by John Ringo
“They’re also along for boat security. Most rescuees are grateful to be off whatever you’ve rescued them from and just want to get their feet back on dry land or even a larger boat. Some food, a bunk, shelter from the elements, they’re golden at least for a few days. You’ve both been there, I take it?”
“I was on the Voyage,” Rainey said, patting her tummy. “What happens in the compartment stayed in the compartment. Except for my little bun. Just say I was quite thrilled when your father came along.”
“Same here,” LeEllen said. “I take it that’s not always the case.”
“Besides certain oligarchs that tried to jack my boat, I’ve dealt with, well, a lot of people,” Sophia said. “Most of them are great. Some of them aren’t. What happens in the compartment, stays in the compartment. Or should. Some of them think that they can keep acting like they did on the lifeboat. Sometimes they were ‘somebody’ before the Plague and try to order you around. Sometimes they can’t handle women as authority figures. That’s particularly the case with non-Western cultures but you’ve got idiots in all societies.”
“Amen,” Rainey said.
“Step on it,” Sophia said. “Hard. You’re the skipper, do not accept anyone’s shit. Not even an ounce. If you have the vaguest thought that there’s a real threat, go armed. Hell, go armed most of the time when you’ve got passengers. Keep weapons locked down or on your persons, with a lanyard or combat harness, at all times. Do not assume that the meek are not an issue. I’ve had people who were the ‘quiet’ one on a lifeboat go off. If the person cannot figure out that they’re back in civilization, even if the ‘civilization’ is a boat, lock them up, chain them down, tie them up, and call for pick-up. You can be as high-handed as you’d like short of shooting them. And you can shoot them if they become a real threat to your boat or try to grab a weapon. But do not let anyone subvert, undermine or, especially, overrule your authority. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” LeEllen said, a touch oddly.
“Got it,” Lillie said. “I’m all for going armed.”
“Skipper McCartney?” Sophia said. “Question?”
“No,” McCartney said quickly, then shrugged and sighed. “I didn’t have a question; I was just . . . You’re . . . Some people think you’re an ensign ’cause you’re your father’s daughter . . .”
“Most, I’d guess,” Sophia said.
“I’d heard from some people who worked with you, even before I got transferred to your division, not to think of you as some regular teenager,” McCartney said, biting her lip. “Sorry. My daughter was not much younger than you . . .”
“I’m sorry for your loss never covers it,” Sophia said, wincing. “We were lucky. Some of it was planning but a lot of it was luck.”
“My point was,” LeEllen said, “I couldn’t help thinking ‘Oh, God, teenage girl.’ I’m . . . sorry for that thought. It was not deserved.”
“It is, sometimes,” Sophia said, shrugging. “I’ve been doing this a while, though. Most of it is rote. The running a division thing will be a new experience. Which gets us to a few more points. Security . . .” she looked at her notes. “Ah, we’re going to be back of beyond and we’re looking at a month’s float. Satellite imagery indicates some boats out there but we never know what we’re going to find. Watch your consumables. Fuel especially. The Pit Stop is going to be an oceangoing, well, Pit Stop for emergencies. It will be extremely embarrassing if the emergency is ‘Uh, I’m out of gas.’ I like you both and you seem like great people. Run out of gas twice without good reason and I’ll get you replaced in a heartbeat. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” McCartney said.
“Absolutely agree,” Rainey said.
“Food, water, fuel and a running engine,” Sophia said. “The Holy Quaternary of boating. But first and foremost are fuel and a running engine. All the rest you can fix easily if you can get from Point A to Point B. On the running engine . . . we’re just going to have to take our chances. We don’t have geniuses for engineers in general and we don’t have a real supply line for parts. If you find a boat that has parts, strip them. In fact, strip every boat that has anything like supplies. Food, clothing, booze, toilet paper . . .”
“I’m sort of a packrat on things like that,” Rainey admitted reluctantly. “I usually grab the sheets and towels.”
“Good,” Sophia said. “Do that. Even if we’re going to use the boat, strip it. If we use a boat, it generally will need to be refueled. That’s one point where you can run out. If it runs but is out of fuel and you’re below a half a tank, put a beacon on it and leave it. If it’s got gas but putting enough in it will drop you past a half a tank, ditto. Hopefully we’ll find a freighter with diesel or something.
“When, if, we get rotated back to the main wing support ships for crew rest, we’re going to have to offload, and I quote, all our damned stores. Lieutenant Commander Isham was insistent on that.”
“All?” Rainey asked. “Including my cabernet collection?”
“That’s the point,” Sophia said. “You and each crew member can, by my orders, stash about a footlocker’s worth. But, yeah, that’s it. The ships need the supplies so we’re going to have to give up more than we’re used to. Which is why, yep, strip any boat, any freighter, anything we find. By the same token, it is possible to overload these boats. If you’re to the point of overload on supplies, unlikely, I’ll send you back to the Grace or the Shivak to unload. And, yes, Lillie, you have to give up the supplies.”
