by John Ringo
“And furthermore, you shall show proper respect to your superiors . . .” the staff sergeant said, knife-handing Curran’s chest.
“Excuse me, Staff Sergeant,” Faith barked, tapping him on the shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said, his face tight.
“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” Faith asked.
“This is an NCO matter, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said, not looking at her. It was in a “proper” tone but there was more than a bit of “instructor” tone. The staff sergeant drill instructor knew a very junior lieutenant when he saw one. “It is something to let NCOs handle, ma’am.”
“Oh, you did not just go there . . .” Curran muttered.
“Curran,” Faith said, very quietly. “Fall out and return to your post.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Curran said, running away.
“Assume the position of attention, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said.
The staff sergeant popped to attention and Faith leaned in to whisper in his ear.
“Do you know who I am, Staff Sergeant?” Faith whispered.
“No, ma’am!”
“Do you know what I am, Staff Sergeant!”
“You are a Marine Officer, ma’am!”
“True, and beside the point,” Faith hissed. “I am a fucking psychotic bitch so far over the redline I can’t see it with an Abrams gunsight. I am a zombie-killing monster. All my Marines swear I have to drink a pint of zombie blood a day to wake up in the morning. What were you doing last night, Staff Sergeant?”
“I was off duty, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said. “I was in my rack, ma’am.”
“I wish I knew what off-duty meant,” Faith said sorrowfully, like she’d lost something she loved and didn’t even know where to start looking. “I was up to my ass in alligators. Literally. The reason my hand is torn up and I’m limping was I was attacked by gators while hip-deep in water doing the fucking beach recon for the assault, Staff Sergeant! And what were you doing? You were ‘off-duty.’ I haven’t been off-duty in ten God-damn months! I’ve been weeks in the pitch black holds of carriers and liners and freighters and tankers killing fucking zombies while you’ve been whacking off to how great it is to march the fucking boots around on your fucking quarterdeck! And Curran, who is sort of a ragbag but my ragbag, has been right there with me. And you’re going to give me, me? Shewolf? The fucking monster that makes fucking monsters run at her NAME! You are going to give me that ‘I’m a Marine Staff Sergeant and she’s just some Barbie with a bar’ attitude? You completely useless piece of alligator shit? And you, you, who has spent the last ten months doing fucking NOTHING! ARE GOING TO DRESS DOWN ONE OF MY MARINES, STAFF SERGEANT? YOU? WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO TELL ONE OF MY MARINES ONE GOD-DAMNED THING?”
“Excuse me, ma’am!”
Faith turned around and looked at the new NCO who had approached. She’d heard him coming up from behind her and checked the tendency to just turn and fire.
She looked him up and down and looked at his rank. She was too furious to try to figure it out.
“Lots of stripes!” she said angrily, knife-handing at his rank. “Lots of stripes. That’s all I got. Tell this fucker, and all your other fuckers, that they do NOT tell my troops what to do and they do NOT dress down my sweet vicious devil dogs, WHATEVER YOU ARE!” Faith bellowed. “THAT’S A FUCKING ORDER! ALL I WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU IS AYE, AYE, MA’AM!”
She spun around and limped back to her track without waiting for a reply.
* * *
“Is there a female lieutenant in this track?” a male voice bellowed from somewhere in the crew compartment.
“Freeman, Twitchell,” Faith said. “Bail.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am!” Freeman said, bolting.
Faith laboriously made her way into the crew compartment where a guy wearing the same rank as her dad was standing with his arms crossed.
“Second Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith, sir,” Faith said.
“Colonel Locky Downing, Lieutenant,” the colonel said. “Sit.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said, sitting down.
“How long have you been an officer, Lieutenant?” Colonel Downing asked.
“Lemme see . . .” Faith said, looking at her fingers and counting. She had to hold up the bandaged hand. “Six months, sir? I think? Maybe? What month is it?”
The colonel paused for a moment in thought.
“That’s post-Plague,” the colonel said.
“Ah,” Faith said, nodding. “Direct commission, sir. From civilian, sir. I’m sort of a mascot, sir.”
