by John Ringo
The problem being, there was an infected sleeping in the shadow of the superstructure of the yacht. It woke up at the clatter of the arriving infantryman and scrabbled towards him on hands and knees, hissing.
It hit Mcgarity and tried to bite. The security specialist wasn’t wearing full zombie fighting gear and it nearly managed to get his neck. He fended it off and got a hand on its throat just before it let out the standard zombie howl.
Mcgarity drew his side-arm and shoved it into the infected’s stomach, pulling the trigger repeatedly and trying to angle up. Being in contact muffled the sound of the shots. Something must have given because the infected stopped struggling.
It was only when he pushed it off that he realized the infected was a teenage boy, shrunken and emaciated by privation and covered in scars including bite marks.
“Fuck,” Mcgarity said, shaking his head. “Looks like fucking Gollum… ”
He rolled over then reloaded and holstered his 1911, looking around to see if the scuffle had attracted any attention. None immediately apparent.
“Gimme a hand getting this body in the harbor… ”
* * *
Between the two of them and a rope, and Paula pushing on his ass and boots, they managed to get Rusty over the side.
“We gotta figure out a better way to do this,” Anarchy said. “Olga, get the ropes.”
“Okay,” Olga said, drawing her machete.
An infected came down the wharf, on hands and knees, snuffling at the boards of one of the buildings.
“Target,” Rusty said, raising his weapon.
“No,” Anarchy said. “And inside voice. Just be quiet. Olga!” he hissed.
Olga lifted her head and looked at him. She was just about to chop one of the ropes.
He held his finger up to his lips, pointed at the infected, which was no more than thirty yards away, then motioned for her to cut with a knife.
There were six thick lines to cut. Anarchy watched her cutting through one then tapped Rusty and pointed to another.
Rusty pointed at his chest, puzzled, then made a cutting motion.
Anarchy nodded, furiously, and made another cutting motion and pointed at the line.
Rusty made the same cutting motion then held out his hands.
Mcgarity rolled his eyes and pulled out a tactical knife, handing it to him.
Rusty started cutting lines while Mcgarity watched the infected. It finally found what it was looking for and grabbed something. It was a rat. The infected didn’t bother with cleaning. The squeaking rodent went down pretty much whole.
The building was some sort of convenience store. The doors were locked and there were bars on the windows. Even if there had been infected, or noninfected, in there, they were long dead. But the rats could get in and eat. Then the zombies ate the rats.
Zombies could probably survive a long time on rats. And there was going to be lots of food for rats.
Mcgarity suddenly realized that some of the assumptions people were making about zombies running out of food were optimistic. Maybe on ships. Land, not so much.
The infected continued sniffing then looked around, searching for another source of food. It looked at the people on the boat and appeared puzzled for a moment. Then it scurried away around the corner.
“What the fuck?” Mcgarity whispered. He’d been fully prepared to start the party. But the zombie had just run off. They’d pile into a wall of bullets but this one had just run off. “Seriously, what the fuck?”
The last line was cut and he stepped, quietly, to the side and waved for the boat to pull the yacht out of its slot. They bumped a couple of times on the way into the basin but not bad. It was still seaworthy, anyway.
Once it was clear of the slot they tied it off to one of the pilings, away from any other boats, and the engineer from the Wet Debt boarded carrying a toolbag.
“Can you get it running?” Anarchy asked.
“How the hell should I know?” the mechanic said. “I don’t even know if it has fuel.”
“It has fuel,” Olga said. She’d pulled the cap on the tanks and sniffed. Then she looked in. “It’s mostly full.”
“Which means it’s probably got water in it,” the mechanic said, handing her a bottle. “And it will have separated. Pour this in the tank. It might help. I’m going to be at this a while. After I get the door open,” he added, pointing to the hatch.
“I’ve got a hammer,” Rusty said.
“You’ve got a hammer but you don’t got a knife?” Mcgarity snarled. “We need to talk about your priorities!”
“I’ve got a jimmie,” the mechanic said. “If that don’t work, then I maybe need a hammer. I’d rather be able to use the door, you know?”
