by John Ringo
“We’ll talk,” Steve said, stepping over to Faith.
“Faith, Marine uniforms are always supposed to be spotless and perfect,” Steve said.
“Is there something wrong with my uniform?” Faith asked, panicking. She didn’t like being in front of a crowd, anyway.
“No, but there is something ‘wrong’ with these,” Steve said, showing her the pins. “These were recovered from the body of Midshipman Lin Wicklund, in the CIC of the USS Iwo Jima. Midshipman Wicklund, whose intent after the Naval Academy was to be a Marine officer, was found with a clocked-out forty-five by her body. Wicklund was, as far as we can determine, the last remaining officer fighting for control of the ship. The pips have a discoloration on them. Do not clean that discoloration off.”
“Yes, sir,” Faith said, her chin tightening. “Understood, sir.”
“Sophia has already been officially sworn in,” Steve said after putting on the pins. “She just didn’t have the pins. You have not. Raise your right hand.”
“I, state your name . . .”
“I, Faith Marie Smith . . .”
“Lieutenant Smith,” her father said when the ceremony was complete. “There is not a bloody word in there that says ‘I’m only an officer to kill zombies.’ A Marine officer’s oath is to faithfully discharge her duty to defend the Constitution of the United States. That’s it. Period. Dot. There is also nothing in that oath that has a time limit. It is an oath for life. Clear, Lieutenant?”
“Clear, sir.”
* * *
“You looked like you were going to pass out, ma’am,” Januscheitis said.
“I thought I was going to pass out, Staff Sergeant,” Faith replied.
The “reception to follow” was all ranks and had heavy hors d’oeuvres in lieu of dinner.
“I don’t do attention well,” Faith admitted.
“Seriously, ma’am?” Januscheitis said, grabbing a bar stool while it was unoccupied. “You certainly don’t seem to mind attention from zombies. For you, LT.”
Somehow, over the last few weeks, Isham had managed to repair most of the damage to the Alpha’s main saloon. While essentially nothing matched, it had been rearranged to give the impression of “multiple styles” rather than “salvaged bits of junk from a dozen different boats.”
“Why thank you kind sir,” Faith said. “I accept.”
“What’ll you have, Lieutenant?” the bartender said. He looked vaguely familiar but most of the people at the reception were people she knew or she had seen at least once. There were a few “new” faces, you could tell the freshies, boaties with deep tans, “ghosts” from compartments with no tan at all and all with a “hollowed out” look, but most were people she sort of knew.
“Water,” Faith said. “Unless you’ve got some good juice.”
“I cannot believe we’ve got an LT that only drinks juice and water,” Derek said. “There should be a law.”
“A Marine officer shall be prepared for duty at all times,” Faith said. “Says so right in the instructions manual.”
“I’ve got a really decent pomegranate,” the bartender said.
“I’ll drink anything that’s wet,” Faith said. “Except wine and beer. Or coffee. Or anything with carbonation.”
“Seriously?” Derek said. “No alcohol, no coffee? What are you, ma’am, Mormon?”
“Just don’t like the taste of wine or beer,” Faith said, shrugging.
“And for you, gentlemen?”
“Beer?” Januscheitis asked.
“We’ve got a very nice pale ale on tap,” the bartender said. “Something called Seven Acres. Pretty decent. Didn’t turn.”
“Works for me,” Derek said. “Now, about the Mormon thing . . .”
“I don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, don’t like the taste or smell of coffee,” Faith said. “I don’t do carbonation. I don’t even like black teas. I prefer green. I just don’t like the taste. I like good fruit juice and certain kinds of bottled water. I’m really, really, incredibly picky when it comes to taste or texture. Problem, Corporal?”
“No, ma’am,” Derek said. “Just sort of mind boggling. I’m having a hard time with . . . with Lieutenant Smith, zombie killer, and Lieutenant Smith . . .”
“ ‘Don’t drink, don’t smoke, what do you do . . . ?’ ” Januscheitis half sang. “Kill zombies.”
“Got it in one,” Faith said. “I don’t do it for moral reasons; don’t mind if other people drink, though they get kind of stupid, but I don’t like the taste.”
