by John Ringo
“I would if we had any,” Baker said, shrugging. “The only chief we’ve found was a retired guy on one of the liners. And they sent him off to the small boat squadrons down the coast. I’m going to go brace the Gunny, I think. I sort of knew him on the Iwo. I knew him, don’t think he knew me. I’ll ask him if he could free up a couple of Marines. It’s fucking dark in there and there are zombies. I’m not going to take a fucking Beretta in there hoping for the best. I’m not.”
“If I didn’t have some sort of class coming up, I’d offer to cover you,” Walker said. “I can use a Beretta. Prefer a 1911 but I can use a Beretta.”
“If you’re available and I can’t find Marines, I might just take you up on that,” the kid said. “There’s a liquor storage compartment that’s barely been touched from what I hear. If we’re taking in a pallet to get out a pump, we might as well fill it, right?”
“As long as we get the pump,” Walker said, as the zodiac reached the floating dock on the liner.
“What was that name again?” the kid asked.
“Walker,” Thomas said. “But I’m going to be taking the nautical class so I don’t know how much time I’ll have.”
“Zero,” the driver said. “Bloody zero. Runs from early morning to late at night.”
“Shit,” the kid said. “I guess I’ll need to find some Marines, then.”
* * *
The cabin wasn’t bad but it was interior. And while he wasn’t claustrophobic, Thomas was about tired of four walls. He used the delicious luxury of a flush toilet, with toilet paper, took another shower then took a walk.
There was a dining area that served from morning to midnight according to the posted schedule. He decided to check out the food. A middle aged guy swiped his card and looked at the readout.
“You can eat as much as you’d like,” the guy said, handing him two printed tickets. “But eat everything you take. The tickets are for the bar if you want some booze.”
The food was bland and clearly canned. Some of it had the look of being from Navy rations. The only thing fresh was baked mackerel. And there was a lot of it.
“Where’s the fish come from?” he asked the server.
“Some of the boats just brought it in,” the girl said. She was English, southern England. “It appears that submarines can stun fish with their sonar. They stun them and the boats pick them up.”
“They’re going active to go fishing?” Thomas said, his normally bland expression flickering.
“They’re out of food, too,” a woman said, tartly. She was American and apparently in charge of the chow line. “The subs are. They mostly do it to feed their crews. We get what’s left over.”
“Okay,” Walker said. “That makes a little more sense.”
He took some of the mackerel and looked for a table by the windows. They were mostly occupied but most of the people were probably European and thus wouldn’t mind sharing. One person, one table was an American thing.
There was a self-serve soft drinks stand, Pepsi products, and a bar with wine and beer. He decided he could really do with a beer.
“You look like you’re fresh off the boat,” the bartender said, looking around then waving away the ticket. “Hang onto it. You can use it later.”
“Thanks,” Walker said. “I am. And I signed up for the nautical course.”
“Good luck, mate,” the man said, drawing a beer. “I tried that and quit on day two. Bloody ball buster that is. You’re not cleaning first?”
“I studied for the master mariner’s test one time,” Walker said. “And I remembered enough of it they put me in the class right away.”
“I’ll just sit here and pour, then,” the man said, pouring himself a beer. “Leave it to you.”
Walker went to one of tables by the window with an open seat and gestured to it with his tray.
“May I?”
“Please,” one of the men said, waving to it. “I suppose you’re another enjoying a last evening of freedom?”
“Yes,” Walker said. “Taking the nautical course tomorrow.”
“We’ll be together then,” one of the men said. “Robert O’Toole. No relation to the actor.”
“Tom Walker,” Thomas said.
“I am celebrating my first night of not cleaning up zombie crap,” O’Toole said, taking a sip of his beer. “The people who do that full time have my respect. I don’t care if we’re using rubber gloves, masks and suits. There are things a man should not have to see. I don’t remember seeing you, Tom was it? Were you on one of the other boats?”
