To Sail a Darkling Sea - eARC

by John Ringo

* * *

  “So, is this normal?” Wilkes said.

  The captain was trying to hold a door closed against what sounded, to him, like about two hundred howling infected. At least five had their arms through the hatch and were scrabbling at his left arm. He had the hatch braced with his foot and was pushing on it with all his might but he was slowly and inexorably being pushed back by the weight of zombies. There were shoulders. It was not looking good.

  “Yes, sir, pretty much,” Faith said. “Zombies are not people as we understand it. No sentience. They are just aggression, hunger and occasionally lust. Sort of Marines without stops, sir.”

  “Would the Lieutenant care to instruct the Captain on what the fuck you’re supposed to do now? Quickly?”

  “It is recommended in a situation like this that the lead request support from his team mates in temporarily reducing movement of the hatch, sir,” Faith said. “Given that this is not a hatch with a coaming, but flush to the deck, that is simply managed, thusly… ” She pulled out one of her boot knives and jammed it under the door then kicked it into place. “Better, sir?”

  “Yes,” Wilkes said, leaning back. Between his boot and the knife, the hatch wasn’t going anywhere. “So now what?”

  “Is the Captain familiar with the operation of the M87 fragmentation grenade, sir?” Faith said, holding up one of the little bundles of fury.

  “The Captain has not used an M87 fragmentation grenade since the Captain was in Marine Officer Basic Course, Lieutenant,” Captain Wilkes said. “Where he threw one, once. And please tell me you’re not serious.”

  “The operation of the M87 is so remarkably simple that even, say, a thirteen-year-old girl, is capable of figuring it out, sir,” Faith said, pressing the grenade into his somewhat flaccid hand. “I am sure a Marine pilot can do far better, sir. Place the thumb of your strong hand on the lever. You are right-handed, are you not, sir?”

  “Yes,” Wilkes said, weakly. “Seriously?”

  “Hold the M87 hand grenade firmly with your strong hand,” Faith said, keeping her hand wrapped around his. “Straighten the cotter pin then pull, thusly. Remember that once the pin is pulled, Mister Hand Grenade is no longer your friend, sir. Now, and this is the one slightly tricky part, sir. Reach o-o-over the estimated heads of the zombies and the flailing arms and toss the grenade through the narrow gap into the other compartment, sir. Very important that it lands in the other compartment, sir. Really, really important, sir.”

  “This is insane,” Wilkes said, tossing the grenade. Into the other compartment.

  “And duck and cover, sir,” Faith said, pushing his helmet into the hatch and down. “Scrunch your neck down, sir.”

  “Doin’ it,” Wilkes said.

  There was a somewhat muted bang from the next compartment and a lot of shrill screaming over the usual keening and howls.

  “And sometimes it takes more than one,” Faith said, pulling out another frag. “You know what they say about hand grenades, sir?”

  “Close only counts with them and horseshoes?” Wilkes said.

  “The M87, sir,” Faith said, pulling the pin. “When ‘fuck you’ just isn’t enough. And I really like saying ‘fuck you.’ Sir.”

  * * *

  Wilkes was trying not to barf at the carnage in the compartment. Most of the infected were just wounded and they were screaming exactly like, well, people screamed when they were ripped half to death by grenades.

  “What do you do about… about the wounded?”

  “We don’t have an infinite amount of .45, sir,” Faith said. “And no idea how much we are going to use in the long term. And no great store of other pistol rounds. Barbie rounds go right through and go bouncin’ around. So no dice there. Sometimes, if we’ve got the time, we cut their throats to put them out of their misery.” She drew her kukhri and offered it to him, hilt first. “It’s not a requirement and it’s not a test, sir. It’s an offer. Just that. Otherwise we’ll continue clearance ops, sir. It’s messy as hell and generally we don’t bother, sir. They’ll bleed out in a while.”

  “We’ll continue clearance ops, Lieutenant.”

  * * *

  “Now, sir, in just a moment, the team’s going to let go of the rope… ”

  This time the infected were on the other side of a hatch that opened away from the team. Which necessitated a different technique involving partially cracking the hatch then letting the infecteds pull at it while holding it partially closed with a long rope held by most of the team. That way the point could back up and give some distance to engage. The general term was “zombie tug-of-war.”

