by John Ringo
As per Marine Corps doctrine for trainees, all females were located in one facility, separate from males. They had dependents as well, but not so much as one teenage male.
Which was lucky because from what Brown was getting about the other facilities, pregnancy was endemic.
Holding things together had been hell for a while. They’d lost one of the facilities to infected getting loose. But the rest had held. Huge death rates as well as “turning,” but they’d all held. The infected had either been terminated or turned out. In retrospect, the initial orders to turn them out were probably bone-headed but that was then.
There was an increasing issue about the food stores. They had not anticipated a ten month siege. If they weren’t relieved soon, it might become necessary to attempt a breakout. If the force could access the remaining ammunition on the base, it might be possible to take it back. However, the infected level remained high and the nearest magazine to the food stores was nearly two miles away.
Probably the only bright spot was that all the recruits were trained up with the exception of marksmanship. There was insufficient remaining ammunition to do proficiency training. On the other hand, someone had brought in pugel sticks. Given that it was one of the few forms of entertainment, they might be able to fight their way through with some rebar.
They’d seen a Seahawk in the distance yesterday and there’d been a report of shots from the southeast last night. It looked like relief forces might have arrived.
The sound of the Marine Corps Hymn changed that from “might” to “likely.”
“Signaler! Signal Building Sixteen that we hear heavy fire, the sound of tracks and the Marine Corps Hymn from the southwest, vicinity of the Known Distance Range!”
“Aye, aye, ma’am!” Recruit Private Tami Bishop replied. Her planned MOS was communications and she already knew International Code when she’d joined. Which was fortunate, since that was what they were using for signaling between the buildings.
“Runner! Pass the word to Staff Sergeant Warren. All recruits up and in gear! Reinforcing forces have arrived. We will be ship-shape when they get here.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am!” Recruit Private Christy Brooks said, hurrying below.
Brown could see the Seahawk was up again, circling up from a ship against the rising sun. It seemed to be patrolling back and forth to the southeast. Through the binoculars she could see it was armed. Heavy. Bunch of fucking mini-guns. So why was it holding off?
There was a shit load of fire approaching, though. She could spot the fifty caliber and Mk19 by ear. Machine guns, probably 240 and M4s. SAW. You could tell by the way it sounded like one. Several tracks, probably amtracks.
Shitload of fire. They were rolling hot.
* * *
“Randolph!” Faith yelled, sticking her head into the crew compartment.
“Ma’am!”
“Reloads on the fifty!”
“Reload the fifty, aye, ma’am!”
“And just keep reloading!” Faith yelled. They were burning through fucking ammo. Good thing the back of the amtrack was filled with it.
* * *
“Seahawk Four, Kodiak, over,” Colonel Hamilton said. His inexperience at infected ground combat was showing. He’d done the landing with zero prep, on the assumption that infected levels on the island were bound to be low. And they were getting absolutely swarmed. On the other hand, most of the infected were trotting behind, trying to keep up. The “pied piper” maneuver.
“Seahawk Four.”
“Swing to the north, opposite the parade deck,” Hamilton radioed. “We have massed infected in pied piper. Unit will continue to parade deck and draw them onto it. Engage on parade deck on orders. Seahawk will not cross onto land zone proper until ordered to engage.”
“Attack from north on parade deck, aye. Avoid island proper until ordered, aye. Good news, sir. The pilot at least is a Marine.”
“Roger,” Hamilton said, smiling. “Kodiak, out.”
* * *
The Seahawk was moving. Heading north. It seemed to circle around the island and ended up north of the parade deck. Why it hadn’t just crossed she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t like the infected used MANPADs. The mini-guns were clearer now that it was closer. It had four under-slung and two door guns. Flying fucking gunpoint. Why it wasn’t attacking was the question. There were infected moving around. Mostly swarming towards the approaching tracks.
“Ma’am!” Swanson barked. “Permission to report, ma’am!”
“Report, Recruit!”
“Armored vehicles in view to the southwest!”
