Islands of Rage and Hope

by John Ringo

  “Sem?” Galloway asked.

  “Scanning electron microscope,” Dr. Dobson said. “According to your records, there’s one at the immunology lab at Guantanamo. May or may not be working. On the other hand, there’s a way to make one that’s not too hard. According to Commander Freeman, a nuclear engineering specialist would find it child’s play. Ditto the mass spectrometer they’re going to need. And we know what the reagents were. That’s different from them being available. What about a vaccine test kit?”

  “They had those in New York,” Sophia said uncomfortably. “That’s what he switched to when they came out.”

  “Vaccine test kit?” Galloway said. “Again, what?”

  “When vaccines suddenly hit the street, there was only one source,” Dobson said, just as uncomfortably as Sophia. “Which at the time was classified as first degree murder with bells and whistles. What we are now planning on doing in job lots.”

  “Agreed and understood,” the NCCC said. “On the other hand, we’re already killing the infected in job lots. Might as well put them to some use. Callous? Yes. Necessary, also yes. We’ve had the discussion.”

  “The point is, sir, if I may,” Sophia said, gulping, “street dealers were offering vaccine. Sometimes it was just distilled water. Say one of them gets busted. What is he actually carrying? Remains of a person who was murdered or just water? One is a con, the other is conspiracy to murder. So they came out with small test kits for ‘street vaccine.’ Cop busts a guy with what looks like vials of water, tests it, it’s vaccine, he busts him for possession plus they start capital murder charges.”

  “Ah,” Galloway said, nodding. “Makes sense.”

  “I was sort of there on the sharp end, sir,” Sophia said. “I spent a good part of the time in New York terrified somebody would burn us and I’d end up in prison. I knew the Fall was coming. I did not want to be in prison when it hit. Thing is, the tests were cheap, mass produced, and they actually were accurate enough to tell if the vaccine was good or not. Not only could they tell if it was good, they could determine if it was good primer or booster and even whether it was from a human or another ‘higher order primate.’ Just inject a few drops into the plastic thingy and it gave you a response in a few seconds. So then the dealers and people who wanted to buy vaccine on the street started buying them. They were selling over the counter in New York before the Fall. We’re going to need more than the X-ray generator. We’ve found those. What we really could use, for quality control, is some vaccine test kits. Not to mention graduated pipettes, tips, syringes . . . And separation medium. That’s going to be hard to find. There’s a lot of material besides an X-ray generator.”

  “According to our records Gitmo should have all of it,” Commander Freeman said.

  “Then I guess we need to take Guantanamo Bay, sirs, ma’am,” Sophia said, shrugging. “If it’s as well stocked as indicated, I can get the lab up and running in a day or so. And then we can start taking poor deranged Marines, sailors and civilians and turning them into vaccine,” she ended, a tad bitterly.

  “Ensign Smith,” the NCCC said. “I want you to know that whatever your feelings in this matter, this will not be held against you legally in any way. And for myself, personally, thank God you did do what you did, didn’t get caught and are going to do again. It is, literally, the salvation of humanity. Hole is out.”

  “Anything we can provide on this end at this time, Ensign?” Dr. Dobson said.

  “Prayer?” Sophia said. “I’ll get back to you when we’re getting the lab set up.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “. . . got into Powderhorn on my sled and picked up some supplies from the Meijers yesterday. Any closer to downtown and the zombies are still crawlin’. Lots of them, by golly. How in tarnation are they survivin’? It’s been a little cold don’tcha know . . .”

  From: Collected Radio Transmissions of The Fall

  University of the South Press 2053

  “Another fine day at Guantanamo Bay, Sergeant!” Hoag said as she popped her head up through the roof hatch.

  It was dawn and changing of the guard at Building Fourteen Survival Center, Gitmo. A constant watch was maintained on the rooftop. Nobody was, at this point, absolutely sure why. While the infected level had dropped, it hadn’t dropped enough for them to get out. Not nearly enough ammo. And there was, so far, no sign of any relief.

  “Another glorious day in the Corps, Sergeant!” Sergeant Andy Weisskopf replied.

  “Any change in the infected status, Sergeant?” Hoag asked.

  “Infected count for the night was sixty-seven, Sergeant,” Weisskopf said. “All but three were known infected. Al Hoodat managed to run down a previously unidentified and unknown female and have his way with her. He also killed her in the process and a great feast was had by all. Other than that, no major incidents.”

  “Ah, zombie snuff porn,” Hoag said. “The highlight of any watch. I relieve you, Sergeant.”

  “I stand relieved, Sergeant,” Sergeant Weisskopf said.

  “Flag party coming through,” Staff Sergeant Cindy Barnard said, coming through the hatch. “You two yardbirds want to get out of the way?”

  “Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant,” Hoag said, stepping aside as the flag party came up on the roof.

  When General Zick had “turned,” overall command had devolved to Colonel Hamilton. As far as anyone could tell, the colonel was the commander of Gitmo. A such, the flag was raised on Building Fourteen instead of on Eighteen. Eighteen was in sight and still holding out as well. They were mounting their guards. Mostly Navy but they were there at least. When the radios ran out they’d resorted to flag signaling and writing reports or orders on a white board and holding it up to be read. The flag signaling was tough at first—they had to get the instructions via white board—but there was a signals ET over in Eighteen who knew it. They’d learned. They’d also learned international light signaling since using a mirror was generally quicker than flags and you could use lights at night. There was, in fact, a fairly regular conversation going on between the two buildings.

