To Sail a Darkling Sea

by John Ringo

“When the guns came out we took video,” Sophia said. “There were seven who were armed. We don’t know who they are, but we know what they look like.”

  “Roger.”

  “Russian vessel, this is Commander Vancel, skipper of the United States Navy Attack Submarine USS Alexandria. There were seven armed personnel who threatened to hijack a US Navy vessel onboard your ship. Those persons will stand on the wash deck of the vessel. The sailboat Knotty Problem will be brought alongside along with two dinghies. We will toss you lines. Tie it up. Our crew will offload, taking one of the dinghies. Those seven will enter the sailboat. Anyone who wants to accompany the seven may leave with them as long as it is clearly of their own free will. Any evidence of coercion will be dealt with by lethal force.

  “The sailboat has been resupplied and refueled. The engines, peripherals and all sailing equipment are in good running order. There is one, repeat, one pistol onboard for self-defense or light clearance for the purposes of salvage. The seven individuals as well as any others who wish to accompany them will then sail away. As long as you are not further known to engage in hostilities, stay away from us, don’t pirate vessels, and don’t kill uninfected, we’ll let bygones be bygones. Come to our attention in a negative way and you will be dealt with. As I believe Ensign Smith pointed out, we have ‘go away’ and ‘death’ as our only current penalties. This is the ‘go away’ option. You have fifteen minutes to prepare.”

  The heavyset man was on the back upper deck, by the entrance to the main saloon. He still had the hand-set Rusty had been carrying.

  “Do you know who I am? I am Nazar Lavrenty! This is my yacht. You speak of piracy but you are stealing my yacht.”

  “I didn’t know who you were until I contacted higher,” Vancel replied. “They, in turn, contacted the Russians they are in communication with. General Kazimov’s response was ебать твою мать.”

  The man was waving his arms and shouting into the radio.

  “KAZIMOV! KAZIMOV? HE IS NOT THE RUSSIAN GOVERNMENT!”

  “Think that name touches a nerve?” Paula said, grinning.

  “Sounds like it,” Sophia said.

  “He is what is left,” Vancel radioed. “We might have tried to work with you and left you in some control of the vessel, which we need, had you not shown your inability to be trusted. This has been authorized by higher, and what remains of the Russian government. That is all there is to it. You have fifteen minutes or U.S. Marines will perform a hostile boarding. If you survive that you shall be given a very brief trial, shot, and dumped over the side. The clock starts now.”

  The sailboat was brought alongside. Some of the crew on the yacht caught the tossed lines and secured it while the Wolf crew unassed into a dinghy and headed back to the Large.

  In a bit more than fifteen minutes, “Lavrenty” came out with his henchmen and the same number of women.

  “Coincidence?” Paula said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Lavrenty, leave the women on the yacht. Board the sailboat with your personnel. Put the women on the radio, one by one, on the upper aft deck away from the sailboat with the radio. We have to have assurances they are not under duress. Do not attempt to exit the boat while we are getting those assurances. The machine-gun crew on the Large will take you under fire if you try to exit.”

  “These are girlfriends. And they don’t speak English.”

  “You’d be surprised how many translators survived,” Vancel replied. “Pick a language. It was not a request.”

  The following conversation was in foreign languages. Most of them, after a few gabbled words, dropped the, fortunately robust, radio and darted back into the interior of the yacht. Only two went with Lavrenty in the end.

  “They’re going to be busy,” Paula said drily. “Not that they weren’t already.”

  Most of the women were visibly pregnant.

  “What happens in the compartment . . .” Sophia said. “I sincerely doubt any of them were virgins before they got on that boat.”

  “Point.”

  There was a good bit of arm waving and angst onboard the Knotty Problem. Apparently, while it was supplied, the supply crew had not bothered to clean it up. Then there was the issue of the women. One of the “henchmen” slapped one of the women right in front of God and everybody, which earned him a burst of machine-gun fire from the Large. Finally, the aptly named sailboat started up its engines and putted away from the megayacht.

  “If there are any qualified crewmen left onboard, could you pick up the radio, please . . .”

  * * *

  “Permission to come aboard?” Sophia said, tossing the line of the dinghy to a sailor on the wash deck of the megayacht.

