by John Ringo
“Kicking Marine ass?” Paula said. “Do tell.”
“They’re good, don’t get me wrong,” Faith said. “But they’d trained for fighting hajis in the Sandbox. Fighting zombies in a ship is different. And they’re supposed to be trained for fighting shipboard but it’s not really something they’d concentrated on.”
“We found you a present as well,” Sophia said. “Paula, where’s that case of the good stuff?”
“Right under here,” Paula said, opening up the compartment under the bar.
“You know I don’t drink alcohol,” Faith said. “Much.”
“Tada!” Paula said, pulling out a case of Razzleberry Tea.
“Oh,” Faith said, panting. “This is nearly as great as when we found a stash of twelve-gauge on the Iwo!”
“You’re welcome,” Paula said, then opened up the fridge and pulled out a cold one.
“Found a boat that somebody was apparently an equal fan,” Sophia said, pouring herself a glass of brandy. “Cheers, sis.”
“Up your bottom!” Faith said, then took a sip. “Ah, nectar of the gods.”
“You’re really in the Marines?” Paula asked.
“I have been having an abbreviated class on military decorum,” Faith said, making a face. “I was going to get pinned right away but they decided to hold off until you rejoined the Squadron. Since you didn’t have a uniform or ‘accoutrements’ as I’ve learned they are called, we’ll both get pinned this afternoon. And that’s when I’ll get sworn in as a ‘probationary third lieutenant.’ ”
“So you’re a ‘probationary’ Lieutenant and I’m an ‘Acting’ Ensign?” Sophia said, shaking her head. “Is there a difference?”
“Not that I can figure out,” Faith said, shrugging. “I still don’t get most of this military stuff.”
“How was the Iwo?” Sophia asked.
“Compared to the Voyage it was a walk in the fucking park,” Faith said, shrugging again. “We went straight for the food supply areas after the first day of upper deck clearance and found about half the survivors. Most of the Marines, Gunny Sands and a couple others being exceptions, were in good shape. The rest of it was mostly training Marines on the Wolf Way of clearance. And once we found a big, beautiful store of .45 and double-ought… then it was just a matter of rolling hot. Not to mention frags make a dandy compartment clearing tool.”
“Sounds like you had fun,” Paula said.
“Buttloads,” Faith said. “It wasn’t the Voyage. There was just something different about it. There was way less finding people who’d just died for one thing. Or people who might as well be dead. It was pretty much long dead, zombies and survivors in pretty good shape. And most of the long dead had either been chewed up pretty good or were, basically, mummies. And no kids and it wasn’t a fucking play palace that had turned into a horror movie. So, yeah, mostly fun. Fucking Voyage still gives me nightmares. How was your float?”
“Found a family that was uninfected,” Sophia said.
“The Lawtons,” Faith said. “Need to bring up the dad in a bit.”
“Why?” Paula said.
“Just will,” Faith said. “He wants to see you. Has a present for you. All of you.”
“That’s sweet?” Sophia said, puzzled. “Any idea what? It’s not like they had zip on that boat when we found them.”
“Yeah,” Faith said, grinning. “He gave me the same present. But it’s a surprise. Anyway, adventures. Something about a Russian mobster?”
“Oh, that,” Sophia said, grinning. “Not mobster, exactly. Except that anybody Russian with money was basically a mobster. No real big deal.”
“Hey,” Paula said. “It was pretty tense at the time.”
“Sort of,” Sophia said. “We found another mega. Smaller than the Alpha but not much. Bunch of survivors.”
“The big one with the Russian writing,” Faith said, gesturing with her chin.
“Long story, ’nother time,” Sophia said. “Any clue what’s next? We’ve been sort of out of the loop.”
“Local area rescue and clearance is what I’ve got,” Faith said. “Dad sort of hinted that he’s going to stick us together but I’m supposed to ‘manage’ the operation as a good officer should. Have no clue what operations.”
“Well, we could use another clearance guy, that’s for sure,” Sophia said. “I don’t know how it fits in but we’re supposed to go over to the Grace tomorrow for ‘refit.’ Not sure what we’re being refitted with.”
“I’m wondering where we’re going to hide the stash,” Paula said.