“Damn,” Rainey said.
“Think of it as charity,” LeEllen said.
“Or think of it as duty,” Sophia said. “Part of our job is being the gatherers for this little flock.”
“Wow,” Rainey said. “We’re back to the most traditional gender roles possible.”
“What?” LeEllen said.
“Hunter gatherer society?” Rainey said. “Men hunted, women gathered?”
“Men killed, women gathered,” Sophia corrected. “Men brought in less than ten percent of goods to the tribe in really traditional hunter-gatherer societies. With the exception of special conditions like subarctic zones and plains where large ungulate hunting was a mainstay, men really didn’t contribute much in the way of game. What they were hunting was men and women from other tribes. Men to kill, women to steal. Sorry, did a paper on it in school. My teacher really hated it but I still got an A ’cause it was so well researched.”
“Oh,” Lillie said.
“Yeah, not just a pretty face,” Sophia said. “I’ve been teaching myself calculus when I’ve got the time. I find it soothing. Never mind. Last points, usual stuff. Fire in a boat: bad. When you strip boats, even if you’re not grabbing much, grab fire extinguishers. I’m going to scream and holler to hold onto as many as is feasible. The big industrial ones are the bomb. We really should give them up for the ships but I want at least two in every boat if we can swing it. Salt water goes outside the boat. Keep an eye on your bilge pumps. If you’re pumping a lot, you’ve got a problem. There are ways to fix it but that’s advanced seamanship. Call your division commander if you’ve got a leak or anything similar. Ditto a fire onboard, even if you get it put out. Any emergencies, day or night, call me. Sometimes I know the answer, sometimes I don’t, but I still need to know. Even if you’re embarrassed by it. Understood?”
“Understood,” LeEllen said.
“Roger,” Lillie said.
“Tomorrow morning we have this stupid group photo op,” Sophia said, shrugging. “We’ve sort of done them before but not since we’ve been a real ‘squadron.’ It is going to be, I assure you, a madhouse. Just don’t ding your boats and don’t let anybody else ding your boats. Then we’re out and away. If you can’t start your boat tomorrow morning . . . I like you and you seem like great people, but . . . Make sure your boat is good.”
“Got it,” Lillie said.
“Any questions?” Sophia asked.
“Nope,” Lillie said.
“Be up early,” Sophia said. “We’re going to be jockeying around all morning. Be prepared for a lot of hurry up and wait . . .”
* * *
“Skipper McCartney,” Sophia said as the meeting broke up. “Moment of your time?”
“Of course, Ensign,” LeEllen said.
Sophia waited until the saloon cleared, with a significant glance at Olga saying “be elsewhere.”
“Or should I say ‘Colonel McCartney?’ ” Sophia asked.
“Please don’t,” LeEllen said with a grimace.
“Most people are automatically reactivated,” Sophia said, sitting down. “I sort of need . . . clarification?”
“I’m one of your skippers, Ensign,” McCartney said. “No more, no less.”
“But you were a colonel?” Sophia said.
“U.S. Air Force Academy, twenty-four years as an Air Force officer,” LeEllen said. “Retired as a colonel. Same rank your father holds now.”
“Sooo . . .” Sophia said. “We need skippers, don’t get me wrong. But I’d say Da needs staff officers more.”
“There’s an issue,” McCartney said, shrugging.
“You got court-martialed?” Sophia asked.
“No,” LeEllen said, snorting. “Got a couple of people out of them.” She looked at Sophia and shrugged. “I guess you really do need some background. I was an SJA colonel. I retired as the OIC of the MDW SJA office. Not the national SJA, just the SJA for MDW.”
“Just the fact that you know all those acronyms points out that you might be useful to the cause somewhere other than driving a boat,” Sophia said. “That’s a backhand way of saying I have no clue what you just said.”
“I was a military defense lawyer,” LeEllen said, smiling. “Like a public defender, but for military personnel facing charges.”
“Okay,” Sophia said. “And the rest?”
“I was in charge of the Washington DC office,” LeEllen said. “That’s where I retired from. Took up boating and then . . .”
“Zombie apocalypse,” Sophia said. “Better than being in DC. So why not come back as a colonel?”
“Don’t get me wrong when I say this,” LeEllen said, frowning. “I support what we’re doing here. I even support how we’re doing it. That does not make anything that we’re doing actually legal.”
“It’s not?” Sophia said, grimacing. “I thought we had . . . what’s that term?”
“Controlling legal authority?” LeEllen said, chortling. “It’s not. Not really. Not fully and legally. That’s the point. I know what ‘controlling legal authority’ and the difference between ‘Laws of Land Warfare’ and regulations are. And I know what the U.S. military is legally allowed to do and what it is not allowed to do.”
