by John Ringo
“I need something more than shorts and a T-shirt,” O’Toole said, his arms crossed.
The morning wasn’t cold but it was cool and there was a stiff wind. Thomas was enjoying the wind too much to notice the cold. Unfortunately, it was from the direction of the liners, which meant it was a bit whiff. But he’d smelled worse for months.
“It sounds like there is more,” Walker said.
He’d met the former businessman for breakfast. Breakfast wasn’t awful but it wasn’t haute cuisine. Reconstituted scrambled eggs and more fish. There was, however, really good freshly made bread.
“I looked at the market,” O’Toole said. “They wanted five bloody chits for a pair of jeans in my size. I’m told that if we pass the course we get a free dive into what’s available. I’m waiting for that. Penny saved and all that. Where’s that bloody Zodiac?”
“I doubt they keep a tight schedule,” Walker said. “But I see one inbound.”
“Anyone for the Social?” the Zodiac driver asked as he pulled up.
“We’re supposed to meet with the nautical class on the Money,” Walker said. “Any chance of running us over there?”
“Yeah, sure,” the kid said. “You don’t want to be late. The Coast Guard fellas are bloody bastards about being late. Hop in.”
The traffic was lighter this morning and the driver cranked the Zodiac to full, making the crossing in less than a minute.
“Hop out so I can run back,” he said as he slowed by the transom dock. “Don’t bother to tie off. If you can’t make that little hop, just go back to cleaning compartments.”
“I can make the jump,” O’Toole said. He stepped lightly off the Zodiac, followed by Walker. “Thanks.”
“Cheers, mate,” the driver said, splashing off.
“I suppose that’s our future,” O’Toole said. “Being a bloody taxi driver. And now I’m wet.”
“I suspect we’re going to be wet a lot,” Walker said. “We’ve got twenty minutes. Let’s go see if we can con some Russian chick out of a cup of coffee.”
As it turned out, the coffee bar was free. And the coffee was even good. So, apparently, was the tea.
“Gods I missed this,” O’Toole said, savoring the Earl Grey. “The fact that Twinings is no more is a severe blow to the world. I wasn’t going to bring it up with the others, but what do you think of the commodore’s little lecture last night?”
“I think I need to get into the salvage business,” Walker said. “Officially or unofficially.”
“I had the same thought,” O’Toole said. “Problem being, the bloody zombies.”
“The problem being, no guns,” Walker said. “I suppose I could use a machete . . .”
“I was having a serious conversation, Yank,” O’Toole said.
“So was I,” Walker said. “You can kill someone with a machete. I’d prefer a gun, though.”
“So you have some experience in those matters?” O’Toole asked.
“Yes,” Thomas said. “But I wasn’t interested in being a master-at-arms.”
“A what?” O’Toole asked.
“Navy security force,” Thomas said. “I’d rather just spend some time on these yachts. Among other things, it will cover the dos and don’ts of salvage in the current climate. There are going to be don’ts.”
There were Marines starting to filter into the area and a Marine corporal walked to the coffee bar.
“Good morning, Corporal,” Walker said, more or less automatically. He even said it with a bit of command voice and reminded himself he was under cover.
“Good morning, sir,” the corporal said. To Walker’s surprise, he fixed a cup of green tea.
“Green tea?” Walker said.
“For the lieutenant, sir,” the corporal said as a very young looking blonde walked over. She was wearing pips on her collar.
“For you, ma’am,” the corporal said, diffidently.
“You didn’t have to do that, Derek,” the girl said, dimpling. “But thank you.”
“Lieutenant,” Walker said. “May I ask if you are Probationary Third Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith?”
“Yes, I am,” the girl said, looking at him with suddenly dark eyes. The corporal tensed a bit as well. “Why?”
“What is your issue with the 1911 if I may ask?” Walker said.
“You must have taken the firearms test,” the girl said, grinning just as suddenly. More dimples. “Seven rounds. Okay, seven plus one. H&K has twelve plus one. And I’ve been in too many scrums where twelve was better than seven. And you can shoot it underwater. If you get it out in time,” she added, darkening again.
