by John Ringo
“Once we have this boat fully resupplied and refueled, the squadron will form a rough line perpendicular to the Equatorial Current. The Large will take and hold the center point with the Money and any other support type vessels we recover in trail. Small boats will spread out on either side, each with a packet to cover. The ones to the center will come in to the Money for off-load of recovered personnel and materials. If we can get a supply ship like the Grace at some point, they may be taken aboard for repair. Start ripping out any parts you find. We’ll find a place in the support zone to hold and inventory them. Vessels will stay inboard for a few days after recovery doing local support. Including ‘fishing ops.’ Turns out the subs have been using their active to knock out schools of fish. They generally get more than they can use. Most of you have cold fish storage. We’ll scoop up their excess. That is the general outline of the plan until we’re recalled to squadron. Lieutenant Smith, do you have any questions?”
“No, sir,” Sophia said, trying not to sigh. She knew they were planning on rotating people to any big vessel they found, and she’d been looking forward to a few days off. But…
“Get with Gary on your security and prize crew,” Kuzma said. “They’re already detailed off. If you don’t have anything, we need to get cracking on finding some fuel.”
“Will do, sir,” Sophia said, standing up. “Have a nice chat.”
* * *
“Okay,” Sophia said. “Here’s the thing with tankers. You really don’t want to fire onboard.”
The “augmentation” for Rusty was a former Army armor cav sergeant named Cody “Anarchy” Mcgarity. With a nickname like “Anarchy” she wasn’t thrilled to have him as a clearance specialist but he seemed more on the ball than Rusty. It’s possible that Rusty was just fine before his experiences onboard the Voyage but he was not the sharpest tool in the shed. Maybe it was drinking too much ammoniacal urine.
She’d already circled the vessel named the M/V Eric Shivak and she knew two things. One, it was diesel. Two, as usual, there was a leak somewhere. It wasn’t just a tanker, though. There were two ship containers chained down on the deck.
“So… Melee?” Mcgarity asked. “Half-life Two fail: No crowbar.”
“We’ve got about six,” Rusty said.
“And some hammers,” Sophia said. “And Halligan tools. This is more a Faith deal than mine, but you really want to avoid fire and sparks. However, there are no evident infecteds so you may get lucky.”
* * *
“Three KIA,” Anarchy radioed. “All appear to be former infecteds. Crew boat is missing. Plenty of supplies left onboard. I think some of them turned and the rest abandoned ship. Ship’s clear. Well, we didn’t check the containers but they’ve got seals on them so they don’t look like they’ve been opened.”
“Roger,” Sophia said. “Sending over the survey and prize crew.”
* * *
“Mixed groceries, general stores, some parts including auto parts,” Captain Hebert said. The “captain” had been a mate on a freighter that had abandoned ship when the crew started to turn. “And the main bunkers are full which is a relief. The spillage was minor. It’s got more pure fuel than the Grace. Not as fancy but it’s what we needed.”
“Can we unrep from it?” Sophia asked.
“We can tank you up right now,” Hebert said.
* * *
“You know,” Paula said as the two boats got back underway to rendezvous with the flotilla. “We haven’t known Hebert all that long. We didn’t even leave Rusty and Anarchy aboard. What’s to keep him from just taking off?”
“You think there’s not going to be a fast attack following him around?” Sophia said.
“Oh, yeah, those.”
* * *
“Flotilla Ops, No Tan Lines,” Sophia radioed.
“Lines, Ops, over.”
“One tanker tack islands-support-boat full of goodness delivered,” Sophia said. “Orders?”
“Proceed to 23.274,–27.949. Rendezvous, USS Santa Fe for fishing ops.”
“What?” Sophia shouted. They were supposed to be the next on schedule to spend a night aboard the luxury yacht. She thought about it for a moment then keyed the radio. “Roger, Ops. Proceeding… ”
“You’re in the Navy, now,” Paula sang. “You’re in the Navy now… How do I get out?”