“I just got off the Nordic Venture,” Walker said. “As in a few hours ago. Signed in, went to HR and volunteered. When I took the mariner’s test they sent me over to take the course right away. I studied for the master mariner’s ticket one time and I remembered some of it. That excited them. So, no, no cleaning up zombie crap for me. I offered to, but they wanted me to go straight to the course.”
“Lucky bloody you,” the first man said. “Rick Ewald. I’m starting on cleaning zombie poo tomorrow morning. Apparently all that a man with a bachelors in business is good for.”
“They’ve got lots of positions that need managers,” O’Toole said. “And it’s not nearly as bad as being in a compartment.”
“I understand the nautical course is a ballbuster,” Walker said.
“You’ve been talking to Timothy,” the third man said. “He’s a bit of an idiot but he draws a good beer. Steven Schaper, at your service, Mister… Walker?”
“Yes,” Tom said. “At yours, sir.”
“Tim is cut out for a life of working as a clerk,” O’Toole said. “But he’s a hard worker. He cleans in the day and draws at night. You get points for both, you see.”
“Points?” Walker said. “Fresh off the boat.”
“Chits, points,” Ewald said, gesturing to the drink tickets. “You get points you can trade for drinks or better clothes or food. Even accommodations. They’ve become the de facto currency. There’s even a bit of an exchange.”
“Bit different with the boat crews,” O’Toole said. “One of the reasons to join. Take, oh, clothes as Rick pointed out. You’re salvaging boats at sea as well as doing rescue. If there’s something your size, you can grab it. And from what I hear, the boats always have the good liquor. If they have time they’ll strip a boat bare then bring the stuff back here. What they don’t want, goes to the stores. People who handle the stores tend to get next pick. The ladies who wash the clothes that are brought in pick out anything they’d like to keep. Then if your job doesn’t involve either of those, well, you can trade chits. There’s a bit of a market place down in the Atrium. Prices fluctuate depending on what’s come in but it’s all quite legitimate. The Commodore encourages it from what I’ve gleaned.”
“Otherwise it’s functionally a communism,” Ewald said, shrugging. “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.”
“Or a bit like the military,” Schaper said. “You get rations cards for different ration levels, better or worse accommodations depending on your rank as it were.”
“I suspect there’s a good bit of graft,” Walker said.
“Figuring out the difference between graft and efficiency in an economy like this is difficult,” a voice said from behind him.
Walker knew there was someone behind him but was trying not to actively notice.
“Commodore,” O’Toole said, starting to get up.
“Oh, please,” the Commodore said, waving. “You’re not Navy and I’m not the bloody Queen. Captain John Smith, United States Navy, sir. These gentlemen I’d met but I don’t recognize you.”
“Thomas Walker,” Walker lied. But he shook the Captain’s hand.
“You’re fresh out of a compartment, Mister Walker,” Smith said, tilting his head. “But you’ve got a yellow card. Graft?”
“I volunteered for the nautical course, sir,” Walker said.
“Right off the boat?” Smith asked.
“Good for you,” Smith said. “I most sincerely thank you. Lord God do we need every helping hand we can get.”
“You’re welcome,” Walker said. “But could you explain your comment on graft?”
“The term is broad,” Smith said, pulling up a chair. “For example, we recently busted one of the quarters people for accepting sexual bribes for better quarters. That is a non-valuable form of graft. On the other hand, when the market in points and chits started, some of my officers wanted to shut it down. I told them no and made it official. We’re even looking at setting up something like and SEC to monitor it.”
“I volunteer, sir,” Ewald said. “I worked the Exchange in London.”
“Name?” Smith asked, pulling out a green notebook.
“Ewald, sir. Richard Ewald.”