They were amtracks. The lead one was flying a large American flag and the trail was flying the Marine Corps flag. They were modified, too. The external cargo racks and all other handholds had been removed as had the appliqué armor. They were just fucking laying waste to the infected closing on them but that was less noticeable than the huge fucking mass of infected following them. It looked like half the base was on naked parade. The tracks were moving at a jogging pace and the infected were just trying to keep up.
She looked at the tracks, looked at the Seahawk doing figure eights, then looked at the parade deck.
“You are not going to fuck up my parade deck!” she said. “Oh, tell me you are not going to fuck up the parade deck.”
* * *
“Spread as we cross the parade deck,” Hamilton radioed. “On my command, speed up. When we reach the end, stop, then pivot. At that point, all tracks engage the infected with fifty caliber. We are under observation. We are going to do this by the damned numbers…”
* * *
“Ahhh,” Gunnery Sergeant Brown said as the amtracks started tearing up her parade deck. Okay, so it was overgrown and filled with weeds. Some recruits with brush hooks and mowers and they could fix that. What the amtracks were doing to it… It really made you want to cry.
On the other hand, it was clearly about to be well nourished. And they might be able to roll out the track marks. After they got the bodies cleared.
The tracks spread out, pretty evenly, then sped up to get some distance between themselves and the following zombies. There were more coming from the direction they were driving but they either shot ’em or ran ’em over.
She looked around for a second.
“Recruit Reed! What the fuck are you looking at? Is the parade deck part of your sector of observation?”
“Ma’am, no, ma’am!” the recruit shouted.
“Keep an eye on your sector, Recruits! The next one I see looking around is going to be cleaning toilets with a toothbrush for a week!”
“No, no, no…” Brown said, going back to watching the tracks. They’d sprinted across the field, throwing up a welter of grass, weeds and dirt and just totally screwing up her parade deck. “Aaaaah! Not a pivot! Not a pivot!” she yelled as the tracks stopped, then…pivoted. “You bastards! You inconsiderate bastards! That’s my parade deck!”
But then the Seahawk descended and she forgot about the damage the tracks had done.
The laser-like lines swept through the infected, leaving windrows of bodies, then it swept back up and around as the tracks laid down all the infected between the gun-sweep and their own position. It was really fucking glorious. The only thing that would make it better was if it had been a Marine gunship.
“Ma’am, permission to report, ma’am!” Post Two barked.
“Report, Recruit!” the DI replied.
“Ma’am, signal from one of the tracks, ma’am!”
“Signaler!”
“Lieutenant Colonel Craig Hamilton, USMC, Task Force Kodiak Commander. Seeking senior survivor. Over.”
“Post Commandant, Colonel Locky Downing, USMC, Building Fourteen, currently out of view. Will retransmit.”
“Request remain redoubts pending clearance and blockage of bridges. Will extract all survivors to ships off-shore. Orders LantFleet, NCCC, Parris Island to be evacuated, all Naval services personnel to be placed under command Task
Force Kodiak to assist Operation Swamp Fox East Coast Sweep. Will clarify command structure on basis commandant superior officer to task force commander.”
“Transmit ‘Stand by,’” Brown ordered. “Then send that to the colonel.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Recruit Bishop replied.
“To Commander, Task Force Kodiak, from Commandant Parris Island Marine Base. Will comply. Personal: Glad you made it and very glad to see you. End personal.”
“Query: How many survivors?”
“One thousand eighty-six. Five hundred twenty-three Marines, all ranks, most boots. Twelve Navy, all ranks. Other dependents and other civilians.”
“Congratulations. Highest rate of survival found. Will require hot bunking. Very good to hear. Previous total known manning, USMC, sixty-three.”
“Jesus Christ,” Brown said quietly. Those Marines clearing out the last few infected were pretty much the entire Marine Corps.
“Primary mass infected cleared. Will continue sweep. Moving your position this time. Kodiak, out.”