“Well, since you haven’t been around the Marine Corps very long, Lieutenant Mascot, let me explain something to you. While you are, technically, senior to the post sergeant major, and the sergeant major will and should respect your rank, that does NOT give you the right to dress him down publicly nor to order him to perform actions, especially related to his NCOs! The only person who might dress him down or give him orders is me! Do you understand me, Lieutenant?”
“I heard the words, sir,” Faith said after a very long moment.
“Lieutenant, you had better have understood them as well,” the colonel said, frowning.
“I understand them quite well, sir!” Faith said. “I don’t talk real good but my comprehension is fine, sir! However, there is . . . just a bunch of shit you don’t know or understand, sir!”
“Care to enlighten me, Lieutenant?” the colonel asked sarcastically.
“Not the job of a fourteen-year-old lieutenant to relieve a colonel’s ignorance, sir!” Faith said just as sarcastically.
“Fourteen?” Downing said incredulously.
“Just turned, sir,” Faith replied. “About a month ago.”
“I don’t know what moron armed a fourteen-year-old ‘mascot,’ much less gave her command of troops,” Downing said, holding out his hand. “But it’s going to be the first thing I discuss with Colonel Hamilton when I reach the boat. For now, turn over your weapon and rank. I am not going to have an untrained child commanding Marines in combat. That goes against so many regulations . . . I really cannot count.”
“You’re serious, sir?” Faith said calmly.
“Your supposed commission is hereby rescinded, Lieutenant Mascot,” the colonel said. “Give me your bars. And take off those guns. I don’t know what maniac allowed you to run around armed up like Rambo but it stops here.”
“Colonel, I will give you one warning that this is an unwise decision,” Faith said. She’d always wondered about how Da got calm at certain times. Now she knew what a real killing rage meant.
“Duly noted,” Downing said. “And I repeat: turn in your arms and join the civilians.”
“You can have the M4, sir,” Faith said, unclipping it and setting it on the deck. “But all the pistols are mine.” She reached up and yanked off her rankplate. “So does this mean I’m out of the Marines?”
“You never were a Marine,” Downing said, shaking his head. “You don’t direct commission a thirteen-year-old. Whoever did so is clearly in violation of both regulation and good order. Not to mention sense. Being a Marine officer, child, is far more than being a mascot.”
“Okay,” Faith said, standing up with tears in her eyes. “Good. Great even. That means I don’t have to take my troops on another suicide mission. That means I don’t have to put up with any more NCOs and assholes like you that can only see the Barbie with a bar! That means I don’t have to let another ignorant ‘I know what I’m doing because I’ve got fucking rank’ fucker like you get them killed! That means I don’t have to take shit from anyone, especially you, DICKBREATH! SO FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!”
With that she stalked out of the track, passed through the lines and was out of sight in seconds.
* * *
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Hamilton said, looking at the radio. He’d gone back to the ships to arrange for berthing and support leaving Colonel Downing in control of the extraction. He realized, too late, t
hat he probably should have ensured a more complete briefing. “Oh, no, no, no, no . . .”
“I’m uncomfortable with leaving the kid on the island,” Colonel Downing radioed. “Both in terms of her personal safety and the fact that there is Federal military equipment on the post.”
Hamilton just looked at the radio. He really didn’t know what to say in reply.
“Her safety is not an issue,” Hamilton replied, speaking very slowly. “Lieutenant Smith is—”
“This is Brigadier General Brice, Acting Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Who the fuck drove Shewolf off the reservation, over?”
The subs, as usual, were monitoring communications. And the commanders knew a shit-storm incoming when they heard one.
“Shelley, this is Commodore Montana. What’s this I hear that Shewolf deserted?”
“She didn’t desert . . . Commodore,” Colonel Downing said. “I accepted her resignation based upon her failure to maintain proper military decorum and insufficient age for enlistment much less a lieutenancy. I’m not sure why a fourteen-year-old was commissioned in the first place. Combat leadership is no place for mascots.”