  “Come aboard, please.” The woman waiting on the wash deck was gorgeous. Most notable were long, incredibly shapely legs. “I am Olga Zelenova, and you are . . . ?”

  “No Tan Lines,” Sophia said, hopping onto the deck.

  “Never leave the boat” referred to boardings of hostile or potentially hostile vessels. Not to boarding the new flagship of the flotilla.

  “I . . . yes, I have no tan . . . What?” Olga said, confused.

  “Sorry,” Sophia said. “It’s a Navy thing. I’m the skipper of the No Tan Lines. Acting Ensign Third Class Sophia Smith.”

  “Ah,” Olga said, brightening up. “The boat which found us. Thank you. Yes, ‘You may have a rocket launcher but I have a submarine.’ Very funny. And, yes, Nazar was, as you say, a ‘fucktard.’ ”

  “You know where the meeting’s at?” Sophia asked.

  “This way,” Olga said. “I am greeting the visitors.”

  “Nice,” Sophia said as they entered the main saloon. “Much nicer than the Alpha. Of course, you never got overrun with infected.”

  The saloon had taken a beating in use, no question. But it was still reasonably clean and very very ornate. And huge. If anything it was bigger than the Alpha’s. Now that the ship was under power again, it was even pleasantly air conditioned.

  “It is very nice,” Olga said. “At first. When you are on here with no power or water and people you really did not like in the first place . . . It is less nice. I am pleased there is new ownership.”

  “Were you one of the ones Lavrenty tried to run off with?” Sophia asked.

  “Yes,” Olga said, frowning. “I do not want to go. But they still had guns, you know, pistols. And they are . . . brutal. Still, all has come out well.”

  “I don’t know about well,” Sophia said as they entered the massive dining room. “But better.”

  “Ensign,” Kuzma said, waving to a chair.

  “I’m not late, am I?” Sophia asked.

  “No,” Kuzma said. “And we’re still waiting on Captain Sava. Miss Zelenova, if you could see where the captain’s got to?”

  “Sava?” Sophia asked when the girl had left the room.

  “Skipper of this,” Captain Lloyd A. Behm II said.

  “Who is, probably, going to keep on being the skipper,” Kuzma said. “With some security onboard, of course.”

  “I am sorry I am late.” The skipper of the ship was a man of medium height with dark black hair and a heavily muscled body. “One of the water pumps is still not working. I was discussing it with the chief engineer.”

  “You’re actually right on time,” Kuzma said. “All right, everyone, Captain Vladan Sava, skipper of the . . . akuba . . . ?”

  “Perhaps ‘Money for Nothing’ . . . ?” Captain Sava said. “It is the rough translation.”

  “Skipper of the Money for Nothing,” Kuzma said. “From left to right, Captain Behm of the Sea Hooky. Captain Poole of the Noby Dick.”

  “Yo,” Gary Poole said, waving. The skipper of the awkwardly-named seventy-three-foot Arquela was tall, still quite emaciated, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a broad-brimmed straw hat. “So wish tradition let me change the name . . .”

  After Sophia had decided it would honor the owners to keep the name “No Tan Lines,” the tradition had s
tuck fast. Captain Poole just happened to draw a very short straw.

  “Captain Richard Estep of the N2 Deep. Captain Elias Rostad of the One Toy Two Many. And Captain Richard Purser of the Finally Fishin’.”

  “It is good to meet you all and I look forward to helping in this endeavor.”

  “Captain Sava,” Kuzma continued, “who is an experienced master mariner, thank God, has agreed to assist the efforts of Wolf Squadron. The Money will begin to act, immediately, as the Flotilla One’s flagship. However, all personnel onboard are currently suffering from malnutrition due to lack of stores. We have stores already delivered to the Pit Stop which will be transferred, however all excess stores should be moved to the Money beginning immediately after this meeting. Anybody going to say they don’t have excess? And, yes, I know you’ve got your little stashes, I’m talking regular excess?”

  “Plenty,” Behm said. “We were getting ready to shift some of it to the Pit Stop anyway.”

  “We will also begin rotation of personnel to the Money for crew rest,” Kuzma said. “I know you all could use some time in a bunk that’s not rocking quite so much.”