The mechanic was able to get the door open without too much damage then he waved at the interior.
“I don’t do dark spaces that might have zombies in them.”
“I’ll check it,” Anarchy said. “You two, don’t fire unless a zombie swims aboard.”
“Sharks,” Olga said. “Don’t think they’ll make it.”
“Then don’t fire,” Anarchy said.
He swept the interior of the boat but it was clean. Probably nobody had been aboard since the Plague.
“All clear,” he said, stepping out of the saloon. “What’s next?”
“Get me the batteries out of the boat and I’ll see if it will crank,” he said. “I’m still gonna need somebody to keep an eye out. Not going to have time to be looking around for zombies.”
“Olga,” Anarchy said. “Rusty, get back in the boat and hand me up the batteries.”
* * *
“You got lights?” the mechanic said. “I got a headlamp but you’re gonna need lights.”
“I’ve got lights.” She turned on her rail light and pulled out a headlamp. She also had a hand taclight.
The mechanic checked the oil, humping in apparent satisfaction, then disconnected the batteries from the engine.
“How’s it going to run with no batteries?” Sophia asked.
“I’m going to install the ones I brought,” the mechanic said. “These have been sitting for so long, not only are they D-E-D, dead, they’re probably shot. I’ll check ’em back on the Debt. The way things are going, we’d better find a container of batteries soon. So, you’re the Ukrainian chick? Why no accent?”
“I was born in Ukraine,” Olga said. “I grew up in Chicago.”
“Enjoyed your little orgasm on the boat,” the guy said, grinning. He was missing his middle front teeth.
“I tell you what,” Olga said. “You concentrate on fixing the engine. I’ll concentrate on not wondering if you’re going zombie and I should shoot you.”
“Okay,” the guy said, holding up his hands. “Sorry.”
“There is a time for fun and a time to concentrate,” Olga said as Rusty came in hauling one of the big marine batteries. “Know the difference.”
“Where do you want it?” Rusty said.
“I could make some suggestions,” Olga said, leaving the compartment.
* * *
Cutting out the larger yacht was equally simple. The first time they had to fire was when they were securing the last of the offshore inflatables. The inflatable didn’t have an outboard and the deck was teak. It really didn’t look a bit like the others. But it did look fast.
They’d just boarded when an infected came stumbling up out of the previously unidentified cabin. It charged Mcgarity, screaming at the top of its lungs.
The former specialists reacted by grabbing it by the hair and tossing it over the side. Unfortuately, that sort of scream was zombie for “dinner time” and more heads started popping up all over.
“Let’s get this cut out,” Mcgarity said.
“I can just untie it,” Olga said, running forward. There was only one line securing it.
Infected were trotting down the wharf and Mcgarity pointed right.
“Rusty, starboard,” Anarchy said, keying his ra
dio. “Division, fire support, over.”
“Roger.” Fifties started booming from the gunboat and the infected did their usual dance.
“Anarchy!” Paula yelled. “Little help?”
She’d tied the dinghy to the bigger inflatable, as they’d been doing, and when Olga got the lines free she’d started to pull out. Unfortunately, the infected had grabbed the tow line and was in the process of pulling himself aboard the dinghy.
Anarchy walked onto the transom deck of the inflatable and put three rounds into the infected, just as it got a hand onto the side of the dinghy. Just about that time the tension in the tow-line snapped. He lost his footing and went over the side into the water.
The weight of his gear sucked him down immediately and the sharks were already showing up for the shot infected.
“RUSTY, OLGA!” Paula screamed. “Anarchy’s in the water!”
The water was crystal clear. Olga looked over the side and could see the former specialist struggling to get out of his gear. But the sharks closed in. There was a gush of air and blood and the struggling stopped mercifully fast.
“What’da we do?” Rusty said, rubbing his rifle and pointing it then lowering it. It was clear the big guy had no clue what to do next.
“We go get a grapnel and try to get back as much as we can,” Olga said. “Hopefully, we’ll be allowed to give him a decent burial.”