“LantFleet. Where is my daughter at this time, Colonel?”
Captain Wolf sounded mild. He often did when he was about to explode. Hamilton hadn’t heard him sound that mild since the bad moments of London.
“Not understood, LantFleet,” Colonel Downing replied. “Who is your daughter, over?”
“This is Commodore Montana. I am hereby assuming control of this communication. For the colonel’s information, I was pre-Plague retired Lieutenant General Carmen Montana, former commander Delta, Fifth Group, Joint Anti-Terrorism Task Force, Joint War College, Joint Special Operations Command. I hold three Silver Stars and two Distinguished Service crosses for classified operations in very bad places. I am currently CINCPAC. Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith, handle Shewolf, is the daughter of LantFleet, has been awarded TWO Navy Crosses since she was commissioned for shit that would have your hair stand on end, and I’d personally have her fucking children, you pimple on a Marine’s ass! What could anyone possibly say to that psychotic little zombie-killing machine that could make her give up her commission to her beloved Corps? Colonel, if I have to get in a fucking fast attack and come over there to find her, the first zombie I will kill is you. And I am absolutely serious. Don’t bother to run ’cause you will only die tired!”
* * *
Like Faith figured, there was gear.
The Marines hadn’t just given up Parris Island. They’d fought a bit, covering for the retreating dependents and early phases. And, of course, zombies threw their clothes and gear away like Swedish nudists. There were remaining rations in the facilities the boots had evacced. She’d found an M16A4 pretty quick. It wasn’t fireable, of course. You had to keep Barbie guns pristine, another reason she didn’t like them. If it had been an AK it would be good to go. Ammo in mags, check. Need to cross-load. Infected level, low. She’d only gone pistol a couple of times so far. Hadn’t even gotten in a scrum.
Sand fly, black fly and mosquito level, on the other hand, high. She really needed to find some cover from the sand flies and some Off. There’d be some in the cadre quarters. And a good solid place to hole up in the dark. And someplace to do some work on the . . . oh, there’s another M16 . . . Maybe I can Frankenstein one functioning Barbie gun. There are probably better ones on the base somewhere. Wish I had my AK . . . Somewhere there would be magazines. Their location would be on a map at the headquarters. She was a past master of scrounging and salvage at this point and no more meetings, no more paperwork, no more new-join assholes who only saw the Barbie . . . Frankly, she still hadn’t forgiven Colonel Hamilton for shoving Staff Sergeant Barnard down her throat. She wasn’t going through that again . . .
No worries, mate. No worries . . .
* * *
The roundhouse came out of nowhere.
A gunnery sergeant does not hit a sergeant major. It’s a court-martial offense. Of course, if it’s in anything like private, “it never happened.” Usually.
When it’s in front of a company of boots, it happened.
The post sergeant major was flat out on his back.
“Colonel,” Gunnery Sergeant Sands said through gritted teeth. “You will walk away or you will be next. Choose.”
* * *
“Sir, we have over three thousand personnel in space for barely a thousand,” Colonel Hamilton said. “We have priority missions. What are our orders?”
“Return to Mayport,” Steve said. “Faith’s not going anywhere and she’s not in any real danger absent her wounds infecting. I’m not getting involved in this one. Conflict of interest doesn’t begin to describe it. I’ll be putting it on higher and letting them make the decisions. We’ve got missing nukes, a coast to clear . . . I’m putting it on higher.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Hamilton said. “Sir . . . I’m sorry about this.”
“Faith has been redlining since before you met her, Colonel,” Steve said. “We should have . . . I should have found some way to bring her down before this. Honestly, I’m so bloody pissed right now, I’m tempted to just throw my own rank on the deck and go look for her myself. I’m not pissed about losing Faith. We haven’t. Not permanently, whatever she’s thinking right now. I’m pissed because I was looking forward to having another trained senior officer to throw details on. Right now I’m trying to convince General Montana and General Brice that he doesn’t need to be busted to private and handed a rifle. On the other hand . . . I’m not sure he’s useable given . . . I’m tempted to give him a rifle and drop him off at King’s Bay to tell you the truth.”
