Islands of Rage and Hope

by John Ringo

  “Glorious indeed, ma’am,” Januscheitis said.

  * * *

  Sheila had pulled her battle rattle back up to the roof and slept there. And she did get some sleep. The distant music didn’t affect that. It was better than the zombies howling.

  She woke immediately when her shoulder was shaken, though, and started pulling on her battle rattle.

  She was up and observing the squadron before the first touch of light. There were people moving around the gunboats and some out on the decks of the bigger boats. And she was seeing more uniforms, now. Not everybody was in them but the gunners and some of the people at helms were in NavCam.

  There had been various songs playing in the different groups but then they all shut off, some of them in mid tune. There was a moment of silence, then a piano started playing, apparently from all of them.

  She could barely catch the tune but she knew it. “Homeward Bound” done by the U.S. Navy Sea Chanter’s Choir.

  “Marine Staff Sergeants are not supposed to cry,” Staff Sergeant Barnard said. “Flag party, TEN-HUT!”

  * * *

  “In the quiet misty morning,” Faith sang in a high perfect soprano, counting off the Marines boarding the Zodiac. “When the moon has gone to bed . . .”

  * * *

  “Look at the liner,” Petty Officer Granson said, pointing.

  Sheila stopped waiting for the gunboats to open fire and looked at the liner. In the predawn light it was apparent that Marines in battle rattle were boarding Zodiacs off the cruise liner.

  “I’ll be homeward bound again . . .” she sang as the music died.

  * * *

  “God, I’m glad we’re in a harbor this time, staff sergeant,” Faith said, taking her seat and not even bothering to strap in for once. “Coxswain, we’re in.”

  “Okay,” the coxswain said.

  “That’s a way of saying ‘let’s roll,’ ” Faith said, sighing. “Navy!”

  * * *

  The song died on the last ping of piano and was replaced by a bouncy J-Pop sounding tune Sheila didn’t recognize.

  “Oh,” Granson said, laughing. “Somebody has a sense of humor.”

  “You know it, PO?” Sheila said.

  “Andrew W. Kay,” Granson said. “ ‘Ready to Die.’ ”

  * * *

  “This is your time to pay,” Faith sang. “This is your judgment day. We made a sacrifice, and now we get to take your life . . . Lock and load!”

  * * *

  “All boats, prepare to open fire,” Sophia said, over the freq that was not being used to carry the combined broadcast.

  Her division had been “augmented” by the Golden Guppy and the Wet Debt and assigned “Radio Point” just off the main piers area. Into which the infected had clustered nicely. And it was almost time to send them beyond the veil.

  But Da wanted every gunboat to open fire at once.

  She knew the words to the song . . .

  “. . . it’s just a thing we like to do . . . FIRE!”

  “YOU BETTER GET READY TO DIE!” Faith caroled as just about every Ma Deuce in the bay opened fire simultaneously. “You better get ready to kill! You better get ready to run ’cause here we commme. . . .”

  * * *

  The bouncy J-Pop sounding tune had shifted to thrash metal. Sheila couldn’t quite catch the words but she did hear intercoms all over the bay suddenly boom “FIRE!” It seemed like the back of every gunboat exploded as the .50 caliber rounds started shredding the crowded infected. Zombies were being blown in half by the concentrated fire and she found herself screaming “OOORAH” at the top of her lungs. But she was drowned out by the rest of the Marines. Sheila looked over her shoulder from the beautiful sight of a dozen gunboats hammering the infected into so much meat and the flag had just reached the apex of the pole. It was officially the dawn of a new day.

  That was beautiful timing.

  So was the timing of the Zodiacs inbound full of Marines. They hit the pier seconds after the fire started. There were still a few infected who hadn’t managed to figure out the party was over on Corinaso and Radio Point. The first Marine ashore jumped from the Zodiac onto the wharf and promptly blew that zombie rapist motherfucker Al Hoodat into mush with what looked a hell of a lot like a Saiga shotgun. Then he used the Saiga to wave for the rest of the Marines scrambling up onto the dock to pass him by. Some of them saluted as they passed and the officer would just tip his helmet with the smoking barrel of the Saiga.

  “Okay, that dude’s got style,” she said, pointing.

  “Chick,” Sergeant Weisskopf said, looking through the binoculars. “Pardon me, that would be lady. Second Lieutenant. And, Jesus, she had to be just out of OBC when the Plague hit.”

