Strands of Sorrow

by John Ringo

  “This is fish in a barrel, Tang,” Olga said, the frame of the helicopter shuddering slightly from her fire. “But what we really need are miniguns.”

  “They go through their whole ammo load in thirty seconds, Legs,” Wilkes replied, even as EZ nodded emphatically.

  “But what a thirty seconds!” Olga replied. “And . . . I’m not seeing any moving infected, Tang.”

  “Nor am I,” Wilkes said. There had been, at most, a couple of hundred infected on the Marine side of the island. They were now scattered on the scrub field.

  “Got one,” Yu said. “Late to the party. Permission to engage?”

  “If you can hit it without hitting any of the equipment,” Wilkes said. “Which means including bouncers.”

  “Can do that,” Yu said.

  “Engage.”

  “Clear. No movement.”

  “Weapons cold,” Wilkes said. “Circle the fence line slowly. Keep an eye out for breaks.”

  “There are openings,” Yu said. “But I’m not seeing any breaks. Most of the water areas are open. No original fences.”

  “Got that,” Wilkes said. “Okay, pick it up higher than the power lines and let’s go check out the civilian side. Kodiak Ops, Dragon Three.”

  “Go Dragon Three.”

  “Limited infected presence on Marine side of island. Approximately two hundred. Infected concentrated away from river and cleared. Fences solid. Looks clear enough for landing. Doing recon, possible engagement, civilian side.”

  “Roger. Continue mission. Will discuss landing with ground force.”

  “Like they’re going to be able to hold Faith back,” Sophia said.

  * * *

  “Lieutenant?” Colonel Hamilton said. “What do you think?”

  “I think if there were just two hundred we could have done it ourselves, sir,” Faith replied. “And now it’s just a matter of walking around the motor pool, sir.”

  “Remember London,” Hamilton said. “Don’t let yourself get trapped. With that caveat: Frago is ground clearance and security for survey and salvage teams.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said. “Time to take a stroll. At least till I can get a tank!”

  CHAPTER 3

  This is the Voice of America.

  In the News: Forces of the U.S. Naval Services have begun clearance operations in the Jacksonville, Florida, region. The primary focus of initial clearance is the Blount Island Marine pre-position site, containing critical military equipment and supplies, as well as the Mayport Naval Station. Persons in the Jacksonville area are advised that in most cases direct rescue will not be possible. At a later date, clearance of the area to permit self-extraction is possible. Persons unable to self-extract should place signs on their roofs indicating such. . . .

  “Jesus, that’s a lot of cars,” Sophia said. Dragon Three was doing a high circle to get a look at the civilian side of the island.

  The civilian side, just one part of “the Port of Jacksonville,” was the same square area as the Marine side. However, the Marine side had both an inset “port” area where the three MPF ships were tied up and several large drainage ponds.

  The civilian side, by contrast, had all their piers either on the main St. Johns River or the deep channel to the west of the base and there were fewer and smaller internal ponds. Thus the land area was about three times the size of the Marine base. And it was packed, from side to side, with . . . stuff. Dozens of buildings, hundreds of acres of containers, even more acres of vehicles. There were cars, pickup trucks, minivans, SUVs, medium commercial trucks, construction equipment, dump trucks, semi-trailers. There were even more military vehicles. Every sort of vehicle in the world seemed to be parked in the port.

  It also seemed to have an ungodly number of infected given the area. At least twice as many as the Marine side, if not more.

  What there didn’t appear to be was a good area to fire them up. There was just no room without hitting something with either direct fire or ricochets.

  “Starboard’s got an open area by the west river,” Yu said. “Big open area in the west car park. Looks like it might be large enough to use.”

  “In the car park?” Wilkes said, gesturing for Sophia to bring the bird around. “Any power lines or other obstructions?”

  “Lots of big light poles, Tang,” Olga replied.

  “Contact,” Sophia said, indicating that she saw them.

  “On the west edge, Tang,” Yu said. “Right by the water. But there’s a ship docked there, too. Need to be careful not to get bouncers off it.”

  “Roger, got that,” Wilkes said, pointing to the open area.

