Islands of Rage and Hope

by John Ringo

  “Go,” Faith replied.

  “We’ve got a casualty . . .”

  “There goes my fitrep,” Faith said. “How bad?” she asked.

  “Bad,” Hooch replied. “Need evac.”

  “Move the casualty back to the trucks,” Faith said, switching frequencies again. “Force Ops, we have a casualty. We are moving casualty back to the pier at this time. Will require medical support.”

  “Roger,” Force Ops replied.

  * * *

  “Oh, shit,” Faith said as the squad came back. Haugen had Goodwin over his back in a fireman’s carry and Goodwin was dripping blood from somewhere. “Get him in the five-ton. Where’s he hit?”

  “In the back,” Hooch said, jumping into the five-ton to pull the lance corporal up.

  “Get his gear off,” Faith said, jumping up as well. “Staff Sergeant, recover the rest of the teams and then head back to the pier. Hooch, up front and make sure we don’t get lost on the way back.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Hooch said.

  As the armor came off a small hole was revealed in his back with a larger one on the front. The bullet was lodged in his frontal armor.

  “We were sweeping and Curran . . .” Haugen said, shaking his head.

  “I really don’t care,” Faith said as Hocieniec jumped out of the back and ran to the front of the vehicle. “Roll this vehicle, Barnard!”

  She dove into her assault ruck and started pulling out medical supplies.

  “Ma’am,” Barnard said.

  “I am also the closest thing we’ve got to a corpsman, Staff Sergeant,” Faith snarled. “What part of my orders did you not understand this time, Staff Sergeant? Hooch! ROLL OUT! Force Ops, we have one GSW to the abdomen, rear entry. We’ll need at least one unit of . . . AB negative . . . Hey, Goodwin, this isn’t bad, okay? Seriously, this is a fucking flea bite, dude . . .”

  * * *

  “Colonel,” Walker said. “I’ll go prep the sick bay. Sophia can do the sweep for materials.”

  “Agreed,” Hamilton said.

  CHAPTER 16

  Here’s health to you and to our Corps

  Which we are proud to serve;

  In many a strife we’ve fought for life

  And never lost our nerve.

  —Marine Corps Hymn

  “You all right, Lieutenant?” Hamilton asked. The lieutenant had taken a position well outside the perimeter around the base of the dock and was squatting in the light waves to wash the blood off her hands.

  “Just fine, sir,” Faith barked.

  “Seriously,” Hamilton said. “Are you good to continue the mission? Especially tonight?”

  “I am just fine, sir,” Faith said. “We’ll get it done one way or another. I’d say never better but that would be a lie. I’ve had better days and worse days, sir.”

  “What happened?” Hamilton asked.

  “What happened was that we put a mix of trained and untrained personnel into a cluster of people who knew each other and had worked together, with people they didn’t know and hadn’t worked together, sir,” Faith said. “And in many cases, the untrained people were in charge. Then we sent them out with a bunch of ammunition and guns into conditions that in the case of the untrained personnel were unfamiliar and nervous-making. When you couple that with an absolutely untrained senior NCO who can’t find her ass with both hands, and conflicts in the chain of command, what we had, sir, was a shit sandwich, sir.”

  “I take it you’re still having problems with Staff Sergeant Barnard,” Hamilton said, his face blank.

  “The staff sergeant shouldn’t be a lance corporal, much less a staff sergeant, sir,” Faith said. “And that is documentable, sir. On four occasions so far she has failed to perform to anything like minimum standards, sir. And she can’t seem to just take a God-damned order, sir, which I thought was, word . . . Inigo Montoya . . . inconceivable in a Marine senior NCO. I recognize that she is working in ways that she is not prepared for by training, sir. And the whole thing about . . . ice water, sir. But if I am ever given the choice, sir, I’d make her your administrative assistant and have Sergeant Hocieniec run the platoon, sir. Or Sergeant Smith who has more time in grade, sir. Sergeants Hoag and Weisskopf are equally untrained for this form of operation, sir. I haven’t decided if they’re fundamentally ill-suited or just having a hard time adjusting, sir. Having Sergeant Smith, a trained infantryman with not only pre-Plague combat experience and training but significant combat experience post-Plague, as a gun bunny is not, in my opinion, the way to have the TOE laid out.”

