by John Ringo
The picturesque beach was littered with the debris of a destroyed civilization—trash, bits and pieces of clothing, grounded boats and picked clean skeletons, their bones as white as the sands. Many of the buildings had been scorched by fire as had many of the trees. In fact, it looked as if a fire had swept across the entire island. There was a small ship, an island support ship like the Erik Shivak, grounded at the tip of the eastern cape.
“Christ,” Ray Hoover said, shaking his head. “This place is a mess.”
The first mate of the Bad Juju was in his thirties and covered up male pattern baldness by shaving his head. A former “renta-slave” in the IT business, he’d volunteered for small boats after being stuck in a liner compartment for months. However, he’d long before regretted his actual posting. The name was bad enough but the captain . . .
“Yeah,” Buckley said, trying to figure out where to anchor. “Even the Canaries weren’t this . . .”
What, exactly, they weren’t would have to wait as the, fortunately slowly moving, boat ground to a halt with a rather nasty crunching sound from below.
“Aw, crap,” Buckley said, tossing his captain’s cap over the side.
“Hey, Skipper?” Kevin Schlossberg yelled from below. “We’re taking on water!”
“Not again!”
* * *
“All divisions,” Lieutenant Commander Chen radioed, shaking his head. “All divisions. Be on the lookout for submerged wrecks . . .” He set the microphone down and shook his head again. “Including the Bad Juju . . . In retrospect . . .”
* * *
“No gunboats on Forest Bay?” Colonel Hamilton asked, looking at the operations map. “It would seem closer to the anticipated high infected density around the Quarter than Sandy Hill.”
The final touches were being placed on the landing operation. The island was the first assault designated for “Operation Leeward Sweep” so they were trying to get each item as set as possible to develop SOPs. The entire command team was present but most of them were keeping their mouths shut.
“Overheads and charts indicate that Forest Bay has some significant reefs, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Chen replied. He was the senior Navy officer for the operation. “Sandy Hill is more safely approachable and the cape provides wind and wave protection, making for a more stable gun platform. We have no detailed information on how far our nightly . . . activities will bring the infected but indicators in the Canaries were from as much as five miles away. We believe that this lay-out will draw something like ninety percent of the infected. The question, of course, is if they can all make it to the target beaches before dawn.”
“Out of pure curiosity,” Colonel Hamilton said. “Who came up with this technique?”
“Captain Wol—Smith, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Chen said.
“Simple, brutal and effective seems to be his call sign,” Colonel Hamilton said. “Lieutenant, the scuttlebutt is that there tends to be a bit of a party when you’re drawing in the infected.”
“That has, occasionally, been an aspect of this procedure, sir,” Chen said carefully. “It is necessary to make noise and rather than, say, continuous air-horn blasts we generally play music. And . . . there is some drinking. And I will admit, sir, that that has occasionally, notably at Las Galletas, gotten out of hand. I’ve been dialing down on it, sir.”
“Pass the word,” Hamilton said. “Not this time. With a reason. In this case, we’re dealing with a very small island and we’re more or less surrounding it. Fifty-caliber rounds go quite a ways. To be exact, they are lethal at up to seven miles. If we get too free with fire, we’re going to end up shooting one of the other boats that’s not even in sight. We need to ensure that the gunners stay strictly within their fire limits. Alcohol and such assurances simply do not match. I’m aware that you should not give an order that won’t be obeyed and that keeping liquor off the boats is impossible. So pass the word the party is after we clear the damn island and all the guns are put away. Roger?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Chen said, making a note.
“Senior and experienced personnel, such as we have, are to ensure that each gun has traverse limiters in place,” Hamilton said. “And ensure that the gunners understand those fire limits and why we have them. I do not want to have fifty-cal rounds dropping around my ears. Are we clear?”
“Clear, sir,” Chen said. “With your approval, I’ll distribute my senior people to the outlying forces to ensure that. I’d appreciate some assistance from Ma Deuce-experienced Marines for the main landing force. That way I can distribute out the chief and the sergeant major.”
