Strands of Sorrow

by John Ringo

They had enough resources these days that there was an intel group. And they’d been questioning survivors about what they’d seen prior to the Fall. Also, all the teams had reported “notable vehicles or other indications of senior officers” during the sweeps. Faith’s platoon had found some LAVs abandoned . . .

  She dug into the intel using a search for “President” and “POTUS.”

  Survivor: I’m sure it was the President. The convoy had some tanks with it and that big armored limo he uses . . .

  Survivor: I’m pretty sure it was the President’s convoy. It looked like one, you know? You see it in D.C. all the time. But it had some tanks with it which just made sense. That was when I tried to run, you know? If the Prez was leaving, so was I . . .

  Survivor: . . . it was the President’s car, you know? That one they call “The Beast.” And, like, four tanks . . .

  There was already a map. There’d been a team tracking the locations. But nobody had seen the Beast. One other indicator that the VPOTUS was toast was that they’d found her armored limo abandoned in downtown D.C. No way to tell which of the corpses around it might have been her or her family. Which was a shame since she’d be spar as President in a ZA.

  But . . . tanks. She’d called every armored vehicle she saw in Blount Island a “tank” until she was gently corrected by Gunny Sands and Staff Sergeant Decker. To a civilian, or a lieutenant who’d been a civilian before the Plague, anything with a gun and armor was a tank.

  She started looking for reported positions of armored vehicles, then putting them into the map of the suspected locations of the President. Some of those locations were way off the map in odd areas. Some were reported as “low probability” based on the convoy being headed west. But all those roads were blocked as hell. At a certain point the Secret Service detail would realize there was no way out of D.C. To the west there were rivers and bridges. And every single bridge was blocked as shit.

  So they’d turn around. Why not the White House? Who knows. Blocked roads? Where would they head?

  She’d head for Eighth and Eye or the Navy Yard. Pentagon was out of the question; bridges. Did they have commo, still? Probably. Where? Would? They? Head?

  It’s an emergency. You have to save your primary. Getting out is impossible. Helos are compromised. She’d been in the Fall. She knew what the chaos was like. Where do you go?

  It was like that night in NYC. You go to ground. You find the best facility you can that is closest. Period.

  It’s an emergency.

  Three Marine light assault vehicles had been spotted outside the Federal Emergency Management Agency building. They’d been on a recovery list. Why LAVs at FEMA, nobody had asked. Because they weren’t tanks. Intel said they were looking for M1s or the Beast as a sign of the President. Faith would have dumped the Beast and gotten in the LAVs.

  And FEMA was bound to have one hell of a “disaster center.” Which the Secret Service would know.

  POTUS was a bit of a fucktard but not as bad as the Acting POTUS. Any port in a storm.

  Time to find Sophia.

  * * *

  “You’re insane,” Sophia said.

  “Yuh think?” Faith said. “I can swing my side, can you swing yours?”

  “We’ll be in a cell next to Da,” Sophia said.

  “The family that does time together, stays together,” Faith said. “Come on. What are they going to do to us? We’re juveniles! And we’ve been traumatized by all the shit we’ve been through! Boo-hoo, it’s been so terrible! We’ll plead temporary insanity. Worse comes to worse, we’ll share a cell. It’ll be like being back on the Mile Seven.”

  “You’re supposed to be arguing in favor of the plan, Faith,” Sophia said.

  “Even if this works, no matter what we’ll be in a heap of trouble,” Faith said seriously. “The Prez was no great shakes. But it’s not about us, Sophia. It’s about our nation. If it works, the nation will be better off. With the SecEd in charge . . . The U.S. is screwed. Texas will probably secede. Do you want my Marines having to fight Texans instead of zombies?”

  “I can get the gear,” Sophia said, sighing. “Once more unto the breach, dear sister?”

  “Once more,” Faith said, grinning. “Or close up the wall with our American dead.”

  * * *

  Timing was everything.

  Amtracks were still moving around. You fixed one, you gave it a test drive. They might never again be used for any reasonable purpose but they had to be used or they’d go bad. They’d learned that.