  “I see,” Hamilton said. “I will take that under advisement, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m not sure you see the full point, sir,” Faith said, straightening up and dropping out of command voice. “There really is a point, sir. The Iwo Marines, as they’re called, most of them were various other MOS than infantry, sir. Goodwin is a 3381. But they were all in combat units, sir. They had all had more recent combat training, sir. They’d trained up for deployment into hot zones before the Plague busted out. Plus we trained them on shipboard clearance before we threw them out in teams. And they’ve got lots of down-range time at this point, sir. Hundreds and thousands of hours, sir. They have had time to adjust and adapt, sir. Your Marines, sir, were all various support MOS which were far less likely to encounter enemy fire. 0100s. 0300s. 27s. Okay, the 27s like Corporal Rock have spent some serious time in the Sandbox. But they were always surrounded by security teams. They weren’t the security.

  “That doesn’t make the Marines from Gitmo bad or even bad Marines, sir. That makes them utterly unprepared, sir. And it shows, sir. Specifically, sir, what happened was that Curran swept across Goodwin’s back ’cause they thought they had movement and jerked the trigger. Because he, Curran, hadn’t been dropped and yelled at, repeatedly, by Gunny Sands and Staff Sergeant Januscheitis, about sweeping his fellow Marines and because he was nervous about sweeping a building that had live infected, sir. Especially since they were coming from everywhere, sir. Not enough to overrun us, but enough to make everybody jumpy.”

  “I understand,” Hamilton said. “We’ll cover it in the after action report.”

  “Roger, sir,” Faith said. “In the meantime, sir, as soon as Staff Sergeant Barnard returns with the other five-ton and the rest of the platoon, we will continue the mission, sir. By your leave.”

  “Carry on, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said.

  * * *

  “You okay, Sis?” Sophia asked as they were boarding the five-tons.

  “Had better days,” Faith said. “Had worse. At least I’m not having to put up with you all the time on the Mile Seven,” she added with a grin.

  “I sort of miss those days,” Sophia said.

  “Days like this so do I,” Faith admitted. “I just hope Goodwin survives. I really need him.” She stopped and grimaced, then put her game face back on.

  “Be advised, Sis, there’s no such thing as ‘clear’ on this island. We found what I thought was a field on the overhead and it turned out to be a pond.”

  “Aggh,” Sophia said. “I was figuring a lot of them would have died of dehydration.”

  “Nope,” Faith said. “So they just pop up. Tell your teams to keep their heads up. And for God’s sake, don’t sweep each other. We’re going to have to sweep the shit out of this island tonight to have it clear enough for . . . You know.”

  “Will do,” Sophia said. “Looks like we’re loaded.”

  “What’s that thing about ‘actions of a tiger’?” Faith said.

  “Once more into the breach?” Sophia said, rolling her eyes.

  “It’s ‘unto,’ ” Faith said, grinning. “Unto the breach. Thought you were the smart one?”

  “I hate you.”

  Colonel Hamilton was waiting when they arrived back at the pier.

  “Bust, sir,” Sophia said, waving an extended hand in front of her throat. “We even checked the little drugstore. The hospital and drug store had been ransa
cked, actually ransacked, before the Fall from the looks of it. The medical school had some textbooks and disks we grabbed but it was pretty much a bust. No real labs at all.”

  “Permission to ask how Goodwin is, sir,” Faith said, her face tight.

  “Mr. Walker is a much better doctor than he lets on,” Hamilton said. “He was able to patch everything up. It just missed the kidneys and passed through, hitting only intestines. If infection doesn’t get him, he should be fine. He’s already out of recovery and conscious.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Faith said, turning away and putting her hand over her face.

  “I’ll call it in,” Hamilton said. “Time to start the real mission.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said. “Staff Sergeant Barnard! Set out security . . . !”

  * * *

  “We’re going back, ma’am,” Staff Sergeant Barnard said, neutrally.

