Strands of Sorrow

by John Ringo

  “Home of every boomer in the Atlantic,” the colonel continued. “And quite a few of the fast attacks. Which in strategic terms means . . . Gunny?”

  “Big stash of special weapons, sir,” Gunnery Sergeant Sands said.

  “Master Guns” had found his niche. He’d remained “retired” and had settled into an office on Blount Island like he was born there. They were never going to be able to get another round out of the place. They’d have to scrounge for pens and pencils for the rest of the war.

  “Special weapons storage facility is here,” Hamilton said, pointing to the magazines. “No infected have been detected inside the facility. Indications are the roving guards all succumbed, were eaten or died of starvation and thirst, unable to break out. Lots of infected on the outside, fortunately. I say ‘fortunately’ because there are other groups starting to move around. And whatever your beliefs in the Second Amendment, nuclear weapons are not something we want getting loose.”

  “Oh, God, no,” Faith said. “And I say that as a born, bred and trained gun-hugger, sir.”

  “So the first and overriding priority is to secure the special weapons,” Hamilton said. “The second priority is destruction of all heavy weaponry in the other magazines with the exception of some that we will extract for later use. By direction, LantFleet, with concurrence JCS and NCCC, small arms magazines will be left intact except for what we extract for our own use.”

  “LantFleet wants any survivors to have access, sir?” Gunnery Sergeant Sands asked.

  “That is the Atlantic Fleet commander’s intent,” Hamilton said. “When I asked the same question, not particularly surprised, he pointed out that they would most likely be accessed by American tax-payers who had paid for it in the first place and have an obvious need. On a purely legal basis, it’s the Federal Government arming the militia. On the other hand, the militia does not necessarily need to be playing around with W-88s, Tomahawks and ADCAPs.”

  “Sir?” Faith said.

  “Nukes, cruise missiles and torpedoes, ma’am,” Gunny Sands said.

  “Thank you,” Faith said.

  Hamilton paused for a moment and looked around the room.

  “The submariners are, obviously, critical to all ongoing operations. And they, like many of the rest of us, are wondering and worrying about whether their dependents survived. In addition, the boomers had a dual crew system so half the crews were ashore when the Plague broke out.

  “Most recent satellite sweep has detected multiple survivor groups. Looks like every building that had stash has survivors. A couple of homes have been spotted as having probable survivors. Therefore, due to both morale and personnel value issues, over and above any other base, including Marine bases, Marines will perform intensive search and rescue sweeps of the base housing areas as well as nearby town areas. To give you an impression of what I mean by ‘intense,’ we have allotted seven days of SAR and clearance of an area that is a fraction of the size of Jax. By contrast, I’ve been reliably informed, we’ll have only two days on Lejeune.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Gunny Sands said bitterly.

  “Are we taking Trixie, sir?” Faith asked.

  “On reflection, yes,” Hamilton said. “It was discussed and we came to the conclusion the value was obvious.”

  “Then there are two ways of looking at this, Gunny,” Faith said. “One way is Da doesn’t care about the Marines so he’s leaving them and their dependents to die. Care to think about that for a second, Gunny?”

  “I know your father cares about the Corps, ma’am . . .” Gunny Sands said.

  “The other way to think about it is this:” Faith said. “With submariners, you’re obviously going to have to drive up to their house. They like to hide. They’re shy. And they scare easy. We’ll probably have to coax them out with treats. We’ll need to lay in some pogie bait. Drive Trixie around the Lejeune area for two days straight, drop some caches behind as we go and the Marines will rise up in an unstoppable tide, Gunny. We ain’t takin’ two weeks on Lejeune ’cause Da figures we ain’t gotta. Just leave ’em a note the assembly area is Jax. Marines’ll canoe down.”

  “That is a point, ma’am,” Gunny Sands said.

  “And my first op-order on Lejeune, Gunny,” Faith said, “I’ve already written the opening line: ‘We’re rollin’ hot to the gunny’s for some cold-beer.’ Oorah?”

  “Oorah, ma’am,” the gunnery sergeant said. “Semper Fi. Power’s been out. Beer might not be cold. And knowing my wife, probably ain’t but the one can left.”