“Ever tried straight booze, ma’am?” Januscheitis asked.
“No,” Faith said, shrugging. “Doubt it would change my interest.”
“Try this and see how you like it,” the bartender said, sliding the glass of chilled juice to her. “And your beer, gentlemen.”
“That is pretty good,” Faith said, taking a sip. “It sat in plastic too long, but it’s not bad. Sophia, bless her black little heart, turned up a case of razzleberry tea. Now that is good.”
“Oops,” Januscheitis said, setting his beer down and coming to attention. “Commodore, inbound.”
“Easy,” Steve said, walking up behind Faith. “No rank in the mess or something like that.”
“Yes, sir,” Januscheitis said.
“Then is it, ‘Good evening, sir’ or ‘Hey, Da’?” Faith asked, grinning. “I get confused.”
“ ‘Hey, Da’ works,” Steve said. “So this is your posse. I haven’t had time to get introduced.”
“Corporal Douglas,” Faith said, “Staff Sergeant Januscheitis, Captain Smith AKA Commodore Wolf. Derek, Jan, my Da, Steve.”
“Good evening, Captain,” Januscheitis said.
“Good to see you again, Staff Sergeant,” Steve said. “You’re looking better. I’d like to thank you and your men for clearing the Iwo. That had to be double tough.”
“From what I’ve gotten, not as hard as clearing the Voyage, sir,” Januscheitis said. “Lieutenant Fontana has had a couple of choice words to say on the subject.”
“The Voyage fucking sucked,” Faith said taking a pull of her juice. “The Voyage is why I wish I did drink.”
“Choice words like those, sir,” Januscheitis said.
“Clearing your own ship with your own personnel had to have its own issues,” Steve said.
“Are we going to get it back in operation, sir?” Derek asked.
“Not right now,” Steve said. “I wanted to use the hovercraft for future ops but after due consideration, we don’t even have enough technical people, at this time, to flood the wash deck. Or maintain the AACs. We will need it for future operations, when we can use it. But not right now. That brings up a point that I need some honest and open input on. Our usual technique with something like this is to spread dermestid carrion beetles to reduce the logistics effort of clearing the remains. I’m taking an informal poll of how negative the reaction to that would be in the case of the Iwo.”
“Carrion beetles, sir?” Derek said.
“Da’s little black helpers,” Faith said. “Da, did you know one of your nicknames behind your back is Captain Carrion?”
“No, but I’m not surprised,” Smith said. “They are fast reproducing beetles that only eat dead flesh. Depends on how many you start with but open all the watertight doors to areas that have human remains, dump some in, wait a couple of months and what you have is picked clean skeletons. Oh, and decks covered in beetles. Which can then be vacuumed up and in many cases reused.”
“Ugh,” Januscheitis said, twitching. “That’s, um . . .”
“Simple, brutal and effective,” Faith said. “Sort of like a Saiga. The Coasties didn’t particularly like it when we did it to their cutter. But a team of ten only took a day to collect all the skeletons and we could give them a decent burial. Even if we didn’t know which was which.”
“The infected, in case you hadn’t noticed, even tear off their dog tags,” Steve said. “I’m going to let the surviving
Marines and Navy personnel have some time to consider it. But . . . clearing the dead from the ship is going to be a major undertaking. And while the few people we have left are doing that, they can’t be doing something more useful. Not to mention, it, well, sucks. Bodies are heavy. Skeletons . . . not so much. Like I said, give it a few days’ thought, discuss it amongst yourselves.”
“So, different subject, sir?” Faith said.
“Preferably,” Steve said. “What’s next, right?”
“I understand you intend to clear Gitmo, sir?” Derek said.
“Once the tropical season is past, yes,” Steve said. “We’re working on methods of doing so. Which is, in fact, next. Tomorrow we’ll be testing out a new weaponry system for heavy littoral clearance. We needed enough rounds just to do the testing, which the Iwo fortunately has. If the test is successful, we’ll then move on to actual clearance tests to see if it really works. They really work, since there are two different systems. If those systems work, we’ll use them to clear some minor islands in the Eastern Atlantic, then in early December, move down to Gitmo.”