  “Weisskopf,” Staff Sergeant Barnard said. “Your watch is extended. Everyone else, downstairs and prepare for evac!”

  “Roger, Staff Sergeant,” Sheila said. “You heard the staff sergeant. Move it, people!”

  * * *

  “Sir,” Faith barked. “Second Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith, U-S-M-C.”

  Faith had been practicing under Gunny Sands’ tutelage and gave the lieutenant colonel a parade-ground salute worthy of the Marine Guards.

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said, returning the salute just as formally. “What’s the game plan?”

  “We’ll evac your people on foot to the boats, sir,” Faith replied. “Any who have movement difficulties we’ve got stretchers. The squadron Marine team will remain to hold the base, sir, and begin clearance operations. Your personnel will have three days off on the Boadicea to get their headspace and timing back, sir.”

  “You do intend to hold the base?” Hamilton asked.

  “We’re holding Gitmo for the indefinite future, sir,” Faith said. “It’s the first land base we’ve done that. The primary purpose is to assure the security of materials, sir.”

  “Would the captain permit leaving some of my people in place temporarily?” Hamilton asked.

  “The captain anticipated that question, sir,” Faith said, grinning suddenly. “The answer is by all means, sir. He would like to meet with you, sir, so that you can be relieved of any anxiety regarding controlling legal authority, sir. There is an NCCC and a chain of command, sir.”

  “So something survived,” Hamilton said, nodding. “Good. Good to hear. No land bases, not so good. Some remnant, good.”

  “If you would care to accompany the sergeant to the boats, sir,” Faith said, gesturing, “we can begin the evacuation whenever you’re ready, sir. Stand by . . .” she said, holding her ear. “Just wax ’em, Janu. We don’t collect till we have the facility up and running. Roger. Sir?”

  “We’re moving out, then,” Hamilton said. “Staff Sergeant, one team to remain here, the rest move to the boats.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Barnard said. “Hoag, your watch. You just drew the short straw. Go relieve Weisskopf.”

  “Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant,” Hoag said, trying not to curse.

  CHAPTER 7

  “. . . IS THE WRATH OF GOD UPON THE WORLD FOR ITS SINS! THOSE WHO HAVE BEEN TAKEN ARE THE SINNERS OF THE WORLD AND THE RIGHTEOUS HAVE BEEN SPARED . . .”

  From: Collected Radio Transmissions of The Fall

  University of the South Press 2053

  “Well, this is convenient,” the lieutenant said, her hands on her hips, looking at the Humvee. “Anybody know if this thing still runs?”

  Hoag had, at the orders of the “Lieutenant,” sent Capedon up to tell Weisskopf he was relieved and to head to the boats. But she had to “stay on site” until relieved. And the lieutenant had “hey-you’d” her to “show them around.”

  She wasn’t sure about the lieutenant. Not ’cause she was a female, obviously, but because Sheila was wondering just how old she was. She didn’t look old enough to have gone to college.

  “We used it for charging the radios until the fuel ran out, ma’am,” Hoag said.

  “No fuel, less c
onvenient,” the lieutenant said. “Staff Sergeant Januscheitis!”

  “Ma’am,” Staff Sergeant Januscheitis said.

  “Wheels.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said.

  Hamilton accepted the hand of the Navy crewman on the Zodiac, who looked as if he was a teenager, and boarded the boat gingerly. He was the last on of the personnel who were evacuating the base. And he still wasn’t sure it was the right choice.

  “Sergeant,” Hamilton said to the Marine who had led them to the craft. “I have a few quick questions.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.

  “Were you a Marine prior to the Plague?” Hamilton asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied. “I was on the Iwo when we got hit, sir. I was a thirty-three eighty-one, sir. Corporal, sir.”

  “Where’s the Iwo?” Hamilton asked. “Other operations?”

  “Not enough trained people to man her, sir,” the sergeant said. “It’s floating in the Sargasso Sea with the hatches welded shut, sir. Our total manning is only three thousand and change, sir. That includes sick, lame, lazy, old and children, sir. Mostly civvies.”

  “So . . . this is an actual Navy operation, Sergeant? Or not?”

