Strands of Sorrow (eARC)

by John Ringo

  All three occasionally had discussed the formation of “Wolf Squadron” and notable actions. When the group in the store discussed the radio reports, which was most of the time, there being not much else to discuss, they’d all agreed that shit like clearing the Voyage Under Stars had to be double tough. And that the fuckers who ran Wolf Squadron were some serious dudes. Or chicks in the case of the daughters of LantFleet, Shewolf and Seawolf. They never used the actual names of the people, just their handles.

  Assuming it wasn’t all made up. Paranoia was a recognized survival trait in the group. Nobody was taking the reports at face value.

  There’d been talk about plans for Jax. The group getting the Station up might be Wolf Squadron or might be pirates. Or it might be the plague was the work of space aliens and they were taking over now. There were books like that… Could be…

  There were two more booms, a series of hammers from Ma Deuce and…the tracks started moving again.

  “Nick,” the gunny said. “Wake up Sheila if she ain’t woke up from that, then go to shelf Two-Six-Four. Section Three. Chemlights. Box Seven. Bring three. Box Seven mind you. And two of the up FLIRS.”

  “Aye, aye, Gunny,” Nick said, heading below.

  Nick was back before the first amtrack came around the bend. They were moving slow.

  When the gunny put on the forward-looking infrared night vision goggles, it was clear the tracks were using light. Just not visible light. They had IR headlights on full and even an IR spotlight set up on the track. And they were moving very slow. Not much more than a marching pace.

  The gunny cracked one of the chemlights and tossed it into the street. It began to glow immediately.

  Then he pushed the call button on his radio.

  “Approaching Marine unit,” he growled. “You up on sixteen, over?”

  “Up on sixteen. That your IR chemlight, over?”

  “Roger,” the gunny said. He was having to talk louder and louder over the music. They must have hooked up psy-ops horns.

  “Are you prepared to exit, over?”

  “Will be in ten,” the gunny said. “This is a Marine unit, right?”

  “First Platoon, Alpha Company, USMC,” the man replied. “Task Force Kodiak, Wolf Squadron. Being the only platoon, USMC. So far. We got less people than joined at Tun Tavern. Over.”

  “Fast, what’s the last stanza of the Marine Corps Hymn?” the gunny asked.

  “If the Army and the Navy ever look on Heaven’s scene, they will find the streets are guarded by United States Marines.”

  “Roger. Will be up and ready to egress from the roof in five,” the gunny said. “We will be bringing weapons, over.”

  “You got to turn them in when you get to the ship,” the Marine replied. “Got an arm’s room. But you’re welcome to weapon up for the ride. If your people know what they’re doing, they can even pot infected. If they can do it in the dark, of course. Over.”

  There were zombies trotting down the street, attracted by the noise. They ran right past the IR chemlight he’d thrown. They’d normally gather round any light source which was why he’d thrown the IR. The approaching amtrack took them under fire with the turret Ma Deuce. Now the street was littered with bodies.

  They’d never shot any zombies from the roof. First of all, one shot and they descended in hordes from the noise and to feed. Second, he wasn’t going to have the place surrounded by rotting bodies.

  “Nick, get everybody up and ready to egress,” the gunny said, frowning.

  “Aye, aye.” Nick ran below again.

  The gunny was torn, though. He knew he had to egress. That was what made sense. But God damnit, that meant leaving all his shit behind unguarded. And if they were clearing off the fucking zombies, first place looters were going to hit was his store.

  Getting the civilians out, though, was a priority. Especially the ladies who hadn’t popped, yet. They’d managed the two deliveries they’d had, so far, pretty well he thought. But getting them some medical attention was a priority.

  So he started making a hole in the concertina…

  * * *

  The amtracks dispersed when they reached the chemlight, three going forward and taking up positions, firing their turret guns at approaching infected. The trail two spread out leaving a gap in the middle. They weren’t firing because there was a tank in the way.