“You can shoot a 1911 under water,” Walker said.
“Ever done it?” the girl asked. “My Da shot a hammerhead with an H&K. Okay, the polymer frame is an issue. I had one crack on me the other day and finding a new one’s going to be a bitch. But other than that, I’m a big fan. Like the response says, it’s a religion thing.”
“I take it that AK was the right answer,” Walker said. “Although, I prefer a custom. The manufactured versions are robust but clumsy. What is your problem with the M4, if I may?”
“Oh, good God, sir!” the corporal said. “Please don’t get her started on Barbie guns!”
“Barbie guns?” Walker said. “As in, M4 SOP Mod, Barbie for Guys?”
“As in made of plastic by Mattel,” the girl said. “And they don’t kill zombies. They’re a bloody toy. AK puts them down with one to two rounds. Barbie guns it’s five to seven. And they zip right through the target. The United States started going downhill—”
“When the military changed from a round designed to kill the enemies of our glorious Republic to one designed to piss them off. . . .” the corporal finished.
“Your quote?” Walker asked.
“My father’s,” the lieutenant said. “But I agree.”
“Do you get many proposals of marriage, Miss?” Walker asked.
“Haven’t had one today,” the girl answered, grinning. “But Lieutenant Fontana pointed out that fourteen is legal in Arkansas. I told him if we cleared Arkansas by the time I was fourteen we’d talk.”
“ ‘By the time you’re fourteen’?” O’Toole said. “How old are you, Miss?”
“Thirteen,” the girl said. “Almost fourteen. So time’s a wastin’.”
“And a Marine lieutenant?” O’Toole said. “Bloody hell. We must be stretched!”
“She’s earned it, sir,” Corporal Douglas said loyally. “Shewolf was born a Marine, sir.”
“Thanks, Derek,” the girl said, punching him on the arm. “Love you, too.”
“Fontana?” Walker asked. “One of the Marine lieutenants?”
“He’s a Special Forces staff sergeant,” the girl said. “He took a direct promotion to Army First Lieutenant. He’s running one of the Marine platoons since we don’t have many officers. Oops, gotta go. Time to go suit up and kill us some zombies.”
“And time for us to make our way to the transom deck,” O’Toole said. “Don’t want to be late.”
* * *
There was a thirty-five-foot sport fisher tied up to the transom deck with a man in Coast Guard uniform sitting on its transom.
“Nautical course?” O’Toole asked.
“Climb aboard,” the Coast Guardsman said. “If you fall in, you get an automatic fail when the sharks eat you. Names?”
“O’Toole. Rob O’Toole.”
“Walker, Thomas.”
“Okay, just grab a seat inside. Be with you at eight.”
Eventually, six more people filed into the saloon, followed by the petty officer.
“O’Toole,” he said. “Take the helm. If you hit anything, you get an automatic fail. If you can’t figure out how to drive this, it is a demerit. Any questions?”
“Yes, sir,” O’Toole said. The helm was forward, just off the saloon. “Where am I going?”
“Head for the entrance to the harbor,” the petty officer said, taking a positio
n by the helm. “And listen up. I’m Petty Officer Ernest Paxton. I’m one of the few actual boat drivers that survived on the USCG cutter Campbell so I am, for my sins, in charge of this course.
“We’re given three days to teach you how to drive these boats, basic safety and how to survive in one of the toughest professions on earth. That is not enough time. So we work all day and into the night. If you don’t like it, quit. You rotate positions, while the classes are going on. We stop the boat, sometimes, for the quizzes and that’s it. All of you will take the helm and you’re going to have to drive and listen to the classes at the same time. Some of you will be in the engine room going over that while classes are going on up here. You’ll have to catch up on your own time and you won’t have much. Walker?”
“Sir?” Walker said.
“How the hell did you score a eighty-nine on the test?” the PO said. “We’ve got master mariners with tickets didn’t score that high.”
“I read the book a while back, sir,” Walker said. “And I’ve got a good memory. I’m not a master mariner.”
