by John Ringo
“That makes sense,” Sophia said. “One question, pure curiosity between the skipper and her crewman. Senior NCO or senior officer?”
“If it’s truly between you and me,” Walker said. “Both. Serially. NCO then officer then senior officer. And this may be a trust issue for you. I’ve been in contact with General Brice. I knew her before the Plague. On a purely personal note, I was pleased to know Shelley survived.
“Shelley and Under Secretary Galloway are onboard with me just cruising for now. There are many reasons. Your father has things under control. As much as it is possible given the conditions. He has the, the term is ‘social capital,’ to pull this off. The majority of this squadron is not made up of professionals, and long-term social bonding items are in disarray. Your father and your family act as a social bond for this squadron, which is much more post-apocalyptic gypsy tribe than a professional military force.
“I could probably take more useful roles than being a deckhand on a boat. However, the addition of my expertise would be relatively minimal and I’m enjoying what we do. I also enjoy training bright young officers. A point of which General Brice is fully aware. So absent objections from yourself or Squadron, or your da, here I remain. Unless things change and my former position becomes necessary.”
“Now I’m going to have a hard time not calling you ‘sir,’ ” Sophia said, her brow furrowing.
“You’ve always been polite, Ensign,” Walker said. “Mr. Walker more than suffices. Tom is fine. Neither is my real name. Calling me ‘Walker’ works best. It was part of my handle.”
“What was your handle?” Sophia asked. “If I may ask.”
“Skaeling, actually,” Walker said. “It means Night Walker.”
“More like ‘Boogie man,’ ” Sophia said pointedly. “Those who walk in the dark. Things that go bump in the night. The Native American tribe that drove out the Vikings from Newfoundland.”
“And in Dari it turned out to translate as prostitute or street walker,” Walker said, grinning. “Caused a bit of an issue at one point.”
“Dari?” Sophia said.
“One of two dialects of Persian used in Afghanistan,” Walker said. “The other being Tajik which has the same translation. General Kamal of the Northern Alliance found it quite amusing to call me by my handle. I should probably go see if anyone wants to come back to the boat, ma’am.”
* * *
Steve tapped his fingers on his desk in thought, then hit the connection to The Hole.
“Duty officer,” Lieutenant Colonel Justin Pierre said. “Good . . . evening your time, Captain.”
“Good evening, Colonel,” Steve said. “I have an unusual request.”
“Glad to be of service if I can, Captain,” Colonel Pierre said.
“The service record extracts you have,” Steve said. “Do they include aliases or handles?”
“In some cases, Captain,” Colonel Pierre said, his brow furrowing. “Do you need me to run a name?”
“Yes,” Steve said. “Thomas Walker.”
The colonel had leaned forward into his keyboard, hands set to type and now leaned back, raising his hands and folding them.
“Could I get back to you on that, Captain?” the colonel said. “Something’s come up.”
“Certainly,” Steve said blandly. “Hope things are okay.”
“Fine, just . . . something’s come up. Be back if not tonight then tomorrow early.”
“All right,” Steve said. “Have a good rest of your shift.”
He tapped his fingers on his desk again, then sighed.
“Something is fishy in Omaha. . . .”
* * *
Steve was just out of the shower, drying his hair and contemplating the fact that Stacey had been rummaging in her lingerie drawer when the phone in his quarters rang. Since that invariably meant some sort of emergency had occurred, he was not in the best of moods when Stacey, wearing not much more than a lacey bra and panties, handed him the phone.
“General Brice,” she said, her hand over the mike.
“General,” Steve said. “You rang?”
“Sorry to call you so late, Steve,” Brice said. “But I didn’t want to leave you hanging on the call you made to us. Thomas Walker.”
“I’d wondered, when the colonel so abruptly changed the subject, ma’am,” Steve said. “I don’t mind having the pros back-channel, ma’am. Considering everything, it’s necessary. But putting someone on my daughter’s boat was sort of . . .”
“That I didn’t do,” Brice said. “It was more happy coincidence. Happy because you couldn’t get a better guy to be on your daughter’s boat. At least not alive and in contact. I’ll give you two statements about Walker and that is all you’re going to get. Along with an order. Just leave him be is the order. He’s fine where he is at the moment. That’s my decision and the under secretary’s. Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said thoughtfully.