  “All for that,” Sophia said.

  “With the exception of the Lines, which I’ll get to,” Kuzma said. “You’re going to get screwed a bit; sorry, Ensign.”

  “No worries,” Sophia said.

  “The first boat to unload will be the Lines. Soph, what’s your fuel status?”

  “Not full,” Sophia said. “Close. More than three-quarter’s tank. We unrepped from a sailboat we found that still had onboard.”

  “That should be enough for this,” Kuzma said. “Lines will then proceed to 30.532,–28.169 where we have report of a small tanker. I’ll send a prize crew and another security officer with you to check it out. If it’s diesel, we’re golden. If not, you’ll need to rendezvous with the Pit Stop at another freighter we found. That had plenty of diesel in its bunkers. This ship is going to need way more than the Pit Stop had to deliver.”

  “What about Squadron?” Behm asked.

  “As in getting it from Squadron, or their situation?” Kuzma said. “They unrepped to the Grace and Alpha from the Iwo so they’re in good shape. If necessary, we can run the Pit Stop up to the Iwo to unrep but we should be able to get it from the freighter. Best would be if the tanker has diesel. From the reports, it sounds like it’s one of those small tankers that is used to resupply local ports. Sometimes it’s gas, sometimes its diesel. You never know.

  “Once we have this boat fully resupplied and refueled, the squadron will form a rough line perpendicular to the Equatorial Current. The Large will take and hold the center point with the Money and any other support type vessels we recover in trail. Small boats will spread out on either side, each with a packet to cover. The ones to the center will come in to the Money for off-load of recovered personnel and materials. If we can get a supply ship like the Grace at some point, they may be taken aboard for repair. Start ripping out any parts you find. We’ll find a place in the support zone to hold and inventory them. Vessels will stay inboard for a few days after recovery doing local support. Including ‘fishing ops.’ Turns out the subs have been using their active to knock out schools of fish. They generally get more than they can use. Most of you have cold fish storage. We’ll scoop up their excess. That is the general outline of the plan until we’re recalled to Squadron. Ensign Smith, do you have any questions?”

  “No, sir,” Sophia said, trying not to sigh. She knew they were planning on rotating people to any big vessel they found, and she’d been looking forward to a few days off. But . . .

  “Get with Gary on your security and prize crew,” Kuzma said. “They’re already detailed off. If you don’t have anything, we need to get cracking on finding some fuel.”

  “Will do, sir,” Sophia said, standing up. “Have a nice chat.”

  * * *

  “Okay,” Sophia said. “Here’s the thing with tankers. You really don’t want to fire onboard.”

  The “augmentation” for Rusty was a former Army armor cav sergeant named Cody “Anarchy” Mcgarity. With his nickname “Anarchy” she wasn’t thrilled to have him as a clearance specialist, but he seemed more on the ball than Rusty. It’s possible that Rusty was just fine before his experiences onboard the Voyage but he was not the sharpest tool in the shed. Maybe it was drinking too much ammoniacal urine.

  She’d already circled the vessel named the M/V Eric Shivak and she knew two things. One, it was diesel. Two, as usual, there was a leak somewhere. It wasn’t just a tanker, though. There were two ship containers chained down on the deck.

  “So . . . Melee?” Mcgarity asked. “Half-life Two fail: No crowbar.”

  “We’ve got about six,” Rusty said.

  “And some hammers,” Sophia said. “And Halligan tools. This is more a Faith deal than mine, but you really want to avoid fire and sparks. However, there are no evident infecteds so you may get lucky.”

  * * *

  “Three KIA,” Anarchy radioed. “All appear to be former infecteds. Crew boat is missing. Plenty of supplies left onboard. I think some of them turned and the rest abandoned ship. Ship’s clear. Well, we didn’t check the containers but they’ve got seals on them so they don’t look like they’ve been opened.”

  “Roger,” Sophia said. “Sending over the survey and prize crew.”

  * * *

  “Mixed groceries, general stores, some parts including auto parts,” Captain Hebert said. The “captain” had been a mate on a freighter that had abandoned ship when the crew started to turn. “And the main bunkers are full which is a relief. The spillage was minor. It’s got more pure fuel than the Grace. Not as fancy but it’s what we needed.”