The parade deck was a fucking mess, pretty much covered with dead infected and, of course, 7.62 rounds. She could even see where the brass had cluttered it up from the Seahawk passes.
On the other hand, wasn’t going to be her problem. They were pulling out.
CHAPTER 19
“Gunnery Sergeant,” Januscheitis said as the doors of the building were cracked for the first time in ten months. “Staff Sergeant Januscheitis, Platoon Sergeant, Platoon One, USMC.”
It was barely mid-day and the base was mostly clear. Parris Island wasn’t particularly large.
“Gunnery Sergeant Brown, Senior Drill Instructor, Platoon Four, Delta Company, Battalion Four, USMC,” Brown said.
“Here’s how we’re going to do this, Gunnery Sergeant,” Januscheitis said. “All Marines absent movement issues are going to walk. Dependents with movement issues, including babes in arms, will ride in the track. We only have one. The others are at the other buildings. All others will walk. Phase Three Marines, only, will carry weapons with loaded magazines inserted but not locked or loaded and on safe. They and the rest of the team will take outer perimeter security for the extraction. Movement will be from here to the beach by the KD ranges where evacuees will be picked up by RHIBs and transported to the ships. Last people off from the local command will be instructors and phase three Marines. Then the Wolf Marines will evacuate in tracks and we’re done with this clearance. Roger?”
“Roger, Staff Sergeant,” Brown said. “No babes in arms. Some young babies but…most of them didn’t make it. Toddlers is about the youngest we’ve got.”
“I have seen damned few toddlers at all,” Januscheitis said. “Lots of babes in arms. No pregnancies?”
“No males,” Brown said.
“Well, that’s a change,” Januscheitis said. “Very well. Let’s get them sorted out and loading.”
* * *
“Anything I need to do here, Jan?” Faith radioed. She was still up in the TC hatch, placidly watching the boots get organized.
“No, ma’am,” Januscheitis replied.
Unsurprisingly, getting the boots organized was going well. They’d had boot camp extended for ten months. They were nearly as wound tight as Decker when he was first found.
“I’ve got this,” Januscheitis continued. “I’m still unsure how to break it to Senior Drill Instructor Gunnery Sergeant Annette Brown that her new LT is younger than any of her boots. Over.”
“Maybe I should walk around with a swagger stick. That way she knows I’m the boss, over.”
“She’s probably spotted the bars, Shewolf,” Januscheitis said as Gunnery Sergeant Brown marched over.
“The unit is assembled, Staff Sergeant,” Brown said.
“We’re ready to roll, ma’am,” Januscheitis radioed.
“Let’s get this wagon train a rollin’.”
* * *
“Yo, boot,” Curran said to the private next to him. “Chill. Relax. First of all, these things kill pretty easy. Second, we laid most of ’em out on the parade deck, which was, by the way, awesome! We made sure we tore that motherfucker up, too. I’d been wanting to do that since I was a boot. Third, if you’re all wired the fuck up, you’re not really seeing what’s there. Stretch out the kinks. Just chillin’ in the hood…”
The platoon had been spread out with the boots and their drill instructors to lend some experience and stiffening. The phrase about buckshot was appropriate. On the other hand, there had been very little in the way of action.
Which had its own difficulties.
“‘Chillin’ in the hood,’ Private First Class?” one of the Drill Instructors said. “You’d better be on your God damn sector not chillin’, Private First Class!”
“Staff Sergeant,” Curran said. “With due respect, when you’ve been killin’ zombies as long as I’ve been killin’ zombies, you can tell me how to kill zombies, Staff Sergeant.”
“Get your ass over here, Private First Class,” the staff sergeant snapped. “Right the fuck now!”
And Faith just had to take a walk…
* * *
“Excuse me, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said as she limped up to the twosome. Curran was locked up with a staff sergeant drill instructor doing the full head tilt with the brim of the hat on Curran’s nose.
“And furthermore, you shall show proper respect to your superiors…” the staff sergeant said, knife-handing Curran’s chest.