“So here are the two facts. Fact one: he’s former Special Forces. Fact two: He’s retired. That’s all you have the need to know.
“He likes what he’s doing, he’s earned what is effectively downtime and there’s no better hand at training a young officer. Personally, you want him right where he is. Professionally, while he’d be an asset in your shop, he’d more or less automatically boot you out if he returned at rank. And he made the point that for social politics reasons, that wouldn’t work. When you create a splinter cell to go bootstrap the Pacific, the under secretary and I have already pegged him, notionally, as CINCPAC. He doesn’t know that and he doesn’t need to. It’s late your time. Do you have any salient questions?”
“No, ma’am,” Steve said. “That pretty much covers it.”
“Steve, seriously, he’s not a threat, quite the opposite, and I know him personally, not just professionally. He’s a great guy. You’re lucky to have him where he’s at.”
“Sort of got that, ma’am,” Steve said. “I can even see him wanting to play deckhand. I miss those days myself.”
“If you need someone that’s ‘next level,’ he’s there,” Brice said. “But, notionally, we’re looking at next stage. Get some sleep and don’t worry about Night Walker.”
“Walker?” Stacey said worriedly.
“Turns out I can now chase you around the cabin with my mind focused on that,” Steve said. “Super-secret squirrel. As trustworthy as black ops gets I suppose.”
“I was a little worried,” Stacey said, nodding. “That’s good to hear.”
“Hmmm . . .” Steve said. “Now, you have exactly one second’s head start, then I’m going to tickle the life out of you.”
“I’m just glad you think pregnant women are sexy . . .”
* * *
“So, how was your away time?” Sophia asked, yawning. It was past midnight and she was ready for the rack. “And I see Olga didn’t make it back. No surprise.”
“What they want for parts is crazy,” Celementina said. “I found a new water pump for the engine but they want a case of good booze.”
“We kept back some cases,” Sophia said, shrugging. “I wonder where it came from, though.”
“Like I say,” Celementina said. “Nobody turn in all their stuff they find. They trade it. They only turn in the stuff they can’t trade.”
“We still have the cases,” Sophia said. “And we’ll know better next time. Batari?”
“Plenty of spices and condiments,” Batari said. “Good stuff, too. Prices, not so bad. I can probably get all I need with some of the jewelry and a couple of bottles.”
“Works,” Sophia said. “Okay, tomorrow, we’ll go in shifts, get all the stuff we need we didn’t get from Squadron. Walker, you want to go over tonight?”
“I’ll take the watch, ma’am,” Walker said. “You get some sleep. I can run over tomorrow evening if I want to. Any other stuff we need to know or should know?”
“We can sleep aboard?” Celementina said. “The Boadicea. There’s cabin
s for us if we want them. Like a hotel. Might be where Olga is.”
“There’s an internet, sort of,” Batari said. “Really more like Spacebook. You can check on people in the squadron. Everybody has an account already set up. Oh, and you’ve got to see the night sky movie.”
“Blackness, I would think,” Walker said. “At least if it’s current imagery.”
“You need to see it,” Celementina said, looking at Sophia with an odd expression. “I’m so glad we’re doing this. All we see is the boat. I didn’t really understand, you know? Just see it.”
“Okay,” Sophia said. “On the agenda for tomorrow. We’ll see if we get Olga back so some of us can go get some . . . I was going to say shore leave . . .”
“Big boat leave?” Walker said. “Get some sleep, Skipper. I’ll take the watch.”
CHAPTER 5
“. . . we ain’t gonna give in to these fuckin’ zombies . . .”
From: Collected Radio Transmissions of The Fall
University of the South Press 2053
“Ensign, welcome aboard,” the red-headed man said, offering his hand.
The Boadicea was in movement, cruising very slowly eastward. Most floating docks were designed to be used in ports and stationary, not at sea and in movement. This “floating dock” was actually the bottom of a lifeboat that had been reconfigured and was held away from the ship’s hull by two davits usually used to raise and lower lifeboats.
