Strands of Sorrow

by John Ringo

  “Roger. Will pass to ForceCom. Over.”

  “Plan and status basin breach, over.”

  “On hold pending full analysis of airfield. Break. May do full airborne extract. Over.”

  “Roger,” Faith said. “Ground out. And there goes the plan out the window,” Faith added. “Oh, well, welcome to another day in the Corps . . .”

  CHAPTER 10

  The man standing on the roof of the ranch style house was wearing a flight suit, survival vest, flight helmet and pistol in chest holster. He was carrying a flight bag.

  “I guess I don’t have to explain this to you, do I?” Olga asked as she hit the roof.

  “Nope,” the man said, stepping over and connecting to the line before she unhooked. “Let’s hoist, Airman!”

  “Gunner’s mate,” Olga said, tugging on the cable as she examined the man’s patches and insignia. “Major?”

  “Lieutenant Commander, Gunner’s Mate,” the man said, frowning.

  “I’m sort of new at this, sir,” Olga said. “Seems like years at this point, but if I see those sort of rank I figure major, sir.” They fell silent then, as the rotor wash from the hovering Sea Dragon drowned out everything else.

  “How long have you been in?” the lieutenant commander asked as they reached the door and were pulled in by Yu. “Were you pre-Plague?”

  “No, sir,” Olga said as she scrambled in after. “I was a model before the Plague. And our number three was an actress. You’ll recognize her.”

  “Pilots?” the commander asked.

  “Pre-Plague Marine captain,” Olga said as they were pulled into the bird. “Post-Plague fifteen-year-old ensign. The flight engineer’s old school, though. AFSOC MH-53 FE.”

  “Jesus,” the man said, shaking his head and unclipping from the line. He set his flight bag down, walked over and hooked into the intercom system. “Pilot. Lieutenant Commander Greg Sanderson, former commander Helicopter Strike Squadron Forty. Permission to enter the cockpit?”

  “Granted,” Wilkes said. “Welcome aboard, Commander.”

  “Be right up,” Sanderson said and unclipped. “Secure my flight bag,” he said, pointing to it.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Anna said, saluting.

  “Are you . . . ?” Sanderson mouthed as he returned the salute.

  “Yes,” Anna said, nodding and grinning. She grabbed the flight bag and used a carabiner to hook it to a tie-down ring in the floor next to the bulkhead.

  Sanderson shook his head and went forward. EZ handed him a spare comm cord and stepped back out of the way so that the commander could lean in and see the pilots as he spoke.

  “Appreciate a sitrep if you have time,” Sanderson said after he’d hooked in in the cockpit.

  “Where to start, sir,” Sophia replied. “Unit started as a scratch civilian effort at sea. Eventually was recognized as a military unit by the NCCC. Some became military, others remained civilian. We’ve been doing clearance and rescue for most of the time since the Fall, sir.”

  “Are you the fifteen-year-old, Ensign?” Sanderson asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Sophia replied. “That is a very long story, sir. Part of the story is that my father is LantFleet. Another part is that he’s prior Australian Army and has never been Navy, sir. We’re up to about eight thousand people, total, including the sub crews. Anyone who is competent to do something, or marginally in my sister’s case, just throws in, sir.”

  “Faith is far more than marginal, Seawolf,” Wilkes said. “I was the only helo pilot, sir. When I needed somebody to sit in the co seat, my first choice was Sophia, sir.”

  “Thank you, Tang,” Sophia said. “I was a small boat commander, then a small boat division commander before this, sir. We needed small boats. Now we need helos. Seemed like a natural progression.”

  “Take this pick-up,” Wilkes said as they approached the top of a Publix. The survivors were emaciated, indicating they may have had control of the back room but probably not the front area. “We’ll do a ramp load.”

  “Roger,” Sophia said. She tried not to sound nervous but she was sure the Navy commander was observing her every move.

  “Ramp load, Wands,” Wilkes said over the intercom.

  “Got it,” Anna replied.

  * * *

  “I’m afraid that one’s going to have a stick up his butt,” Olga said on the cargo compartment net.