“Stash?” Faith said. “Oh, salvage.”
“That,” Paula said. “Yeah.”
“So I just found out that as a Naval officer, I’m no longer on shares,” Sophia said. “On the other hand, the crew is… ”
“Pat and I opted to stay civilian,” Paula said.
“... and we resupply first from ‘salvaged stores.’ So what if we keep the good stuff? Besides, I figure Da probably needs some stuff for entertaining.”
“And boy do we have some stuff,” Paula said. “Is Sari still cooking for him?”
“Yes,” Faith said.
“She’s so going to like what we’re bringing in… ” She paused and grimaced. “Speaking of chefs, how’s Chris? We were going to spot him some of it, too.”
“I’ve only run into him a couple of times,” Faith said, shrugging. “Lost his girl, found his girl, lost her again. Gwinn and Rob are married. Got hitched by Captain Geraldine in a really nice ceremony on the Alpha. Gwinn’s doing admin on the Alpha right now. Rob’s doing survey and salvage. They’re good people. Chris just ended up as odd man out.”
“I need to stop by and see him,” Paula said. “He’s got to be heartbroken. I think I was the only one on the boat he’d talked to about Gwinn.”
“It’s Chris,” Faith said, shrugging again. “He just cooks his way out of his misery.”
“He’s been doing ferry work,” Sophia said. “So he hasn’t been doing salvage. Why don’t you make up a little care package for him and take it over? Dinghy’s worth. Say I’ll be by when I can.”
“Okay,” Paula said. “That’s a good way to get rid of some of the stash.”
“Not the Grand Marnier,” Sophia said. “Or, no more than a bottle. I was planning on making that a gift to Da.”
“No Tan Lines, Squadron Ops, over.”
“Hang on,” Sophia said. “Squadron Ops, No Tan Line, over.”
“You have got to change that name,” Faith said.
“Think ours is bad,” Sophia said.
“Lines scheduled to come alongside the Grace Tan at fourteen-thirty for off-load and refit. Crew will be shuttled to the Alpha for pinning ceremony, Master, scheduled for sixteen-thirty. Master will, say again, will be in proper uniform. Reception to follow.”
“Oooo… ” Sophia said. “I need to get some stuff back to Da for the reception.”
“You’ve got time to drop it by before you’re scheduled to go to the Grace,” Faith said, looking at her watch. “I’m sort of at loose ends. Drop me on the Alpha with it, I’ll get it to Sari.”
“Works,” Sophia said, keying the radio. “Lines alongside Grace fourteen-thirty, aye. Pinning ceremony, sixteen-thirty, aye. Reception to follow, aye.”
“Squadron ops, out.”
* * *
“You know I’m really proud to do this,” Steve said, pinning one side of Sophia’s collar while Stacey pinned the other. The pins were gold circles rather than the single bar of an ensign.
“Still not sure why I said yes,” Sophia said. “And while this is not in any way an official bitch, Kuzma has been running our ass ragged.”
“I know,” Steve said. “He wanted to see if he could get you to complain. Congratulations,” he said, shaking her hand.
“I figured that much out,” Sophia said. “I can hack it. But it’s not fair on my crew.”
“We’ll talk,” Steve said, stepping over to Faith.
&nbs
p; “Faith, Marine uniforms are always supposed to be spotless and perfect,” Steve said.
“Is there something wrong with my uniform?” Faith asked, panicking. She didn’t like being in front of a crowd, anyway.
“No, but there is something ‘wrong’ with these,” Steve said, showing her the pins. “These were recovered from the body of Midshipman Lin Wicklund, in the CIC of the USS Iwo Jima. Midshipman Wicklund, whose intent after the Naval Academy was to be a Marine officer, was found with a clocked-out forty-five by her body. Wicklund was, as far as we can determine, the last remaining officer fighting for control of the ship. The pips have a discoloration on them. Do not clean that discoloration off.”
“Yes, sir,” Faith said, her chin tightening. “Understood, sir.”
“Sophia has already been officially sworn in,” Steve said after putting on the pins. “She just didn’t have the pins. You have not. Raise your right hand.”