“Thanks,” Sophia said, stepping off the Zodiac. She didn’t really need the help but she sort of touched his hand getting onto the floating dock. Most people probably needed a lot of help.
She’d worn her uniform. It wasn’t mandatory but she’d worn it anyway. She’d debated then rejected the Master Savior Badge. The nonsubdued version, cast gold from salvaged jewelry, was authorized for wear with NavCam. She had decided to wear her Small Boats Badge. The badge was unauthorized but most of the small boat people wore one. It was a Viking longboat tossed in a storm. That she could get her head around. The Master Savior Badge was just a touch too gaudy.
“I guess this is old hat for you, Seawolf,” the man said, grinning. He was vaguely familiar but a lot of people were.
“I know we’ve met . . .” Sophia said.
“I guess I was just another face,” the man said. “Spring Keyzers. You picked me up about a month ago. Until I saw the movie I hadn’t really realized how many people you must have picked up.”
“Sailboat,” she said, shaking his hand. “Out of commission. What are you doing working guest relations? I’d have pegged you for small boat ops.”
“I’d had enough sailing for a while?” Keyzers said, smiling tightly. “Maybe later. I guess I’m sort of lighting a candle keeping freshies from going in the drink.”
“Understandable,” Sophia said. “Hope you’re doing better.”
“Much,” the man said.
“I’ll get out of your way,” Sophia said. “You take care.”
“You, too, miss.”
* * *
“That was you, wasn’t it?” a woman said, coming out of the theater. She was crying, as were most of the people with her. “The girl lighting the candle? Thank you.”
“For what?” Sophia said. She knew she’d never seen the woman in her life. But she was getting that a lot. Random strangers walking up and saying “thank you.” She wasn’t sure why. Some of them even hugged her and she wasn’t the huggy type. “And the what?”
Sophia had decided that since everyone was talking about the “night sky” movie she should probably see it. So she was waiting for the next showing. Most of the people with her were “boaties,” people fresh off a lifeboat. You could tell by the way they were slightly swaying on the relatively stable Boadicea. Not to mention being thin, extremely tan, wearing slops that didn’t fit well and shivering slightly in the air conditioning. They had a “sponsor” with them, whom she vaguely recognized. She was pretty sure she’d picked her up.
“Everything,” the woman said, hugging her. “Just . . . everything. Thank you so much for what you’ve done. It must have been so hard . . .”
“We need to get going so these people can see the movie . . .” her sponsor said, gently prying the woman loose.
“The theater is clear,” the next group’s sponsor said. “If we could start moving in . . . ?”
“I’ve never seen this before,” Sophia whispered to the sponsor. The lady was probably in her seventies. “Anything I should know? Like, what that was all about?”
“Really, miss?” the lady said.
“I’ve been out on ops since we left the Canaries,” Sophia said.
“Then, yes,” the sponsor said. “I think you are going to really need these.”
She handed Sophia a handful of tissues.
The video started with a montage of videos and stills that most people knew and remembered, to the background of Billy Joel’s “Miami 2017.” No sound on the videos, just the music. The President announcing the Plague. National Guardsmen in MOPP4 at check points. Riots. Video of reporters in “Infected Care Centers,” vast warehouses with “afflicted” tied to cots and even mattresses on the floor, writhing and snarling, covered in feces and sores. Flashes from the CDC briefings. The fairly famous scene of the Fox anchor going nuts on camera. A skyscraper on fire in some foreign city. Quite a few of the shots were from NYC. Fires, riots, fighting in the streets in what looked like Queens. A carrier being evacuated by helicopter with the caption “USS John C. Stennis evacuated due to rampant H7D3 infection.” It had been more screwed up than she realized even before the Fall. She’d been head down in the lab most of the time. A scrolling tally of the living was across the bottom of the screen, dropping like a stone, six and a half billion, then six, then five, then four . . . The body count of civilization ending.
The views faded to a shot of Earth’s surface, by night, dated the day the Plague was announced. There were more as the plague progressed and the sparkling strands of light slowly began to turn off, portion by portion, Africa went before South America went before Asia went before North America went before Europe until the entire world was cloaked in preindustrial darkness. The last section that was lit was somewhere in the U.S., near Tennessee she thought.
