Strands of Sorrow (eARC)

by John Ringo

  “And my first op-order on Lejeune, Gunny,” Faith said, “I’ve already written the opening line: ‘We’re rollin’ hot to the gunny’s for some cold-beer.’ Oorah?”

  “Oorah, ma’am,” the gunnery sergeant said. “Semper Fi. Power’s been out. Beer might not be cold. And knowing my wife, probably ain’t but the one can left.”

  “Well, then, Gunny,” Faith said. “That can will be waiting for you. Discussion closed. Sir?”

  “We are taking one Seahawk,” Hamilton said. “We’ve reconfigured so it can operate solely off of the Boadicea. No more perching like a…Seahawk on its nest.”

  “Hoowah or oorah or whatever you’re supposed to say in the Navy,” Sophia said. “On behalf of the mechanics who had to work on the bird up there, thank you, sir.”

  “I think it’s hooyah or ooyah or something,” Captain Wilkes said.

  “I think that’s just SEALs, sir,” Gunny Sands said.

  “And on the subject of Navy,” Hamilton said, cutting off the discussion. “Captain Wilkes?”

  “Sir?” Wilkes said cautiously.

  “Congratulations are in order,” Hamilton said. “And possibly condolences. You just made Lieutenant Commander.”

  “Agh,” Wilkes said, clutching his chest. “What’s that psychological term, Colonel?”

  “Conflicted?” Hamilton said.

  “That’s the one, sir,” Wilkes said. “I thought that might be coming, but…”

  “Marines are, for the time being, pure amphibious and boarding combat arms,” Hamilton said. “The current split, and I’m told it may change back and may not, is Navy handles all support including all aviation. Which means our mechanics will be Navy, our cooks will be Navy, our clerks will be Navy, our armorers will be Navy and most notably our pilots will be Navy. For the immediate future, if you were pre-Plague Marine, you are driving something with a primary gun system, holding a weapon or commanding same. Period. In the event that we recover aviators from Cherry Point or New River… They just became either Navy flyers, if rotary, carrying a rifle, commanding a company of armor, et cetera, if fixed. Possibly aviators if we have more fixed wing needs or possibly cross-trained to rotary. In which case they’ll also be transferring services.”

  “Pretty much how it went when the Marines first started out, sir,” Gunny Sands said. “I’m not even sure when we started having things like our own cooks and mechanics, sir.”

  “When we started having expeditionary forces, Gunny,” Hamilton said. “It was Nicaragua and the World Wars which forced us to change and grow into an independent service. Which was the point that Captain Smith made. We’re not currently mounting those nor does he intend to do so in any conceivable time-frame. All ‘inland’ operations will be Army when it is reactivated. Marines are hereby entirely littoral and thus can draw upon the Navy for support personnel. We’re not even bivouacking ashore in case you haven’t noticed. When we have enough Marines for a company, we’ll probably have a Marine company clerk. Unit armorer will probably be Navy. Anyway, congratulations on your promotion, Lieutenant Commander. Well deserved. And once a Marine, always a Marine.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wilkes said.

  “One aspect of this general ‘support’ subject that has always held true is the assignment of corpsmen to the Marines from the Navy,” Hamilton said. “We’re hoping that the same rubbed off esprit de corps that corpsmen have will work for the rest of the rates. However, again as people may have noticed, we have yet to have a corpsman actually assigned to the ground unit. That is because they are all assigned to other duties, notably the baby-boom we’re currently experiencing. I discussed this with higher and we have been assigned a corpsman.”

  “Hallelujah,” Faith said. “About damned time.”

  “Volunteers were solicited and several of the former sub corpsmen have volunteered,” Hamilton said. “Gunnery Sergeant Sands, I’m putting you in charge of selection. I’d recommend running them through a PT and marching test, then interview. Anything else they’ll have to pick up OJT. Oh, and a range qualification. Zombies really have no regard for the Geneva Convention and thus the corpsmen will be armed. It’s a pity, but that’s life.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gunny Sands said. “When?”

  “Tomorrow,” Hamilton said. “We’re on short time.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sands said.

