by John Ringo
At least some were about to succumb to The Beast.
The sound was surprisingly muted. Accustomed as he was to gunfire, Commodore Montana was unsure at first if it was even firing. The sound was an odd whip, whip, whip . . .
But then the ball bearings reached their targets.
The concept of The Beast was simple. It was, at heart, nothing but an oversized, insanely overpowered paintball gun. As Leuschen had pointed out, the one thing a nuclear submarine has in near infinite supply is compressed air. Replace paintballs with steel ball bearings and what you got was a brutal and extremely efficient slaughter-machine.
The infected were moving more or less randomly on Quay Drive. Generally the densities they were looking at would only have occurred with a true alpha swarm. They weren’t shoulder to shoulder but they were often bumping each other. Which occasionally erupted into fights and even small riots; infected did not get along with each other much better than with the rest of the world.
There was no clear view down Quay Drive from their position, which meant “aiming” was sort of moot. And the ball bearings could hardly miss.
Infected started to drop and Leuschen didn’t even bother to walk his aim from side to side. There was always another target straight ahead. And infected were going down. Nine times out of ten, an infected hit by a two-inch ball of steel going not much under the speed of sound is going to die. Though far less spectacular than the water-cooled fifty-cals used by Wolf Squadron, The Beast was at least as effective.
“Now if we just had a hundred of them,” Commander Halvorson said. “I can get to work on more, sir.”
“The choke point isn’t weapons, Commander,” Montana said. “The choke point is bullets. We have only ten thousand ball bearings. And while I suspect that Leuschen’s concept of using small cylinders made from machine steel is sound, at a certain point we’ll have to either cannibalize your submarine or run out of steel. Nonetheless, with a successful test, do start making more. But quit when The Beast has used up seventy percent of its ammo. We’re sure to need it somewhere else.”
“I’d suggest we need to find more ball bearings, sir,” Halvorson said.
“I’ll put it on the agenda,” Montana told him. “We first need to get that damned light turned off. Preferably with extreme prejudice. Lieutenant Lyons.”
“Take a boarding team and get the light turned off, aye, sir,” Lyons said.
“Anyone onboard familiar with the Seawolf class, Commander?”
“The COB served on them, sir,” Halvorson said. “And Petty Officer Gomez.”
“Take them and a security team,” Montana said. “And put that light out. Take a hammer. Break it if you have to.”
“That would be tricky, sir,” Halvorson said. “It’s recessed and extremely robust to withstand pressure. I would suggest the lieutenant take a small explosives charge, instead.”
“Already on my list, sir,” Lyons said.
“Betraying my lack of knowledge of all things sub-nautical,” Montana said. “What in the hell do you use something like that light for?”
“Hull shots,” Halvorson and Lyons said simultaneously.
“And helping lost SEALs find their way back to a submerged boat, sir,” Halvorson added.
“Quite quite helpful in that regard,” Lyons said. “If somewhat untactical.”
“Technically it’s a standard navigation light,” Halvorson added. “That’s how it’s listed in the white papers, anyway.”
“Love to have seen that line item,” Montana said. “‘And we need a navigation light that can light up the moon!’”
* * *
A RHIB was duly deployed; the boarding team boarded, carefully, given the reception committee in the water, and headed over to the Jimmy Carter.
However, before they even began to board, they came to the furious attention of the infected crowding the hangar deck hatches and the flight deck.
“This might not be good,” Commodore Montana muttered as the first few infected dropped from the flight deck.
In the case of the increasing shower of infected from the flight deck, it was, as it were, hit or miss. The flight deck loomed out and over the smaller submarine. Thus the infected who were not so much jumping off as being pushed trying to get to the RHIB were aiming at water. It was sixty-six feet, as any Naval aviator knows, from the flight deck to the water line on a Nimitz-class carrier. Sixty-six feet is survivable under some conditions. It is approximately the same height as a twenty meter diving board in the Olympics. However, surviving the impact is one thing. Surviving it conscious is another. Absent careful entry, water at that speed tends to feel somewhat like landing on concrete. Thus the “miss.” The waters of San Diego Bay were home to not just the Humboldt squid but the great white as was immediately apparent. Conscious or not, there were not going to be many infected surviving the fall.