  Even without the FLIR, you could see the mass of zombies following the Marines under the light moon. Thousands of them. Some of them were almost up to the tank and some on the sides were trying to climb on. It seemed like the wave would be unstoppable.

  Then the tank with the psy-ops bullhorns pulled into the gap. It was driving forward but the gun was pointed to the rear. And there was something weird about the color. It looked gray under the moonlight and had some weird camo along the base. Looked almost like flames or some shit. But you could see the Globe and Anchor in various spots. It looked like they weren’t even subdued. On the side of the turret was written “Trixie” which was just…wrong. There were serious regulations against naming vehicles like that.

  The horns were blaring some God-damned modern shit about “Fury” and “Darkest hour” so loud you could hardly think. Everybody on the roof had their hands on their ears or hearing protection on. You could still hear it clear. They hadn’t had to wake everybody up. The noise would wake the dead. It was a good thing they did have something over their ears, because about the time it stopped, the main gun fired.

  Canister. Mother fucker. They had 1028.

  Three shots by the main gun and some coax and cupola and…there weren’t any more moving zombies.

  The music cut out and switched to the Marine Corps Hymn at a much lower volume.

  “Y’all ready to get out of there?” a female voice asked over the radio. The tank TC took off her helmet and shook out her hair. “Or you want to just stay? Seems like a nice position. If you’re coming out, bring all your fucking guns. Shit is hot out here. Hey, you got any Altec in woman’s size twelve…?”

  * * *

  “Of all the motherfuckers to survive…” Gunny Sands muttered as the unit rolled ashore. He’d already been informed by radio that Robinson had survived. He’d say he’d wondered where the bastard had gotten to but that would mean he hadn’t tried to purge the memory of Master Gunnery Sergeant “Where’s your authorization requirement form for a pencil, Sergeant? What do you mean you need a pencil to fill it out…?” Robinson.

  “Sands,” Robinson said bitterly, as soon as he was out of the amtrack. “Of all the motherfuckers to survive…”

  “I was thinking the same thing, Jimmy,” Gunny Sands said, smiling. He knew that Robinson hated to be called “Jimmy” and he was taking the opportunity while he had it.

  “Who the fuck authorized personalization of a military vehicle?” the master gunnery sergeant fumed. “And fucking pink? A Marine Corps vehicle painted pink? That’s what we’ve gotten to? First God-damned DADT and now we’ve got PINK VEHICLES?”

  “Guns you need to lock it the fuck up,” Sands said. “You’re not in the Old Corps. I know you’d just casually flip off second lieutenants by not saluting ’cause you’re a fucking prick that way. But if you fail to salute Lieutenant Smith, I and every remaining surviving Marine will fucking kick your fat ass. Even if, and I say if, they activate you at rank. And if we don’t, Master Guns, the LT will. This is the new/old Corps, Guns. If the LT fucking offs you, Master Guns, for failure to provide her and her beautiful pimped out tank proper and due respect, not one motherfucker from the lowliest wing-wiper to the NCCC will so much as bat an eye.”

  “Okay,” Faith said, walking over to the two glowering NCOs. “I take it you two know each other?”

  “Master Gunnery Sergeant James Robinson, retired,” Sands said, his arms crossed, “Second Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith. Master Guns Robinson, Shewolf.”

  “Wait,” Robinson said, knife-handing at Faith. “You’re Shewolf?”

  “Got a problem w
ith that, Master Guns?” Faith asked, her arms crossed. The refugees had gathered around the confrontation by that time.

  “You’re Shewolf?” one of the women said. She was holding a newborn.

  “Last time I checked,” Faith said, unfolding, then smiling and cooing at the baby. “She’s beautiful. She, right?”

  “Yeah,” the woman said, beaming. “I can’t believe… We heard about you on Devil Dog.”

  “Word gets around,” Faith said, grinning. “The reality’s not really up to the reputation.”

  “Not from what I saw,” the woman said.