  “Well, then, Gunny,” Faith said. “That can will be waiting for you. Discussion closed. Sir?”

  “We are taking one Seahawk,” Hamilton said. “We’ve reconfigured so it can operate solely off of the Boadicea. No more perching like a . . . Seahawk on its nest.”

  “Hoowah or oorah or whatever you’re supposed to say in the Navy,” Sophia said. “On behalf of the mechanics who had to work on the bird up there, thank you, sir.”

  “I think it’s hooyah or ooyah or something,” Captain Wilkes said.

  “I think that’s just SEALs, sir,” Gunny Sands said.

  “And on the subject of Navy,” Hamilton said, cutting off the discussion. “Captain Wilkes?”

  “Sir?” Wilkes said cautiously.

  “Congratulations are in order,” Hamilton said. “And possibly condolences. You just made Lieutenant Commander.”

  “Agh,” Wilkes said, clutching his chest. “What’s that psychological term, Colonel?”

  “Conflicted?” Hamilton said.

  “That’s the one, sir,” Wilkes said. “I thought that might be coming, but . . .”

  “Marines are, for the time being, pure amphibious and boarding combat arms,” Hamilton said. “The current split, and I’m told it may change back and may not, is Navy handles all support including all aviation. Which means our mechanics will be Navy, our cooks will be Navy, our clerks will be Navy, our armorers will be Navy and most notably our pilots will be Navy. For the immediate future, if you were pre-Plague Marine, you are driving something with a primary gun system, holding a weapon or commanding same. Period. In the event that we recover aviators from Cherry Point or New River . . . They just became either Navy flyers, if rotary, carrying a rifle, commanding a company of armor, et cetera, if fixed. Possibly aviators if we have more fixed wing needs or possibly cross-trained to rotary. In which case they’ll also be transferring services.”

  “Pretty much how it went when the Marines first started out, sir,” Gunny Sands said. “I’m not even sure when we started having things like our own cooks and mechanics, sir.”

  “When we started having expeditionary forces, Gunny,” Hamilton said. “It was Nicaragua and the World Wars that forced us to change and grow into an independent service. Which was the point that Captain Smith made. We’re not currently mounting those nor does he intend to do so in any conceivable time-frame. All ‘inland’ operations will be Army when it is reactivated. Marines are hereby entirely littoral and thus can draw upon the Navy for support personnel. We’re not even bivouacking ashore in case you haven’t noticed. When we have enough Marines for a company, we’ll probably have a Marine company clerk. Unit armorer will probably be Navy. Anyway, congratulations on your promotion, Lieutenant Commander. Well deserved. And once a Marine, always a Marine.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wilkes said.

  “One aspect of this general ‘support’ subject that has always held true is the assignment of corpsmen to the Marines from the Navy,” Hamilton said. “We’re hoping that the same rubbed off esprit de corps that corpsmen have will work for the rest of the rates. However, again as people may have noticed, we have yet to have a corpsman actually assigned to the ground unit. That is because they are all assigned to other duties, notably the baby-boom we’re currently experiencing. I discussed this with higher and we have been assigned a corpsman.”

  “Hallelujah,” Faith said. “About damned time.”

  “Volunteers were soli
cited and several of the former sub corpsmen have volunteered,” Hamilton said. “Gunnery Sergeant Sands, I’m putting you in charge of selection. I’d recommend running them through a PT and marching test, then interview. Anything else they’ll have to pick up OJT. Oh, and a range qualification. Zombies really have no regard for the Geneva Convention and thus the corpsmen will be armed. It’s a pity, but that’s life.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gunny Sands said. “When?”

  “Tomorrow,” Hamilton said. “We’re on short time.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sands said.

  “And that is the outline,” Hamilton said. “Now to wrestle the devil . . .”

  * * *

  “Moment of your time, sir?” Faith said as the meeting broke up.

  “Of course, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said, gesturing with his chin.

  The gunny took the hint and left. Officer talk.

  “It’s not a big deal, sir,” Faith said. “It’s about Trixie, sir.”

