by John Ringo
“Captain, do you wish to input, since this is your Command?” Brice asked.
“Yes, General,” Steve said, looking at the view of Canaveral. “I’m going to request to split the difference and add a mission.”
“Go on,” Brice said.
“There were a number of defined and potential missions on this sweep,” Steve said. “The defined were thoroughly clear King’s Bay, and recover what nuclear weapons were on hand. Note, on hand. Clear and perform SAR on Parris Island and Lejeune and perform SAR on the Hampton Roads region. If possible, remove any special weapons from Hampton Roads.
“Could we cut out one of the LHDs? We need a better platform than the Grace Tan. Can we get some landing craft? Well, that depends on what we get elsewhere, as usual. How many Marines are we going to get at Lejeune? What shape are they in? Can we turn them into a cohesive fighting force in any short time frame?
“We’re starting to get some reasonable statistics on survival at this point,” Steve said. “Horrible statistics, but reasonable for planning. Active duty military and dependents seem to have one of the highest survival rates if they were on bases. Not high, mind you. Just higher than normal, ranging from five to possibly in some cases as high as ten percent. We are used to a trickle of survivors in the areas we’ve cleared. Even in London they’re looking at one percent or less. In the Mayport area we’re looking at possibly five percent of the base personnel and dependents surviving. Which isn’t a lot but if you’ve been out here finding God-damned nobody, it’s a bloody miracle.
“If it runs the same in and around Lejeune, say, we’re looking at ten thousand survivors.”
“I hadn’t done that math,” Brice said, nodding.
“Now, all of those won’t be active Marines,” Steve said. “But quite a few of them, virtually all, will be military oriented. Very useful people to have around in a zombie apocalypse. Which is why we’re clearing the bases. But we’ll need to do something with them. Move them. Some, if the clearance is thorough enough, will wish to, or be ordered to, hold the area. Most will wish to move. If for no other reason than their services are needed. At which point, we face a logistics issue: How do we move several thousand people from these bases to Mayport or Blount or Gitmo or, indeed, all three? At which point, we get to what else is at Canaveral.”
“Rockets?” Brice asked.
“Festival Cruise Lines has four,” Steve said, holding up his hands with fingers up. “Count ’em, four, cruise liners alongside at Canaveral. Two fall into the mega-cruise category. Each of the four are larger than the Boadicea.”
“And they won’t need much clearing,” Montana said, nodding.
“And they should be virtually clear, Commodore,” Steve said, nodding. “Very few of the infected will have survived and they wouldn’t be packed with crew or passengers. That’s where they load, not a destination. Getting them up and going is another issue: they won’t just start at the turn of a key. We’ve been training Navy crews on other ship types. So…
“My recommendation as LantFleet, is to clear King’s Bay, clear Parris Island, clear Lejeune, establish a safe point at Lejeune—which shouldn’t be hard with Marines, shovels and concertina—then take a larger Marine force to Canaveral. Clear Canaveral, which is functionally an island and has several extremely convenient drawbridges and fence lines, then return to Lejeune with sufficient lift to pull out all the survivors who are going to join the effort. Oh, and that way we’ll have more Marines along in case it turns into a nuke hunt. Then Hampton Roads. Then, assuming we have an LHD at that point, all the other bases within close range of the water. Hunter, Groton, Stewart, some of the DC area bases, even Bragg and possibly Bragg sooner.
“My estimate is that with the clearance of Lejeune alone, we’ll have so many survivors plus equipment we can really get started on serious continental clearance. We will also be exceeding my competence level. If we find an admiral or general, at least one who has the right feel for the zeitgeist, I’m going to recommend turning over LantFleet to him. Or her.”
“We’ll discuss that if the time comes, Captain,” Galloway said. “And I see your reasoning on the mission strategy.”
“Concur,” Brice said. “And don’t you quit on me, Wolf.”
“Oh, not going to quit, ma’am,” Steve said, grinning. “But there’s a mission I don’t have the right person for. I’d just ask to take that one. If General Montana wasn’t so obviously the choice for PacFleet I would have asked him to take it. He’d have loved it. Or gladly switched places. I hate being chained to a desk. Did it for too many years as a teacher.”