“That sounds like a plan, sir,” Januscheitis said.
“So what are these ‘littoral clearance systems’?” Faith asked.
“Oh, I think you’ll like them,” Steve said.
CHAPTER 8
37. There is no “overkill.” There is only “open fire” and “I need to reload.”
70 Maxims of Maximally Effective Mercenaries
“Ooooo . . .” Faith said. “Big guns. Biiiig guns. Me like big guns.”
The vessel was a fishing trawler that had suffered all the normal fates. It had been “refurbished,” then the outriggers and some of the winches removed. The hard points for the outriggers now held two modified M2 “MaDeuce” Browning .50 caliber machine guns.
“Faith, decorum,” Steve said, facepalming. “Among other things, phraseology.”
“Water-cooled, sir?” Gunny Sands said, examining the copper pipe wrapping the barrels of the machine guns. A flexible plastic hose ran from the pipes to a strapped-down fifty-five-gallon blue barrel.
The group there to “evaluate and support” the test included most of the surviving Marines as well as some pre-Plague Navy personnel and some “post-Plague, hostilities only” survivors who had volunteered for Naval service as gunners.
“Got it in one, Gunny,” Steve said. “Hopefully, with enough cooling, the weapon will be able to fire more or less continuously and thus tear up large numbers of zombies close to the waterline. The question is whether the design will hold up to continuous fire. Both in terms of barrel heat and vibration from the firing.”
“Ooo, ooo!” Faith said, holding up her hand. “Me, me!”
“Don’t think so, kiddo,” Rob Cooper said. The former maintenance engineer of the Voyage Under Stars patted the barrel proprietarily. “My build. I get first crack.”
“However,” Steve said. “This is an endurance test. And while the butterfly trigger has also been modified to be locked down, everyone will take turns maintaining fire. Because I’m fully aware that at a certain level even the gunny is going ‘Oooo, oooo, me, me.’ ”
“Bit, sir, bit,” Gunny Sands said. “I’d rather be shooting up zombies with it. Is this going to be a Marine weapon, sir?”
“Not primarily designed as such, no,” Steve said. “The crew will be Navy. Marines will be used for landing parties. But, if everyone would don hearing protection . . .”
* * *
“Now I know why the swabbies were unloading all that fifty!” Derek shouted as he hooked up another belt.
“I’m glad somebody thought of snow shovels!” PFC Kirby said, dumping another shovelful of spent brass and links over the side.
The test had started with a fifteen-second continuous fire. When there was no evidence of heating, it went to a one-minute, then a two-minute, then a ten-minute test. While there was no heating at ten minutes, it was apparent the system needed some lubrication. The M2 Browning machine gun was living up to its name, working like an actual machine. The system fired between 475 and 575 rounds per minute. In ten minutes, that was five thousand rounds. And the .50 caliber was an unquestioned man-killer. Although the current target was open ocean, .50 caliber was considered a “light-materials” gun, i.e., designed to destroy vehicles and even small tanks. Even without its “armor-piercing” rounds, it would penetrate a car block. When it hit humans they tended to explode and the round kept on going.
The entire group, even Gunny Sands, had at one point or another gotten to fire the weapon. The “support group,” both Marines and some Navy personnel, had been busy keeping one of the weapons fed and the brass and links cleared.
“Feeding these beasts is going to take some muscle,” Seaman Apprentice (Gunner) Bennett said. Rusty had volunteered to join the Navy when Anarchy was “cross-service transferred” to be one of the gunners. As a tanker Anarchy was intimately familiar with the MaDeuce. “Fortunately, I’ve been getting it back.”
There were two fifties mounted on the back of the converted trawler and both of them were in continuous fire.
“Check fire,” Steve shouted. “Break them down and check for wear . . .”
* * *
“With them not getting hot, the barrels are taking the rounds just fine, looks like,” Gunny Sands said, examining the modified barrel with a penlight. “I’m not seeing any real wear at all.”
“The breech looks good,” Gunner’s Mate Third Class Mcgarity said, checking the parts with a loupe. “We’ll have to keep it lubed if we’re firing over a minute or so, but with continuous lube, I don’t know how long you could fire one of these.”