Some, however, were aimed more or less at the RHIB. Thus the “hit.”
“Back up!” Lyons said as the first infected landed on Petty Officer Gomez. The infected didn’t survive, not to mention it wasn’t all that great for Gomez. And the impact very nearly tore the bottom out of the RHIB. Which would have made it, very briefly, an “IB.”
The COB threw the outboard into reverse and backed up as fast as the boat could manage as the water around it started to churn with impacting infected.
“Zombilanche!” the Michigan’s chief of boat shouted, then cackled madly. There was essentially a wall of infected falling off the flight deck.
“Just get us out of here, COB!” Lyons shouted, then, “Incoming!”
The remaining crew dove to the side as an infected impacted square in the center of the RHIB.
“I don’t know how many more of those we can take,” Lyons said. “Jefferson, Garcia, toss those over the side.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Seaman Jefferson said, grabbing the legs of the infected. Who, as it turned out, was sufficiently cushioned by Gomez and the previously impacted infected to survive. Albeit with two broken legs. “Sir!”
“Got it,” Lyons said, drawing and giving the infected a “Mozambique tap” to the chest and head. “Now toss it.”
“Aye, sir,” Jefferson said, gulping. He and Garcia tipped the dead body over the side, then reared back. “JESUS!”
A particularly greedy great white had not even waited for the body to fully hit the water. Its teeth sunk into the body and ripped it out of Jefferson’s hands.
“Think we need a bigger boat, sir!” Garcia shouted nervously.
“It’s like feeding the dolphins at Sea World,” Jefferson’s voice quavered. “But way, way, way grosser.”
“Which is probably how the fish feel,” Garcia said.
“Just toss the next one,” Lyons said. “Carefully.”
Fortunately, the COB had backed the RHIB out of the “zombilanche” and slowed it as the shower continued.
“Oh, that’s just wrong,” the chief of boat said, shaking his head. “Look at the Jimmy.”
The hangar deck openings were lower and more in line with the Jimmy Carter. Most of the infected being shoved out as the mass tried to reach the RHIB were landing on the deck of the submarine. Or the sail. Or the fairwater planes. All of which were very hard steel. Most of them were surviving but only with severe orthopedic trauma. Which was exacerbated when another infected would land on top of them.
The top deck of the Jimmy was also curved, somewhat slippery and seemed to be the primary territory of the Humboldts. As the writhing mass of screaming, broken infected would discharge a member, the giant squids would reach up out of the water and pull them in with claw-covered tentacles.
“That is a behavior never before witnessed,” Lyons said. “And it just put paid to swimming off the Southern California coast for my lifetime at the very least. These things have been proven to be smart, adaptable and to have very good memories. There are some indications they even learn socially. Which means this behavior might just be passed down generations.
Okay.” He keyed his handheld. “Commodore?”
“Just come back to the boat,” Montana replied. “Back to the drawing board . . .”
“Are we there yet?” Gomez asked, groaning.
* * *
“The positive aspect to this latest debacle is that Lieutenant Lyons found an easy way to kill zombies in job lots,” Montana said.
“Pull a boat up and let them avalanche?” Lyons said.
“Got it in one,” Montana replied. “The tricky part is making sure the boat crew survives.”
“I’d prefer not to bring this boat in any closer, sir,” Commander Halvorson said.
“They wouldn’t recognize it as a target, anyway,” Montana said. “But using the RHIB again is out of the question. We need a better boat.”
“This is San Diego Harbor, sir,” Lyons said. “Even with people punching out due to the plague there are plenty of boats available.”