* * *
“USS Santa Fe, USS Santa Fe, No Tan Lines, over,” Sophia radioed. “Come on, be around here somewhere.” There was no sign of the sub but that was sort of the point. “I know you know where I am.”
“No Tan Lines, come to heading one-six-niner, range fourteen thousand yards, over.”
“Heading one-six-niner, fourteen klicks, aye,” Sophia said. It was back the way they’d came. “I know you had me on sonar. You could have told me to wait up there… ”
* * *
She could see the ECM mast about two klicks out.
“No Tan Lines, hold your position. We will intercept and engage the fish, gather ours, submerge, then you get yours.”
“That sounds vaguely wrong for some reason,” Anarchy said. “They get theirs first. And how are they going to ‘engage’ the fish?”
“Not sure,” Sophia said. “Usually when we run across a school we just, you know, fish for them… ”
The Yankee search was so powerful, reverberations of it could be felt through the hull, and her depth finder went nuts. As they watched, a school of yellowfin floated to the surface.
“What the hell was that?” Paula said, flying up to the flying bridge. “My teeth are rattling.”
“And so we have another zombie apocalypse moment,” Sophia said, shaking her head.
* * *
“Well that’s something you don’t see every day,” Gunny Sands said.
The USS Annapolis was towing behind it a small yacht that would, possibly, have made a decent dinghy for the football-field-length submarine.
There was already a medical and resupply team standing by in moonsuits to bring the family vaccine and supplies. The moonsuits weren’t to protect the greeting party but the family onboard the yacht. The MREs had even been decontaminated.
“Welcome a zombie apocalypse moment, Gunnery Sergeant Sands,” Faith said. “Defined as a ‘What the fuck’ moment that could only happen in a zombie apocalypse. We tend to call it a zam or a zammie.”
They were standing on the lead edge of the flight deck of the Iwo Jima after completing morning PT. They could use most of the ship for PT, now, running up and down companionways, climbing stairs, running the flight deck, jumping coamings, and generally having a oorah Marines afloat day, because the ship was just about completely clear of infecteds. They still had some areas to check for survivors but that was getting to the point of no returns.
The Iwo might even run again, someday—the infected had done a lot of damage, but most of it was repairable—given parts and trained personnel. They had gotten personnel from the boat but it was a grab bag and, for fairly obvious reasons, tended towards store keepers and cooks. They were in the areas which had stores when the abandon ship call went down. They’d found damned few engineering personnel. Alive and uninfected, at least.
“I’ll keep that in mind, young lady,” the gunny said. Two weeks “limited activities” and food and he was starting to look like a gunnery sergeant again. He still didn’t fill out his uniform but he was PTing. Not exactly running the young bucks into the ground but he was getting there. Faith had to admit that, no, she could not keep up with most of the Marines, especially since they PTd in gear. So she and the Gunny had been working out together. Turned out the Gunny was, unsurprisingly, an A-Number One coaming jumper, a skill she was still trying to master.
He was, also unsurprisingly, a master of Marine lore and trivia as well as an expert tactician and weapons expert. He’d started off sort of disgruntled at the suggestion that he PT with a guuurl but had taken the opportunity to increase her store of professional knowledge. And while in agreemen
t on “The Wolf Squadron Way” of clearance had put his professional knowledge and acumen to the subject and suggested useful “tweaks” that had been tested then implemented.
“Thank you for increasing my understanding of this brave new world in which we reside and fight, ma’am.”
“That wasn’t meant as a… ” Faith said. She really liked and admired the Gunny and didn’t want to insult him.
“That was not intended ironically, Miss,” Gunny Sands said. “As I have been teaching you a bit about the hallowed lore of the U-S-M-C, the information transfer has not been all one way. That is an example thereof. Just as you previously pointed out that zombies do not retreat and, therefore, small teams can expect at some point to come to melee distance or, as you put it ‘get into the scrum.’ Which has now become Post-Plague Marine slang on the same level of commonality as ‘FUBAR’ and ‘BOHICA.’ And that, therefore, it is useful to keep multiple knives on your person when clearing in case you’re in a ‘scrum’ or even worse ‘in a dunny.’ Rather than it being purely an affectation.”