  Faith knew which Marines were the PI guys. You could tell. They looked like Decker when he was just off the boat. They still weren’t real good at questioning orders, especially from an officer, especially from Shewolf.

  She found some PI Marines to load an amtrack with seabags. That’s all they were, seabags. Just heavy seabags. And PI Marines followed orders.

  Then she drove the amtrack to the ammo point that also had PI Marines working at it and ordered them to load the track with .50 and 40mm, 5.56, .45 and 12 gauge. Then signed for it with a flourish. Every I dotted, every T crossed.

  All the brass were busy preparing “transformational plans for low-impact assistance of afflicted persons.” Like, all of them were busy. Even the gunnies and master gunnies were in meetings. There was no one senior to her to say “you can’t do this.” While she was loading ammo one staff sergeant had walked over with an expression of curiosity on his face, stopped, turned around, put his hands behind his back and sauntered away whistling.

  But timing was still everything.

  * * *

  “Just in case” they kept a loaded Gunhawk on the hot pad. Good news. Bad news, the crew was sitting in a ready room with the helo in view. They had to be . . . disposed of. With extreme prejudice. Sophia wasn’t looking forward to what she was about to do. She was deeply ashamed. But it had to be done. For the good of the nation, they had to be removed from the equation.

  “You’re going to love this,” Sophia said, sticking her head in the hatch of the ready room. “You are hereby ordered, as of this moment, to attend a mandatory class on ‘Consideration of the feelings of the Afflicted’ in number six conference room. Now. Well, at thirteen hundred. Conducted by one of the ‘Acting President’s’ staff.”

  “You have GOT to be shitting me!” Lieutenant Commander Wilkes swore.

  “And Da has officially been charged with crimes against humanity,” Sophia said.

  “That we’d heard, Soph,” Wilkes said. “I just . . . There’s no way it will stick.”

  “I’m under the impression that there’s going to be a compromise,” Soph said. “Da always said all he wanted was a stout ship and a star to sail her by. House arrest at worst. Anyway, orders. Conference six. Sorry. Now, sir.”

  “Roger,” Wilkes said, standing up. “I would rather die a thousand deaths.”

  “But now you really must go,” Sophia said.

  “What about you?” Wilkes asked.

  “As a grounded and soon to be discharged for the good of the Navy officer, I’m exempt,” Soph said. “I’ll just sit here looking at a bird I’ll never fly again.”

  * * *

  “Going somewhere, ma’am?” Staff Sergeant Decker said.

  He’d been waiting at the lowered ramp of the amtrack when Faith walked back from signing for the ammo. He was carrying two very heavy-looking seabags.

  “Just taking it for a test drive, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said.

  “I am not that stupid, ma’am,” Decker said, throwing the bags into the amtrack. “Nor inflexible anymore. And you can either wait around and have this op—whatever it is—blown, or you can enter the vehicle, ma’am.”

  “Decker, they will bust you to dooley,” Faith said, getting in the amtrack. “And throw you in jail.”

  “I am very high-level PTSD, ma’am,” Decker said, raising the ramp. “I have been verified as having a psychotic attachment to my officers, ma’am. The proof being I kept that fucktard Lieutenant Kl
ette alive as an ‘afflicted.’ The worst they will do is stick me in a padded room, ma’am. And they’re probably going to do that anyway, what with the new regime. I’ll drive. You man the guns, ma’am.”

  “Oorah,” Faith said.

  “By the way, ma’am,” Decker said, as he started the amtrack. “What is the op?”

  It took about five minutes to walk to the “conference room,” which was five tents hooked together. Which was about when Lieutenant Commander Wilkes would know he’d been conned. Sophia waited one minute to walk down the corridor, pick up her flight bag then walk to the bird and get in. There would be no pre-flight. Then she looked at her watch again. Bang on twelve fifty-seven. She looked over to her right and saw an amtrack headed for the water. She hit the start button. The bird was kept warmed. She wouldn’t have to wait for it to get to temp. Everything was in the green. Full power.

  Operation Actions of the Tiger was a Go.

