by John Ringo
But while he’d grown up on a station, it was close to the coast. And he’d grown up swimming and free diving. This was home territory. Including the sharks, which in Australia were just one of those things like box jellies, spiders and snakes you had to put up with.
When he reached the hawser he put his right hand on it and followed it down to the latch point. The hawser wasn’t tied to the fishing boat. It was connected to a quick release latch, which was, in turn, connected to an apparently massively strong davit.
Steve felt like he was out of air but knew it was just CO2 build-up so he let out some air as he carefully connected the clip to the quick release. That was as much as he could handle on one breath so he started back up. He spun around, again, looking for potential threats but the sharks were busy feasting at the aft of the boat. His motions were smooth and regular, just another healthy, happy fish in the water. Nothing to attract them.
His heart beat faster as a massive hammerhead came coasting down the length of the megayacht. It seemed in no hurry to get to the feeding frenzy aft. On the other hand, it didn’t turn towards Steve.
He surfaced and swam, splash free, to the dive platform on the rear of the Sea Fit and pulled himself completely out of the water, sprawling out on the platform.
“You okay?” Sherill called from the tuna tower. He was holding a rifle in his hands.
“Fine,” Steve said. “Is that for zombies or sharks?”
“Yes!”
Steve breathed deeply and waved with two fingers for Sherill to back the boat closer to the megayacht. The less lateral distance he had to cross the better.
This time he slipped off the dive platform face down to get a better head start. He spun in place and then tried not to panic as the massive hammer came coasting towards him. It had apparently decided that the other boat was probably going serve up tasty zombies as well.
Steve decided to just keep heading down. Hammerheads were known to attack humans and this one was obviously accustomed to feeding on infecteds. But they were also fairly smart for sharks and also tended to focus on distressed fish, birds and mammals. Steve’s movements were regular and steady. It should ignore him. Should.
He kept an eye on it as he headed down the hawser to the line. The medium-weight nylon was more or less negatively buoyant and hadn’t gotten far from the hawser. Steve got ahold of one end and moved away from the hawser. As soon as he was clear, he sped up, swimming away from the boat and the quick release as fast as possible, the line wrapped around his left hand.
He felt the shock of the line going taut and looked back. The quick release had surrendered, finally, and the boat shot into the depths as the hawser snapped upwards.
Pulling Steve along with it. Which had been part of the plan.
Unfortunately, the sharp movements excited the hammerhead, which headed for the only reasonable source of protein in view: Steve.
The shark came in at lightning speed but Steve had had a master’s course in drawing and firing fast at this point. He fended the charging hammerhead away by placing the barrel of the H&K against its port hammer and pressing the trigger as it rolled to take a bite of tasty human.
The gun did not explode and the hammerhead did not take well to being shot in the head by a polymer capped, expanding, .45 caliber ACP. It spasmed and dashed away in a corkscrew, its tail lashing furiously.
Unfortunately, it was now “a distressed fish, bird or mammal.” Sharks sense such movements and are attracted to them. And while there were tasty zombies at the aft of the boat, there were also a lot of sharks. So some of the ones on the edge of the pack banked away and headed towards the new source of potential protein.
Which meant right at Steve.
He wasn’t sticking around to watch or anything, but the sharks were coming in from near the surface. The hammerhead was tracking down and forward on the megayacht, and that meant that the sharks’ path led them right to Steve.
Who they passed without note. He was still being calm and regular in his movements and they didn’t see him as easy prey. Five, six, nine sharks darted right past him in pursuit of the massive hammer as he calmly made his way to the surface.
“I thought you were a goner, there,” Sherill called. “They were too deep to shoot.”
“If you’d shot one of them I would have been a goner,” Steve muttered. If one of the charging sharks had been shot as well, all the rest would have closed in with Steve as tasty snack in the middle.
“What?” Sherill asked, starting to climb down.
“Easy peasy,” Steve said, decocking the H&K and taking a series of deep breaths. “No worries, mate.”