  “This time we would appreciate it, sir, if you’d get most of the rounds into the targets,” Faith said.

  “Sorry about the compartment,” Wilkes said. “I really haven’t used an M4 in a while. Not my thing.”

  “I was fully aware of the infected in the compartment, sir,” Faith said. “I also knew that I could handle it without either of us coming to serious harm, sir. But tell me in flight school there’s not a point where the instructors let you screw up, sir?”

  “You’d make a real prick of an IP, Lieutenant,” Wilkes said, shaking his head. “And that was actually a compliment.”

  “You’re the only pilot we’ve got left, sir,” Faith said. “Da told me if I lost you, he’d have me cleaning compartments for a month, sir. And here I would prefer you succeed, sir. Now, sir, this is kinda important. Don’t get focused on the infected as screaming zombies or even people. Just get, well, zen. You’re just on a target range, shooting silhouettes. Shoot through the silhouettes. They don’t fall down like the pop-ups, either, sir. You’re going to have to hit each silhouette several times but don’t worry about that, either. They do eventually become good zombies. We’ll be firing as well. They are not going to reach this point. We are not going to get in the scrum again. Just, please, fire right down the corridor so the through-and-throughs pass through the hatch into the far compartment and engage all targets until they fall. All clear, sir?”

  “Clear, Lieutenant,” Wilkes said, taking an off-hand firing stance. “Ready when you are.”

  “Let the Captain initiate,” Faith said. “Let go, Staff Sergeant.”

  “Let the Captain initiate, aye, ma’am,” Januscheitis said, nodding to the team. He wasn’t holding a rope. He was aiming his ‘Barbie gun’ as back-up. “Let go, aye, ma’am. Pull!”

  Unfortunately, the first infected through the door was a female. And even for a zombie who’d been stuck in a ship for months, not a bad looking one. With all the light that was patently obvious. The Marine Aviator froze.

  “Oh, crap,” Faith said, taking the shot and splattering the still somewhat breasty brunette all over the compartment. The splurt of saline from the chest explained the ‘still breasty’ given the rest of the emaciation. “Fire, sir!”

  Wilkes finally fired, putting round after round into a zombie until it finally dropped. But there was another one behind that one…

  “Jesus, they’re not stopping,” Wilkes panted. He suddenly realized he was out of rounds. How did that happen?

  “You’re pulling an empty trigger, sir,” Faith said, calmly servicing targets. “Reload,” she said, switching to pistol.

  By the time Wilkes had reloaded, all the infected were down.

  “Are you on safe, sir?” Faith asked when Wilkes had reloaded and chambered a round. “Safety is sort of important, sir.”

  “On safe,” Wilkes said. “I apologize for not taking the shot. That put the team in jeopardy.”

  “I can’t shoot the kids, sir,” Faith said. “Fortunately or unfortunately it looks like they’ve all been eaten on this ship. Lots of them left on the Voyage, sir. Shall we continue?”

  CHAPTER 15

  O makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep

  Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;

  An’ hustlin’ drunken sodgers when they’re goin’ large a bit

  Is
five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.

  Kipling

  “Tommy”

  “Captain?” Captain Wilkes said, sticking his head in the compartment. “I was told you wanted to see me immediately following clearance ops.” The Captain was out of zombie gear but still wearing the same uniform. Which was fairly grungy.

  “Grab a seat, Milo,” Steve said, waving. “You’re not flying any time soon. Are you a drinker, Captain? And what? Bourbon, scotch… ”

  “Scotch, sir,” Wilkes said, taking a seat.

  “My daughter, Sophia, has cleared two hundred and eighty-six small craft, according to a report I just read… ”

  “Good God,” Wilkes said, shaking his head. “Where do you get them, sir?”

  “My wife actually popped them out, Captain,” Steve said, smiling. He’d pulled a bottle out of a drawer and poured two glasses, then handed one to Wilkes. “And, yes, I consider them fine little sheilas. But the point to it is that people seem to always take booze with them when they evacuate. I was rather remiss in that area. Apparently, I was supposed to pack along two-hundred-year-old brandy instead of guns and ammo. Who knew? But the rich people with rich yachts that took to sea tended to stock rather fine booze. And from experience, your first day of clearing the fucking bowels of a supermax liner requires a little snort. Cheers.”