  “Can we unrep from it?” Sophia asked.

  “We can tank you up right now,” Hebert said.

  * * *

  “You know,” Paula said as the two boats got back underway to rendezvous with the flotilla, “we haven’t known Hebert all that long. We didn’t even leave Rusty and Anarchy aboard. What’s to keep him from just taking off?”

  “You think there’s not going to be a fast attack following him around?” Sophia said.

  “Oh, yeah, those.”

  * * *

  “Flotilla Ops, No Tan Lines,” Sophia radioed.

  “Lines, Ops, over.”

  “One tanker tack islands-support-boat full of goodness delivered,” Sophia said. “Orders?”

  “Proceed to 23.274,–27.949. Rendezvous, USS Santa Fe for fishing ops.”

  “What?” Sophia shouted. They were supposed to be the next on schedule to spend a night aboard the luxury yacht. She thought about it for a moment then keyed the radio. “Roger, Ops. Proceeding . . .”

  “You’re in the Navy, now,” Paula sang. “You’re in the Navy now . . . How do I get out?”

  * * *

  “USS Santa Fe, USS Santa Fe, No Tan Lines, over,” Sophia radioed. “Come on, be around here somewhere.” There was no sign of the sub but that was sort of the point. “I know you know where I am.”

  “No Tan Lines, come to heading one-six-niner, range fourteen thousand yards, over.”

  “Heading one-six-niner, fourteen klicks, aye,” Sophia said. It was back the way they’d come. “I know you had me on sonar. You could have told me to wait up there . . .”

  * * *

  She could see the ECM mast about two klicks out.

  “No Tan Lines, hold your position. We will intercept and engage the fish, gather ours, submerge, then you get yours.”

  “That sounds vaguely wrong for some reason,” Anarchy said. “They get theirs first. And how are they going to ‘engage’ the fish?”

  “Not sure,” Sophia said. “Usually when we run across a school we just, you know, fish for them . . .”

  The Yankee search was so powerful, reverberations of it could be felt through the hull, and her depth finder went nuts. As they watched, a school of yellowfin floated to the surface.

  “What
the hell was that?” Paula said, flying up to the flying bridge. “My teeth are rattling.”

  “And so we have another zombie apocalypse moment,” Sophia said, shaking her head.

  * * *

  “Well, that’s something you don’t see every day,” Gunny Sands said.

  The USS Annapolis was towing behind it a small yacht that would, possibly, have made a decent dinghy for the football-field-length submarine.

  There was already a medical and resupply team standing by in moon suits to bring the family vaccine and supplies. The moon suits weren’t to protect the greeting party but the family onboard the yacht. The MREs had even been decontaminated.

  “Welcome to a zombie apocalypse moment, Gunnery Sergeant Sands,” Faith said. “Defined as a ‘What the fuck’ moment that could only happen in a zombie apocalypse. We tend to call it a zam or a zammie.”

  They were standing on the lead edge of the flight deck of the Iwo Jima after completing morning PT. They could use most of the ship for PT, now, running up and down companionways, climbing stairs, running the flight deck, jumping coamings, and generally having a oorah Marines afloat day, because the ship was just about completely clear of infecteds. They still had some areas to check for survivors but that was getting to the point of no returns.

  The Iwo might even run again, someday—the infected had done a lot of damage, but most of it was repairable—given parts and trained personnel. They had gotten personnel from the boat but it was a grab bag and, for fairly obvious reasons, tended towards store keepers and cooks. They were in the areas that had stores when the abandon ship call went down. They’d found damned few engineering personnel. Alive and uninfected, at least.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, young lady,” the gunny said. Two weeks “limited activities” and food and he was starting to look like a gunnery sergeant again. He still didn’t fill out his uniform but he was PTing. Not exactly running the young bucks into the ground but he was getting there. Faith had to admit that, no, she could not keep up with most of the Marines, especially since they PT’d in gear. So she and the gunny had been working out together. Turned out the gunny was, unsurprisingly, an A-Number One coaming jumper, a skill she was still trying to master.