* * *
“Okay,” Fredette said, shaking his head and listening to the take from the captains. The increasing number of boat captains in the “flotilla” gossiped like old women on various frequencies, which made keeping up with the goings-on of the group easy. “This guy is flipping insane. Diving into a feeding frenzy to release a boat and then taking out a shark with a pistol?”
“If it’s crazy and it works, it ain’t crazy,” Bundy said, shrugging and making a note. “Note to sonar. That weird transient was the sound of a forty-five being fired sixty feet underwater . . .”
“Don’t forget the whole ‘into a shark’ part,” Fredette said. “That probably changed the acoustics from just firing it.”
“Good point . . .”
* * *
Galloway raised an eyebrow and looked at Commander Freeman.
“His own subordinate skippers call him ‘Captain Insanity,’ sir,” Freeman said, defensively.
“Not to influence the discussion or anything,” Brice said, holding up her hands. “But I’m starting to like this guy.”
Freeman looked at his monitors and sighed.
“Sir, we may have a destabilizing element in the equation.”
“Which is?” Galloway asked.
“Passive sonar on the Dallas indicates an approaching Russian Typhoon.”
“They’re sending a boomer?” Brice said, blinking. “A boomer?”
“Their fast attacks are not as well designed for long endurance as ours,” Freeman said. “It’s possible that they don’t have a fast attack to close the position. Acoustics indicate it is probably the Servestal.”
“Sounds like time to talk to Sergei again,” Galloway said, grimacing.
* * *
“Slippery,” Steve said as he jumped off the dinghy onto the boarding platform. The dinghy was going up and down in five-foot regular seas whereas the boarding platform was hardly moving. He’d done it so many times, he really didn’t notice. “Watch your step.”
He’d actually landed on the chest of one of the dead infected. He also didn’t really notice that except one detail.
“Is it just me or is there a preponderance of women?” he asked, catching the line thrown to him.
“We’d noticed that,” Fontana said. “And for all they were zombies . . . kinda pretty ones.”
“Men,” Faith said, stepping easily onto the flushdeck. “Da, this is one of the easiest boardings we’ve ever done.”
“Noticed,” Steve said. “But if you slip overboard it will go quickly to one of the worst,” he added, pointing to the still-circling sharks.
“So, you seriously shot a hammerhead with a forty-five?” Fontana said, taking point. There were stairs up to the promenade deck to either side of the landing. He took port just because. There also appeared to be some sort of pop-out door but there were no obvious external controls.
“Wasn’t my first option,” Steve said, as Faith took starboard. “And I’m not sure whether to trust the gun again. We need to be really careful on fire discipline on this one. I think it’s going to be as bad as the cutter.”
“Well, it’s got all the usual zombie mess,” Fontana said, looking over at Faith. “Ooh, look, there’s movement to my starboard!”
“Very effing funny, Falcon,” Faith said. She looked through the heavy glass doors at the int
erior and shrugged. “I dunno, a little paint, some carpet . . .”
“A lot of carpet,” Steve said. “I think we need to start clearing freighters to look for carpet.”
What appeared to be the main saloon was about sixty feet long, two stories high and had once been a vision in fine wood bars, tables and white carpet and equally white sofas and chairs. There were also plasma screens freaking everywhere. From the looks of it, some of the windows could double as smart-screens. The central bar was a vision of cream, silver and blond wood with “SOCIAL ALPHA” emblazoned above along with what appeared to be the logo for Spacebook, the social networking site. Someone had defaced it, apparently tried to strip off the platinum, and since it was above most of the damage, that had probably been an uninfected human.
Half the plasmas were obviously trashed. The floor was covered in the usual mix of blood, decomposing flesh and feces. So were the sofas, chairs, tables and the fine wood bars. There were bullet holes in half the windows. There were at least nine chewed corpses in view.
“All of the booze is gone,” Fontana said, looking behind the central bars.