  “It’s . . . it’s Wolf Squadron, sir,” the sergeant said. “The captain’s a real captain, sir. Gunny and the captain both agree he’s just like any Navy captain, sir. But he was a high school teacher before the Plague, sir. It’s civilians who’ve never been in the military who are trying to figure it out and civilians who didn’t want to be military who are bosses. Hell, sir, Shewolf, Lieutenant Smith, sir? She’s thirteen and there is not one damned person who works with her, or is under her command, sir, who minds. Not after you see her in action, sir. The lieutenant is one badass zombie killer, sir.

  “Sir, I’m a cook. But Captain Wolf’s approach is that every Marine is a rifleman, sir. Navy and civilians can do chow. Marines are for killing zombies, sir. Period. The last few months I’ve blown more rounds than most guys did in Fallujah, sir. Clearing ships which is a bitch, sir. Clearing a God-damned supermax liner, sir, is a stone-cold, black-as-pitch ungodly bitch, sir. And, sir, I’m losing count of how many we’ve cleared.

  “It’s just . . . I don’t know how to explain it, sir. It’s Wolf Squadron, sir. I mean, sir, just trying to explain Staff Sergeant Decker is hard enough, sir.”

  “And who is Staff Sergeant Decker, Sergeant . . . ?”

  * * *

  “Coming up!”

  The person emerging from the roof hatch was a staff sergeant with the nametag “Decker.” He climbed up, then marched, as if he was on parade, to the edge of the roof and looked around. Then he did an about face and marched back to the hatch.

  “Begin evolution!” he boomed into the hole. He had bent at the waist to shout and then straightened to the position of attention and did an about face. After that, he marched back to the edge of the roof, did another about face and assumed the position of parade rest.

  “May the sergeant inquire what the evolution is, Staff Sergeant?” Hoag asked. She’d never seen a guy wound this tight who wasn’t straight out of Boot Camp. She’d seen some Staffs who were pretty wound, but this was ridiculous.

  “Two-forty, Sergeant,” the staff sergeant replied, looking into the distance. “My team is to emplace and maintain a fire-support position against infiltration of additional infected to this zone, pending clearance operations.”

  “Are there any additional orders for my team, Staff Sergeant?” Hoag asked.

  “Your team’s orders are to maintain a presence on this facility until ordered relieved by your colonel, Sergeant. Does your team have sufficient materials to do so?”

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

  A lance corporal had climbed up the ladder and dropped a rope down, then hauled up a machine gun while they were talking. He then started hauling up box after box of ammo. His movements were almost as robotic as Decker’s.

  “Do your watch personnel all remain by the hatch, Sergeant?” Decker asked. “I am unfamiliar with your standard operating procedures.”

  “Private Capedon is the roving patrol, Staff Sergeant,” Hoag said, taking the hint. “Who should, in fact, be roving, not watching other people work.”

  “Roving, aye, Sergeant,” Capedon said, walking down the roof.

  “We did determine, early on, that the rover had to move to different paths, Staff Sergeant,” Hoag said. “Otherwise the roof tar gets worn down and causes leaks.”

  “Understood,” Decker said as the sweating lance corporal finished hauling up a ton of ammo.

  “Two thousand rounds, Staff Sergeant,” the lance corporal reported, standing at attention.

  “Where is the rest of the team, Lance Corporal?” Decker said.

  The lance corporal bent over, at the waist, and looked down.

  “Climbing the ladder, Staff Sergeant.”

  “Pending their arrival, emplace the weapon on the south wall, oriented to the southeast, Lance Corporal,” Decker said.

  “I do not have a compass, Staff Sergeant,” the lance corporal replied as a corporal climbed out of the hatch. He hoisted a PRC over the coaming and dropped it practically on the lance corporal’s feet.

  “I’m going to shove one up your ass if you don’t get out of my way, Lance Corporal,” the corporal said.

  “Aye, aye, Corporal,” the lance corporal said.

  “Lance Corporal Condrey,” Decker snapped. “Two steps back, march!”

  “Permission to emplace and prepare the weapon, Staff Sergeant?” the corporal said. His tone was a mixture of bored and pissed.

  “Emplace the weapon, Corporal Douglas,” the staff sergeant said. “Weapon shall be emplaced on the south wall, oriented to the southeast.”

  “South wall, aye,” Douglas said. “Southeast orientation, aye. Pag, grab the ammo.”

  “Grab the ammo, aye, Corporal!” the new lance corporal said, snappily. “Grabbing ammo, Corporal!”