  “Semper Fi, sir,” Wilkes said, taking a sip. “God, that is good.”

  “We’ve got a post clearance meeting in fifteen minutes,” Steve said. “This is not any sort of official meeting. This is a debrief, only one you’ll get. Time to clear your head with someone you can, actually, be frank with. The first comment would probably be along the lines of the ‘Good God’ you already used or possibly ‘Holy Christ.’ ”

  Wilkes leaned back and put his hand over his mouth, clearly thinking.

  “How about ‘Holy fucking shit on a cracker?’ sir,” he said after a moment. “When I looked at the objective my first thought was ‘I’m expected to do this with thirty Marines?’ My second thought was ‘There is really no way anyone did this with four people. This is a battalion objective.’ I mean, sir, with respect, I just sort of thought… ”

  “We’d made it up?” Steve said, snorting. “There are plenty of people who were around for it, Captain. I’m not offended, but… ”

  “It’s not the sort of thing you go up to random people and say ‘They had to be lying,’ sir,” Wilkes said. “And that was before I actually went forward and saw what it’s like, sir. When I actually did it… Jesus Christ Eating a Holy Wafer in Hell, sir.”

  “Are you still wondering… ?” Steve asked. “I’m curious, not upset.”

  “No, sir,” Wilkes said. “Sir, I saw the video, sure. But working with Shewolf is a different deal, sir. I’m a pilot, sir. We understand muscle memory and how much time it takes to develop. And your daughter, sir, fights zombies with muscle memory like nobody I’ve ever seen.”

  “She fights them in her sleep,” Steve said.

  “Which is the next point, sir,” Wilkes said. “She needs a break, sir. That is an official statement as her commanding officer, sir. I’m pretty sure she really does fight them in her sleep. Every waking moment and every night is not good, sir. Her going off in the messdeck is now much more comprehensible, sir. Did that report cover how many hours of combat she’s had since the Plague, sir?”

  “Do we count New York where she was a positive zombie magnet?” Steve asked. “No, there’s another team working on that one. Two hundred and fifty or so of ‘hard clearance,’ what you’re doing, on the Voyage alone. Week of twelve hours days on the Iwo… ”

  “Lieutenant Smith needs some downtime, sir,” Wilkes said. “R&R. Swimming. A beach. Pina colad… Well, she’s thirteen, so… ”

  “And really uninterested in drinking,” Steve said. “When we finish this clearance we’re headed across the Atlantic. Two weeks, minimum. I intend to sweep for any rescues on the way to Gitmo. That do?”

  “Possibly, sir,” Wilkes said. “But that’s an official recommendation and not because she is, as an instructor, an absolute prick, sir. That’s actually a compliment, sir. She is one hell of a prick instructor.”

  “So what do you think of the actual methods?” Steve said. “Official question.”

  “I think that they’re… institutional memory, sir,” Wilkes said. “Not really developed SOPs. And they need to be developed SOPs. Some of them are rough, catch-as-catch-can. I know you think I’m… well, a regular military asshat, sir… ”

  “I also am aware that there’s a method to the madness, Captain,” Steve said. “I did actually counsel Faith on that, if you’re wondering about my counseling session with her. That there is a value to even such things as military deportment. When we head off on our cruise, there will, again, be time to work on developing these as actual SOPs. Thoughts?”

  “We certainly don’t have time right now, sir,” Wilkes said. “I can see why the pace is as slow as it is. And why we’re using so many damned batteries. I was going to bring up the subject of cutting down on the use of so many flashlights in clearance at this meeting, sir. That was until I did it. No way in hell. We don’t have enough light.”

  “Lieutenant Isham brought it up already,” Steve said chuckling. “I told him I’d be glad to take him clearing and he could see what it was like. But it’s worthwhile for you to reiterate that. Especially given that you’d identified the same issue and now have a different take. Couple of things I’m going to be bringing up at the meeting that touch on your mission. We’re moving the Marines to the Boadicea. And they’re getting the good cabins.”