  “They tend to come around eventually,” Yu replied.

  EZ snorted, keying his mic so they could hear him do so, but he said nothing else.

  * * *

  “You said that there is a requirement for more helos, Ensign?” Sanderson asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Sophia replied. “The SAR reason is obvious, sir. But my father has hinted, for some time, that he has another use for them. I’m unaware of his plans in that regard, sir. But he generally has both short- and long-term reasons for his actions or needs, sir.”

  “You said something about the NCCC,” Sanderson said. “Who is that?”

  “Undersecretary Frank Galloway, sir,” Sophia replied. “In the Hole and uninfected, so until we can clear a route to them and get them some vaccine they’re stuck.”

  “We have vaccine?” Sanderson said.

  “We have vaccine, sir,” Wilkes replied. “Made in England, at the Tower of London, believe it or not, by an English/Pakistani biochemist from the spines of human infected. Which are mostly gathered by the Gurkha guards.”

  “I can see from that little statement there is going to be a lot of catching up to do,” Sanderson said. “Have you done anything with the base?”

  “Just got word that the field is cleared and the birds there were prepped for long-term storage, sir,” Wilkes said. “If that was your plan, sir, may we say officially ‘thank you.’”

  “The admiral made the call,” Sanderson said. “I was involved, yes. Last question for now. Any other pilots or crew make it out?”

  “We’ve picked up two other pilots, although one of them was a female technical instructor . . .”

  “That be Nicola Simpson?” Sanderson asked.

  “Yes, it was, sir,” Wilkes said. “Who, by the way, just got married but kept her own name. The other was Navy and I don’t recall the name, sir. But he wasn’t from HSM 40. Sorry, sir. And some of the maintenance crews have turned up here and there. You can check in on them when you get to the boat, sir.”

  “Roger,” Sanderson said. “I’ll just let you fly for now. I’ll get out of the cockpit. Ensign.”

  “Sir?” Sophia said.

  “You’re doing fine for your background. No issues. That’s an official statement as an IP on these and the commander of the squadron that trained people on them. That being said, at some point I want to ensure your full qual absent objections from higher.”

  “Da won’t object if that’s what you mean, sir,” Sophia said. “Nor would I, sir.”

  “We’ll schedule that when we have time,” Sanderson said, getting up. “In the meantime, carry on.”

  * * *

  “Whuff,” Sophia said as soon as the commander left the compartment. “Not looking forward to that check ride.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Wilkes said. “Just remember not to miss any of the steps. I’ve got this one.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain Crunch,” Sophia said.

  “Or say anything like that . . .” Wilkes said, then keyed the radio. “Force Ops, Dragon.”

  “Dragon, Force Ops.”

  “Be advised. Recent pick-up, Lieutenant Commander Gregory Sanderson, former commander HelMarStrike Squadron Forty. Pilot and IP, Seahawk and Dragon. Over.”

  “Copy. Further, over?”

  “Negative,” Wilkes said. “Dragon, out.”

  “Figured the colonel would want a heads-up?” Sophia asked.

  “Yep,” Wilkes said.

  “Survivors signaling,” Yu said. “About ten o’clock.”

  “Roger,” Wilkes said, banking to port. “Vector us in . . .”

 
; * * *

  “Dragon, Force Ops.”

  They’d been flying around most of the day, following a pattern that spiraled out in an ever expanding square, looking for survivors. And they were about full up. Hovering when loaded was a dicey proposition and between the time and the load Wilkes was about to call it.

  “Force Ops, Dragon,” Sophia replied.

  “Romeo Tango Bravo. Change in plan. All personnel clearing base picked up airfield. Will take more than two lifts.”

  “Roger,” Sophia said. “RTB at this time.”

  “Time to go do that voodoo that you do, so well,” Wilkes said, pointing northeast.

  “I suppose this means I have to talk to my sister,” Sophia said.

  “You should be grateful,” Wilkes replied. “She’s hard at work on getting you your birthday present.”

  “We’d all be grateful for that,” EZ put in.

  “Dragon, Force Ops.”

  “Dragon,” Sophia said.