“Damned straight,” Paxton said. “But you’ve got the book down pretty well. The thing about the sea is, about the time you think you’ve got it figured out, it rears up and bites you in the ass. And the evolutions that they’re planning for with you guys are insane. You’re not going to be taking over boats immediately. You’ll be crew. But even then, what they are planning is crazy. But it’s got to be done. It’s the only way to complete the mission.
“So we’re going to train you, as well as we can, in three days. You will be on this boat constantly. You won’t be sleeping here but you’ll be eating here and otherwise living on this boat. Part of the class is how to survive in a galley. That’s actually what that portion is called: How to Survive in a Galley. And . . . Killian. What’s a galley?”
“The kitchen on a boat?” Killian answered.
“Or . . . ? Bradford, what’s the other meaning of a galley?”
“I . . . don’t know,” Bradford said.
“I don’t know, Petty Officer,” the PO said.
“I don’t know, Petty Officer?” Bradford parroted.
“It’s a type of ancient rowboat,” the PO said. “And I need a cup of coffee. Find the galley that is not an ancient rowboat and fix me one.”
“Yes, sir,” Bradford said.
“Yes, Petty Officer,” Paxton said. “And we’re beginning with basic nautical terms . . .”
* * *
“Which side of the ship is to lee?” Paxton asked. “Bradford?”
“The lef . . . port, side, Petty Officer,” Bradford replied.
“Bradford, Killian, mount the fenders then stand by with boat hooks,” Paxton said. “O’Toole, Rogers, on the grapnels. Martin and Bush, heave ho on the grapnels. Walker, you’re the captain. Which side are you going to approach?”
The group had been going constantly for the last two days from 0800 to 2200. Man overboard drills. Recovery from lifeboats. How to board a lifeboat. Fire drills constantly. Maintenance. How to survive going alongside another yacht first in harbor then at sea. How to cook in a galley, first in harbor, then at sea. How to stow things away so they didn’t come loose in heavy seas. How to come alongside a supply ship and “unrep” in the harbor. Now how to unrep from a drifting freighter. Live. At sea. The freighter had been “cleared” by Navy security and now they were, as a sort of final exam, having to come alongside, board, and pump out the freighter’s fuel into their tanks. It had been determined to be diesel, which was not always the case.
For this one, there were additional Coast Guard personnel standing by in a Zodiac. A previous class had managed to set their boat on fire doing this evolution.
“With your permission, Petty Officer, I’m going to circle the boat, first,” Walker said. “Port is sort of to lee. Wind’s off the starboard bow. I want to make sure I’ve got the best spot not only to tie up but to enter.”
“Go for it,” the PO said.
Walker circled the container ship, then lined up for a run.
“Coming in with our port to its starboard,” Walker said. “Right aft.”
“Damnit,” Bradford said. He’d gone to starboard and had already started tying off one of the big balloon fenders. “You could have said.”
“You drop it, you get to go swimming for it,” PO Paxton said.
“With due respect, Petty Officer, I’d probably have him use a boat hook,” Walker said.
“So would I,” Paxton said quietly. “But it’s incentive not to drop it.”
“O’Toole,” Walker said. “I want you forward. Rogers, aft.”
“Good choices,” Paxton said. O’Toole had shown a deft hand with the grapnels, and getting the forward grapnel affixed was particularly important.
O’Toole made his connection but Rogers missed. As usual.
“Heave around on the forward line,” Walker said. “Bring us alongside. Bradford, tie off another fender forward. Killian, stand by with the boat hook.”
“What are you going to do?” Paxton asked.
“Go to back on the starboard engine and get it hove around,” Walker said. “Then have O’Toole put up the second hook. O’Toole, grab the other grapnel.”
“Aye, aye, cap’n,” O’Toole said.
“I can get it,” Rogers protested.
“I believe the acting captain gave you an order, Rogers,” the petty officer said.
O’Toole made the toss and the boat was alongside. It was bouncing and rubbing unpleasantly against the much larger ship, but it was alongside.
