right shoulder towards the zombies clustered by the rail. “Whenever you’re ready, ma’am.”

  “I think I’ll spot,” Olga said, setting her weapon down and getting on her stomach.

  “Works for me,” Sophia said, getting in the prone and wrapping the sling around her arm. “The one item I will note on this is always miss high if you’re going to miss. The one thing you don’t want is rounds coming back at the ship.”

  “Understood, ma’am,” Walker said. “Thank you for that tip.”

  “Why do I think you knew it already?” Sophia said, lining up a target.

  “I did not, actually,” Walker said. “Makes sense. But this is, in fact, a new experience for me, ma’am.”

  “I’ll work forward to aft, you work aft to forward. Engage at will.”

  * * *

  Walker missed his first shot, high, and was less angered than pleased. He knew that he would not be doing any better with a rifle at this range. And he had missed because of the catenary. Which meant he had something new to learn about shooting and that was becoming increasingly rare in his experience.

  * * *

  Sophia missed her first two shots but she was used to that. Catenary was, as Walker had noted, a bitch. The U.S. Navy SEALs had managed to shoot three pirates in similar if reversed conditions, each with one shot apiece, at night, without hitting a hostage. How, she was still wanting to learn. But so far although the Marines were somewhat trained in catenary shooting, no real “expert” had turned up.

  Her third shot scored, high and center, on one of the infected and he dropped out of sight.

  “Excellent shot, Ensign,” Walker said.

  “Thanks,” Sophia said, keeping her eye in the scope.

  * * *

  Walker was firing one-handed, arm extended, his left hand on his hip. It was not a normal firing position but it gave the added advantage of being very flexible. That flexibility had him, at first, chasing the targets. When he realized that wasn’t the best choice, he waited until they came into his target zone, then adjusted minutely.

  Head shot.

  Now he was getting in the groove. . . .

  * * *

  There were originally seven infected on deck. Sophia and Walker fired nearly simultaneously and the last target dropped.

  “Okay,” Olga said. “That was definitely a head shot. But I can’t tell which of you got him. And you were neck and neck up to that point.”

  “Walker,” Sophia said.

  “Skipper’s,” Walker said.

  “From the way the head came apart I think it was both,” Olga said.

  “Since the Hole is so interested in ‘Marigold,’ whoever he is, upload this to General Brice’s attention,” Lieutenant Commander Vancel said, watching the screen. “And let’s go find some more prospects.”

  * * *

  “That’s gotta be a both,” Olga said. “Yuck.”

  “It was,” Walker said, chuckling. “This is the forty-five going in here on the cheek. The skipper’s five-five-six went into the right eye. I’d say either one was a kill shot. The interesting question is what is in the container.”

  The answer was fruit juice in cardboard containers. The infected had managed to rip their way into the pallets and get both liquid and some nourishment. The bodies of a few crew as well as feathers of seabirds indicated there had been other sources of protein.

  “I’m glad I’ve got a respirator on,” Walker said. He’d armed up with a 1911 and a pump shotgun and changed into his blue coveralls. But other than that he was just wearing a respirator. Olga was in full combat gear with a balaclava against bites to the neck. “Let’s check out the rest. You lead.”

  “You’re such a gentleman,” Olga said.

  “I’m a firm believer in female equality,” Thomas said. “After you.”

  * * *

  “I really don’t like this,” Olga said. Belowdecks was dark as a tomb. Also silent as one except for a rattling and banging of metal as the freighter slowly rocked in the swells. Each bang, though, was startling. They were too irregular to predict.

  “Does get the blood pumping, don’t it?” Thomas said as they swept through the crew quarters. The area was a mess and the reason was apparent in a naked body, past bloat and long dead. “Don’t think we’re waking him up, no matter how much noise we make. But the body hasn’t been mauled. That would tend to indicate this area is clear.”

  “So we can go back, right?” Olga said.

  “Mechanical spaces still to go I would think. But you’re in charge.”

  * * *

  “I think the engine room was closed up,” Olga said, sweeping around one of the massive generators. “No crap, no dried blood.”

  “And no body,” Walker said. “I would say this is legal salvage and in decent condition.”