“What’s the mission?” Montana said.
“Gulf Coast Irregulars, Commodore,” Steve said instantly. “Bunch of small boats and airboats clearing the Gulf Coast. Basically a barely disciplined littoral militia. Just feed them ammo, guns and vaccine and let them rip a new asshole through the infected while screaming ‘Yahoo!’ Think Florida rednecks and Cajuns with Ma Deuce and maybe some miniguns if they find them.”
“God,” Brice said, shaking her head. “You really are a pirate at heart, aren’t you?”
“Hoist the black flag, mateys,” Steve said, grinning. “I’m still looking for the right guy. Besides me, that is. I mean, the Keys haven’t been cleared and they’re just sitting there, low infected numbers and easily securable. Maybe Chen. He’s gotten fairly irregular. I digress. That is my recommendation, ma’am, sir. King’s Bay, Parris, Lejeune, Canaveral, figure it out from there.”
“And we concur,” Galloway said. “Sounds like a plan.”
“I’ll pass it to Colonel Hamilton,” Steve said.
“SAC, out.”
“Now you make me sorry I took this job,” Montana said, grinning. “That does sound like fun.”
“Biggest problem for me would be no wenching,” Steve said. “Sure you want CINCPAC?”
“No,” Montana said. “But a ship full of gear and ammo will probably change my mind. You can spare it?”
“We’re about to take Lejeune, sir,” Steve said. “And we’re in the process of pulling in the Iwo. Even with worst case scenario in the mid-Atlantic bases, we can spare it.”
“As soon as possible, then,” Montana said. “CINCPAC, out.”
“LantFleet, out,” Steve said to himself, then keyed another icon. “Get me Kodiak.”
CHAPTER 17
“Current mission remains the same,” Colonel Hamilton said. “Destroy the heavy weapons in magazines today. Don’t worry about the nukes for now.”
“Yes, sir,” Faith said, still a big muzzy. “Are we supposed to eventually?”
“Eventually,” Hamilton said. “And our mission for Lejeune and Parris Island has changed. We’re to do a thorough ground level clearance of both. But for today, just take care of the magazines.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said.
* * *
“Oooo!” Faith said as the first torpedo magazine erupted. The blast doors had been left open and the blast went halfway across the massive magazine area. “That gives me an idea. Wait on the next one… Seahawk, Ground.”
“We saw that from way over here,” Sophia said. “Felt it, too. We’d appreciate some warning next time.”
“Sure,” Faith said. “But any chance you can pied piper some infected over here…?”
* * *
“Oooh,” Januscheitis said as the blast ripped through the group of infected. The center of the group simply evaporated. Those on the edges were…well, some of them were almost intact. “That’s vicious.”
“Glad that the bird was far enough away,” Faith said. “But that’s it for fun today. Next magazine… Wait… Let me call higher…”
* * *
“It’s an interesting suggestion, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “But I think the normal clearance methods work well enough.”
“There’s only so much 1028 left in this fallen world, sir,” Faith said. “And we’ve got a lot of power, here, we’re just throwing away. Waste not, wan
t not, sir.”
“I’m thinking about the safety issues and have to reluctantly say, no, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “Reluctantly. Your point on 1028 is valid. But the thought of our few amtracks rolling past an open and rigged magazine acting as pied pipers is… No.”
“Well, at least there’s a buttload of 40 and .50 in the small arms magazines, sir,” Faith said. “But somewhere in the world there is a reserve of 1028. A true treasure trove, sir. And I make it my personal quest to find it, sir.”
“That’s the spirit, Lieutenant. Eventually we will clear Fort Hood.”
“Where’s that, sir…?”
* * *
“Check fire!” Olga shouted over the intercom. “Check fire!”
The helo had been doing pure clearance while the Marines were blowing up bunkers. There were a lot of infected between the outer perimeter fence and the pier fences. The base had had a population of fourteen thousand on-site military and dependents at the Fall. At this point estimates of infected populations were thirty percent of pre-Plague population, skewed almost entirely to prime age males, most of whom lived on base. That was a lot of infected. They’d seen survivors waving but the plan this time was to do a “yellow” clearance, then pull out the survivors.