  She keyed the radio and selected the Regiment Combat Ops frequency.

  “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,

  “Or close the wall up with our American dead!

  “In peace there’s nothing so becomes a woman

  “As modest stillness and humility;

  “But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

  “Then imitate the action of the tiger!”

  “Very nice,” Olga said over the intercom. “Very touching.”

  “You think you’re going anywhere without us, you are sadly mistaken, Ensign,” Anna commed.

  Sophia just shook her head. No time to argue.

  “Gunhawk Nine, light on the pad.”

  She switched frequencies, pulled up on the collective and was gone.

  * * *

  Getting to the FEMA building had been a nightmare.

  They’d stopped by the Washington Monument to change. She couldn’t board the amtrack in full clearance rig without the mission being obvious. There were still a buttload of infected in D.C. In keeping with orders, they had not engaged them. But they didn’t want to be sitting outside the building changing.

  So all her gear, and the staff sergeant’s, had been in the seabags.

  Then it was just a matter of shaking their trail of infected and finding their way through the blocked streets to FEMA. The likelihood that the President of the United States was there was low. But it was the only shot they had of getting this ungrammatical idiot out of power.

  The FEMA building was a massive right trapezoid with dark brown windows bounded by C Street and Virginia Avenue. The ground floor had been lined with shops and the main entrance was a walkway between the FEMA building and the flanking Holiday Inn on the 500 block of C Street; the Virginia Avenue side was blocked by a retaining wall.

  There were, sure enough, three LAVs parked higgledy-piggledy on the street. But no Beast. Some armored SUVs were nearby but no limousines per se.

  They’d come this far. They weren’t going back.

  There were infected filtering out of the building, blocking the walkway entrance.

  “Gunhawk, Ground,” Faith said. “Can you clear the poor innocent bystanders?”

  “Will do,” Sophia said, bringing the Gunhawk in to hover over the amtrack. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Let’s roll, Al,” Faith said.

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Decker said, opening up the passenger hatch. There was an infected right outside and he blew him away with three rounds of 5.56. “This is gonna be a hot one, ma’am.”

  “Just the way I like it, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said, getting her knees under a full-sized ruck full of ammo and hoisting it up. It was going to be nearly impossible to scrum until they’d blown some of it off, but she figured they were going to need it. Heavy as a motherfucker though. “Gunhawk,” she grunted. “Start the music.”

  The Gunhawk opened up with all four miniguns, shredding the infected blocking the walkway as Olga and Anna covered the sides. The door miniguns could aim almost straight down and they walked the rounds out from the amtrack, littering C Street with zombies.

  “Maxim Four:” Faith said, dropping out of the track. “Close air support covereth a multitude of sins.”

  Second Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith and Staff Sergeant Alfred J. Decker, USMC, marched forward into a scalding deluge of brass. . . .

  CHAPTER 27

  ABOUT TWELVE MONTHS EARLIER:

  “I told you we should have used the LAVs in the first place, Special Agent!” Vice President Rebecca Staba said as they boarded the vehicle. Her limousine was high and dry on a pile of infected bodies. “Marine!”

  “Ma’am!” the Marine PFC sitting next to her in the light assault vehicle barked.

  “Are there any spare weapons?”

  “Ma’am . . .” Special Agent Jerry Phillips started to protest.

  “Spare me, Special Agent,” Staba snapped. “Zombie apocalypse. These Marines are unvaccinated, unfortunately. Some of them, sorry, will turn. And I am NOT going to be unarmed in a zombie apocalypse!”

  Staba had been one of those compromises that you have to make in politics. The former lieutenant governor of Oklahoma, she had not been near the top of the rankings in the primaries. She was not beloved of the Republican Party leadership—she got not only zero support but constant criticism from them—and she was frankly hated by the media and her much more “nuanced” and “bi-partisan” running mate.

  What she did have was a massive following among the “Guns and God” conservative base. And since the former governor of NY who had won the primaries was looked upon as not much more than another Republican-In-Name-Only, he needed the shoring.