  “Tiring of your toy, Lieutenant?” Hamilton said wryly.

  “Not a bit, sir,” Faith said, grinning. “And I love every bit of it. I think, given that there’s no threat from enemies with anti-tank systems that we’re fighting, pink is an awesome color and it was, absolutely, the best birthday present ever, sir.”

  “That being said?” Hamilton said curiously.

  “She needs to be a regular color, sir,” Faith said. “Some people were great with it but it causes a lot of consternation, sir. When it was just the greatest birthday present, ever, and, yes, a toy, sir, that was one thing. But we’re using it as a vehicle of war, sir. I don’t go fighting zombies in a mini-skirt, sir. Trixie needs to be in uniform if she’s going to war, sir.”

  “Concur, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “We’ll have to do the paint-job on the float. And we’re not going to be floating long. Get with the gunny and Staff Sergeant Decker on the particulars.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said, then grinned. “She’s going to miss the paint-job, sir. But Trixie’s really excited about going to war, sir.”

  “Glad to hear that, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said delicately, then sat down. “However, I have to ask . . . Did Trixie tell you that, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir,” Faith said, shaking her head and grinning. “I know that you’re a great psychologist. And crawling into the head of an Islamic terrorist was probably worse than crawling through rotting bodies in the bowels of the Voyage, sir. But I can guaran-damn-tee you, the one head you don’t want to troll through is mine, sir.”

  * * *

  “Who decided a swamp was a good place for a Navy base?” Faith asked.

  King’s Bay was, unquestionably, a swamp. It was surrounded by swamp. It looked like a swamp. And it was slowly turning back into swamp.

  The waterside portions of the base were nothing much to look at. There were a few “covered” submarine pens, more or less hangars built on the water. They were already falling apart due to lack of maintenance.

  The one thing going for the base was it didn’t look like much had burned. And several of the buildings had survivors on them, checking out the flotilla.

  The civilian ships had been led in by the Alexandria, so the people on the base could have some reasonable expectation that the people in uniform on civilian ships were, in fact, Navy and not pirates come to steal their lucky charms. Or nuclear weapons as the case might be. The Alex had previously taken a run up to the base to check out the channel—it was clear enough for the Grace, and signal to the survivors that, yes, there was help coming. They’d also gotten a list of known survivors. For good or ill, the base commander, a vice admiral who also commanded most of the boats in the Atlantic, had succumbed to H7D3.

  Ill because any loss was a tragedy. Good because the one thing they didn’t need any time soon was a split in the chain of command. The first admiral or general they ran across was probably going to throw a shit fit about “Captain Wolf.” Undersecretary Galloway was the NCCC and that was a trump card. Didn’t mean someone who had the “advice and consent of the Senate” in their appointment to stars was going to just salute and say “Yes, sir” to a jumped-up civilian “playing” at being LantFleet. General Montana had been an aberration in that regard as in every other human trait.

  “I’m wondering who’s going to file the environmental impact statement,” Sophia said, pointing to the docks.

  The Nebraska had been alongside when the Plague hit. It had suffered some sort of catastrophic malady, listed hard over and basically sunk. Barely ten percent of it was above water level.

  “Just what we need,” Faith said. “Two-headed alligators.”

  “Ensign Smith to the ready room . . .”

  “Here we go again,” Sophia said.

  “Try to keep it in the air, Sis,” Faith said.

  “I’d say ‘stay out of trouble’ but there’s no real point, is there?”

  “Lieutenant Smith to the armory. Lieutenant Smith to the armory . . .”

  “Probably not,” Faith said, grinning.

  * * *

  “Think we got enough guns this time, sir?” Sophia asked as she spun the barrels on the minigun mounted on the weapons sponsons. It was part of her pre-flight, after all.

  Besides the dual miniguns mounted on each sponson, each of the two door gunners had the same system for a total of six of the insanely powerful weapons. And at the insistence of the various personnel involved, the ammo supplies for all guns were five times those normally lofted by helos. The bird was basically a flying ammo dump of 7.62 NATO.