“Agreed,” Hamilton said. “And the plan is approved with one slight modification.”
“Sir?” Chen said.
“I’m picking the playlist,” Hamilton said.
* * *
“Staff Sergeant,” Faith stated, as they were leaving the final planning meeting. “Moment of your time in my office.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said.
Faith marched to her office, entered and sat down.
“The general plan, as briefed, is that the Marines, oorah, are to quarter here on the Grace Tan, oorah, until first call at 0400,” Faith said, her jaw clenched. “Thereafter we chow, assemble, final brief and perform landing after clearance by Navy heavy fire at dawn, oorah?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said, standing at parade rest.
“As you may have noticed there is a four-hour preinspection this afternoon on the prep schedule, oorah,” Faith said. “I inserted that preinspection in the op-plan. During that preinspection I will instruct you on my task, conditions and standards for combat preinspection. After that you and I will perform an after-inspection review and determine if this is a procedure, oorah, you find conforms to your views, oorah? Do you have any questions?”
“No, ma’am,” Barnard said.
“Inspection begins at fifteen hundred,” Faith said. “We will not form the personnel. We shall, oorah, take each Marine one by one into the gear locker. This technique, oorah, is currently . . .” Faith paused and frowned. “There is no SOP, oorah. There should be an SOP. We will establish that SOP, oorah?”
“Roger, ma’am,” Barnard said.
“Dismissed.”
* * *
“I’ve got a target,” Seaman Apprentice Rusty Bennett said nervously.
Rusty was used to shooting up zombies with the .50 caliber BMG affectionately referred to as the Ma Deuce. He’d even gotten pretty damned good, in his opinion, with the monstrous machine gun. He wasn’t worried about whether he could hit anything. What was making him nervous was all the Mickey Mouse. The new Marine colonel who was in charge was being a prick. He’d never even heard of a range limiter before and had to dig through all the parts and crap that had come with the gun to find it. And then he’d had to get the sergeant major, before he left, to show him how to hook it up.
“Sorry,” Rusty added. “I’ve got a target, sirs.”
“So I see,” Colonel Hamilton said as an infected trotted down the beach. It was hunched over as if it was sniffing for something. It was a young black male, nude as all the infected were, his lanky, twisted hair dangling down into his face so Hamilton wondered how he could even see. “Is the SOP to engage any target at will, Lieutenant?”
Lieutenant Commander Chen was nearly as nervous as Rusty. But he was better at hiding it.
“Infected are drawn to any sign of carrion, such as flocks of seagulls, sir,” Chen said. “Our SOP is to engage any infected that are in the target zone early and often. That begins the attraction process. And infected don’t seem to avoid the target zones. They cannot make the connection between loud gun noises and other infected dying. So, yes, sir, we engage if they are in the target basket, sir.”
“One last check,” Hamilton said.
“Uh, sir,” Rusty said, swinging his barrel towards the target. Just past it the barrel bumped up against the limiter. “It’s about to get off to the side.”
“Then we shall wait for a better target,” Hamilton said. “For that matter . . . Do we know the current location of Division Five?”
The other four gunboat divisions had already left the rendezvous for their respective fire points. Division Five was going to be crossing the fire zone of Division One at some point. Admittedly, it was going to be nearly four miles away and on the other side of the island. OTOH, .50 BMG had a “general area of effect” range of . . . about four miles. Meaning if you had, say, a dozen .50 calibers firing at the right angle to drop their rounds into an area, they could, in fact, hole a boat at four miles. And probably sink it.
“No, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Chen said. “I can find out pretty quick.”
“Let’s hold off firing until everyone is in their proper place,” Colonel Hamilton said. “Something to add to the SOP for this. In fact, in the future, we probably just need to have all the boats on one side of the island.”
“Some of the islands I wonder if it would be an issue, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Chen said. “Islands like Saba, the interior topography is going to make it nearly impossible for us to have rounds go over.”