“Understood, Gunnery Sergeant,” Faith said.
“Miss Smith, your father, tentatively, brought up the subject of making you a Marine.”
“I don’t think I’ve got what it takes, Gunny,” Faith said, shrugging. “I can’t keep up with the guys now that they’re getting back in shape. Heck, I can only climb a hawser once in gear. The guys go up them over and over again.”
“You are female, Miss Smith,” Sands said. “Men and women do not directly compete in the Olympics for a reason. I would never expect you to compete head to head in PT with the troops. The question is not can you compete as a male in PT or even certain types of combat. Although you are one of the few women I could honestly see being qualified in all respects for infantry combat. You make the grade at the point of low-level male infantryman, which is all that’s required if you were to be a regular Marine rifleman.
“The questions are many others. Are you emotionally mature enough for the job? Are you physically fit enough as a female? Can you handle the physical and mental aspects of this type of combat? The only traditional ways of judging those thing is by putting you through some sort of introductory training and testing. Boot camp, for example. Are you, in fact, tough enough to be a Marine? Boot camp puts stresses on you that even this type of combat does not inflict. We stop clearance after a certain point each day. Can you continue for days with little rest or sleep?
“Then there are the technical legal aspects. You are performing, would be expected to continue to perform, front-line combat. You are, again obviously, thirteen. When he suggested it, I found it ludicrous on its face but I was… polite. I told him you’d probably make a great Marine in five years.”
“Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant,” Faith said. “I hope I can make the grade in five years.”
“He suggested that I spend some time examining the new reality and table the discussion,” Sands said. “I have since revisited the issue. With the approval of the L-T and Colonel Ellington, and if you agree, you are to be sworn in as a probationary third lieutenant, U-S-M-C at noon tomorrow.”
“I’m not sure that’s… wise, Gunny?” Faith said. “I mean, I know I’m sort of a mascot… ”
“Oh, you are far more than a mascot, Miss Smith,” the Gunny said. “The reality is that we have exactly thirty Marines in current manning. We are so very few. They can all serve as clearance specialists but most are not, in fact, infantry. Aircraft crewmen, tankers, mechanics. Cooks. We also have five oceans and seven seas worth of ships to clear. There are cruise liners still at sea. Entire Carrier Strike Groups. We need every single person who can make the grade and, Miss Smith, thirteen, chick and all, you make the grade in a leap.”
“Thank you, Gunny,” Faith said, her chin working. “I’ll try to… I’ll try to be a good Marine.”
“Marine Officer, note,” the Gunny said. “The one thing I’ll ask you to do is tighten up, a bit, on the decorum. Only a bit, though, because there is, also, yes, the aspect of what you call ‘a mascot.’ ”
“If that is… ” Faith said, carefully.
“If I may, Miss,” Sands said. “What you call ‘a mascot’ is more what should be termed ‘an icon.’ A subject not just of morale but of veneration or even worship. These men are United States Marines, yes, and they will continue to do their duty. But they are Marines who have lost everything. Family, friends, buddies, country. We are one and all lost and adrift on a darkling sea. You, Miss Smith, have become not their pin-up girl but their heart and soul. They would follow me into hell. Charge any shore, face any fire. I am their Gunny. That’s what Marines do. If you hinted that Satan had a case of ammo you particularly liked, they would charge in without a bucket of water. As Staff Sergeant Januscheitis said when he, separately, brought the idea up: ‘The only thing we’ve got left, Gunny, is Faith.’ ”
CHAPTER 7
I, [name], do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.
Oath of the officers of the Uniformed Services of the United States
“So, Captain, what now?” Galloway asked. The NCCC had his fingers steepled and was, in Steve’s opinion, looking just a bit too much like Doctor Evil.
