by John Ringo
Curran had just gotten his SAW mag seated.
“Your weapon, ma’am,” Randolph said, bending down and picking up the dropped pistol. “I’m still having a hard time dropping training to just drop a pistol, ma’am.”
“Hey,” Faith said, grinning. “At least this time it was on sand.”
She went back to the door where Haugen was levering at it with the Halligan just as he managed to pop one of the large plywood sheets loose.
She grabbed the edge of the plywood, put a boot into the bulkhead of the home and pulled it back.
“Can you get out?” Faith yelled.
“Yeah,” a kid’s voice answered.
Two children, boy and girl, slid under her leg, then stopped.
“What the hell are you waiting for?” Faith asked. “Get in the damned track!”
“Aye, aye, ma’am!” the boy said, grabbing the girl’s hand and running for the track.
“Hooch, Randolph, can you break contact?” Faith yelled, letting go of the plywood.
“Roger,” Hooch said.
“Can do, ma’am,” Randolph replied.
“Load up!” Faith yelled. “Move to cover top as you load. Hooch, you’re ass-end Charlie.”
Faith got back in the track and stopped at the scene. The mother, presumably, of the two children had them in her lap and was crying. So were both of the children. But it was crying in relief.
“Thank you,” the woman said, looking at her.
“Semper Fi, ma’am,” Faith said. “Glad you made it. Hooch, we all in?”
“All present and accounted for, ma’am,” the sergeant said, closing the personnel hatch.
“Let’s roll, people,” Faith said. “We got zombies to kill.”
* * *
“Your lieutenant must have been right out of MOBC,” the woman said as Hocieniec handed her and her children bottles of water. “She can’t be more than twenty.”
“She never went to MOBC, ma’am,” Hooch said. “Post-Plague direct commission. And she’s fourteen, not twenty. I’d say that this was a walk in the park for her but . . . The meaning of ‘walk in the park’ has changed. This was, in fact, what it means, a walk in the park. Fighting zombies. Were you a dependent or in service?”
“Dependent,” the woman said. “Sherry Jackson. My husband was Captain Tyler Jackson. Navy.”
“Daddy went to work and didn’t come home,” the girl said, her eyes wide.
“I don’t suppose . . .” the woman said.
“Not familiar with the name, ma’am,” Hooch said. “But you can check when you get to the base. We’ve picked up a good few survivors, ma’am.” He waited until the children weren’t looking, shook his head in the negative and shrugged. If a Navy captain had popped up on the radar, he’d have known.
The woman just nodded and held her children closer.
“Sergeant,” Randolph said. “We got company.”
* * *
“How’s the survivors?” Faith asked as they cleared the latest concentration.
“Doing okay, ma’am,” Hooch answered. “All things considered. Told them this was the new meaning of ‘walk in the park.’”
“That’s it!” Faith said. “That’s where zombies climbing over a wall was from! Thanks, Hooch.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
“Nothing could be finer than clearing out a liner in the morrrning . . .” Faith sang. “Nothing could be sweeter than sending zeds to Peter in the morrrning . . . I wanna drive Trixie around. Amtracks are sooo last week . . . I know we’re going to be clearing south, but I want to drive it down to Jax. Know why?”
“Why, ma’am?” Hooch said. “More zombies?”
“No, so I can sing ‘Downtown,’” Faith said, grinning. “We’re going Downtown! Where all the lights are bright. Downtown! You’re gonna be all right! Downtown! Zombies are waiting for youuu!”
“Ma’am, with due respect and great admiration,” Hooch said. “You are over the line of crazy and well into psycho.”
“Yuh think?”
* * *
“Got survivors you missed,” Faith said, making a horns sign at Sophia as she sat down to chow. “Two teams picked ’em up.”
“We came back just about over max from Jax NAS,” Sophia said. “Sixty people aboard. Lots of survivors there. They’d managed to hold the commissary.”
“Sure, but you got to do it from the air,” Faith said. “We had to fight our way in to the houses!”