  “Flotilla, Division Seven,” Sophia said, then looked down to the aft deck at the clearance crew. “You two, get out of your gear and grab a drink. I know how nerve-wracking that can be. Flotilla, Division Seven.”

  “Division Seven, Flotilla.”

  “Ship is clear. Seven live infected now KIA. One previous KIA in the interior. Mechanical and working spaces in good shape. Diesel engines and onboard fuel. Recommend this one for a salvage team. Geared and loaded with cargo.”

  “Will pass that on to Squadron, Division. Any problems?”

  “Walk in the park, Flotilla.”

  * * *

  “Okay, let me make this real clear,” the salvage crew boss said. “This one had better actually be cleared.”

  Adam David Saddler had been a master mariner, driving ships like this one, for thirty-five years before the Plague. What he had not been, had no desire to be, was a cop, a soldier or, for that matter, a zombie hunter. He thought anyone who did it for kicks or for pay was an idiot. He’d had to kill one of his crewmates when the poor guy turned on their lifeboat. He was not interested in meeting more.

  “Had that problem before?” Sophia asked.

  Two off-shore inflatables were filled with a crew from the Grace Tan, ready to, if possible, get the ship underway to join the squadron.

  “Yes, we have had that problem before,” the captain said. “And we don’t find it funny. Did you clear the engineering spaces?”

  “Yes, we cleared the engineering spaces,” Olga said. “They were closed. We only found one infected belowdecks. It was dead and it hadn’t been chewed on.”

  “Don’t suppose you cleared out the bodies,” one of the crew asked.

  “No, we didn’t,” Olga said. “That’s what you big . . . strong . . . men are for. We just killed them.”

  “Need your clearance people to accompany,” the salvage boss said.

  “That’s why they’ve got their guns.”

  * * *

  “What are you going to do with the container?” Walker asked.

  “If we can get everything running, probably hose it out and close it.” Suzanne Grazier had been a full rate deck hand on a freighter that had been infected. She’d jumped ship with three of her shipmates. One other had survived and they had both been quite happy to see a boat l
ike Sophia’s come along. Especially given the pregnancy. She’d liked both of the guys who had turned but the upside was, she knew who her baby’s daddy was. “It’s not worth trying to undog it and winch it over the side. And I don’t think the stuff’s going to be good anymore.”

  There was a slight rumble under their feet and Suzanne grinned.

  “Well, that’s one thing working,” he said.

  * * *

  “And we’re away,” Sophia said. The salvage boss had grumpily declared the clearance of the M/V Paul Østed “good enough” and taken over the ship. “Now we just have to catch back up to my division. Full power, helmsman!”

  “Full power, aye,” Olga said, pushing the throttles forward.

  “But that way,” Sophia said, pointing to starboard. “You’re headed for, well, Antarctica right now.”

  “Details, details . . .” Olga said.

  CHAPTER 3

  “. . . KING OF MIAMI AND THE KINGDOM OF FLORCUBATAMP! ALL SHALL BOW BEFORE MY MAGNIFICENCE . . . !”

  From: Collected Radio Transmissions of The Fall

  University of the South Press 2053

  “Bella, Bella, Bella, this is the Finally Friday, over.”

  “Friday, Bella, over,” Olga said in a bored tone.

  “Fuel state, three hundred fifty gallons. Water, twenty gallons. Our ROWPU is acting up and the oiler can’t get it fixed so far. Lots of food, lots of booze, not so much on the water and fuel thing. Captain McCartney asked me to add that this is an official ‘we need fuel’ call. Over.”

  “Roger,” Olga said. “Will pass that on to the division commander. Bella, out.”

  * * *

  “Anything new?” Sophia said, coming up on the fly bridge.

  Azure and silver. She’d been reading quite a bit and on Walker’s suggestion had dug into Hornblower. Part of her gift from Mr. Lawton had been a slew of e-books and they included all of the Horatio Hornblower series. She now knew what a “cutting out expedition” was supposed to be like. And the description of southern seas was accurate as all hell. Perfect blue, perfect silver, perfect days of peace and quiet and not a damned problem in the world except an almost complete lack of people to save and Olga going slowly stir crazy.