“Point,” Hamilton said, looking at the low-lying atoll. “Anguilla, however, is not such a case. Wait until all the divisions are in place, do a final check on the guns for their angles, then we can go to free-fire. In the meantime, have your gun crews unload and stand down. I can see that Rusty here, at least, is itching to kill him some infected. Right, Seaman Apprentice?”
“Yes, sir,” Rusty said.
“Call that in to all the divisions. They are not free-fire until all boats are in place, all limits are set and all guns have been checked by senior personnel for limits.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
* * *
“Bloody hell,” Sergeant Major Raymond Barney said, looking through the binoculars.
They were cruising east in the Anguilla Channel—which runs between the relatively low and small island of Anguilla and the much larger and more prominent St. Martin. The two islands more or less defined the juncture between the Caribbean Sea and the Atlantic in the area and the boat was rolling on waves coming in from the open Atlantic. Which was what had caused the oath on the part of the sergeant major. Not the waves, the mass of wrecked ships, carried in by the Great Southern Current and piled up on the jagged rocks of St. Martin. It looked like some sort of twisted regatta from Dante’s Inferno. There were freighters, tankers, yachts, sailboats, megayachts, lifeboats and life rafts, ships that didn’t quite meet any description he could come up with. There was even what looked to be a section of an oil platform.
“We came through this sort of stuff at night on the way in,” Lieutenant Matthew Bowman said. The skipper of the Golden Guppy and commander of Division Five was a thirty-five-year-old who had made his money early in tech and set out to sail around the world just in time for a zombie apocalypse. “But you could still see the outlines.”
“I mean, there’s usually wrecks,” Barney said, lowering the binos and shaking his head. “They were all over the Canaries. But that is bloody insane.”
The sergeant major was sixty-two, a retired British Army light scouts NCO and NCOIC of the Naval Landing Parties. His position was technically slightly ambiguous. As a British citizen and former soldier he could not, actually, “command” American forces. On the other hand, nobody really questioned who was in charge when Navy parties hit the beach. He’d been detailed to “accompany” Division Five, which was not hitting the beach, to “ensure safe practices” of the Navy gunners. After which he was going to have to take a fucking Zodiac all the way back around the island to link up with Division One. He’d flipped a coin with his nemesis, Chief Petty Officer Kent Schmidt, USN, as to who got the furthest out division and lost.
“Div Five, Flotilla.”
“Division Five, over,” Bowman replied.
“Status check.”
“Passing Forest Harbor at this time, Flotilla,” Bowman replied.
“Roger. Supplementary orders. Do not load weapons until all vessels report in position and ready to fire, over.”
“Do not load weapons until all boats in position, aye,” Bowman replied.
“Flotilla out.”
“Wonder what that was about?” Bowman said.
“Fifty-caliber Singer has a maximum range of seven miles, sir,” Barney said. “This island is three miles wide at its widest. Those bloody Singer rounds are going to be bouncing off these block houses and going all the way across the bloody island, sir. Our path takes us through three possible impact zones. And one of those rounds will go all the way through these cockleshells, sir. I’d rather wondered about whether we’d get shot up heading to the anchorage, sir.”
“You didn’t bring that up in the meeting,” Bowman said.
“I was leaving it up to the Yank colonel, Lieutenant,” Barney said. “But I’ll tell you I’ve been keeping a bit of an eye out for bits of ocean churned up by descending Singer rounds, sir. You might want to do the same in case others haven’t gotten the word, sir.”
“And what would that look like, exactly?” Bowman said nervously. He was now scanning the surface of the water intently.
“Bit like flying fish jumping, sir,” Barney said.
“Those are all over the place!” Bowman snapped.
“Really, sir?” the sergeant major said, smiling slightly and still looking through the binoculars.
“Oh, now you’re just yanking my chain!”