“Check fire, aye,” Anna said.
“Status?” Wilkes said.
“Command, have civilian SUV moving south on…hell, that double road down there…”
Apparently at least one group thought “orange” was good enough.
“Roger,” Sophia said. “Got it. Command, heading for infected concentration.”
“Then let’s get down and plow the road for them,” Wilkes said, banking the bird around.
“They’re taking the turn towards the piers,” Olga said over the sound of firing. “Command, gate closed. Say again, gate closed.”
“Roger,” Wilkes said. And there was a solid mass of infected sitting right on Henry L. Stimson drive. “Sophia, handle the phones.”
“Force Ops, Seahawk Four…”
* * *
“Ground Team, Force Ops.”
“Ground Team,” Faith replied, signing another sheet of damned paper. Like someone was going to check the inventory of ammo? They were leaving most of it behind, anyway.
“Discontinue evolution. Respond group of survivors attempting self extraction.”
“Roger, Ops,” Faith said, grabbing her helmet. “STOP THE LOAD. WE GOT A MISSION!”
* * *
“Damnit,” Wilkes said, looking out the side window. “They’re panicking.”
The SUV had skidded to a stop when it saw the mass of infected on the road, then tried to do a three point turn and gotten at least temporarily stuck in the median.
“Time to start plowing,” Wilkes said, dropping the bird down over the struggling SUV. “Fire.”
The four miniguns opened up in their laser lines, shredding the group of infected. Until the fire slowed, then stopped abruptly.
“Looks like a jam on four,” Sophia said. “The others are out.”
“Starboard has rounds,” Anna called.
“Port is low,” Olga said.
Wilkes pivoted to bring his starboard side around and Anna finished off the last of the infected in the group.
“I’ve got more closing port,” Olga called over the sound of fire.
“Check fire,” Wilkes said.
“Check fire, aye,” Olga and Anna said simultaneously.
Wilkes spun the bird, again, dropping down to almost ground level. The SUV had gotten freed but the female driver was looking wide-eyed. There were kids in the car.
“Stay here,” Wilkes said, making standard hand-and-arm motions. “Stay here!”
The woman nodded at him, still wide-eyed.
“Go hot,” Wilkes said, picking it up. “Freaking dependents! You couldn’t wait a day? Ground team, Air. Where are you?” He started moving the helo around in an out-of-ground effect hover to allow the door gunners to engage the closing infected.
“Moving to your location,” Faith responded. “In sight of the gate at this time, over.”
“Hurry,” Wilkes said. “We’re clocking out and there are closing infected, over.”
“Roger. Will comply. Make sure the vehicle is clear of the gate, over.”
“They are two hundred meters beyond the gate,” Wilkes said.
“On the way.”
* * *
“Force Ops, Ground, emergency, over. Condrey, punch it.”
The M1 was in the lead for a change and it was much faster than an amtrack. It quickly left the rest of the Marines behind.
“Force Ops.”
“Need permission to breach the main gate, over.”
“Stand by.”
“You have twenty seconds and I’m making a command decision,” Faith replied. She could see the car. She could also see the infected closing on it in a wave. The helo was down to spitting fire from one gun. Then that stopped.
“Just stand by.”
“Ain’t happenin,’” Faith replied. “Condrey, we’re going to have to rebuild the gate. You got that?”
“Roger, ma’am,” Condrey replied.
Faith reached down and keyed on the still installed speaker system. The Marine Corps Hymn started to boom across the area in a brassy flourish.
“RAMMING SPEED!”
* * *
When Trixie hit the gates, she was going “in the region of 45 miles per hour.” That was what the after action report stated. “In the region of 45 miles per hour.” Why? Because the M1 Abrams has a governor that limits it to 45 miles per hour and there are stiff regulations against removal of same.