  “Roger,” Faith said. “Commander’s intent is to thoroughly sweep the island and ensure that all remaining infected are drawn to lights and sound, by making that light and sound and drawing them to ourselves. Where we will then give those poor infected all the courtesy and friendliness for which the United States Marine Corps is known. Due to the potential, given limited visibility, of actions getting to close quarters, we will rerig in full contained-space combat equipment. After clearance, Marines will remain in combat gear pending further orders.

  “The exception in the sweep are Staff Sergeant Decker and PFC Condrey,” Faith said, looking at Decker, “who will direct Naval Landing Force personnel on the proper manner and method of detail cleaning the back of one of the five-tons. They will, for the period, be under the command of my sister, Ensign Smith, oorah, and they will follow her orders and give her all the professional courtesy they give any officer, oorah? Further, after the five-ton is fully detail cleaned they will assist in sealing it against environmental factors in a manner consistent with Nuclear, Biological and Chemical procedures to ensure no trace of exterior infection can enter the five-ton while in movement. Any further questions on that will be directed to the ensign, Staff Sergeant Decker. No questions from any personnel as to the precise nature of this mission will be entertained. Is that all clear, Staff Sergeant Barnard?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said. She had her professional mien on but she was clearly curious.

  “Staff Sergeant Decker?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Decker said, his face wooden.

  “Ah,” Faith said. “Staff Sergeant Decker, anybody can sweep an island for infected. Both the colonel and I, independently, chose you for the mission of making sure that there is not one single influenza virus on the interior of that five-ton. You were not, in other words, left out of the fun of continuing to kill zombies. You were the only one trusted enough to be sure that the job was done right. I am aware that you’ve been counseled that at a certain point things are as good as they are going to get. In this case, that does not hold, Staff Sergeant. There is no such thing as ‘too clean’ for the interior of that vehicle. Are we clear, Staff Sergeant?”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Decker said, relaxing ever so slightly. It was clear that he really didn’t care why he was being given an order to GI a five-ton as long as it wasn’t because he was considered incompetent to lead troops in combat in the dark.

  “In that case, Staff Sergeant Barnard, it is time for you to go round up my devil dogs and git it on,” Faith said, grinning ferally. “We shall have the joy of glorious battle upon this glorious night. Ain’t nothin’ better than fighting zombies on an island in the dark. Yuh git in scrums that way.”

  * * *

  “Ahayt!” Faith bellowed as she approached the Marines assembled on the back deck of the Grace Tan. She had her full “liner” clearance gear on, her helmet under her arm and her gas mask pushed back on her head. It was hot as shit. And she’d worn it so much in so many hot spots she’d almost started to not notice. “Listen up, Devil Dogs! We are going to have a party tooo-night! Commander’s intent. We shall attract and eliminate every motherfucking zombie on this motherfucking island. We shall do that by using light and sound to draw them to our position and then shooting them repeatedly until they are good infected and lie down.

  “Method: The Platoon, led by their fearless leader, shall proceed by five-ton and local vehicles, previously acquired, to the Quarter. There they will disperse. Bravo Team, squad two, led by Sergeant Hoag, shall remain with the five-ton aaand their fearless leader in the Quarter as a rapid response team.

  “Squad One, under Staff Sergeant Barnard, and Alpha Team, Squad Two, under Sergeant Hocieniec, shall break down into three-man teams. They shall use local vehicles to drive slowly around and about the island, each team having a designated zone, with the lights on and honking the horn, until they observe approaching infected. They shall then engage such infected with small arms fire and convince them to lie down and be good.

  “We shall continue that exercise until zero one hundred hours at which point you shall turn your happy asses around and head back to rendezvous at the Quarter. We are to be off the island by zero two hundred.

  “When, not if, you get your silly asses lost you shall continue to drive on, on foot if needs be, to make it back to the Quarter or this location, whichever is directed, based upon time and location. We will use the usual frequencies but we have increasing numbers of subs moving into the area and they have frequency scanners. If you lose contact, just start calling on the emergency frequency for the subs. Each of you Marines should be carrying a radio and backup batteries. Team leaders shall ensure that such is the case. If one don’t work, use the others.