  Eighteen had about the same losses as Fourteen and were in slightly worse shape water wise but maintaining rationing and catching what few rains came the way of Gitmo. They estimated based on water use they could hold out for two years. Six if there were some tropical storms. One of the petty officers was a logistics geek and had crunched the numbers.

  What they didn’t have was a bugle. One of the Navy seaman had, in all seriousness, suggested he could make up a kazoo and do Reveille on the kazoo. That had been turned down after some discussion of the relative merits. It had become custom to hum the Marine Corps Hymn as the flag was raised on its unfortunately short pole.

  Hoag dropped her salute as the flag reached the top of the pole and was tied off.

  “Sergeant Hoag, have you accepted the watch?” Staff Sergeant Barnard asked her.

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant!” Hoag replied.

  “Then perhaps you or Private Capedon should turn around and check the entrance to the bay, Sergeant,” Barnard said. “And use your issued binoculars to check out the small, civilian yacht that has just entered the port . . .”

  * * *

  “Mr. Walker,” Sophia said, looking through her binoculars.

  She knew that Da had used “special privilege” to let her boat be the first into Guantanamo Bay. She wasn’t going to complain. When she saw the American flag, and the Marine flag party, on the distant warehouse she was just trying not to cry.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Walker said.

  “Green flare, please,” she said, not looking away. “Then mount the flag on its staff.”

  * * *

  “Staff Sergeant, reply with green flare,” Hamilton snapped, looking through the binos. There was more than the one yacht at this point. The first yacht had been followed by two more, then two fishing trawlers that had apparently been converted to gunboats. All of them sported the American flag. But while he was willing to accept t
hat sign of being friendlies, notionally, at face value, whether to trust the group would be a longer term decision.

  “Yes, sir,” Barnard said. “Sergeant Hoag. The signal is green flare.”

  “Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant,” Hoag said. They kept a ready box of pyro on the roof just for the occasion. She pulled out a green flare and uncapped it. “Fire in the hole. Flare, flare, flare.”

  The group of boats spread out and slowed, two of them deploying RHIBs. The group started coursing back forth across the entrance to the bay.

  “Sir?” Barnard said. “Question . . .”

  “They’re checking the soundings for larger boats or ships, Staff Sergeant,” Hamilton said. “Probably looking for wrecks or obstructions. General order, personnel who want to make the climb can come up on the roof. Designate an area for viewing. Send the same order to Eighteen.”

  “Don’t think we have to, sir,” Barnard said. “They’re all up.”

  “Send the order nonetheless, Staff Sergeant,” Hamilton said.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Barnard said.

  * * *

  After about an hour of sounding the main channel, the first group headed farther into the anchorage. It was followed by a line of vessels, most of them yachts or the converted gunboats. There were sixty of those. Those were followed by larger vessels, two megayachts, supply ships, tankers and a small cruise liner. There were even some oceanic tugboats and trawlers that weren’t converted to gunboats.

  “That is a sight for God-damned sore eyes, sir,” Staff Sergeant Barnard said.

  “Yes, it is, Staff Sergeant,” Hamilton said. “Yes it is.”

  The anchorages were sounded and apparently some of the upper ones were found lacking. All the ships anchored in the lower area, opposite Point Corinaso.

  At the same time, the smaller yachts and gunboats were deploying all over the anchorage. It looked like chaos and some of it clearly was. There were a few near collisions. However, in another hour or so the gunboats were arrayed by points on the windward and leeward sides, their guns pointing landward.

  “There’s a light, sir,” Barnard said, pointing to the liner.

  There was, indeed, a signal light flashing on the liner. Just dots and dashes.

  “Signal mirror, Staff Sergeant,” Hamilton said.

  “Sergeant Hoag, signal readiness to accept communication,” Barnard said.

  Sheila took the signaling mirror and signaled “GA” “Go ahead.”

  “Captain Steven Smith, commander Wolf Squadron, Task Force One, USN, to senior survivor, Gitmo, over,” Sheila said as the signal came in.

  “Signal Lieutenant Colonel Craig Hamilton, USMC, acting commander, Gitmo, over.”

  “Wolf Squadron?” Lieutenant Harris asked.

  “Send list of surviving personnel civilian and military. Include service and rank for military. Note any medical conditions including pregnancy with note on known complications. Stand by for assault and clearance at dawn. Have personnel prepared for evacuation not later than zero seven thirty. Do not repeat not attempt break-out until ordered. Semper Fi. Stay put. Wolf out.”

  “Wolf Squadron?” Harris repeated.

  “I have no more idea than you, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “But I am unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth. Even a colorfully named one.”

  “These jokers can’t be Navy,” Hoag said, shielding her eyes. “Even Navy’s got better discipline than this.”