“I, state your name… ”
“I, Faith Marie Smith… ”
“Lieutenant Smith,” her father said when the ceremony was complete. “There is not a bloody word in there that says ‘I’m only an officer to kill zombies.’ A Marine officer’s oath is to faithfully discharge her duty to defend the Constitution of the United States. That’s it. Period. Dot. There is also nothing in that oath that has a time limit. It is an oath for life. Clear, Lieutenant?”
“Clear, sir.”
* * *
“You looked like you were going to pass out, ma’am,” Januscheitis said.
“I thought I was going to pass out, Staff Sergeant,” Faith replied.
The “reception to follow” was all ranks and had heavy hors d’ouvres in lieu of dinner.
“I don’t do attention well,” Faith admitted.
“Seriously, ma’am?” Januscheitis said, grabbing a bar stool while it was unoccupied. “You certainly don’t seem to mind attention from zombies. For you, LT.”
Somehow, over the last few weeks, Isham had managed to repair most of the damage to the Alpha’s main saloon. While essentially nothing matched, it had been rearranged to give the impression of “multiple styles” rather than “salvaged bits of junk from a dozen different boats.”
“Why thank you kind sir,” Faith said. “I accept.”
“What’ll you have, Lieutenant?” the bartender said. He looked vaguely familiar but most of the people at the reception were people she knew or who she had seen at least once. There were a few “new” faces, you could tell the freshies, boaties with deep tans, “ghosts” from compartments with no tan at all and all with a “hollowed out” look, but most were people she sort of knew.
“Water,” Faith said. “Unless you’ve got some good juice.”
“I cannot believe we’ve got an LT that only drinks juice and water,” Derek said. “There should be a law.”
“A Marine officer shall be prepared for duty at all times,” Faith said. “Says so right in the instructions manual.”
“I’ve got a really decent pomegranate,” the bartender said.
“I’ll drink anything that’s wet,” Faith said. “Except wine and beer. Or coffee. Or anything with carbonation.”
“Seriously?” Derek said. “No alcohol, no coffee? What are you, ma’am, Mormon?”
“Just don’t like the taste of wine or beer,” Faith said, shrugging.
“And for you, gentlemen?”
“Beer?” Januscheitis asked.
“We’ve got a very nice pale ale on tap,” the bartender said. “Something called Seven Acres. Pretty decent. Didn’t turn.”
“Works for me,” Derek said. “Now, about the Mormon thing… ”
“I don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, don’t like the taste or smell of coffee,” Faith said. “I don’t do carbonation. I don’t even like black teas. I prefer green. I just don’t like the taste. I like good fruit juice and certain kinds of bottled water. I’m really, really, incredibly picky when it comes to taste or texture. Problem, Corporal?”
“No, ma’am,” Derek said. “Just sort of mind boggling. I’m having a hard time with… With Lieutenant Smith, zombie killer and Lieutenant Smith… ”
“ ‘Don’t drink, don’t smoke, what do you do… ?’ ” Januscheitis half sang. “Kill zombies.”
“Got it in one,” Faith said. “I don’t do it for moral reasons; don’t mind if other people drink, though they get kind of stupid, but I don’t like the taste.”
“Ever tried straight booze, ma’am?” Januscheitis asked.
“No,” Faith said, shrugging. “Doubt it would change my interest.”
“Try this and see how you like it,” the bartender said, sliding the glass of chilled juice to her. “And your beer, gentlemen.”
“That is pretty good,” Faith said, taking a sip. “It sat in plastic too long, but it’s not bad. Sophia, bless her black little heart, turned up a case of Razzleberry Tea. Now that is good.”
“Oop,” Januscheitis said, setting his beer down and coming to attention. “Commodore, inbound.”
“Easy,” Steve said, walking up behind Faith. “No rank in the mess or something like that.”
“Yes, sir,” Januscheitis said.
“Then is it, ‘Good evening, sir’ or ‘Hey, Da’?” Faith asked, grinning. “I get confused.”
“ ‘Hey, Da’ works,” Steve said. “So this is your posse. I haven’t had time to get introduced.”
“Corporal Douglas,” Faith said, “Staff Sergeant Januscheitis, Captain Smith AKA Commodore Wolf. Derek, Jan, my Da, Steve.”