“Excuse me, Staff Sergeant,” Faith barked, tapping him on the shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said, his face tight.
“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” Faith asked.
“This is an NCO matter, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said, not looking at her. It was in a “proper” tone but there was more than a bit of “instructor” tone. The staff sergeant drill instructor knew a very junior lieutenant when he saw one. “It is something to let NCO’s handle, ma’am.”
“Oh, you did not just go there…” Curran muttered.
“Curran,” Faith said, very quietly. “Fall out and return to your post.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Curran said, running away.
“Assume the position of attention, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said.
The staff sergeant popped to attention and Faith leaned in to whisper in his ear.
“Do you know who I am, Staff Sergeant?” Faith whispered.
“No, ma’am!”
“Do you know what I am, Staff Sergeant!”
“You are a Marine Officer, ma’am!”
“True, and beside the point,” Faith hissed. “I am a fucking psychotic bitch so far over the redline I can’t see it with an Abrams gunsight. I am a zombie-killing monster. All my Marines swear I have to drink a pint of zombie blood a day to wake up in the morning. What were you doing last night, Staff Sergeant?”
“I was off duty, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said. “I was in my rack, ma’am.”
“I wish I knew what off-duty meant,” Faith said sorrowfully, like she’d lost something she loved and didn’t even know where to start looking. “I was up to my ass in alligators. Literally. The reason my hand is torn up and I’m limping was I was attacked by gators while hip-deep in water doing the fucking beach recon for the assault, Staff Sergeant! And what were you doing? You were ‘off-duty.’ I haven’t been off-duty in ten God damn months! I’ve been weeks in the pitch black holds of carriers and liners and freighters and tankers killing fucking zombies while you’ve been whacking off to how great it is to march the fucking boots around on your fucking quarterdeck! And Curran, who is sort of a ragbag but my ragbag, has been right there with me. And you’re going to give me, me? Shewolf? The fucking monster that makes fucking monsters run at her NAME! You are going to give me that ‘I’m a Marine staff sergeant and she’s just some Barbie with a bar’ attitude? You completely useless piece of alligator shit? And you, you, who has spent the last ten months doing fucking NOTHING!
ARE GOING TO DRESS DOWN ONE OF MY MARINES, STAFF SERGEANT? YOU? WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO TELL ONE OF MY MARINES ONE GOD-DAMNED THING?”
“Excuse me, ma’am!”
Faith turned around and looked at the new NCO who had approached. She’d heard him coming up from behind her and checked the tendency to just turn and fire.
She looked him up and down and looked at his rank. She was too furious to try to figure it out.
“Lots of stripes!” she said angrily, knife-handing at his rank. “Lots of stripes. That’s all I got. Tell this fucker, and all your other fuckers, that they do NOT tell my troops what to do and they do NOT dress down my sweet vicious devil dogs, WHATEVER YOU ARE!” Faith bellowed. “THAT’S A FUCKING ORDER! ALL I WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU IS AYE, AYE, MA’AM!”
She spun around and limped back to her track without waiting for a reply.
* * *
“Is there a female lieutenant in this track?” a male voice bellowed from somewhere in the crew compartment.
“Freeman, Twitchell,” Faith said. “Bail.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am!” Freeman said, bolting.
Faith laboriously made her way into the crew compartment where a guy wearing the same rank as her dad was standing with his arms crossed.
“Second Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith, sir,” Faith said.
“Colonel Locky Downing, Lieutenant,” the colonel said. “Sit.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said, sitting down.
“How long have you been an officer, Lieutenant?” Colonel Downing asked.
“Lemme see…” Faith said, looking at her fingers and counting. She had to hold up the bandaged hand. “Six months, sir? I think? Maybe? What month is it?”
The colonel paused for a moment in thought.
“That’s post-Plague,” the colonel said.
“Ah,” Faith said, nodding. “Direct commission, sir. From civilian, sir. I’m sort of a mascot, sir.”