“Which you enjoy, sister dear,” Sophia said, grinning. “I prefer the easy way. Which I’m not getting tomorrow. Check ride on the Dragon with Commander Sanderson, then begin Seahawk cross-train. I’m curious to know where they found another pilot and how they’re getting here. You hear anything?”
“Negative,” Faith said, shoveling down her food. “And I’ve got an AAR in ten minutes. You?”
“I’m exempt to do homework,” Sophia said, patting the manual she had open on the table.
“That’d be a hell of a choice,” Faith said, standing up. “Homework or meeting?”
“Meeting,” Sophia said, lifting the book and turning it to face her. It was a mass of mathematics.
“Ehhhh!” Faith hissed, throwing up one arm to cover her face and a hand out. “You shall not defeat me, Van Helsing!”
“Back, back!” Sophia said, jabbing the open book at her. “Or I shall explain the math of weight and balance in aircraft operations!”
“The math!” Faith said, picking up her tray. “It burrrns! You are cruel! Evil, vicious, pilots!”
“Have fun in your meeting, Sis,” Sophia said, smiling in triumph.
“Enjoy your homework, Sis,” Faith said. “Here’s hoping a quadratic bites you.”
“Now that’s just mean . . .”
* * *
“Ground Force, Force Ops.”
“Ground Force.”
A day and a half of clearance and the base was looking pretty good. Oh, there were bodies everywhere, but they weren’t having much luck at this point finding zombies.
“Need you to bring all teams to the airfield for infected sweep and FOD walk-down, over.”
“Roger, over,” Faith said, mildly puzzled.
“Force Ops, out.”
“Freeman, head for the airfield gate,” Faith said. “Hey, Hooch.”
“Ma’am?”
“What’s a FOD walk-down?” Faith asked.
“Oh, no!” Hooch said. “We’ve got to do a FOD walk?”
Even over the rattle and rumble of the amtrack, she could hear the troops in the back bitching up a storm at the words.
“Infected sweep of the airfield and FOD walk-down,” Faith said. “That’s a problem?”
“Oh, you’re just gonna love it, LT,” Hooch said. “It’s one of the main joys of being a Marine.”
* * *
“We’re supposed to walk down the runway in a line,” Faith said, puzzled. “Looking for . . . ? Sir?”
“Anything, Lieutenant,” Sanderson said. “And I do mean anything that is not the flat, plain, concrete. Foreign Object Debris. Which the runway is covered with. We have a P-8 coming in from Gitmo with some personnel and equipment. If it kicks up foreign objects and sucks them into its turbofans it’s deadlined and cannot return. So there is to be nothing, absolutely nothing, on the strip. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Faith said.
“Your gunnery sergeant and Staff Sergeant Januscheitis are familiar with the process, Lieutenant,” Sanderson said. “I’d suggest you let them handle it.”
“I keep finding things with which I need to be familiarized, sir,” Faith said. “With due respect, sir, this seems like one of those things.”
“Then carry on, Lieutenant,” Sanderson said.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Faith replied.
* * *
“So this is it?” Faith said, walking next to Gunnery Sergeant Sands. They were slightly behind the line of Marines who were stopping occasionally to pick up “de
bris.” “We just walk along picking up trash?”
“FOD walk-down, ma’am,” Sands said, looking around. “Curran! What the hell does ‘pick up every damned thing’ mean to you? Bone, Curran! You just stepped on it!”
The runway wasn’t, exactly, covered in debris. But there was a hell of a lot of it. Winds had blown material onto the runway from the surrounding areas and infected had dropped stuff on it. Some of that was “biological” in nature, not just fecal matter but discarded bones. There were even a couple of thoroughly decomposed bodies. The problem with those was picking up all the bits of the skeleton that were still around. Scavengers had scattered them far and wide.
“Question, Gunny,” Faith said, putting her hand on his arm to slow him and separate from the Marines. “Why are my Marines doing this?” she asked, quietly. “We’ve got several hundred square miles of territory to clear. This would seem to be a job for . . . somebody else. Heck, refugees come to mind.”