The Iwo Jima was cleared. They’d found forty-three Naval personnel and sixteen Marines, with Gunny Sands and Lt. Volpe being the most senior. There were two navy Full Lieutenants, including Pellerin and “various other ranks.” No Chiefs. The senior were three PO1s. No pilots, some aviation crewmen, both Marine and Navy.
It was not a great number out of a complement of twelve hundred Navy and nearly two thousand Marines.
“There are several options, sir,” Steve said. “Do you want me to lay out my arguments for and against or just cut right to my preferred plan?”
“The main question is the vaccine,” Galloway said. “The subs are surviving… surprisingly well. But they cannot operate indefinitely.”
“I have the submarine crews very firmly in the forefront of my mind, sir,” Steve said. “There’s a whole list of materials we need for producing vaccine. We’ve been over that, I understand. Gitmo is my preferred target for that. The base hospital, as of just prior to the fall and according to anecdotal data should have the equipment and material. Hopefully with the gear at Gitmo we can make vaccine.”
“So you’re heading to Gitmo?” Commander Freeman said.
“I would prefer not to do so at this time, Commander,” Steve said. “The main reason is the continuing vulnerability of my forces to storm. My boats are mostly small, and while their crews have a lot of experience at sea at this point, I really don’t think they’re up to sailing through a hurricane. We can try to dodge them at sea but… ”
“I’m a Naval officer,” Freeman said, drily. “I’m aware of the power of the ocean, Captain, as well as the fickle nature of hurricanes. With due respect.”
The relationship between the two was tricky. Freeman had yet to be appointed a captaincy but was in some ways, technically, the Chief of Naval Operations and Steve’s boss.
“That is, in a nutshell, my argument against Road to Gitmo at this time, Mister Under Secretary,” Steve said. “Cognizant as I am that, pardon, now my submarine crews are slowly starving to death. On the other hand, they are also fishing quite successfully and have adequate vitamins to prevent nutrition deficiency for the time being. The main ones that I’m worried about are the ones that critical systems busted and are now ashore on desert islands. Especially those on ones who are also subject to tropical storms. I was planning on having a brain-storming session with the sub skippers and Commander Freeman on that subject at a later time. However, to the main point. I really would pref
er not to subject the Squadron to a hurricane. The season ends at the end of November. At that time we can easily move to Gitmo and begin clearance operations. That is less than two months. I’m going to take a survey of which boats are unlikely to be able to hang on that long and determine other options. My current plan is a redeployment for aggressive at-sea search, clearance and rescue operations in low-storm zones as well as testing littoral clearance methods after some redistribution of personnel… ”
* * *
“Nice uniform, sis,” Sophia said.
Faith was wearing Marine Pattern Camouflage, colloquially called both MarPat and MarCam, and was carrying a cloth shopping bag.
The No Tan Lines had been “redeployed” back to the main squadron for “refit and resupply.” They were actually okay on the supply part. If anything, they were going to be off-loading. The flotilla had been stockpiling “excess supplies” on the supply ships. Not that Sophia gave up her good stash.
“Thanks,” Faith said, tossing Sophia the cloth shopping bag she was carrying. “There’s yours.”
“Mine?” Sophia said. The bag felt extremely full.
“We got an official suggestion from the CO of the Alex that we find you a uniform,” Faith said. “I got tasked to find your size in the uniform store on the Iwo. There’s tactical boots in it, too. Then I got an unofficial message that you might want to think about wearing something a little more often. Been doing what you can to raise the morale on the subs, sis?”
“Oh,” Sophia said, breathing through her nose. “Those glowing green bastards!”
“Never trust a submariner,” Faith said, giggling.
“How’ve you been?” Sophia said, waving her into the boat.
“Good,” Faith said. “Getting there, anyway. Kicking the ass of Marines is sort of fun.”