“I’ll put you on the possible list,” Smith said, closing the notebook. “It won’t be a high points job but it’s a desk job. Getting back to graft. There’s a very underground market in things like parts. Any military tends to have that but especially ones that don’t, as we do not, have a standard and steady logistics stream. My masters was on the Defense of Malta and specifically keeping their planes running. The reason I named my younger daughter Faith. Their real supply line was almost entirely what you would refer to as graft. Trading what they officially got, or stole, for what they needed. The main comparison was the British Army in Crete. They had a similarly poor supply line but much tighter control on their resources due to a very professional commander and an active inspector general. The fact that they could not, in fact, keep anything running was not the only reason they lost, by a long shot, but it was part of it. And when the commander in Malta changed to one who put his foot down on ‘black marketeering,’ it became nearly impossible for the crews to keep their planes running.”
“The engine room on this has an oil pump that’s iffy,” Thomas said. “Not out, but iffy. There’s one that they want off the Festival. Are you saying that they should, what, steal one? I’m interested, not arguing.”
“That’s worth looking into,” Smith said, making another note. “We need this thing to make the crossing. And I doubt there’s one to steal exactly. But if I were they… I’m sure that they have various items they could trade. They can requisition materials that is in short supply and thus valuable. All they really need to do is pass around that they need it. There are ‘unofficial’ salvage people who would get it for them. Most of them have day jobs which give them access to the liners and salvage bits that people want or that they think they can trade.
“Alternatively, we’d have to send in an official salvage crew, backed by Marines, who would otherwise be finding people like yourself, Mister Walker, or our few capable Navy security people. Frankly, an ‘unofficial’ salvage and some back scratching is the more efficient route. Do you begin to grasp the concept? I’m not saying you’re not intelligent… ”
“No, I get it,” Thomas said. “I don’t even disagree. I’m just surprised to hear a Navy captain supporting back channeling.”
“I was a history teacher before this,” Smith said. “And an Aussie para. I doubt that most Navy captains would support it. But I am unusual. And we cut down on it when someone is clearly causing issues. But… Mister Ewald, is it?”
“Yes,” Rick said.
“You understand markets,” Smith said. “There is a person who has various exchangeable goods or services who needs something fulfilled that he cannot fulfill easily. How would you handle it?”
“Find someone who could fulfill it and broker the deal,” Ewald said. “But I’m going to be cleaning compartments tomorrow. And I don’t know anyone who can fulfill it. I’m not even sure what they’re looking for.”
“Find the Chief Engineer,” O’Toole said. “Ask him what, exactly, he needs. Then find some of these ‘unofficial’ salvagers and broker the deal.”
“I suspect by now that that particular deal has come and gone,” Steve said. “If Mister Walker, fresh off the boat, knows about it, the word has gone around. That is one thing that is currently traded and has always been a currency; information. But it is, more or less, the future of the free market. Salvage is what we are going to be doing from now until we die. There’s little that is worth manufacturing given all the potential salvage. Only disposable commodities are going to be produced in the foreseeable future and many of those are going to be a glut.
“As long as no one strips a critical ship or depot, it’s all good. And we’re never going to put any of these liners back in service. But that is why I don’t want to cut down on ‘graft’ Mister Walker. It’s a more efficient method of supply. As long as it does not impact the official supply line. If someone pulls the pump then holds it to ransom… Well, I have Marines,” he added with a grin.
“Understood,” Walker said. “As I said, I even agree. It makes sense. If I had the time, I’d go get it myself. And charge the Chief Engineer through the nose.”
“For which he’d put in a requisition through the official supply line,” Smith said. “For things that we’re holding that cannot be easily obtained. For example, I make sure we have a lock on the really soft toilet tissue. Currently three rolls of Charmin are trading for one bottle of ten-year-old scotch. And that’s all the time I have, gentlemen. I, alas, have to go meet with some gentlemen who are less enthused by the process. Enjoy your evening.”
* * *
“Thousands of Europeans are working in this Squadron and you are doing nothing for Europe!”
Ariel Arsène Laurent was two things for which Steve did not care: French and a solicitor. He was also the head of the Le Comité Européen pour la Liberté. Which he had managed to get given a French name. Despite the fact that there were less than twenty people of French extraction in the Squadron.