“However, this is an untenable objective at the moment,” Montana said. “We’re going to drop back and punt. We need a base and to start building personnel. Let’s fall back to the NALF for now. See about clearing that first.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Halvorson said.
* * *
“More infected than I’d expected,” Lyons said, looking at the shores of the barren island.
San Clemente Island was a twenty-one-mile-long brown, barren bit of rock sticking out of the Pacific Ocean about ten miles from the California coast. Part of it was an impact range but on the north end was a support facility and the Naval Air Landing Field. And there were infected. Not as many as North Island. New York didn’t have as many as North Island. But quite a few. Most were clustered near a few of the large buildings on which, yes, there were clear survivors. Quite a few of those as well.
“If you start rhyming every statement I shall have to find a new aide, Lieutenant,” Montana said.
“Noted, sir,” Lyons said, looking through a stabilized scope on the sail. “And the relatively high number of survivors as well as infected is now explained.”
“Oh?” Montana said. “Don’t keep me hanging.”
“I recognize people on the buildings, sir,” Lyons said. “Looks as if NavSpecWar moved . . .”
* * *
“Damned right we moved.”
Captain Owen Carter was the former commander of Navy Special Warfare, Basic Underwater Demolitions/SCUBA School, universally referred to as BUD/S. It was the West Coast’s SEAL school normally based at Coronado on North Island.
The good part about the introductions was that Carter recognized him. There were no questions raised as to why a former Army lieutenant general was now a commodore and CINCPAC. Nobody in Special Operations questioned his competence. Now if he could just figure out a way to take anything on the land side . . .
“Holding Coronado was untenable, sir,” Carter said. “Freaking infected were coming over the fences. Most of the teams were out trying to control the infected. I obtained orders to move the dependents, instructors and students to San Clemente. Various others joined as they had transport. Pretty much the entire Special Operations boat contingent moved over when it all came apart, along with some civilians and Team survivors. We moved sufficient supplies for a long siege, especially given the loss rate due to infection. What we did not bring is enough ammunition to deal with all the infected. I’m not sure there’s enough in the world.”
“And we, too, are about out,” Montana said, trying not to sigh. The Beast had shot through the last of its ball bearings and all the subs in the area were about shot out on machine-gun rounds. But they had a land base and an infusion of fighters. “Commander Halvorson.”
“Sir.”
“Have the Hampton and Topeka do a run back to Gitmo or Blount, whichever Captain Smith prefers. Pick up more ammo. See about ball bearings. They might have found some on Blount. Vaccine. Medical supplies if they have spare. General supply run.” For better or worse, most of the pregnant female dependents seemed to have already given birth so he wouldn’t have to repeat the nightmare that had been Gitmo when the baby wave hit.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Captain Carter,” Montana said, looking at the small beach by the NALF. Drawn up on the sand or anchored in the tiny cove was an amazing cluster of just about every type of small boat imaginable. There were Special Operations Boats, yachts, off-shore inflatables and “hard” hulls; there was even one ten-foot inflatable dinghy that must have been a real joy to maneuver across the strait.
“Sir?”
“Any of those SOCs still operational?”
The eighty-one-foot “Special Operations Craft Mark V.1” were just the ticket to handle a zombilanche. They should even be robust enough to handle the impact.
“Unsure, sir. They’ve been parked for the better part of a year.”
“Well, time to get them operational,” Montana said, humming “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner.” “The FAST boat guys have a new mission . . .”
* * *
“Ball bearings?” Isham said, looking at the video transmission.
Commander Halvorson gave a brief précis of The Beast.
“That makes so much sense I don’t know why Steve didn’t think of it first,” Isham said. “Okay, I’ll put the word in to Survey and Salvage to keep an eye out. There might be a container or so at Blount Island. There might be a container of the Holy Grail for that matter. But I’ll add ball bearings to the list of critical items . . .”