  A former high school math teacher who had gotten into politics to try to get some sense into education, Vice President Staba was a mother of four children with a husband who was a successful businessman in his own right. She had supplemented their income in the early days of the marriage as an NRA firearms instructor. She invariably had more people show up at her rallies than her running mate’s. Which did not enamor him more with her. The fact that she was an “over-endowed” smoking-hot blonde who was never seen in public other than fully made-up and well-dressed was constantly criticized by the news media. The snarking, mostly by female commentators, about her make-up, hair and wardrobe was half her coverage during the primaries. Fuck ’em. She looked good and liked it that way.

  Her intense devotion to her Christian faith, the Second Amendment and her “large” family was pretty much the rest of her coverage. Never in a good light.

  The staff sergeant across from her unclipped his M4 and thrust it out. “Locked, loaded, on safe, ma’am!”

  “Not your own, Staff Sergeant,” Staba said. “You’re going to need it.”

  “Here, ma’am,” Phillips said, defeated. He opened up a ZIP bag and pulled out an MP5. “Also locked and loaded.”

  “And not on safe I see,” Staba said, safing it. “Now, who’s got one for Dave?”

  “I’m fine, honey,” Dave Staba said. “I’m sure some will turn up.”

  Among other actions that had seriously pissed off her detail, the Vice President had ensured her family was aboard the LAV before she boarded. Most people had come to the conclusion that in a reverse of an earlier First Family, Dave Staba was the brains of the outfit. He’d been her political manager for most of her career and was the “back room” dealer. He was not the brawn. Capable, mind you, but not the “in your face” type.

  “Are we gonna be okay, Mom?” Sherry said. The youngest didn’t sound traumatized so much as curious.

  “We’re going to be okay, sweetie,” Rebecca said, leaning forward. “We’ve got Devil Dogs to keep us that way . . .”

  “Can I get a weapon?” Thomas, the fifteen-year-old asked, raising a hand.

  “Not unless we really need to,” Rebecca said. “And if we really need to, yes.”

  “Ma’am . . .” Phillips said, shaking his head.

  “Tommy has more firearms training than most members of
Federal Law Enforcement, Special Agent,” Staba said. “He is not the level of the detail but he is proficient. If we have to dismount, and if there are weapons available, he and Dave and Christy will all be armed. Sherry is not ready, yet. That is not for discussion.”

  “Roger, ma’am,” Phillips said, wincing as the LAV bumped over something large. “Continue for the FEMA building.”

  “Can we make it to C Street?” Staba asked.

  “Ma’am, unlike your limo, we will make it to C Street if we have to drive over cars,” the staff sergeant said.

  “Oorah,” Staba said.

  * * *

  The FEMA bunker was, unsurprisingly, well designed. Besides a very large fuel supply, generators to maintain power and pumps, and all the usual food and medical supplies, it had “recovering power” exercise systems. The stationary bike, Stairmaster and rowing machine were connected to mini-generators similar to those in a Prius, which fueled the massive banks of batteries. The lights were low-wattage LEDs. More or less continuous use of the exercise equipment could even keep up with the sump-pumps—especially important given that the bunker was barely below water line for D.C. The toilets were hooked up to water-recovery systems designed originally for the cancelled NASA Mars mission. They used hand power to run them.

  It was also occupied, by about twenty FEMA managers and their families. In a bunker designed for twenty, total. With the addition of the Marines and her detail and family, things were tight. And only her detail and family were vaccinated. Or so they thought. They later learned the FEMA managers had “procured” vaccine for their families. Where and what type, they were reticent about. She wasn’t going to bitch. She’d have turned every infected in the world into vaccine.

  The first order was that everyone unvaccinated was to secure themselves. One of the Marines had already turned on the trip. That was unfortunate, but on the bright side it gave Dave a weapon. The efficacy of the vaccine was proven when Thomas was bitten subduing one of the Marines. He got very sick but recovered.

  Food was an issue. The bunker was stocked for five years. With even the shortest possible rations, they had at best a year and a half. The Marines had volunteered to evacuate the bunker. And Staba stomped her foot on that. They’d all make it or they wouldn’t.