  “Aren’t you the one that insists there’s no such thing as overkill?” Wilkes asked as he climbed into his seat.

  “I think you’re mistaking me for my sister, sir,” Sophia said. “Bit taller? Wears an ugly camouflage uniform, not a really cool flight suit, sir?”

  “Just twitting you, Seawolf,” Wilkes said.

  “We used to get mistaken for twins when we were younger,” Sophia said. “Now everybody thinks she’s the older one. It gets old.”

  “Understood,” Wilkes said. “Port, starboard, you up?”

  “Intercom set and checked, Port,” Olga replied.

  “Set and checked Starboard,” Anna said.

  “They ever switch me out for Lieutenant Simpson and there’s no stopping this crew,” Wilkes said.

  “Feel the estrogen, sir,” Sophia replied. “Be the estrogen, sir.”

  “Your cycles start syncing and I’m putting in for a transfer,” Wilkes said, as he started the engines. “You all have guns . . .”

  * * *

  The helo coasted low over the ground, followed by infected.

  “Watch your forward speed,” Wilkes said. “This loaded, we don’t have a lot of power or ground clearance to spare.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Sophia said, speeding up.

  “Permission to engage, commander?” Olga said. “I’ve got some nice concentrations.”

  “They’ll stop and feed, port,” Wilkes said. “We want them in the killbox first.”

  The “killbox” was designated as a large open area by the port. It was in firing range of the amtracks that were preparing to plop off the back of the Grace Tan and was nicely away from anything they were interested in.

  “Those are interesting,” Sophia said, pointing to two ships alongside the pier. They were platform supply ships with their back decks covered in containers. “Are those sub tenders?”

  “No,” Wilkes said. “I’m not sure what they are.”

  “We can use them,” Sophia said. “Especially if that’s military cargo.”

  “Save it for later,” Wilkes said. “Port, starboard. What’s the concentration looking like?”

  “Most of the infected close to the port seem to be swarming, command,” Olga said. “Getting to the killbox.”

  The helo couldn’t continuously hover over the infected and slowly lead them as the Marines did. It was having to pull in, lead them for a while in a certain direction, then pull up and around. I
t was tedious. On the other hand, the Marines weren’t off the ship, yet.

  “There they go,” Sophia said as the first amtrack, commanded by her sister, plopped off the Grace Tan and, unfortunately, didn’t sink. One of these days . . . “Bet she’s pissed she has to wait to use Trixie.”

  “At least the colonel finally ordered it painted a decent color,” Wilkes said.

  The tank was now back to its original desert sand. On the other hand, it still had TRIXIE written on both sides of the turret. On the front glacis and the track shields was MARINES with a globe and anchor to either side. The deck of the Grace Tan had been reinforced to hold it and the crane significantly upgraded. The tank, alone, had cut the Grace Tan’s cargo capacity and was one of the reasons the helo had been moved semi-permanently to the Boadicea.

  “I think we’ve got enough in the killbox,” Wilkes said. “Ground Team, Air. We’re preparing for our first run.”

  “Roger,” Faith said. “We’ll be there as soon as Freeman gets his act together.”

  “Air, out,” Wilkes said. “So . . . let’s see how these work . . .”

  “Oh, that’s sweet,” Faith said as the Seahawk dove. The four GAU 17/A miniguns slung on the weapons sponsons put out individual streams of two thousand rounds of 7.62x51 per minute. Olga and Anna had slewed them full forward. Every fifth round was a tracer. With the MG240, the tracers were clearly separated even at highest rate of fire. With the miniguns, they were one continuous stream that looked like a red laser.

  When they hit the ground they bounced, and created a small volcano the color of blood.

  Since most of them weren’t hitting the ground, they were hitting infected, this time much of it was blood.

  “Let’s join the party,” Faith radioed. “Open fire, forty millimeter.”

  The 40mm grenades pumped out of the tracks and soared, slowly, over to the mass of infected a hundred meters on shore. If they were having any effect, it wasn’t apparent. The helicopter, on the other hand, was devastating.

  “Okay, so it’s cool,” Faith muttered. “Trixie’s totally cooler . . .”