  “Sir?” Wilkes said.

  “Marines are supposed to be all about Spartan,” Steve said. “But as you pointed out, what they are doing is fucking God awful. The cleaning crews see your results but not how they happened. Maybe it’s just that I used to be a para and I’ve done it. But I think they need… I hate to call it TLC but that’s what it is. They’re specialists and they’re the only ones we’ve got. So they’re going into the first class cabins, no more than two to a cabin. The officers and senior NCOs into the better staterooms. They sure as hell don’t need to be stuffed into interior rooms, six to a stateroom, after clearing in the fucking dark all day. There’s a limit and I don’t want to push it.”

  “I’m sure as hell not going to argue for shoving them into holds, sir,” Wilkes said.

  “The second thing follows the first,” Steve said. “When they’re done with clearance, they clean their weapons. Gear goes to a team to be cleaned. That will have to be checked, probably by the Gunny, and I’m sure there will be some fuck-ups at first. We’re not going to get rocket scientists, or Marines for that matter, cleaning it. But I know how fucked up gear gets doing this, and after making the mess, picking bits of flesh out of your gear is the last fucking thing you want to do at the end of a long day of getting pummeled by zombies.”

  “You sure about that one, sir?” Wilkes said. “I mean, the officers, I can see it. We’ve got at least two more meetings to go through this evening. The grunts are just… off, sir.”

  “How many times would you like to go into that shithole, Captain?” Steve said. “That’s not a threat, but the fact that it sort of sounds like it should answer your question.”

  “I won’t disagree, sir,” Wilkes said. “But who’s going to do it?”

  “I have some people who are on my shit list,” Steve said. “All they need is the proper encouragement.”

  * * *

  “Mister Zumwald,” Steve said. “Walk with me.”

  “You’re Captain Smith,” Zumwald said. “You don’t have much of an Aussie accent. Where we going?”

  “For a little walk, followed by a boat ride, followed by a little walk,” Steve said. “This way.”

  “Walk in concrete overshoes?” Zumwald asked.

  “You have my personal and professional assurance that you will return, alive, from this little excursion,” Steve said,
seriously. “You’re not an idiot. The damage to my reputation if I really did dump you over the side would be extreme. Management is, to an extent, about trust. Nobody could trust me if I took such a high handed approach. I’d lose my position, with justice, and my agenda would be disrupted or destroyed. You will return alive and unharmed. Physically. We’ll see about otherwise.”

  “Well, I’d still like to apologize about what happened with your daughter, Captain,” the former executive said. “I was sorta drunk and real glad to be off that little boat. It shouldn’t have happened and certainly not to a real hero like your daughter.”

  “Were you aware that the Social Alpha was the megayacht of Mike Mickerberg?” Steve asked.

  “Yeah,” Zumwald said. “I was even on it one time before the Plague. I heard he got wacked. Which serves him right, the bastard. I lost my shirt in that IPO.”

  “Faith, then Sergeant Fontana and I cleared it,” Steve said, gesturing to a dinghy. “After you.”

  “No, you should go first,” Zumwald said.

  “It’s an odd thing in the Navy,” Steve said. “The junior boards first. That way the senior gets off the boat first. You first.”

  “Did you hear about what happened before it went fully infected?” Steve asked as Zumwald got in the inflatable.

  “No,” Zumwald said. “Sort of. Mutiny or something like that?”

  “Mister Mickerberg, possibly panicking at the thought of an apocalypse, hired a cut-rate security firm that employed mostly West African mercenaries. Child soldier types.”

  “Sounds like Mickey,” Zumwald said. “He was great for the whole social networking thing, never got his head in gear on anything else.”

  “The mercenaries took over, led by a slightly insane ex-Special Forces major,” Steve said, gesturing for the crew to take off. “They injected Mister Mickerberg with live agent to make sure he went zombie. Shot all the male passengers and dumped them to the sharks. Then proceeded to have their way, if you will, with the women he’d brought along.”

  “Jesus,” Zumwald said, shaking his head. “I was going to say it’s like the script to some low-budget post-apoc, but… ”