“Sector’s still not ensured clear, ma’am,” Sands said. “And it has to be done by people who will pick up every damned thing, ma’am. Which generally means someone military. You can bring it up with Force Ops if you want, ma’am. Probably a question for the AAR. But, if you will take your gunny’s suggestion, bring it up as a calm question, ma’am. Not a bitch.”
“Won’t bitch, Gunny,” Faith said. “That’s the reason I wanted to have the question on the quiet. I get that. But . . . really does not seem like a good use of resources. Every sweep we find survivors. My opinion is we should be sweeping for zombies not . . . leaves.”
“That’s a question for higher, ma’am,” Gunny Sands said. “And that is one of your jobs. To point out to higher that there might have been a better use of our time. But it is also true that this is important and has to be done by people who will . . . Moment, ma’am . . . Gawwwdamnit, Curran! Keep your head down and use your fucking eyes . . . !”
* * *
“That is . . . weird,” Januscheitis said, looking up at the circling plane.
The P-8 was a variant of the 737 used by the Navy for long-range reconnaissance and antisubmarine warfare as a replacement for the aging fleet of P-3s. There had been three of them on the pad at Gitmo, presumably used for drug interdiction, but Faith never expected to see them flying again. Apparently her da wasn’t sitting on his hands.
“Yeah,” Faith said, shaking her head. “It’s like . . . That’s probably the first jet anyone’s got flying since the Fall. Maybe not the first plane. I hear there’s a group down by Australia that’s got an old amphibian flying. But that’s the first big plane.”
“I guess maybe we are coming back, ma’am,” Januscheitis said.
“I wonder how far it can go,” Faith said.
“They extended the range with inboard fuel tanks,” Commander Sanderson said, walking up behind them. “After ripping out everything that makes it a real P-8. So it’s trans-ocean capable. When PacFleet gets a field secure on the West Coast, it can get back and forth. Until we run out of parts.”
“Are there any at Jax NAS, sir?” Faith asked.
“Yes,” Sanderson said. “And, no, you’re not going to be clearing it any time soon, Lieutenant. Too big, too far out.”
“We can raid for parts, sir,” Faith said. “If we know where they are in general.”
“For an engine, Lieutenant?” Sanderson asked.
“We’ve done weirder shit, sir,” Faith said. “If it’s a critical item, we will get it, sir. One way or another.”
“Please not London, again, LT,” Januscheitis said.
“If we have to do an LRI, we do an LRI, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said. “But next time we’re going to use more firepower.”
“LRI?” Commander Sanderson said as the circling jet lined up for landing.
“London Research Institute, sir,” Staff Sergeant Januscheitis said. “It’s where I lost my ear, sir. No KIA on the op, surprisingly. But people are already starting to try to figure out how to insert it into the Marine Hymn. Because it is this universe’s equivalent of ‘the Shores of Tripoli,’ sir. From personal experience, made Fallujah look like . . . Well, a walk in the park in peacetime, sir.”
“Good times,” Faith said. “Good times. Which would you rather be doing, Staff Sergeant? LRI or a FOD walk-down?”
“FOD walk-down, ma’am,” Januscheitis said instantly. “No choice. Zero.”
“You disappoint me, Staff Sergeant,” Faith joked.
“As long as that is not reflected on my eval,” Januscheitis said, “I’m fine with that, ma’am. Even for a Marine, you have very odd ideas of fun, ma’am.”
“I don’t drink alcohol,” Faith said, grinning as the plane landed. “Blood’s the next best thing. Girl’s gotta have a hobby.”
CHAPTER 12
Once a ground crewman had the stairs up on the P-8, the passengers started to debark. Faith didn’t recognize most of them but the gray haired man wearing a brand new Navy uniform was widely familiar.
“Is that . . . ?” Commander Sanderson said.
“Harold Chrysler,” Faith said, grinning. He was wearing lieutenant JG rank tabs. “I’d guess that’s the civilian helo pilot.”
“I hope he passed a flight physical,” Commander Sanderson said dubiously. “Do you know what he was rated on civilian?”
“No, sir,” Faith said, walking towards the line of debarking passengers. “But I know he’s a genuinely nice guy. Hey, Harold!”