“Maybe they figured out how to break the top of a bottle,” Faith said, stepping gingerly around the central bar to starboard and sweeping from side to side. The room had no interior light but they were still getting good radiance from the tinted windows. She checked behind the bar on her side, leading with her Saiga. “Cleaning this up is going to be a bitch and a half. But I think it might be worth it.”
“The problem is, again, fuel,” Steve said.
“There’s that small tanker Sophia found,” Fontana said, sweeping to port again.
“Let’s say I’m a little uncomfortable clearing a tanker,” Steve said, hefting his Saiga. “Especially one that has been sitting without spaces being vented. All I can see is Faith shooting a zombie and the whole thing going boom. Then there’s the problem of getting it running and getting the fuel from it to the other boats. In mid-ocean.”
“All problems we’re going to have to figure out,” Faith pointed out. “We’re going to need the fuel now or later.”
“Open hatch to the interior,” Fontana said, pausing. The scattered bars were designed to get people to flow in a freeform manner. They also tended to restrict line of sight. Which he wasn’t enjoying.
“Olly olly oxenfree!” Faith shouted. “Zombies, zombies, any zombies home?”
“I wonder how far that actually carried?” Steve asked.
“Far enough,” Fontana said, as the laser dropped onto a zombie’s chest.
“Wait!” Faith said delightedly.
“Why?” Fontana asked. The zombie was in pretty bad shape and it wasn’t closing fast, but it wasn’t like he wanted him to get to melee range.
“Oh, my God!” Faith squealed as the zombie charged. “Do you know who that is?”
“No,” Steve said, still covering the rear. “You going to shoot or Fontana?”
“Mike Mickerberg!” she said, pulling the trigger on the Saiga twelve-gauge. The former internet billionaire was splattered all over the deck of his megayacht. “Clean-up on Aisle Nine!”
“That’s getting old, Faith,” Steve said. “And who?”
“The guy who invented Spacebook! Duh.”
“Well, even if we had the equipment we couldn’t use him for vaccine,” Fontana said.
“Why?” she asked, heading to the next hatch. “He’d infect people with horrible apps?”
“Actually, I was wondering if he had a spine,” Fontana said, then looked down. “Yep. Sure does. Amazing . . .”
“Don’t step in him, Da,” Faith said. “You might get Slimelined. HELLO! ANY ZOMBIES IN THERE? ZOMBIES, ZOMBIES, OLLY-OLLY OXENFREE!”
CHAPTER 25
“I’m starting to think there was a mutiny,” Steve said, stepping over the corpse. This man had been wearing body armor and he would have been facing a similarly clad man farther down the corridor. Both had rifles by their bodies, one an M4, the other an AK variant, and there were casings scattered along the corridor.
“Looks that way,” Fontana said, turning the smaller man over. His legs and face had been chewed off but the armor had kept his torso intact. Except for the decomposition. “Ugh.”
“What?” Faith asked, looking down. “Clean it up and it’s pretty good gear. Well, except the holes that are in it.”
“It wasn’t the body or the gear I was going ugh about,” Fontana said. “Socorro Security. Evan Socorro’s company.”
“Context?” Steve asked.
“There are contractors and contractors,” Fontana said, continuing the sweep. “Despite its rep, Blackwater wasn’t actually that bad. They had something resembling quality control. Triple Canopy? Very good. At least their primary operators. And they pick good associate operators.”
“Primary, associate?” Faith said. “Bosses and subordinates?”
“Generally, but not exactly,” Fontana said, banging on a hatch. “You can call it racist, but primaries are all from developed nations. Generally. Associates are guys hired from developing nations. Associates are cheaper and generally not as well trained. Not always. Some groups use former Ghurkas for associates or even primaries. There’s one run by a former Ghurka that does shipboard security.”
There was no response so he entered the compartment. There were several bodies in there but none had been chewed. Some men, some women. Most had been shot in the head.
“So what’s with Socorro?” Steve asked.