  “Can I hold her?” Faith said diffidently.

  “I’d love that,” the woman said.

  “I love your tank!” one of the kids said. “It’s totally pimped! Can I get a ride?”

  “No,” Faith said, taking the baby carefully and cradling her. “’Cause she’s armed up. When you get a little older, maybe we can get you one of your own. Hey, baby, welcome to the world…”

  “Can I get a picture with you?” the woman asked.

  “Master Guns,” Sands said. “You want to get your people checked in? And what the f— heck is this, some sort of fag— qu— convention?” Sands bellowed at the gathering Marines. “If you can’t find something to do I will find something for you to do!”

  “Could I get one with you in front of Trixie?”

  “Better make it quick,” Faith said, holding the baby and smiling at the camera.

  “Sands,” Robinson said.

  “Guns?”

  “Can I just get a ride back to my God-damned store,” Robinson said, shaking his head as the flashbulbs popped in the dawn light. They really brought out the flames on Trixie’s sides. “I’m not sure I’m ready for your new/old Corps.”

  “Gotta see the colonel about that one, Master Gunnery Sergeant.”

  “And it looks like rain,” Robinson grumped. “Figures.”

  * * *

  “Got on board a westbound seven forty-seven…” Walker half hummed as he watched the track.

  The problem with cruise missiles is range. At least when you’re a couple of miles from the target. They’re not really designed to hit something in view of the launcher. In fact you can’t really hit something closer than about twenty miles away. The choice was to either take the Michigan well out to sea and fire from there or fire from in close where the crew could watch the arrival.

  In close just made more sense. Which was why the mixture of twenty BGM-109D and another twenty BGM-109E cruise missiles had been fired more or less at Miramar airfield with programming to turn around, come back and impact on Silver Strand. There had been talk of having them go take a look around Vegas, maybe do a drive-by on a couple of casinos and strip clubs, but that had just been crazy talk.

  ///big splosions here///

  CHAPTER 15

  “Commander Daniel J. Wojcik, reporting aboard with a crew of sixty, sir,” the commander said, saluting.

  “Welcome aboard, Commander,” Hamilton said. “Glad you’re here.”

  The “crew of sixty” was unloading from the USS Florida, another OMFG class.

  One important aspect of the OMFG class, post-Plague, was that it had additional berthing and thus could be used for moving personnel around. Two OMFGs had carried the core of PacFleet to the Pacific and now the Florida had brought the Base Operations group up from Gitmo to take over running Mayport.

  Some of the arrivals had clearly not enjoyed the experience of speedy travel in the ocean’s depths. A few were being carried out on stretchers.

  But the base operations force was here. Just in time, too.

  “We’ve got two days to do hand-off,” Hamilton said. “Then payday activities for my crews, day and half off and we roll north. Official turn-over and stand-up of Mayport will be a ceremony involving turning on the exterior lights. We’ve refrained both there and on Blount until we had the infected in the zone reduced. Our electrician’s mates say that we’re ready and the security situation is getting to the point it’s doable. We’ve got two of the barracks being cleaned and prepped for more arrivals and we’ve informed the refugees that they’re going to be moving from the Bo and temporary space on Blount over to the Station. As usual, they’re handling most of the cleaning. The main issue unresolved is the damaged POL point which is on your plate. Questions?”

  “No, sir,” Wojcik said. “We’ve got plans in place to begin rebuilding of the POL point. The Eric Shivak is a day behind us with POL resupply and we should be good until we can get it up and going. Two days should be about right.”

  “Then as fast as your people can get recovered from their voyage, they need to link up and start turn-over,” Hamilton said.

  “We’re ready when your people are, sir,” Wojcik said. “Well…most of them are. The rest it’s going to take a few hours for the tranquilizers to wear off. Some people, sir, are ill-suited to the sub service…”

  * * *

  “King’s Bay, Georgia,” Colonel Hamilton said, pointing to the overhead.