“Lieutenant,” the former movie star said, smiling. He looked momentarily unsure. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to salute or not.”
“Not me,” Faith said. “Same rank. But you might want to salute your new boss,” she added, thumbing over her shoulder at the lieutenant commander.
“Lieutenant Junior Grade Harold Chrysler, reporting in, sir,” Harold said. He had a good salute, that was for sure. Very parade ground.
“Welcome aboard, Lieutenant,” Sanderson said, returning the salute. “I just wondered aloud if you’re going to be able to pass a flight physical, Lieutenant.”
“I did in Guantanamo, sir,” Chrysler said. “Done by Dr. Price who is an astronautic and aeronautic specialist MD, sir. I may be a bit creaky but I’m in excellent health.”
“What were you qualified on civilian?” Sanderson asked.
“Bell Jet Ranger, Lynx, Westland 139, MD 600 and variants, sir,” Chrysler replied. “I owned, at one point or another, each of those. I have over ten thousand hours flight time including mountain rescue and harsh environment landing, sir.”
“Okay,” Sanderson said, surprised. “I’d heard you had a helo, I didn’t realize you were that into it.”
“I made a lot of money from movies, sir,” Chrysler said, grinning. “And I spent a good bit of it on my one serious hobby. All that being said: I took a look at the grounded Seahawks in Gitmo and I’ve been reading the Dash Ones for those and Sea Dragons. Whoof! I thought civilian birds were complicated! Lots to learn, sir. Lots to learn.”
“Good attitude,” Sanderson said. “My attitude is that with that much civilian experience, I’m going to expect you to blast through the course. We need all the pilots we can get.”
“Since being asked if I’d volunteer I’ve been reading, as I said, sir,” Chrysler said. “I’m ready to take the phase one ground test. That was mostly basic helo and virtually the same as civilian. Mostly a matter of nomenclature. Seahawk . . . different kettle of fish, sir.”
“We don’t have the testing facility set up, yet,” Sanderson said, frowning. “But I’ve got some of the tests on my laptop. I’ll try to get that scheduled for tomorrow. How far along are you on the Seahawk and Sea Dragon manuals?”
“I’ve read them, sir.” Chrysler said. “I won’t say my brain shut down at points, but those are far more complicated than civilian. Mostly the peripheral systems, sir. I could probably drive one, now, sir. That’s not . . .”
“No, got that,” Sanderson said. “With that many hours civilian, assuming no emergen
cies, you could drive one. It’s the emergencies that would catch you.”
“Yes, sir,” Chrysler said. “I’m not sure I’d be ready to command one, sir.”
“We’ll schedule you for the phase one ground test tomorrow,” Sanderson said. “Then a test hop in the Sea Dragon, which is our only functioning platform tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes, sir,” Chrysler said.
“Um . . .” Faith said, gesturing with her chin to another older man wearing NavCam and rank for a full lieutenant. She vaguely recognized him but couldn’t place where.
“Oh, Commander,” Chrysler said, turning to the man. “May I introduce Lieutenant Jeff Malone, sir?”
“Reporting in, sir,” Malone said, saluting. He had a Commonwealth accent.
“Welcome aboard, Lieutenant,” Sanderson said.
“Jeff’s from Oz, sir,” Chrysler said. “He was a production manager down there.”
“I started on Lord of the Rings as a gaffer, sir,” Malone said. “Later went on to, well, a lot of movies and shows. I’ve been helping out down in Gitmo and they thought you could use a hand up here, sir.”
“He’s good, Commander,” Chrysler said. “Getting production organized on site is a lot like being in the military except with more cat herding.”
“Being able to say ‘Do this’ and know that if they don’t I can hang them from a yardarm is such a refreshing experience I don’t know why I didn’t join the military a long time ago, sir,” Malone said, grinning. “But I’d better go report in to S-1, if someone could point the way.”
“You can either scale the fence and steal a boat, sir,” Faith said. “Or you can try to swim the river. Note that the sharks and alligators have added humans to their standard diet, sir. Or you can wait for the rest of us to fly back over. If you take the steal a boat option, with permission of the commander we can provide cover fire, sir.”