“The question, sir,” Gunny Sands said, “is do we have a target?”
“We do indeed,” Steve said. “We do indeed, Gunny.”
* * *
“Pretty,” Sophia said as the division pulled into the harbor of Valle Gran Re in the Canary Islands.
The small town on the island of Gran Re was surrounded by dry, rocky mountains and virtually cut off from the rest of the not particularly large island. The harbor consisted of a large, modern, outer breakwater to protect it from the heavy deep Atlantic seas as well as a smaller, older one interior. Both could be driven on by vehicles, as evidenced by the abandoned cars and trucks. The inner harbor was still scattered with shallow-draft small-craft painted in a variety of bright pastels, along with a few large sailboats. Two motor yachts, one at least the size of the Large, were tied alongside. The buildings of the town were mostly stone block, whitewashed or also painted in a rainbow of pastels.
“Scenic,” Faith said. “So’s the greeting party.”
And there were infecteds. They weren’t concentrated, ignoring the boats as usual, but they could be seen foraging for food on the water’s edge.
“With due respect, Ensign,” Staff Sergeant Januscheitis said. “Might I call your attention to the shoals forward.”
“Got it under control, Staff Sergeant,” Sophia said mildly, turning to port. “I haven’t spent a lot of time in harbors, but I have been around this block a time or two.”
“We’ll set up for fire on the inner jetty,” Lieutenant Zachary “Zack” Chen radioed from the USNA Wet Debt, formerly the Fishing Vessel (F/V) Wet Debt, a sixty-foot oceanic shrimp trawler. Lieutenant Chen was the division commander for Littoral Clearance Division One. The recently rescued Navy lieutenant had previously been an ordnance officer on the Arleigh Burke-class destroyer USS Truxtun. The Truxtun was also known to be somewhere in the Sargasso Sea but with the exception of the lieutenant and another survivor from a life raft, so far nobody had seen hide nor hair of it. It wasn’t at its last reported position; Sophia had broken away from the division on the way down to the Canary Islands to check. Chen had elected to command the division from the fishing trawler. The No Tan Lines carried the Marine Assault Team and would act as a ferry for any survivors from the town who wished to evacuate.
“Stand by while we anchor and watch the
shoals.”
The Wet Debt dropped anchor off the jetty seaward towards the outer breakwater. It dropped anchor nearly at the breakwater, paid it out, then used the pivot point to arrange itself so it was at a forty-five degree angle to the inner jetty about a hundred meters out. There it dropped two more “stream” anchors at points of a triangle and last paid in on the main anchor so it was about a hundred and fifty meters from the jetty.
The second fishing trawler, the Golden Guppy, did much the same thing at the reverse angles, starting from landward. Then Sophia dropped anchor with the No Tan Lines well back, in line with the end of the jetty and in parallel.
“You know,” Januscheitis said. “The sound of an anchor going down used to be one of those great moments. Port call. Exotic wom— Port calls . . .”
“Join the Marines, they said,” Derek said. “Travel to foreign lands, they said . . .”
“Meet interesting zombies and kill them,” Faith finished. “I say we just party till tomorrow.”
“More or less the plan,” Sophia said, shutting down the engine. She flipped on the stereo and set it to full blast, then plugged in her new iPod, Mr. Lawton’s “gift.”
There had been a stash of iPods on the Alpha. Apparently Mickerberg handed them out as party favors. Problem being, nobody had the “permissions” to load anything on them.
Lawton’s company hadn’t been involved in hacking but Lawton himself had attained his degree in computer engineering at the age of nineteen. He was a past master of all things hardware and software. For him, creating a bot to fix the permissions issue was child’s play.
Thus what he had given to Sophia was not just a newer and better iPod but a six terabyte hard drive filled with about a gazillion songs. She was still ooing and awing over some of the stuff that was on the hard drive.
On the way down she’d set up a playlist. The fishing boats didn’t have the same system but she could retrans it to their radios and they pumped it through their loudhailers.
The zombies had been ignoring the boats until the music started. At the first blast of reverb guitar their heads popped up and they started moving towards the end of the jetty.