* * *
There was more to do. Zombie bodies had to be dealt with since they needed the facilities. There were some backhoes. More boats were gotten operational and spread out to see about at-sea rescue. They’d used up most of their machine-gun ammo but husbanded their small-arms rounds. Clearance happened. The nice thing about finding a bunch of BUD/S instructors and students was the instructors were specialists at clearing boats and ships. All they needed was a bit of touch-up on the “Wolf-Way.” On the other hand, it wasn’t much different from normal SEAL clearance techniques. Although they occasionally trained to sneak aboard boats, once they were onboard they rarely bothered to keep quiet. It was all about fast and hard. The only thing they had to be retrained on was “bring the zombies into your killzone, don’t go into theirs.” And Lyons had spent enough time around the Wolf Marines to be able to hum the tune.
But the land. Oh, the land . . .
CHAPTER 1
“Once again, let me congratulate everyone on the mission to London,” Steve said. “You did an exceptional job. So you get the usual thanks for a job well done. Another one.”
Captain Steven John “Wolf” Smith, Commander Atlantic Fleet, had been a high school history teacher prior to the Plague. At this point there were any number of professional submariner officers who had far more experience and could easily take over as Commander Atlantic Fleet. The reason that no one had so much as broached the subject was that the only reason they could now take over was due to the efforts of one Steven John Smith, his redoubtable family and the massive and almost entirely volunteer rescue effort called “Wolf Squadron” that had allowed them to finally climb out of their steel cans.
“As I remarked to Stacey, now we can really get started. The question, of course, is start what?” Steve continued. “And the answer is: Triage.”
“I don’t really think we’re up to repair, sir,” Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton said.
Craig Hamilton was another rescuee of Wolf Squadron. The Marine lieutenant colonel had been the senior surviving officer at Guantanamo Bay when a ragtag fleet of yachts, liners and trawlers converted to gunboats had sailed into the harbor. Since then the Infantry branch former interrogator had been running the Wolf Marines doing various clearance operations. Including commanding, up to a point, the near debacle in London.
“No, we’re not, Colonel,” Steve said. “But we have to figure out where to start working the problem of clearing the mainland. My initial plan was to start with Key West and simply work north. There ar
e arguments for it. It keeps us on one vector. It is, how to put this, fair? Start at one place and work towards another and that’s it. People can’t complain that we overlooked them. That plan may still have some validity. However, there are problems . . .”
He paused and considered the ceiling for a moment.
“The continued clearance of London is going slowly,” Steve said carefully. “The reason being that Prince Harry cannot decide between saving people and training more helo pilots. Captain Wilkes,” he said, nodding to the Marine captain, “and the prince, of course, recovered some helos from Wattisham. All good. Parts? Crews? He’s having to make his own.”
“As we have, sir,” Hamilton said. “And trained them as we went. Sophia is coming along well as a helo pilot.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sophia said, rubbing her new wings.
Sophia Smith, Steve’s oldest daughter, had made ensign at fifteen. She had just turned sixteen when she made her first “pilot in command” flight on a helicopter. It helped that her father was LantFleet. Not to mention that they were in a zombie apocalypse. But mostly she had done both those things because she was a founding member of Wolf Squadron and just that damned good. The main argument for “just that damned good” was commanding a rescue yacht for nearly a year and making that first “pilot in command” flight on an MH-53 Sea Dragon, arguably one of the hardest helicopters in the world to fly.
“Which is why she wore her stupid flight suit,” Faith said.
Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith, USMC, was two years younger than her sister and already had more combat hours than most grizzled gunnery sergeants. She had come to the conclusion her dad made her a Marine officer not so much because she was an over-the-top crazed zombie-killer or because her Devil Dogs worshipped her for it but because he knew she’d go for the Marines as boyfriends and he was putting as many as possible off-limits.
“Lieutenant,” Colonel Hamilton said.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said, smiling faintly.
“Frankly, I’d love to have some of my original Marines back, sir,” Captain Wilkes said. “The new crews are . . .”