  “And that is the outline,” Hamilton said. “Now to wrestle the devil…”

  * * *

  “Moment of your time, sir?” Faith said as the meeting broke up.

  “Of course, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said, gesturing with his chin.

  The gunny took the hint and left. Officer talk.

  “It’s not a big deal, sir,” Faith said. “It’s about Trixie, sir.”

  “Tiring of your toy, Lieutenant?” Hamilton said wryly.

  “Not a bit, sir,” Faith said, grinning. “And I love every bit of it. I think, given that there’s no threat from enemies with anti-tank systems that we’re fighting, pink is an awesome color and it was, absolutely, the best birthday present ever, sir.”

  “That being said?” Hamilton said curiously.

  “She needs to be a regular color, sir,” Faith said. “Some people were great with it but it causes a lot of consternation, sir. When it was just the greatest birthday present, ever, and, yes, a toy, sir, that was one thing. But we’re using it as a vehicle of war, sir. I don’t go fighting zombies in a mini-skirt, sir. Trixie needs to be in uniform if she’s going to war, sir.”

  “Concur, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “We’ll have to do the paint-job on the float. And we’re not going to be floating long. Get with the gunny and Staff Sergeant Decker on the particulars.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said, then grinned. “She’s going to miss the paint-job, sir. But Trixie’s really excited about going to war, sir.”

  “Glad to hear that, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said delicately, then sat down. “However, I have to ask… Did Trixie tell you that, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir,” Faith said, shaking her head and grinning. “I know that you’re a great psychologist. And crawling into the head of an Islamic terrorist was probably worse than crawling through rotting bodies in the bowels of the Voyage, sir. But I can guaran-damn-tee you, the one head you don’t want to troll through is mine, sir.”

  * * *

  “Who decided a swamp was a good place for a Navy base?” Faith asked.

  King’s Bay was, unquestionably, a swamp. It was surrounded by swamp. It looked like a swamp. And it was slowly turning back into swamp.

  The waterside portions of the base were nothing much to look at. There were a few “covered” submarine pens, more or less hangars built on the water. They were already falling apart due to lack of maintenance.

  The one thing going for the base was it didn’t look like much had burned. And several of the buildings had survivors on them, checking out the flotilla.

  The civilian ships had been led in by the Alexandria, so the people on the base could have some reasonable expectation that the people in uniform on civilian ships were, in fact, Navy and not pirates come to steal their lucky charms. Or nuclear weapons as the case might be. The Alex had previously taken a run up to the base to check out the channel—it was clear enough for the Grace, and signal to the survivors that, yes, there was help coming. They’d also gotten a list of known survivors. For good or ill, the base commander, a vice admiral who also commanded most of the boats in the Atlantic, had succumbed to H7D3.

  Ill because any loss was a tragedy. Good because the one thing they didn’t need any time soon was a split in the chain of command. The first Admiral or General they ran across was probably going to throw a shit fit about “Captain Wolf.” Undersecretary Galloway was the NCCC and that was a trump card. Didn’t mean someone who had the “advise and consent of the Senate” in their appointment to stars was going to just salute and say “Yes, sir” to a jumped up civilian “playing” at being LantFleet. General Montana had been an aberr
ation in that regard as in every other human trait.

  “I’m wondering who’s going to file the environmental impact statement,” Sophia said, pointing to the docks.

  The Nebraska had been alongside when the Plague hit. It had suffered some sort of catastrophic malady, listed hard over and basically sunk. Barely ten percent of it was above water level.

  “Just what we need,” Faith said. “Two headed alligators.”

  “Ensign Smith to the ready room…”

  “Here we go again,” Sophia said.

  “Try to keep it in the air, Sis,” Faith said.

  “I’d say ‘stay out of trouble’ but there’s no real point, is there?”

  “Lieutenant Smith to the armory. Lieutenant Smith to the armory…”

  “Probably not,” Faith said, grinning.

  * * *

  “Think we got enough guns this time, sir?” Sophia asked as she spun the barrels on the minigun mounted on the weapons sponsons. It was part of her pre-flight, after all.