* * *
“. . . Understood, Squadron. LitDiv, out.”
Mcgarity’s loss had been a huge morale blow to the Division. That was bad enough. But in Chen’s eyes, professionally, the worse blow was the loss of experience. Mcgarity was the only person he had who was school trained on the MaDeuce and had extensive experience with it. Not to mention the only one with combat experience prior to the Plague. Or, for that matter, more than Navy boot camp. He had one, count ’em, one Navy seaman who had been a Seaman Apprentice prior to the Plague and was now a PO3. Midshipmen and Ensigns who had had “some prior civilian boating experience.” The DivTwo commander was a semi-professional, female, yachtsmen. And not much older than Sophia.
And now fucking Squadron wanted him to crew these new boats with the odds and sods they were carrying and “continue the mission”! “If any combat personnel become available, they will be moved to your location. Continue the mission.”
“Sir,” Seaman Recruit Erlfeldt said. “Seawolf just boarded. Requests a minute of your time.”
“Send her in,” Chen said. Just what he needed.
Sophia was carrying a bottle of booze. With a shot glass on top.
“Not what’s needed at this time, Lieutenant,” Chen said.
“Booze is officially forbidden on US Navy vessels, sir,” Sophia said, cracking the top and pouring a shot. “Except for two, count ’em, two shot bottles of medicinal bourbon per person aboard carried on all large vessels in the event of a significant trauma that requires broad tranquilization of the crews, sir.” She held out the shot. “And this was Anarchy’s favorite tipple.”
Chen took the shot, toasted and downed it.
“Specialist Cody Anarchy Mcgarity,” Chen said. “May he rest in peace.”
“Paula is taking the big yacht,” Sophia said. “Patrick is going aboard the smaller one as engineer. There is a guy with boating experience in the prize crews. He’ll take over as skipper. Ensign Bowman and I detailed off people to the boats and they’re being shuttled around. That should take about another thirty minutes. Then, we need to leave, sir.”
“Continue the mission,” Chen said, handing the shot glass back.
“Yes, sir,” Sophia said. “With due respect, recommend stopping offshore for burial at sea.”
“Concur,” Chen said. “Continue the mission.”
CHAPTER 23
When a soldier looks up on the battlefield he will not see his first sergeant, sergeant major, company commander, battalion commander ... he won’t even see his platoon sergeant! He WILL see HIS sergeant ... the squad leader, crew chief, team leader, tank commander ... and this NCO will principally provide the leadership, advice, counsel, and firm and reassuring direction on that battlefield.
Gen. Paul F. Gorman (US Army)
“Grab a seat, gentlemen,” Steve said, tapping at his computer. “Be with you in just a second… ”
He looked up after a moment and frowned.
“I used to get to kill zombies,” Steve said. “These days I spend most of my time reading spreadsheets and reports. Which one is retired Chief Petty Officer Roland Schmidt?”
Both of the men were probably pushing sixty. They weren’t alike, visually, but he had only been given the names.
“Here, sir,” Schmidt said in a gravelly voice. He was silver haired with dark brown eyes, nearly black, and a compact frame.
“And that would make you retired Sergeant Major Raymond Barney, her Majesty’s Royal Army,” Steve said, looking at the second man. He was had the look of being formerly heavyset with sagging jowels. He’d recently shaved his head but it was apparent he was mostly bald, anyway.
“Yes, sir,” the Sergeant Major said.
“There are a million places I could use two former senior NCOs here in the main squadron,” Steve said. “God knows we need the experience and stability. That being said, we have an… opportunity with our littoral clearance flotilla. It’s already gotten a bit large for one Navy Lieutenant to manage and they’ve just lost their only ground combat leader with any significant experience. US Army tanker Specialist. He was the best they had since the Marines are all busy clearing these liners. Sergeant Major, do you have any experience with the fifty-caliber BMG?”
“We used them on our Ferrets, sir,” Barney replied. “Extensive.”
“I’ve got experience with them as well, sir,” Schmidt said. “And in a marine environment. Which I take it this is.”