Then the shots zoomed down, pre-Plague satellite and file images of New York, Beijing, Moscow, Tokyo, Seoul, Hong Kong, filled with people and life and laughter, the cities bright by day and night with a trillion incandescent and fluorescent and neon and LED lights proclaiming to the heavens that Here Was Man.
And then the same cities, in current satellite shots, with avenues choked with decaying vehicles, and raven-picked bodies, and naked infected roaming the deserted streets.
The current night sky shot. Not a light to be seen. A world cloaked in preindustrial darkness.
The music ended. All there was was a scrolling night shot of the dead world from a satellite. It seemed like the movie had ended and Sophia almost got up, wondering why anyone would want to see this montage of horror. They’d all lived it.
Then there was the sound of the scratch of a match that touched a candle. The flame flickered for a moment, then puffed out to a background of childish laughter . . .
And came back as it faded back to her, Sophia, trying to light Mum’s birthday cake and Faith blowing it out every time she tried. She hated that video. She’d been ten and Faith eight and she was sooo pissed at her. She’d been no help making the cake and then Da wouldn’t make her stop. He thought it was funny. Had Da kept the damned thing?
“Quit it, Faith,” she heard herself say. “It’s Mummy’s birthday . . . birthday . . . birthday . . .”
Upbeat instrumental music she didn’t recognize, the screen said “Call to Arms” by Angels and Airwaves. Mile Seven, the forty-five-foot Hunter sailboat they’d started on. New York burning as they sailed out. The first light storms. Trying to figure out how to run a sailboat. Catching fish for dinner. Faith grinning and holding up that big albacore she’d caught. T
he tropical storm that had caught them off Bermuda. Another video, this one taken by Faith as they were being tossed about like a leaf in the middle of the storm.
“Having fun, Sis?”
“I blame Da for this, you know,” she heard herself say.
“Funny, I blame you.”
At the bottom there was a notation: Wolf Squadron: Squadron manning: 4. Steven John Smith, 45. Stacey Lynn Smith, 38. Sophia Ann Smith, 15. Faith Marie Smith, 13. With shots of each of them from New York and the Hunter days. A couple of those were from the paparazzi who had caught them leaving the BotA building.
Then a shot of the Tina’s Toy as they were approaching the first boat they’d “rescued.” Crüxshadow’s “Sophia” started.
A shot of Tina, looking small and sad with her name captioned. Pictures of Mum and Da and Faith and herself, pulling out the remains of Tina’s family. Ripping up carpet. Scrubbing the decks. Mum in the engine room covered in oil from a burst line. Sophia hadn’t seen Tina in forever, didn’t even know where she was. Last she’d heard the girl was on the Boadicea. She made a note to look her up.
The manning was now “5.” Although, honestly, Tina was never a lot of help. At the bottom the names of the members of the squadron were scrolling continuously. The scroll kept getting longer and longer as more and more people joined the “squadron.”
A picture of them bringing aboard the survivors from their first lifeboat. Chris and Paula and all the rest. She’d taken that shot. Paula was in the South Wing, Flotilla Four, now, still skippering the Linea Caliente. She and Chris had just gotten engaged, last Sophia heard.
The pic Da had them take of the group off Bermuda. “We few, we happy few” as he’d put it. There were twenty-five people in two boats and she knew all their names. She’d held most of their hands coming over the transom. Just like the guy on the floating dock had held hers to get onboard.
Then more boats, the first squadron in Bermuda Harbor with captions of the boats. The Grace Tan. The Tina’s Toy. The His Sea Fit. The disabled oceanic tow boat Victoria’s Boss which as far as she knew was still anchored in Bermuda. People she knew were around, somewhere, but she hadn’t seen in months. The USCGC Campbell. She and Faith throwing grapnels onto the boarding platform at the rear and the survivors of the crew being picked up by the squadron boats. Chris Phillips pulling a survivor aboard his boat at sea. A shot of the machine shop Mike Braito had set up on the Victoria with Mike sweating over a piece of metal he was grinding down. Another person she hadn’t seen in forever. The number at the bottom kept clicking up. More and more names scrolling across until the family’s was lost in the welter.