  Besides the dual miniguns mounted on each sponson, each of the two door gunners had the same system for a total of six of the insanely powerful weapons. And at the insistence of the various personnel involved, the ammo supplies for all guns were five times those normally lofted by helos. The bird was basically a flying ammo dump of 7.62 NATO.

  “Aren’t you the one that insists there’s no such thing as overkill?” Wilkes asked as he climbed into his seat.

  “I think you’re mistaking me for my sister, sir,” Sophia said. “Bit taller? Wears an ugly camouflage uniform, not a really cool flight suit, sir?”

  “Just twitting you, Seawolf,” Wilkes said.

  “We used to get mistaken for twins when we were younger,” Sophia said. “Now everybody thinks she’s the older one. It gets old.”

  “Understood,” Wilkes said. “Port, starboard, you up?”

  “Intercom Set and Checked, Port,” Olga replied.

  “Set and Checked Starboard,” Anna said.

  “They ever switch me out for Lieutenant Simpson and there’s no stopping this crew,” Wilkes said.

  “Feel the estrogen, sir,” Sophia replied. “Be the estrogen, sir.”

  “Your cycles start syncing and I’m putting in for a transfer,” Wilkes said, as he started the engines. “You all have guns…”

  * * *

  The helo coasted low over the ground, followed by infected.

  “Watch your forward speed,” Wilkes said. “This loaded, we don’t have a lot of power or ground clearance to spare.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Sophia said, speeding up.

  “Permission to engage, commander?” Olga said. “I’ve got some nice concentrations.”

  “They’ll stop and feed, port,” Wilkes said. “We want them in the kill box first.”

  The “killbox” was designated as a large open area by the port. It was in firing range of the amtracks that were preparing to plop off the back of the Grace Tan and was nicely away from anything they were interested in.

  “Those are interesting,” Sophia said, pointing to two ships alongside the pier. They were platform supply ships with their back decks covered in containers. “Are those sub tenders?”

  “No,” Wilkes said. “I’m not sure what they are.”

  “We can use them,” Sophia said. “Especially if that’s military cargo.”

  “Save it for later,” Wilkes said. “Port, starboard. What’s the concentration looking like?”

  “Most of the infected close to the port seem to be swarming, command,” Olga said. “Getting to the killbox.”

  The helo couldn’t continuously hover over the infected and slowly lead them as the Marines did. It was having to pull in, lead them for a while in a certain direction, then pull up and around. It was tedious. On the other hand, the Marines weren’t off the ship, yet.

  “There they go,” Sophia said as the first amtrack, commanded by her sister, plopped off the Grace Tan and, unfortunately, didn’t sink. One of these days… “Bet she’s pissed she has to wait to use Trixie.”

  “At least the colonel finally ordered it painted a decent color,” Wilkes said.

  The tank was now back to its original desert sand. On the other hand, it still had TRIXIE written on both sides of the turret. On the front glacis and the track shields was MARINES with a globe and anchor to either side. The deck of the Grace Tan had been reinforced to hold it and the crane significantly upgraded. The tank, alone, had cut the Grace Tan’s cargo capacity and was one of the reasons the helo had been moved semi-permanently to the Boadicea.

  “I think we’ve got enough in the killbox,” Wilkes said. “Ground Team, Air. We’re preparing for our first run.”

  “Roger,” Faith said. “We’ll be there as soon as Freeman gets his act together.”

  “Air, out,” Wilkes said. “So…let’s see how these work…”

  * * *

  “Oh, that’s sweet,” Faith said as the Seahawk dove. The four GAU 17/A miniguns slung on the weapons sponsons put out individual streams of two thousand rounds of 7.62x51 per minute. Olga and Anna had slewed them full forward. Every fifth round was a tracer. With the MG240, the tracers were clearly separated even at highest rate of fire. With the miniguns, they were one continuous stream that looked like a red laser.

  When they hit the ground they bounced, and created a small volcano the color of blood.

  Since most of them weren’t hitting the ground, they were hitting infected, this time much of it was blood.

  “Let’s join the party,” Faith radioed. “Open fire, forty millimeter.”