  “Port has survivors,” Olga announced. “Building in the container area. Long, gray building. Metal roof. By the north road that parallels the river and continues to the Marine base. Near the Marine side.”

  “Call her to it,” EZ prompted Olga.

  “Port turn, Co,” Olga said. “You’re clear.”

  “Turning to port,” Sophia said. She’d brought the helo around, following Olga’s calls until her eyes landed on the building in question.

  “We’ll extract, then see what we’re going to do with the civilian side,” Wilkes said. “Guns cold, get the hoist ready.”

  “A dangling we will go, a dangling we will go . . .” Olga caroled.

  * * *

  “How many?” Olga asked as she unclipped from the line. There were only three men on the rooftop. “Is this all?”

  “No!” The man replying was short and burly with sandy blond hair and wearing an unfamiliar uniform and a pistol on his hip. “We’ve got more below. Some of the women are pregnant or just had babies! Can you get them up in a basket?”

  “If we can get them to the roof,” Olga said, holding up a finger. “Stand by. Dragon Three, Ground. More people down below. We’ll need to get them up to the roof. This roof is pretty open. What do you think about doing a ramp load? You,” she said, pointing to the man. “Start getting everybody up here. It’s not like we can pick you up from ground level.”

  “Okay,” the man said, waving at his buddies.

  “We can do that,” Wilkes replied.

  “Let me get them all assembled up here,” Olga radioed. “Then we’ll call you in.”

  “Roger.”

  * * *

  “Well, this is interesting,” Olga said as she climbed, carefully, through the hole in the roof, avoiding the sharp metal edges.

  The roof had not, originally, had a roof hatch. The survivors had cobbled together one by a ladder up to the top of one of the containers parked inside the shed, then another ladder up to the roof. Then they’d simply cut through the metal roof to get access.

  “Gunner First Class Olga Zelenova,” she said to the man when she got to the top of the container. “U.S. Navy.”

  “Senior Agent Brad Johnson,” the man said, shaking her hand. “DHS customs and border patrol. God damn are we glad to see you guys! We thought nobody was ever going to come! And I am flat out of rounds.”

  “When you get the whole story, you’ll realize why it took so long,” Olga said.

  “We’ve got shortwave,” Brad replied. “We know the deal. Are you with Wolf Squadron?”

  “Yep,” Olga said.

  “Love Devil Dog radio,” one of the other men said, grinning. “Wait . . . You’re Olga? Like, the Olga? Seawolf’s sidekick?”

  “I am not a sidekick,” Olga said. “And . . . yeah. Seawolf’s one of the pilots.”

  “When did Seawolf start being a pilot?” another asked.

  “Can we just get on with this?” Olga said. “There’s plenty of time later for questions. What is this place?”

  The large shed was filled with containers still on trucks. Many of them were opened. There were, in places, large pieces of equipment with radiation symbols and warnings liberally scrawled on them.

  “Customs inspection point,” Johnson said. “Bunch of workers brought their families to the port when things got bad thinking th
at it was secure and there were plenty of resources.”

  “Then people started turning and . . .” Olga said, nodding. “I’ve heard this story a million times. How do we get everyone up to the roof.”

  “Carefully,” Johnson said. “We’ll get it done.”

  “First things first,” Olga said. “Hope you’ve got some blankets or something ’cause we are going to cover the edges of the hole . . .”

  They got it done. Getting the pregnant women and the two surviving elderly up to the roof was a pain but they got it done. Two of the women had babes in arms. Olga just tucked the babies into her flight suit and carried them up one by one. She was afraid one of the pregnant women was going to have a baby right there on the ladder.

  When they were all up on the roof, Olga had them line up on the peak with Johnson anchoring the rear. The other surviving customs inspector, Agent Simon Miller, took point.

  “Dragon Three: We’re ready for extract,” Olga said.

  “Took you long enough,” Sophia replied.

  Olga could tell by the steadiness that Captain Wilkes had taken over the controls of the aircraft. This type of extraction was tricky, especially with high winds.