The guys doing most of the detailed mechanical work on Trixie were Nuke Mechanics, mostly from fast attack boats. There’s a reason they’re called “fast attack” boats. They’re attack boats and they’re fast. Very fast. Why? Because in submarine warfare, there are two main prerequisites, silence and speed. They couldn’t figure out a way to make Trixie stealthy but the hell if they were going to let her be slow. The governor was the first thing to go flying out of the engine compartment. They’d ended up with a lot of “excess” parts, which is a common characteristic of engineering in the nuclear submarine service.
Thus Trixie was going well in excess of 45 miles per hour. Which, coincidentally, was the posted speed limit. She would have definitely been ticketed were there any remaining Shore Patrolmen because she was going closer to sixty. Okay, over sixty.
The gates of the nuclear submarine facility were very heavy. They were designed to stop a suicide truck bomb.
They didn’t stand a chance against something weighing as much as a train locomotive that was made out of steel and depleted uranium and doing better than sixty miles per hour.
They might as well have been tissue paper.
“Gun up on canister!” Decker said as the gates and part of the gate house flew in every direction.
“Not a chance,” Faith replied, straightening back up. One of the speakers had been ripped away but The Hymn was still booming. “Coax and treads only. Condrey, if you hit that car I’ll have you up on charges.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” the Lance Corporal replied.
The behemoth plowed into the crowd of infected surrounding the car, splashing the blue SUV with body fluids and offal like a car passing through a puddle. While the tank technically missed the SUV, the impact on the crowd of infected caused a ripple effect of bodies crushed between 73 tons of tank and a half a ton of SUV. The SUV lost, to an extent, being pushed nearly over by the impact of thirty human bodies that were more or less jelled by the physics.
The windows held, though, and that was the main thing.
Then Trixie was past and still going way too fast in the wrong direction.
“Condrey!” Faith said, spinning around the cupola gun and giving the most boneheaded order she’d ever given in her short life which had already included more than a few boneheaded orders. “Turn around! NOW!”
/>
Lance Corporal Steve Condrey was an experienced tank driver. He knew full good and well that you did not attempt a radical turn of any tracked vehicle, much less an M1 Abrams, when going “in the region of 45 miles per hour.” You were bound to throw a track.
But he had also spent waaaay too long being capable of only cadaver obedience to orders. So despite his understanding of all the bad things that happen when you try to pivot a tank going “in the region of 45 miles per hour” he turned the wheel hard over…
“JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH!” Decker bellowed, holding onto the gun as the tank seemed to be headed for who knew where. Sideways.
What should have happened at that point was the tracks should have popped off like tiddlywinks whereupon the tank would grind to a halt in a shower of sparks. Then the crew, including Faith by order of Colonel Hamilton, should have had to put the tracks back on, an incredibly tedious, time consuming and back-breaking business, while the amtracks covered them from raging infected. Seahawk Four should have had to return to base to rearm. There should have been a spectacular and tense battle as the gallant, if somewhat ignorant of tank driving, young female lieutenant led her crew in heroic tank tread reattachment while under attack by waves of howling zombies well into the night, as the helo repeatedly screamed by overhead, laying down masses of fire, possibly having some catastrophic malady to add to the drama, requiring the Marines to rush to their rescue and possibly starting up a star-crossed love affair between Januscheitis and Anna and by the end of the long night of tense, dramatic and heroic battle, much of the base would have been cleared by default. Or, possibly, the situation might have forced them to tearfully leave Trixie behind until they could clear the base enough to repair her leaving Faith despondent and remorseful for all of, say, three minutes or several paragraphs of exposition.
That’s what should have happened. What would have happened in any sane universe.
But then we get to the subject of…lubrication. And friction. Much about friction.
Patton once famously remarked that his forces were going to “use their (Germans’) guts to grease the treads of our tanks.” That is because, well, the human body is not actually good grease, it’s not something that you’d want to, for example, pack a wheel bearing race with, but it has, at molecular level, some of the same constituent elements. Even in a slender body, there are a fair amount of lipids, the basic component of lard. And the human body is 95% water. Which is slippery. Ask anyone who’s ever driven on a wet road. Wetness, to a certain degree, decreases the force of both static and mobile friction. Huh?