“I was just meeting with some of them in less contentious circumstances,” Steve said, calmly, holding up two fingers in a V. “However, two facts, Monsieur Laurent. The first is that there are not thousands of Europeans in this Squadron. The total manning of the Squadron is currently two thousand three hundred and eight-six. Of those, eight hundred and change are from countries which could be defined as European, with the exception of Russian extraction. That is less than one thousand, much less ‘thousands.’ Hundred, yes.”
“Hundreds, then,” Laurent said, waving his hands in the air. “The fact remains…!”
“The fact remains that I said two facts,” Steve said. “Two. The second fact is that the Canary Islands are part of Spain which is part of Europe. So you were, in fact, wrong in both particulars.”
“The Canary Islands are not Europe!” Laurent snapped.
“The majority of the inhabitants we recovered are European in extraction and Spanish citizens,” Steve said. “I have done something for Spain which is a member of the EU, or was when there was a Spain or an EU, and therefore I have done something for Europe. Besides find and secure their distressed citizens, such as yourself. Monsieur. But, pray, do continue.”
“ ‘The fact remains that not a single town or village has been freed in Europe!” Laurent shouted. “When will you begin the liberation? Is the United States to be fully freed before you even begin to consider the people suffering under the scourge of this disease which started in America?!”
“Avec ce, Monsieur?” Steve said. “With what?”
“You have Marines,” Laurent said. “You have the gunboats. You have cleared towns in the Canary Islands. But you have not touched Europe! Are you afraid?”
“Terrified,” Steve said. “But, you can feel free, Monsieur.”
“What?” Laurent said.
“I will give you a Division,” Steve said, shrugging. “Two gun boats. One yacht. I started with far less. When you need more ammunition, well, we’ll keep in touch. Come and get it. Would you like it this evening? I do have many other things I could be doing.”
“I do not know how to run any of those t
hings,” Laurent said.
“And this is my fault, how?” Steve asked. “But, seriously, I would be more than willing to give you a boat. Sail up to La Belle France. Free towns. Free villages. Go right ahead.”
“There is more than France to free,” David Murphy said. The Irishman more or less represented the British Isles bloc in the Squadron’s civilian population.
Not quite behind Steve’s back a democratic movement had started. It made sense except for the fact that they were still a. at sea and b. not exactly out of the woods, yet. He liked democracy except when it looked to derail any forward momentum the Squadron might have achieved.
Times like this he wished he had an Eisenhower around. Just being able to speak more than English and Spanish would help.
“Oh, most agreed, Mister Murphy,” Steve said. “Totally agreed. If you’re asking me what I would notionally do to free Europe, it would be to take it in stages, starting from Ireland.”
“That is absurd!” Laurent said. “Clearing Ireland, alone, would take… ”
“About a year the way I hope to eventually do it,” Steve said. “Possibly less. Msr. Laurent, you don’t care for me and the feeling is mutual. But if I thought you would actually take such a offer, I’m not sure I would give it to you.”
“So first you offer, then you take it away?” Laurent said. “This is so American!”
“Msr., you failed to note my statement that I would be terrified to attempt any action in Europe at the moment,” Steve said. “And although you are quick to argue for some sort of Europe First campaign, you might want to consider why moving to Europe, versus the Caribbean, during this time of the year is the lesser choice.”
“Weather,” Murphy said.
“The weather,” Steve replied. “We are barely able to manage the Squadron’s boats in nearly ideal conditions, Msr. Would you have us take the whole force into the North Atlantic? In December?”
“People are dying,” Laurent said. “People are wondering about their loved ones… ”
“There is a map of the world, Msr.,” Steve said, pointing to the wall. “Please show me the spot where people are not. As to numbers of people from where, were it based entirely on population, we should up stakes and head for Indonesia and the Philippines. Or the United States. The States are closer. So. We go to the States.”