  “Commander Sanderson to report ForceCom on arrival.”

  “Roger,” Sophia said. “Further, over?”

  “Negative. Force Ops out.”

  * * *

  “You’re ahead of me, Colonel,” Steve said, smiling. “As usual.”

  “You’d planned on doing the mechanicals, sir?” Colonel Hamilton asked.

  “Of course,” Steve said. “I came up with them. I’d planned on moving Commander Isham to the chosen facility when we decided to start the program in earnest. He owned a small manufacturing company and has experience in setting up and managing line production. My original plan had been to use the commercial port of Miami. You think it’s doable up there?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hamilton said.

  “You want Isham?” Steve asked. “Be advised before you answer: I want hundreds of them within a year.”

  “Then I’d like Commander Isham if you can spare him, sir,” Hamilton said.

  “Done,” Steve said. “I have a sufficiency of beached and extremely capable lieutenant commanders available to take over as chief of staff. Helicopters. Can you get the Mayport helo facility up and running?”

  “Question is security, sir,” Hamilton said. “There are still a bunch of infected running around the base and we’re close to Jax of course. We can use the facility. It’s useable at present. But if we start turning on lights at night, it will attract all the infected in Jax and sooner or later they’re going to breach the perimeter. Which is what we’re interested in the mechanicals for. Clearing Jax is the big issue. If we can get the infected numbers down . . .”

  “Building the mechanicals at first will be an issue,” Steve said. “Setting it up, right, will take time. This is always the problem, has been the problem, between creating the infrastructure versus other missions like, well, rescue. I’d suggest using alternate means for clearance if there are any available. So, the helos aren’t going to be as much of an issue as they were here?”

  “It doesn’t sound like it, sir,” Hamilton said.

  “By the authority invested in me as Commander, Atlantic Fleet,” Steve said. “If that lieutenant commander is functional and can work in the new world order, he’s back as Commander HELMARSTRIKERON 40. Which is going to be a combination of training and operational. The fact that it’s called the Air Wolves is, of course, a bonus.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hamilton said. “I’ll inform him as soon as he’s aboard.”

  “We have one more helo pilot here, sort of,” Steve said. “Civilian, older, and only trained on light helos. But he’s a pilot. I’m sending Isham up, anyway. You want him?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hamilton said. “If this is going to be the primary helo base, then I’d like him, sir.”

  “Done,” Steve said. “Not a change of mission but a change of focus. Get Jax cleared by any means necessary. At least reduce the numbers to the point the helo port isn’t going to get swarmed. Clear the base to yellow-green. Get the helo port to the point it’s useable. I’ll send up the additional helo pilot and Isham as well as some additional machinist mates. Keep your primary weight on Blount for security reasons but we need to be able to use the facilities on Mayport day and night. When Mayport is up and going . . . Then head up the coast.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hamilton said. “When can we expect them, sir?”

  “Couple of days, max,” Steve said. “We haven’t been sitting on our hands down here. Gitmo out.”

  * * *

  “Commander,” Hamilton said when Sanderson was ushered into the office. “Welcome aboard.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Sanderson said, looking at Lieutenant Simpson. “Nic, it’s good to see you made it, too. Ahem, I’d heard you were recently married. Congratulations. And . . . Uh, are congratulations again in order?”

  “Thanks, Greg,” Simpson said. “Or I should have said ‘Thanks, sir.’” She was in a Navy maternity uniform. “And, yes, congratulations on both are in order.”

  “When did you join the Navy?” Sanderson asked.

  “As soon as she entered her social security number in our database, Commander,” Hamilton said. “When she was automatically reactivated and automatically shifted in service. Time is a bit short for idle chit-chat.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sanderson said.

  “We have a priority need for helicopters and helo pilots,” Hamilton said. “Assigned by LantFleet. The question is, can you adjust to war-time requirements, Lieutenant Commander?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” Commander Sanderson said.

  “The standards for pilot training pre-Plague were eighty-six hours ground training and one hundred twenty-eight hours flight training before being certified as mission capable,” Hamilton said. “That’s too long. And the training time on flight and maintenance crews is too long as well. So can you get your head around World War Two style training? Because that’s all we’re going to get.”