  When her watch was relieved she’d gone down into the warehouse and dumped her battle rattle but went back up on the roof. After months of monotony and “zombie porn” being about the only entertainment, watching real live people doing stuff was a relief.

  Once it was anchored, the squadron didn’t seem to be doing much. Most of the “on watch” if that was what they were, were catching a tan. Some were washing down the decks. People were up in the promenade of the liner and on the megayachts, looking back at the Marines and looking around the harbor like they’d never seen one. There were about a hundred ocean-capable Zodiacs zipping around, most of them driven by what looked like kids. There were even some people out just zipping around on wave-runners. There were only a few uniforms visible. Even the guys, and some women, working on the machine guns were in shorts and mostly shirtless. Most of the women were wearing bathing suits. People were fishing.

  A lot of the women in view were pregnant. That was no great surprise. She, Cindy and a civilian who was “elderly” were the only women in the building not carrying a bun. Idle hands weren’t the only devil’s handiwork. Colonel Hamilton’s only comment was “never give an order that’s not going to be obeyed.” Despite regular PT and even training classes there wasn’t much to do in the Survival Centers.

  A couple of the Zodiacs had zipped into the main pier area and waved to the groups on the roofs of the building. But there hadn’t been another major communication. They’d sent the list of survivors and gotten an acknowledgement.

  “I think it’s mostly civilian,” Cindy said. “I’ve seen two Marines on the liner and some Navy uniforms. But not many.”

  “Same here,” Sheila said. “I’m wondering what they meant by ‘assault at dawn.’ And why dawn?”

  “And I know how much more than you do, Sheila?” Staff Sergeant Barnard said. Hoag was off duty and they were close enough in rank for her to use first names. “We’ve waited seven months. We can wait one more night to find out.”

  “Nice Christmas present, though,” Sheila said.

  * * *

  It was a lot like waiting for Christmas morning. The sun set with the quick finality of the tropics and then it seemed like the real party started. All the gunboats and accompanying yachts had their lights cranked up to full and were booming music. It could be heard all the way to their position when it was to windward. Every group seemed to have a different playlist. People were dancing on the deck and drinking. Oddly enough, all the ships and boats anchored away from the land were nearly blacked out.

  “I so need to be on that side of the zombie wall,” Sheila said.

  Staff Sergeant Barnard was off duty by that time as well and was leaning on the edge of the roof, watching the party.

  “Same here,” Barnard said. “With any luck, tomorrow night. I’m hoping we get some time off.”

  “That would be nice,” Sheila said. “This has been downtime and it hasn’t. I could use some real downtime.”

  “Staff Sergeant,” Colonel Hamilton said. “A moment of your time?”

  “Yes, sir,” Barnard said, coming to the position of attention.

  “Please, Staff Sergeant,” Hamilton said. “Rest. Tomorrow morning I want the flag raised at the moment of dawn. Oh Seven Zero Three. When we evacuate, we’ll leave it up and ensure at least a small team of Americans maintain it. I’m aware that the communicator was, ostensibly, a Navy captain. However, he may or may not be aware that if everyone evacuates Guantanamo Bay, even for a moment, it automatically reverts to Cuban hands.”

  “Yes, sir,” Barnard said.

  “The main point is that the flag go up precisely at dawn,” Hamilton said. “I am not sure if we and the squadron have the same interpretation of ‘dawn’ but I would like to ensure that if so the flag goes up as the assault manifests.”

  “Yes, sir,” Barnard said. “I’ll ensure the flag goes up at dawn, sir.”

  “Sir,” Hoag said. “Permission to speak.”

  “Of course, Sergeant,” Hamilton said.

  “Sir, I know that Captain Smith ordered no break-out before ordered, sir,” Sheila said. “But the infected are clustering towards those boat lights and the music, sir. I think we probably could make it to the docks right now. If we signaled for pick up . . .”

  “You’ve seen Marine uniforms aboard, Sergeant?” Hamilton said. “I think they are there for a reason. And, yes, the infected are clustering towards those boats, Sergeant. Those boats with fifty-caliber machine guns apparently converted to water-cooled, meaning they can fire continuously as long as
they have ammunition, Sergeant. The average trawler that size is capable of carrying about one hundred thousand pounds of cargo. That translates to three hundred thousand rounds of fifty-caliber BMG, Sergeant. I rather think that Captain Smith has the infected exactly where he wants them. And if they detected us breaking out, they would no longer be where the captain wants them. I have no desire to offend a Navy captain. So we shall stay where the captain wants us, Sergeant.”

  * * *

  “First call, Lieutenant,” Staff Sergeant Januscheitis said, shaking Faith’s shoulder.

  “Finally,” Faith said. She’d barely managed to get to sleep last night. Her cabin was fairly sound proofed but the party had been in full swing until late and she had an early first call. Then there was the fact that today they were going to take and hold a position. Gitmo was going to be taken and it wasn’t going to be handed back to the infected when they left.

  “Apple juice, ma’am,” Januscheitis said, handing her a cup.

  “Above and beyond, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said, taking a big gulp. It was about the only way for her to wake up in the morning and actually worked a bit better than coffee. “Time to go kill us some infected. It’s a glorious day to be in the United States Marine Corps, Staff Sergeant.”