“Small boats,” Steve said. “Yachts and fishing trawlers converted to gunboats… ”
“Sounds like we’re back to the War, sir,” Barney said.
“My masters thesis was on the defense of Malta,” Steve said. “I’m familiar with Her Majesty’s Navy’s ingenuity in the early part of the War, Sergeant Major. So, yes, very much so. The Flotilla needs some experienced hands. If you turn it down, no foul. As I’ve said, I have plenty of places to put you. This is small boats out on the sharp end. Rocks and shoals and falling over the side in a shark infested harbor in full kit. Which was how we lost Anarchy.”
“I spent my whole career in scouts, sir,” Barney said. “Except for the boat part, it will be old home week, sir.”
“I spent my entire career on carriers,” Schmidt said. “But there ain’t nothin’ I don’t know about the Navy, sir.”
“Few more points I want you both to consider,” Steve said, leaning back. “You’re never going to get what you think of as ‘discipline’ out of these crews. You never do with small units that are frequently out of contact with higher. You didn’t with motor gunboats in the War, you didn’t with PT boats. They’re small boat crews. That’s what they’re like. It’s about motivating, not alienating. That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t follow orders if given orders. They’ve been doing that. But… It’s not carrier ops and it’s not Her Royal Majesty’s Scouts. They’re a bunch of mostly kids who signed up to go shoot zombies without so much as a day of basic training. And you’re going to be the only professionals, except Lieutenant Chen, in the flotilla. That can be, assuredly will be, frustrating. That’s the first point and it’s an ongoing one.
“The second point is getting to the Flotilla. It is continuing operations down the coast. It is, currently, two hundred miles away and getting further away as we speak. Which means we’re going to have to run you down there in an open inflatable fast-boat. It’s not rough today, but it’s going to beat the ever living shit out of you, anyway, gentlemen.
“Last. I’m not quite sure how this happened but about half of the sailors and commanders in the Flotilla are women. Some of the boat commanders are civilian,
some military. The gunboats are all commanded by Navy Ensigns and Midshipmen, two out of three are women. They’re willing to take direction but unless you want me to make you officers, and I can in your case, Chief Schmidt, most of your bosses as well as co-workers are going to be women. And they are, even for women, a screwy bunch. You know what the compartments are like. And you’re going to have to manage that, as well. I suspect it’s especially bad with losing Cody. He was a great kid and everybody liked him.
“So, last chance… ” Steve said, raising an eyebrow. “Yay or nay?”
“I’ll need some bloody Dramamine for the ride, sir,” Sergeant Major Barney said.
“Scopalamine patch,” Steve said. “Takes about twenty minutes to kick in and it works better.”
“You’re still going to puke your guts up,” Schmidt growled. “If the Limey’s up for it, how can I say no?”
“By saying no,” Steve said.
“I’m Irish, Chief Petty Officer,” Barney said. “So that would be Mick, Yank.”
“I’m in,” Schmidt growled. “Reporting for duty, sir.”
“Sergeant Major, we have no contact with the British Government,” Steve said. “I therefore cannot reactivate your enlistment nor, as a British Citizen, make you a sergeant major, or Chief, in the US forces. You are therefore a civilian given control over US military personnel due to exigencies of service. There are precedents. I’ll ensure that Lieutenant Chen knows to have you referred to by your former rank. The rank and file won’t have a fucking clue about the difference.”
“Understood, sir,” the Sergeant Major said.
“Chief Petty Officer Schmidt,” Steve said. “With the concurrence of the Acting CNO and the National Constitutional Continuity Coordinator, you are hereby reinducted into the United States Navy with no loss in rank for the duration of hostilities.” Steve slid a piece of paper over. “Sign at the bottom.”
“Married forty-three years, four months, nineteen days, sir,” Chief Schmidt said, pulling out a pen. “Twenty-three of those were in the Navy. Dorene was a great Navy spouse but she never liked it. She said she’d strangle me if I ever joined the Navy again. I guess it’s a good thing I had to do it to her when she turned, sir.”