  “If you get into close contact with the infected, don’t you worry none. You’re in this gear for a reason, not just ’cause I like it hot. Just scrum ’em. If you hit a big pocket of infected and get stuck somewhere, like up a tree, just git on the radio and call for your fearless leader and I shall come and pull you out of the dunny. The reason I’m staying back ain’t that I want to miss the party, it’s ’cause I’m figurin’ the reaction team’s gonna get called on at least once and I want the opportunity of glorious battle upon this glorious tropical night. My kukri ain’t et in weeks and we’re hungry! I am offering a nice bottle of hooch for whichever team finds a really good pocket of infected so I can get in the scrum.

  “Do not take off one single item of gear! Do not fail to make it back here by zero two hundred! Run the whole damned way if you must. You do not, trust me, want to be left on this island. Do not shoot each other! If the infected surprise you, let them come to you and go to hand-to-hand. That’s the fun way to kill them! Do hydrate! Do kill infected! Do find my rugged Nepalese beauty something to eat! Go be my fine and beautiful devil dogs! Oorah?”

  “OORAH!” the platoon boomed, grinning. Miss Faith was back.

  “Right, team leaders, gather round for your assigned sectors . . .”

  * * *

  “Nothin’ can be finer than clearin’ out a liner in the, mooornin’,” Lance Corporal Richard “Dutch” Van Dijk sang softly as the Zodiac neared the beach. “Nothing can be sweeter than sendin’ Zs to Peter in the, mooornin’ . . .”

  “At ease, Lance Corporal,” Sergeant Weisskopf snapped. “We are aware that you have a ‘senior boarder’s badge,’ whatever that is. But this is a tactical landing.”

  “Aye, aye, Sergeant,” Dutch said. “Just happy to be able to take my shades off.”

  “Don’t tell me you can see in this?” Weisskopf said sharply. The approach to the beach was being done on Zodiacs and the orders were do not fire until landing and “tactical” approach—basically they were sneaking in. The point being that they were going to need to be on the land to effectively engage the enemy. Firing from a Zodiac, especially at night, was a fairly precision skill.

  “Not like day, Sergeant,” Dutch said. “But some, yes. And we have company on the beach. Infected feeding at two o’clock.”

  Ignoring his whole “tactical landing” speech, Weisskopf sw
itched on his weapon’s light and shone it to the right. Sure enough, there was an infected gnawing one of the bloating corpses on the beach.

  “Ow,” Dutch said, shielding his eyes.

  The infected looked up at the light and snarled, then went back to feeding.

  “Engaging,” Weisskopf shouted. He fired twice to no effect as the boat was rocking on the light waves. “Damnit.”

  There were two rapid shots and the infected dropped.

  “What was it about ‘tactical landing’ that you did not understand, Sergeant Weisskopf?” Faith radioed. “All teams. White light now that we are definitely not tactical. Boats, screw the noise, get us on land, fast.”

  The line of Zodiacs powered up, heading into the beach at nearly fifteen miles an hour. Not their top speed but they were within fifty meters of the beach when they got the order.

  “Brace, brace, brace,” Faith called just as the Zodiacs slid up onto the white sand of the beach. Then: “HIT THE BEACH MARINES!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

  There were customers. There had been leakers all day but apparently there were some that only came out at night. And they were feeding in singles and doubles all along the strand on the bodies left by the morning’s serenade.

  Faith cleared the bow of the Zodiac in a hurdle and fired as soon as she hit the ground, dropping the only infected in her sector. There were more closing and some of the Marines were, clearly, panic firing. Her ear was attuned to the rapid and uneven bang-bang—bangbang—bang and she could tell by the way the gun-lights were jerking around everywhere.

  “Calm it down, folks,” Faith radioed on the command frequency. There were two frequencies the radios could pick up, one was the local “team” frequency and one was the “command” frequency. When the command frequency was running, it stepped on the local. She was also careful to use her best “golf announcer” impression. “Shooo, soooft, soooft. Squad leaders, team leaders, let’s get this fire under control. We’re Marines. Marines don’t panic. We aim. Div One, could we get some support fire on the flanks, if you please. Careful support fire.”