  The ramp was at about waist height and was moving around slightly. Anna stood at the top, legs spread wide as the “duckbill” style grip of the .50 cal. rested against her thighs. This allowed the barrel to be pointed straight down, and therefore not at any of the loading survivors. She kept one hand on the grip, so that she could use the intercom switch, but she held out her other hand to help those who might need it. The ramp wasn’t hard to mount for someone in decent condition. Miller got up on the ramp and started assisting Anna with getting everyone aboard. Yu came to the back and started helping as well. The ladies with babes in arms handed them up to Yu or Miller, then clambered up easily enough. For the pregnant ones it was a touch harder, but with Olga and Johnson boosting and Yu and Miller pulling them up, they finally all were boarded.

  “Tang, Port,” Olga said, plugging into the intercom as Anna raised the ramp. “All in. Advise Force that one of the women appears to have gone into labor.”

  “Roger,” Wilkes replied. “Heading to Boadicea at this time.”

  * * *

  Nicola Simpson settled into a chair in the Piano Lounge of the cruise ship and looked at the lady next to her.

  “In all future catastrophes,” Nicola said, grinning. “Remind me to bring along maternity clothes.”

  Nicola was wearing a “maternity dress” made of stitched together bits of NavCam. The other woman, girl really, was in a size 6X T-shirt for much the same reason.

  “I know, right?” the woman said. “When are you due?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Nicola said. “Any day now, I hope.”

  “Same here,” the girl said. “Kiera Murphy.”

  “Nicola Simpson,” Nicola said, shaking her hand. “I was in Mayport. Where are you from?”

  “Blount Island,” Kiera said with a strong Southern accent. “My boyfriend worked at the port and said ‘Hey, there’s plenty of stuff there for an apocalypse.’ Then he turned,” she added with a frown. “I got the flu but I got better. What did you do at Mayport? Secretary?”

  “Aviation engineering,” Nicola said drily.

  “Oh,” Kiera said, her eyes wide. “Sorry.”

  “No problem,” Nicola said. “I get that all the time. Not many girls in my field.”

  “Can I get your name, please?”

  The speaker was a very pretty young woman with a distinct Slavic accent who was about as pregnant as the two refugees.

  “Nicola Simpson,” Nicola said.

  “As soon as terminals get freed up we’ll get you checked in,” the woman said. “There are snacks if you’d like, as well as soup and drinks. After you’re checked in, you’ll get scheduled for a maternity check-up. The ‘doctors’ are Navy medics but at least we finally have more than two. One of them told me that, unbelievably enough, they’re starting to get tired of looking at vaginas.”

  “I can imagine,” Nicola said, laughing. “I’m just so glad to get out of that warehouse.”

  “Try starving to death on a yacht while being forced to have sex all the time,” the woman said. “But those thugs are not with this group.”

  “Can I ask . . . What is this group?” Nicola asked.

  “Here,” Kiera said, handing her a brochure. “I’m finished with it. Besides, we had a radio. Since Devil Dog Radio came on, we’ve been getting the story.”

  “What story?” Nicola said, looking at the brochure.

  Welcome to Wolf Squadron . . .

  “Shewolf, Seawolf, over.”

  “’Sup, Sis?” Faith replied.

  “Be advised, we’re apparently celebrities to anyone with a shortwave. Last group of survivors was asking about you. Over.”

  “Sweet,” Faith said. “And, by the way, you could have left some for us.”

  “Heading over to the civvie side again. Going to do our best to make your day boring. But that one you’ll probably have to fine-tooth. Big place. Really complicated.”

  “Got it.”

  “Where you at?”

  “Upside down in the hatch of an M1 trying to figure out if we can get it to start,” Faith replied. “Figure if you get a helicopter, I should get a tank, right?”

  “Like you can drive so much as a car.”

  “Everybody says these drive like one,” Faith said, grinning at Januscheitis. “Maybe I’ll take my first lessons in a tank.”

  “You would. Gotta go. Seawolf, out.”

  * * *

  “You probably should try something smaller for your first lessons, ma’am,” Staff Sergeant Januscheitis said. There was a distant sound of firing from the helo and the usual squawk of seagulls arguing over who got the zombie carrion.