“Boarding ladder,” Walker said. “O’Toole on grapnel. The rest on heaving.”
* * *
The boarding ladder was up, then there was the question of who was going to board the recently zombie-infested boat.
“I’ll go,” Bradford said. “But I’m sure as hell not going by myself.”
“It takes three to heave up the pump safely,” PO Paxton said. “Killian, Rogers and Martin. O’Toole and Bradford will belay from the boat. Walker’s in charge.”
“I do not want to go up there,” Rogers said.
“Do you want to pass the course?” Paxton asked. “This evolution is sometimes necessary. We’re not even having you salvage the stores. Just get the fuel off.”
“Seriously,” Rogers said. “What if there are zombies? I mean, how do we know they got them all?”
“Get back on this boat quickly,” PO Paxton said. “They’re most likely to turn up when you start the pump. This is part of the job, not just tooling around on boats. Now, do you want to pass the course? ’Cause we haven’t got all day.”
* * *
Getting the pump up onto the deck of the freighter wasn’t just a matter of pulling it up. If they just pulled it up it would bang like hell on the hull and probably break. The team on the yacht, therefore, had to pull it out from the freighter’s hull while the team on top pulled it up. There were problems. There was a bit of shouting. But they finally got it over the side and got fuel flowing.
“Stop the pump,” Paxton yelled. “Okay, this time, Bradford, you’re the captain . . . after you get it onto the deck without breaking anything.”
* * *
“How many pumps do you go through?” Walker asked, looking into the water. The pump had disappeared from sight in an instant.
“That makes five,” Paxton said, leaning over to look as well. “The mechanics on the Grace are getting pissy about it. But at least this time it didn’t hit the deck, break through, damage the hull which then cracks on the freighter’s hull and sinks the boat. Okay, Killian, what did you do wrong?”
* * *
O’Toole was sitting at the bar in the main civilian saloon on the Boadicea, holding a scotch in mid air with his head slowly drifting down then bobbing back up.
“I feel as if I should celebrate,” the former businessman said, then snorted a snore.
“Rob,” Walker said. “Go get some rest. We’re getting assigned in t
he morning and for all we know, we’ll be gone by afternoon.”
“I’m too old for this,” O’Toole said, downing his drink. “But at least we didn’t get Zodiacs. Good night, Tom.”
“Good night, Rob.”
CHAPTER 29
Big sisters are the crab grass in the lawn of life.
Charles M. Schulz
“The South Flotilla is already asking for more prize crews,” Isham said, looking at his notes. “They’re sending the boats they found back up here with all the refugees. The boats coming in are short on fuel. They haven’t found much. But that’s about it for prize crews and they’re short handed.”
“Not surprising,” Steve said. “They didn’t have many to begin with. Lieutenant Kuzma, status on the training program?”
“The first group is trained,” Kuzma said. “As best you can train people to be skippers and engineers in three days. We’re starting another class. But, again, sir . . .”
“Ask me for anything but time, Lieutenant,” Steve said. “When the boats get here, detail them out to them. As crew not captains till they’ve had some time to adjust. Then pack what you’ve got left and send them down to the flotilla as prize crews. As for tanking . . . Have the new skippers tank from the supermax. If they can’t tank from one in harbor, they’re not going to be able to unrep. Call it a final exam. Mr. Zumwald. You wanted to talk about the outline of the crossing plan.”
“Since everybody is busy as a one-armed paperhanger, I’ve been chatting up the sub skippers for pointers,” Zumwald said. “We’ve got nine subs hanging around the area. What we’re looking at is this. One wing, and that’s a term of art, will consist of the small-boat flotillas. It will also be, well, one wing of the sweep. The subs will take the other wing with one back to handle any security issues.
“The boat wing will center two flotillas, each with its own megayacht and supply ship. The boats will tank from the megayacht and or the supply ship. They’ll rotate inwards as time goes by, hopefully filling up with survivors but whatever. When they get to the supply ship, they’ll crossload survivors and spare supplies, tank up if necessary then probably do fish ops for a day before going back out on the end of the flotilla.