“Am I, sir?” Barney said, grinning. “What gave you that impression? In seriousness, the answer was honest and, of course, useless. The rounds can and will cross the island, spotting them incoming is hard to impossible since the tracers will have burned out and even then only one in five is a tracer. If it happens, by the time we know we’ll have a half-inch hole through ourselves, and that is not what you call a survivable wound. So we’d better bloody well hope that everyone’s got the word, sir.”
“How screwed up can one sailing cruise get?” Bowman said, shaking his head.
CHAPTER 14
Our flag’s unfurled to every breeze
From dawn to setting sun;
We have fought in every clime and place
Where we could take a gun.
—Marine Corps Hymn
“This technique, oorah, was developed with Lieutenant Fontana’s help, oorah?” Faith said, standing in front of Decker. She was in full ground combat gear with her face shield up. She even had her Barbie gun strapped across her chest but no magazine in the well. Added to the ensemble, and not normal, was a bulging messenger bag slung over her shoulder. She’d dropped that before starting the inspection. “It is based upon the way that you . . . oorah . . . do the preinspection for somebody who’s doing a jump, oorah? Questions?”
“Like a parachutist, ma’am?” Staff Sergeant Barnard said.
“Lieutenant Fontana is a Green Beret, oorah?” Faith said. “They call it something different, oorah? Airport or something, oorah? But it’s how they inspect a jumper. Da used to inspect me and Sophia the same way. Da used to be a para. So, we start at the helmet and face shield, oorah? Grab the face shield and flex it in with the base of your palms on the bottom of the face shield, oorah? It should flex a bit but not crack or be too solid, oorah? And it can’t be so scratched you can’t see through it. Then push up on the bottom while holding your other hand on top of the helmet. All of the shields are supposed to be attached to the helmet. It can’t be loose, oorah? Or an infected’ll pull it right off in a scrum, oorah? Watch your hand there, you can cut yourself. Been there, done that, oorah . . . ? Decker, you need to pay attention to this. You’re going to be doing it, too.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Decker barked.
It took thirty minutes just to walk the staff sergeants through what was essentially a PJMC, pre-jump manifest check, used in “airborne,” not
“airport,” operations.
“You really got to watch the magazines, oorah?” Faith said. “Bunch of ’em ended up sitting for months with multiple rounds or full loads. That really fu . . . messes up the springs, oorah? If the spring feels weak, it’s probably bad.”
“Oorah, ma’am,” Barnard said.
“Oorah,” Faith replied. “Don’t know how to say this. Doesn’t matter if they need a shave, their boots ain’t shined or there’s bloodstains on their uniform. All that matters is their gear is right, oorah? Now you and Decker start doing checks on all the rest of the platoon. I’ll watch and critique, oorah?”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Barnard said.
“Decker, check Sergeant Hoag,” Faith said. “You check Derk, Staff Sergeant. Derk’s been through this and knows the drill. I’m going to go prepare them,” she added, hefting the bag. “I’ll send them up when it’s time.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,”
* * *
“Derk,” Faith said. “Barbie gun.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Corporal Douglas said, unclipping his M4 and handing it over.
“Nobody saw this,” Faith barked. She opened the gun, slid out the bolt, closed it up, latched the dust cover and handed it back. Then she pocketed the bolt. “I should remember to get that back to you. But if I don’t, for God’s sake don’t hit the beach that way, oorah?”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” the corporal said.
“Fumitaka,” she said, dipping into the messenger bag then holding out a Ka-Bar to the lance corporal, butt first. “Switch Ka-Bars. Don’t go ashore with this one.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Fumitaka said, switching blades. He fingered the edge and shook his head. “You couldn’t cut butter with this, ma’am.”
“That’s the point, Lance Corporal,” Faith said, making a note in her notebook. She adjusted one of Filipowicz’s sling clips so it was barely hooked, switched out one of PFC Summers’s magazines for one with a bad spring and generally spent ten minutes making sure that there were various minor faults scattered through the platoon. She also wrote down each “fault” so her Marines wouldn’t actually go into combat with messed-up gear.