  “Do you know, honestly, my favorite teething toy was a little rubber 1911?” Faith said, pulling her head out of the tank. The interior was surprisingly clean due to the sealed hatches. That didn’t mean it was ready to run.

  “Ask my da or mum some time, they’ll tell you. It wasn’t even a teething toy, it was some SWAG Da picked up at a gun show. Just a little rubber gun. I’d go past other stuff to chew on it. At least according to them. So, what do you think they’ll say in some future time about General Faith Smith, when you’re the Master Guns of the Marines and I’m the Commandant, Staff Sergeant? ‘She teethed on a 1911 and her first car was a tank.’ Sound about right?”

  “Sounds about right, ma’am,” Januscheitis said, laughing.

  “We only need one of these running, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said. “We’re not going to be using it that much. I know they’re a bitch to run and maintain. But I do think we need one. So . . .”

  “Make it so, ma’am?” the staff sergeant said. “You’re talking to the wrong staff sergeant, Lieutenant. Decker’s the armor guy. I’m helos.”

  “Crap,” Faith said, dusting off her hands. She keyed her radio. “Force Ops, Ground Force, over.”

  “Ground Force, Force Ops.”

  “Base clear for Sierra and Sierra. Require Decker and Condrey for armored ground survey. Send over with Sierra and Sierra.”

  “Roger. Will dispatch with Sierra and Sierra.”

  “Now to get him to understand that all we need is it running,” Faith said.

  “Good luck, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Getting one of these up to Decker’s standards will take—”

  “Forever, since there is no such thing as absolutely perfect,” Faith said. “I’ll try to explain it to him.”

  * * *

  “I understand the vehicle does not have to meet full ORS inspection requirements, ma’am,” Decker said, standing at attention. “However, this vehicle will require a minimum of two hundred man-hours of depot-level repair, ma’am.”

  “I’m not getting that, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said. “I’m not disagreeing with you. You’re the expert. But can you explain in terms simple en
ough for a second lieutenant to understand?”

  “When armored vehicles are left unused, various materials break down, ma’am,” Decker said, breaking into lecture mode. “Rubber seals are almost the first to go. The air filter for the engine is paper based and often becomes a nest for pests both invertebrate and vertebrate. At the minimum, this vehicle needs: new batteries, complete seal replacement, adjust fuel injection system, full lube, replace hydraulic fluid, hydraulic seals, oil. . . . That is before even inspecting the vehicle, ma’am. Depot level maintenance, two hundred man-hours, ma’am. And despite the hatches being closed, watch out for brown recluse and black widows in the ammo storage area. That was a recurrent issue with material from this depot, ma’am.”

  “Sounds about right,” Januscheitis said.

  “Really?” Faith said.

  “That’s what we were doing for weeks at Gitmo, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said. “Just with helos. Which had all the same problems. Think you’re going to have to settle for a LAV, ma’am.”

  “What’s a LAV?” Faith asked.

  Decker was far too dialed in and wired to wince. Januscheitis, not so much.

  “It’s times like this that I recall your age and relative inexperience, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said. “If you would care to walk this way . . . ?”

  * * *

  “That’s a tank, too,” Faith said. “All I said was, I want a tank!”

  “With due respect, ma’am! That is not a tank!” Staff Sergeant Decker, the Marine Armor Staff NCO, barked.

  “S’got armor,” Faith said, gesturing at the LAV. “S’got a gun. S’atank!”

  “With due respect, ma’am,” Januscheitis said, trying not to grin. “I have to agree with the staff sergeant on this one. It is a light assault vehicle. So . . . Not a tank.”

  “’Cause it’s got wheels?” Faith asked.

  “’Cause it’s got wheels, light armor and a light gun, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “The LAV-25 is an eight-wheeled, four-wheel primary drive, amphibious reconnaissance vehicle built by General Dynamics and based upon the well-proven Swiss MOWAG series of eight by eight vehicles. The LAV-25 has a crew of three and can carry up to six deployable Marines. Armaments: One twenty-five-millimeter Colt Bushmaster auto-cannon, two M240 machine guns. Light assault vehicle. Not a tank.”