“I won’t get into my personal issues with former Special Forces Major Evan Socorro,” Fontana said. “Although I had personal issues with Socbreath. Which term came from his tendency to . . . fellate highers from SOCOM. Pretty much anybody who worked for him did. But he finally got a chain of command that, officially in writing, asked how an asshole, and a not particularly competent asshole, got to be a major in the Groups in the first place and he got out. And started his own security company. He had some assbuddy primaries that were mostly not former military, just call them gun geeks. Some of those guys are fine. A lot of them weren’t military ’cause they couldn’t make the grade. ‘How soon do I get to kill somebody?’ couldn’t make the grade. That’s the kind he liked to hire. Then instead of hiring good associate contractors like, say, former Peruvian mountain commandoes or El Salvadorans or even some of the SA or Angolan ‘bleks’ he picked West Africans.”
“Bloody hell!” Steve said, looking around a corner. “Seriously? More here.”
“Is that bad?” Faith asked. “I guess so.”’
“Think child soldiers whose ‘military experience’ consisted of rape, loot, pillage and burn,” Steve said. “Again, there are good West African troops . . .”
“For values of good,” Fontana said. “I think ‘good’ for even their elite is a stretch.”
“But the majority are pretty damned bad,” Steve said. “By any definition of bad you’d care to name. Competence, ability, discipline. I’m surprised anybody would hire a group like that.”
“They were cheap,” Fontana said, shrugging. “He didn’t pay his primaries at full standard rate and his associates got paid dirt. So he could shave a few bucks off a contract.”
“Looks like the client got what he paid for,” Faith said, pointing to a hole in the bulkhead. “Steel. I’d say . . . seven six two?”
“Yeah,” Fontana said, staring at one of the female bodies. “I think these were potential infected that were terminated. I don’t see any bites but that might not have been how they were chosen. And . . .”
“The women have all been raped,” Steve said. “From the ligature marks.”
“Oh, God,” Faith said, grimacing.
“‘If one holds his state on the basis of mercenary arms, he will never be firm or secure; because they are disunited, ambitious, without discipline, unfaithful; gallant among friends, vile among enemies; no fear of God, no faith with men; and one defers ruin insofar as one defers the attack; and in peace you are despoiled by the
m, in war by the enemy,” Steve said.
“Da and his quotes,” Faith said. “Which one is this one?”
“Machiavelli’s The Prince,” Fontana said. “I know some good guys who are contractors. And some good companies.”
“So you’re facing a zombie apocalypse where every reasonable person foresees a potentially permanent breakdown in law and order, and you bound onto your megayacht, load up with models, then hire a security company filled with freaking West Africans?” Steve said.
“Well, no,” Fontana said. “That was stupid. You might as well put a steak around your neck and go jump in a tiger pit.”
“So . . .” Faith said. “Guy’s smart enough to build and run a billion-dollar company. How come he makes that mistake?”
“Situation he’s in is a tough call,” Fontana said. “I mean, in normal times no way that you’d have to deal with a take-over by your security. There’s laws. Bad things will happen to them. Post-apoc? Don’t ask me what I would have done if I was the guy running security, had all the guns and all the people who knew how to use them, and the boss was now utterly useless.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve said.
“Different situation entirely,” Fontana said. “And I’m not Socorro.”
“I’m not talking about that,” Faith said. “I can see that problem. I mean, I’ve been nervous about all the new people. Not you, Falcon, but . . . You know, who do you trust? I guess I’m wondering how a guy like Mickerberg could have picked somebody even I would know not to trust?”
“You’re thirteen but you’ve got the background,” Steve said. “Your mom and I gave it to you. I don’t know a lot about the guy, but I got the impression of intelligent liberal, one each. To them, everybody who knows how to use a gun looks the same. There’s no difference between Sergeant Fontana and Kony in Congo. He probably just told one of his staff to find a security company that could supply security and picked one of the lowest bidders.”
“We’re all babykillers after all,” Fontana said, banging on a hatch. “Hello! Any babies to kill in there?”