  The 40mm grenades pumped out of the tracks and soared, slowly, over to the mass of infected a hundred meters on shore. If they were having any effect, it wasn’t apparent. The helicopter, on the other hand, was devastating.

  “Okay, so it’s cool,” Faith muttered. “Trixie’s totally cooler…”

  * * *

  “Do this very slowly, Lance Corporal,” Faith said from the TC’s hatch of Trixie.

  With the inner port zone cleared of infected and the survivors picked up by the amtracks, the Grace Tan had been pushed in by tugs to butt stern-first to the wharf. Then a large ramp, borrowed from one of the MPF ships, had been lifted into place. Now all they had to do was drive Trixie off the ship and onto the land.

  Trixie was a significant percentage of the cargo weight of the Grace Tan. And although her cargo deck had been reinforced, it wasn’t really designed to support seventy-three tons of tank. Last, when Trixie moved, she was going to throw the balance of the ship off. She was midships, so it shouldn’t list. But it was going to go down by the stern. How much had been an interesting and still theoretical calculation. Which was why only Faith and the lance corporal were in the tank and both were wearing just their uniforms and PFDs. If the tank went in the drink, they’d have some chance of survival. Not much, given sharks and gators, but some.

  Condrey rolled forward slowly. As he did, Faith could see the stern of the ship start to settle.

  “We’re gonna need a bigger boat,” Captain Gilbert radioed. “She’s pretty darn heavy.”

  “Should we stop?” Faith radioed back. “And she’s not fat, just big boned.”

  “Got it,” Gilbert replied. “She’ll take ’er. Just take it slow.”

  “Roger,” Faith said.

  The ramp wasn’t all that wide and Faith was taking it on…faith that it was really rated for a tank. It didn’t look rated for a tank. Occasionally in Jax, Trixie had almost got stuck when portions of the road crumbled under her from sewer collapse. Then there was the time Condrey “accidentally” ran into a bank and cracked the vault. At this point, Faith had a very firm appreciation for Trixie’s mass.

  Finally, they were up on shore. On a, fortunately, very solid wharf.

  “We definitely need a better way to do this,” Faith said.

  “Landing craft, ma’am,” Condrey replied.

  “I’m sure we’ll get them eventually,” Faith said. “N
ow to get the rest of the crew and our battle rattle. And show my sister who’s boss…”

  CHAPTER 16

  “You do not have the clearance to enter this facility, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said, staring at Faith over a pointed and locked M4. Actually, he was staring past her into the distance with “thousand mile eyes.”

  They’d found Marine survivors. Five members of the FAST unit securing the special weapons site had managed to hold out in the main guard shack at the entrance. They were currently spread out trying to cover a platoon of Marines in armor with M4s. They did not care if Faith was a Marine lieutenant. She did not have clearance to enter the facility.

  “My clearance comes from the National Constitutional Continuity Coordinator, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said. If she was nonplussed by having a weapon pointed at her, she wasn’t showing it. Of course, if the Marine pulled the trigger, he and his companions had the survival time of a paramecium in a jar of acid. The Marines didn’t seem to care. Semper Fi. There was a reason that Marines secured Navy special weapons.

  “The mission of my platoon is to secure special weapons and destroy the heavy weapons on this base. What are your special procedures in the event of complete breakdown in communication with chain of command, Marine?”

  “Those procedures are classified, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said. “You do not have clearance for those procedures, ma’am.”

  “Standby,” Faith said. He had a point. She didn’t even have an ID card. She’d thought about pointing out her authority was a tank and declined. She could tell a Decker when she saw one. “Force Ops, Ground Team One.”

  “Ground Team, Force Ops.”

  “Surviving FAST on site. Refusing entrance to facility. States do not have authority to know special security procedures in the event of breakdown in chain of control of special weapons. I think we need the Hole on this one, over.”

  “Roger, Ground Team. Stand by.”

  “We’re getting higher in on this, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said. “I’m going to ask you to take a deep breath. I’m not taking another step forward. But your weapon is armed, your safety is off and your finger is on the trigger. If you so much as breathe wrong, you’re going to be turned into paste by my platoon, right or wrong. So would you like me to step back or what?”