“Good evening, Captain,” Januscheitis said.
“Good to see you again, Staff Sergeant,” Steve said. “You’re looking better. I’d like to thank you and your men for clearing the Iwo. That had to be double tough.”
“From what I’ve gotten, not as hard as clearing the Voyage, sir,” Januscheitis said. “Lieutenant Fontana has had a couple of choice words to say on the subject.”
“The Voyage fucking sucked,” Faith said taking a pull of her juice. “The Voyage is why I wish I did drink.”
“Choice words like those, sir,” Januscheitis said.
“Clearing your own ship with your own personnel had to have its own issues,” Steve said.
“Are we going to get it back in operation, sir?” Derek asked.
“Not right now,” Steve said. “I wanted to use the hover craft for future ops but after due consideration, we don’t even have enough technical people, at this time, to flood the wash deck. Or maintain the AACs. We will need it for future operations, when we can use it. But not right now. That brings up a point which I need some honest and open input on. Our usual technique with something like this is to spread dermestid carrion beetles to reduce the logistics effort of clearing the remains. I’m taking an informal poll of how negative the reaction to that would be in the case of the Iwo.”
“Carrion beetles, sir?” Derek said.
“Da’s little black helpers,” Faith said. “Da, did you know one of your nicknames behind your back is Captain Carrion?”
“No, but I’m not surprised,” Smith said. “They are fast reproducing beetles that only eat dead flesh. Depends on how many you start with but open all the watertight doors to areas that have human remains, dump some in, wait a couple of months and what you have is picked clean skeletons. Oh, and decks covered in beetles. Which can then be vacuumed up and in many cases reused.”
“Ugh,” Januscheitis said, twitching. “That’s, uhm… ”
“Simple, brutal and effective,” Faith said. “Sort of like a Saiga. The Coasties didn’t particularly like it when we did it to their cutter. But a team of ten only took a day to collect all the skeletons and we could give them a decent burial. Even if we didn’t know which was which.”
“The infected, in case you hadn’t noticed, even tear off their dog tags,” Steve said. “I’m going to let the surviving Marines and Navy personnel have some time to consider it. But… clearing the dead from the ship is goin
g to be a major undertaking. And while the few people we have left are doing that, they can’t be doing something more useful. Not to mention, it, well, sucks. Bodies are heavy. Skeletons… not so much. Like I said, give it a few days thought, discuss it amongst yourselves.”
“So, different subject, sir?” Faith said.
“Preferably,” Steve said. “What’s next, right?”
“I understand you intend to clear Gitmo, sir?” Derek said.
“Once the tropical season is past, yes,” Steve said. “We’re working on methods of doing so. Which is, in fact, next. Tomorrow we’ll be testing out a new weaponry system for heavy littoral clearance. We needed enough rounds just to do the testing which the Iwo fortunately has. If the test is successful, we’ll then move on to actual clearance tests to see if it really works. They really work since there are two different systems. If those systems work, we’ll use them to clear some minor islands in the Eastern Atlantic, then in early December, move down to Gitmo.”
“That sounds like a plan, sir,” Januscheitis said.
“So what are these ‘littoral clearance systems’?” Faith asked.
“Oh, I think you’ll like them,” Steve said.
CHAPTER 8
37. There is no “overkill.” There is only “open fire” and “I need to reload.”
70 Maxims of Maximally Effective Mercenaries
“Ooooo… ” Faith said. “Big guns. Biiiig guns. Me like big guns.”
The vessel was a fishing trawler that had suffered all the normal fates. It had been “refurbished,” then the outriggers and some of the winches removed. The hard points for the outriggers now held two modified M2 “MaDeuce” Browning .50 caliber machine guns.
“Faith, decorum,” Steve said, facepalming. “Among other things, phraseology.”
“Water-cooled, sir?” Gunny Sands said, examining the copper pipe wrapping the barrels of the machine guns. A flexible plastic hose ran from the pipes to a strapped down 55 gallon blue barrel.
The group there to “evaluate and support” the test included most of the surviving Marines as well as some pre-Plague Navy personnel and some “post-Plague, hostilities only” survivors who had volunteered for Naval service as gunners.