  “That . . . makes me uncomfortable, sir,” Sanderson said. “I take it that’s why there’s a fifteen-year-old flying a Sea Dragon?”

  “And because she read the manual on the float to England and when Colonel Kuznetsov stayed Captain Wilkes, who is about to be Major Wilkes, needed somebody to at least handle the radios,” Hamilton said. “Her first solo was off the bobbing platform of the Grace, because that was where we were when Wilkes, reluctantly, agreed she was more or less ready to solo. Which pretty much says it all.

  “LantFleet wants every Seahawk or Blackhawk and every Sea Dragon or Super Stallion on or near the East Coast with pilots for all of them. And he wants that within six months. Part of them will come from raiding every base within range of the coast and finding survivors like yourself. Many of them are going to be civilian refugees who meet minimum standards. Or even below if they are trained in the field.

  “You’ve barely arrived, you don’t know Papa Wolf, or you’d know that what he wants, he gets. He gets not because he is LantFleet, but because he will get it one way or another. He has been putting his own daughters on the sharp end since before the Fall. He’s been on the sharp end more than once. And he has a total disregard for anything resembling normal procedures that get in the way of what he wants done. He actively encourages ‘secondary sourcing’ when there’s no defined supply line. He’s perfectly willing to do Montrose Toast over and over again to get the U.S., at least, cleared of zombies. So with that understanding, do you think you can handle that? If you can’t, you’re a pilot. We’ve got a crying need for same. But you’re either with the program or you’re not. And if you’re not, you’re not going to be involved in decision making on who is or is not a pilot. Period.”

  “I . . . understand, sir,” Sanderson said. “I’ll simply note that cutting the standards is going to cause losses, sir.”

  “I’ve been running like mad since I first got out of the warehouse in Gitmo,” Hamilton said. “But I’ve had a few off-duty conversations. One of them was with a Coast Guard lieutenant, former petty officer and basically the Commandant of the Coast G
uard at this point. He had the same reaction when Wolf told him that he had two days to put together a training program for boat captains. They had to be prepared, in no more than three days of training, to cross the Atlantic performing rescues at sea and doing underway replenishment. Of course, it was winter in the southern Atlantic, which isn’t the worst of all possible worlds. But it was still too little training.

  “And what he told me was that Captain Smith said: ‘We’re going to lose people because they’re under-trained. I’m aware of that. And when we do, feel free to not say “I told you so” because I already know it.’ And they did lose people. Boats sank, caught on fire, people fell overboard and there were always sharks. The net effect was more people saved and more materials recovered than lost. And that was ‘good enough’ for a zombie apocalypse.

  “The mission is save people and free the world from infected. We’re not going to get that done by crossing every I, dotting every T and screaming ‘safety, safety, safety’ the way that we did pre-Plague. Not in our lifetime. So if you’re onboard, fine. If you’re not, say you’re not. And when, not if, we lose people because of undertrained crews, undertrained pilots, undertrained mechanics, feel free to not say ‘I told you so.’ We all know.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sanderson said, taking a deep breath. “In that case . . . I’m onboard, sir.”

  “Very well,” Hamilton said. “You are, once again, Commander HELMARSTRIKERON 40, which happens to be our only Squadron and one in name only. Since Kodiak Force is an off-shoot of Wolf Squadron, the name is appropriate as Captain Smith noted. In fact, it’s what we were calling our air support, anyway. Your current manning is the lieutenant here, Captain Wilkes, Ensign Smith and the support personnel. There is an additional pilot coming up from Gitmo in the next few days. He’ll need to be trained on the birds since his background is civilian. We’re working on getting the heliport up and functioning. If you can handle not taking the three days off, you’re going ashore tomorrow to start seeing what you have and what you don’t.”

  “Ready to work, sir,” Commander Sanderson said. “Hell, very ready to fly.”

  “Who flies what and when is up to you,” Hamilton said. “We have an after actions review in about an hour depending on when we get everyone back. You’re invited.”