  Hand-over was complete. They were waiting for that evening to turn the lights on at both bases. The last ground sweep had been completed and now it was time to talk about the next mission.

  “Home of every boomer in the Atlantic,” the colonel continued. “And quite a few of the fast attacks. Which in strategic terms means… Gunny?”

  “Big stash of special weapons, sir,” Gunnery Sergeant Sands said.

  “Master Guns” had found his niche. He’d remained “retired” and had settled into an office on Blount Island like he was born there. They were never going to be able to get another round out of the place. They’d have to scrounge for pens and pencils for the rest of the war.

  “Special weapons storage facility is here,” Hamilton said, pointing to the magazines. “No infected have been detected inside the facility. Indications are the roving guards all succumbed, were eaten or died of starvation and thirst, unable to break out. Lots of infected on the outside, fortunately. I say ‘fortunately’ because there are other groups starting to move around. And whatever your beliefs in the Second Amendment, nuclear weapons are not something we want getting loose.”

  “Oh, God, no,” Faith said. “And I say that as a born, bred and trained gun-hugger, sir.”

  “So the first and overriding priority is to secure the special weapons,” Hamilton said. “The second priority is destruction of all heavy weaponry in the other magazines with the exception of some that we will extract for later use. By direction, LantFleet, with concurrence JCS and NCCC, small arms magazines will be left intact except for what we extract for our own use.”

  “LantFleet wants any survivors to have access, sir?” Gunnery Sergeant Sands asked.

  “That is the Atlantic Fleet Commander’s Intent,” Hamilton said. “When I asked the same question, not particularly surprised, he pointed out that they would most likely be accessed by American tax-payers who had paid for it in the first place and have an obvious need. On a purely legal basis, it’s the Federal Government arming the militia. On the other hand, the militia does not necessarily need to be playing around with W-88s, Tomahawks and ADCAPs.”

  “Sir?” Faith said.

  “Nukes, cruise missiles and torpedoes, ma’am,” Gunny Sands said.

  “Thank you,” Faith said.

  Hamilton paused for a moment and looked around the room.

  “The submariners are, obviously, critical to all ongoing operations. And they, like many of the rest of us, are wondering and worrying about whether their dependents survived. In addition, the boomers had a dual crew system so half the crews were ashore when the Plague broke out.

  “Most recent satellite sweep has detected multiple survivor groups. Looks like every building that had stash has survivors. A couple of homes have been spotted as having probable survivors. Therefore, due to both morale and personnel value issues, over and above any other base, including Marine bases, Marines will perform intensive search and rescue sweeps of the b
ase housing areas as well as nearby town areas. To give you an impression of what I mean by ‘intense,’ we have allotted seven days of SAR and clearance of an area that is a fraction of the size of Jax. By contrast, I’ve been reliably informed, we’ll have only two days on Lejeune.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Gunny Sands said bitterly.

  “Are we taking Trixie, sir?” Faith asked.

  “On reflection, yes,” Hamilton said. “It was discussed and we came to the conclusion the value was obvious.”

  “Then there are two ways of looking at this, Gunny,” Faith said. “One way is Da doesn’t care about the Marines so he’s leaving them and their dependents to die. Care to think about that for a second, Gunny?”

  “I know your father cares about the Corps, ma’am…” Gunny Sands said.

  “The other way to think about it is this:” Faith said. “With submariners, you’re obviously going to have to drive up to their house. They like to hide. They’re shy. And they scare easy. We’ll probably have to coax them out with treats. We’ll need to lay in some pogie bait. Drive Trixie around the Lejeune area for two days straight, drop some caches behind as we go and the Marines will rise up in an unstoppable tide, Gunny. We ain’t takin’ two weeks on Lejeune ’cause Da figures we ain’t gotta. Just leave ’em a note the assembly area is Jax. Marines’ll canoe down.”

  “That is a point, ma’am,” Gunny Sands said.