“Say the word, sir,” Colonel Hamilton said. “Say the fucking word.”
“No,” Steve said. “I’m sure I can find something more unpleasant for him than that. I assume he enjoys command. Tell him that absent some global change in command structure, which is possible at some point, he can assume, as he made assumptions already, that he will never have a position of any sort of authority, again. Probably the best choice is to bust him but, again, will not be my call. Conflict of interest and all that . . . Get back to Mayport. Sail out tonight. Faith can have her shore leave. We’ll figure out what to do later.”
* * *
“Lieutenant Lyons,” Montana said.
“Sir,” Lyons said. He’d been acting as Montana’s aide and was, thus, filled in on the situation.
“The USS Hampton is in harbor,” Montana said. “You will board her and proceed to Parris Island. You will find Shewolf. You will bring her back. You will return with either Shewolf or her body. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”
“Clear, sir,” Lyons said, standing up.
“Go.” He sighed angrily and keyed his computer. “Get me the Hole and LantFleet . . .”
CHAPTER 20
“You’re about to clear Lejeune, Steve,” Montana said. “You’ll find more colonels and sergeants major. So we’ve learned their putative ‘help’ is a myth. People who have long-term careers in training commands tend to be of limited utility in actual operations. There are options: Exile Downing somewhere like the Indian Ocean. Bust him to private and hand him a rifle. Make him something unimportant in an unimportant spot. I suppose we could send him to stand up the base on Greenland, again. Since there are options, my suggestion is to table it and figure it out while he steams to Mayport.
“As to Faith, once we get her back I’d be more than happy to have her as my junior aide. Being a commodore’s aide carries with it an automatic cachet. People won’t tend to look down their noses at her. As much. And when our only remaining SEAL and a former astronaut says ‘She scares me. And I’m not joking . . . ’ people will tend to pay attention. And it will give me an opportunity to train her, and from me she’ll take the training.”
“Thank you, sir,” Steve said. “I’d like to ask to hold on the aide thing until she is back. I’d like to give her some down time so she can make a rational judgment. The on
e question is can we find her?”
“Lieutenant Lyons is on the way to Parris Island on the Hampton, Steve,” Montana said, smiling. “He’s a SEAL. They’re occasionally good for more than swimming long distances and carrying heavy weights. He’ll find her and bring her back. Or he’s not coming back. Give Stacey and Sophia my regards and tell them not to worry. Situation under control. CINCPAC, out.”
“Colonel Hamilton,” Steve said. “Here are your orders. The colonel, the sergeant major and the staff sergeant involved in this incident are relieved of all command and authority and confined to quarters during the float. The same quarters. They are to be served MREs in quarters. The TV, which they are ordered not to turn off, is to be set to a selection of news reels and other videos, subject: the history of Wolf Squadron. Start with the night sky video, then run all those propaganda news reels Zumwald has been producing as well as the better mashes. You won’t have to select for ones about Faith, obviously. They are to view those videos, which will run in their quarters from zero six hundred hours until twenty-one hundred hours when they are to have lights out. Just cut the power to the damned room.
“Upon arrival at Mayport: The colonel, sergeant major, the staff sergeant DI, all officers and staff NCOs associated with the Phase Three trainees will be separated. Phase Three trainees will be placed under the training direction of Gunnery Sergeant Sands. Training will be conducted by the Wolf Marines. They are to begin active training for post-Fall combat techniques, then organized, sans officers and staff NCOs, into a unit of the appropriate size for their numbers. All the junior NCOs will participate in training as boot privates. They will act as boot squad leaders in every way including living with the trainees. They’re going to be the cadre for the unit in combat. That should take very little time, two weeks at most. Their final exam, the Crucible if you will, will be active clearance of closed space environments and towns in small teams, including night ground clearance as a final test. If you have to put some of them in small boats and send them down to the Crib to clear liners and towns, do it. But just send along one or two Wolf Marines to evaluate, not participate.