  The weapon was emplaced and loaded, then the corporal tapped the assistant gunner “Pag” on the shoulder.

  “Maintain the watch, Lance Corporal,” Douglas said. “Staff Sergeant, permission to engage the local expert in intelligence transfer?”

  “Permission granted,” Decker said.

  “Sergeant, a moment of your time?” Douglas said.

  “Granted,” Hoag answered, waving him towards the center of the flat roof.

  “Corporal, a question?” Hoag said. “Is there an issue with the staff sergeant?”

  “Staff Sergeant Decker’s okay, once you get to know him, Sergeant,” Douglas said. “For being flat fucking nuts, that is. He’s up here mostly to give him something to do that doesn’t take a lot of flexibility. He’s in charge as long as he doesn’t tell me I have to march everywhere with a fricking two-forty.”

  “So . . . that’s wound pretty tight, Corporal,” Hoag said, making a slight gesture with her head.

  “Oh, you should have seen the staff sergeant when he boarded, Sergeant,” Douglas said. “This is him being laid-back. Short story, the last order his gunny gave him when they evacced the Iwo was ‘Take care of the LT.’ So when the LT went zombie, instead of, you know, quote taking care of him unquote—strangle or shoot him, have a short ceremony, toss him over the side—as any rational human being would do, they kept him alive. As a zombie. On a life raft. For six months.”

  “Holy shit,” Hoag said, trying not to look over at the staff sergeant.

  “So, I really asked you over here to fill you in, Sergeant,” Douglas said. “Because with Staff Sergeant Decker around, do everything as if you were doing guard mount at the White House and he’s happy. When you don’t do everything precise and by the book, he starts to get . . . fidgety. You don’t want Decker the Deranged getting fidgety. It’s not pretty.”

  “I so need some time off,” Hoag said.

  * * *

  “Welcome aboard the Boadicea, Lieutenant Colonel,” the officer
of the deck said as Hamilton reached the top of the floating dock’s stairs.

  He’d already been informed it was a “Navy Auxiliary” vessel so Hamilton saluted the OOD, then turned and saluted the flag.

  “Permission to come aboard,” Hamilton said.

  “Granted,” the officer wearing NavCam and silver chicken wings said. “Captain Steven Smith, Colonel. Glad you made it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Hamilton said, shaking the captain’s hand.

  “Let’s get out of the way so my people can get your people settled,” Captain Smith said, taking his elbow. “If the people coming aboard have been severely deprived we generally offer them tomato or chicken soup. In your case, might I offer you a small belt . . .”

  * * *

  “America,” Smith said, raising his glass. There was a finger’s thickness of scotch.

  “The Corps,” Hamilton said, raising his and tossing back the drink. “That’s good.”

  “Lots of good hooch to be had on yachts at sea,” Smith said. “Shortest possible in-brief. Then you can go get a shower and a real rack or food someone has cooked or whatever. You are hereby relieved of your duty of holding Gitmo. I’m not sure who we’re going to leave behind when the majority of the squadron sails out, but it’s unlikely to be you. One thing we’ll do before food, shower, et cetera is get you on the horn with the Hole, which is the only remaining headquarters, so you can relieve your suspicions about this outfit. But here’s the in-brief.

  “There are no significant land areas not held by infected. There are a few self-sustaining, for the time, one family basically islands that show light. We haven’t contacted any of them; we know they’re there by satellites. Other than that, it’s infected on every continent and major island. This squadron was bootstrapped. There’s a video that’s part of the larger in-brief.

  “There are thirty-six submarines still at sea, and nine crews who are on desert islands, which are uninfected. We have to produce vaccine for them. We cannot produce quote modern vaccines, unquote. The only choice is attenuated virus vaccines. That requires spines of infected and a radiation generator. The primary purpose of taking Gitmo was to access the base hospital and get its X-ray machine and various other equipment working as well as raid it for supplies. With that, and the spines of poor dead Marines, sailors and civilians, we can make vaccine. Then we can get the subs replenished and in many cases put their people to work on surface jobs. We are critically short of technical personnel. With the sub crews and the shops here and elsewhere, we can really get going. We’re going to give your people three days off here on the Boadicea or in some cases on one of the megayachts. That’s standard. After that, it’s back to work. God knows I can use a professional officer.