“Like . . . what?” Sophia asked.
“It might, possibly, be legal to slaughter civilian persons some of whom are and some of whom are not American citizens without due process,” LeEllen said. “If we had a clear Congressional Mandate of such. Possibly. But what we are effectively engaging in every time we kill an infected is genocide.”
“So what in the hell are we supposed to do?” Sophia asked, a touch angrily.
“Exactly what we’re doing,” LeEllen said. “I agree with the plan, I agree with the program. But it’s not, technically, legal. No matter if the NCCC says it’s ‘okay.’ That’s why I said ‘Oh, hell, no, I’m not taking back a commission.’ It probably doesn’t matter but my legal side has been screaming every time I see half the stuff we’re doing. Seizing vessels willy-nilly. Clearing foreign towns without clearance from the legal government. No Rules of Engagement at all. Again, it’s a zombie apocalypse. You do what has to be done. But the hell if I’m going to do it as a commissioned officer. Not with my understanding of the issues. For you, probably doesn’t matter. Above your paygrade. But if I came back as a colonel, with my background and expertise, I’d be obligated to object and basically be a pain in the ass. Obligated. Required. And we really don’t need that. So I said ‘Bring me back as a civilian and I can ignore it.’ ”
“That’s . . . weird as hell,” Sophia said.
“Law’s like that,” LeEllen said, grinning and standing up. She threw up a salute. “By your leave, Ensign?”
“Carry on,” Sophia said, throwing a salute back. “Skipper.”
* * *
“LOBO DE MAR, LOBO DE MAR!” Sophia boomed over the loudhailer. “STAND OFF! STAND OFF! I DON’T KNOW WHERE YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING, BUT YOU’RE NOT EVEN IN THE RIGHT PART OF THE HARBOR!”
“THE NORTH END, YOU IDIOT!” the skipper boomed back. “THIS IS OUR SECTOR!”
“THIS IS THE SOUTH END! LOOK AT YOUR GOD DAMNED COMPASS IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME! THE NEEDLE POINTS NORTH! NEEDLE! NORTH! WHICH WAY IS THE SODDING NEEDLE POINTING . . . ?”
* * *
“We’re going to have to do this as a pass in review,” Lieutenant Commander Kuzma said. “We can’t get them arranged otherwise.”
“Have the photo team set up on the end of the cruise liner pier,” Steve said. “Move them out as planned, Boadicea first . . .”
* * *
“Flotilla Four, all divisions, over.”
“Division Seven, over,” Sophia said when it was her turn. She was trying not to laugh at the cluster fuck the harbor had become. Zodiacs with swearing officers were zipping all over the harbor trying to get the boats arranged. So far there had been no major collisions, which was a miracle. Her own division was, she was sure, in the right spot and properly aligned with their forward and stream anchors down. Not so much the rest of the squadron.
“Prepare to weigh anchor for pass in review. Man the rails when passing the breakwater. Repeat back.”
“Weigh anchor, aye,” Sophia said. “Pass in Review, aye. Man rails passing breakwater, aye.”
“Stand by for orders to move out.”
* * *
“How’s this look?” Olga said. She was wearing a U.S. Navy tank top and LBE with a bikini bottom and carrying her M4. She posed holding onto the flying bridge’s folded-down Bimini top with the weapon stuck upwards.
“Technically, it’s supposed to be Navy Cam,” Sophia said. “They can send me a reply by endorsement . . .”
“Divisions, Flotilla Four, Man the Rails! And don’t let anyone fall overboard!”
“Sundeck for pass in review,” Sophia said over the intercom and the division frequency. “And I want everybody up on deck.”
The end of the cruise liner pier had a nearly four hundred meter gap between the last liner and the tip of the wharf. At the very end there were four photographers and two video cameras recording the passing of the squadron. But that wasn’t what caught her eye.
Her Da was standing there, at attention, in front of a Marine Flag Party, in Navy dress whites, holding a salute. It had not been an easy “evolution” getting all the boats out of the harbor. Some had, as she had expected, broken down already. There were close calls. It had been an hour since the “pass in review” order.
But her Da had been, she was virtually certain, standing there in the sun at attention, holding that salute, the whole time. And would until the last boat cleared the harbor. And he’d probably personally carry the flag. She was reminded of a certain hike in a thunderstorm. Da was like that sometimes.
“All military personnel, hand or weapons salute . . .” flotilla ordered over the loudhailer. “SALUTE!”
Sophia rendered a hand salute but kept one hand on the helm and her eyes forward. Which meant she was also looking at her crew. She had the vague feeling that Olga was regretting her choice of uniform. The security specialist was at attention with her rifle held vertical. She was having a hard time maintaining the position of attention, swaying a bit and occasionally having to catch herself. But she was right in there. And she appeared to be crying.
What got Sophia, though, was Walker. He was wearing his Hawaiian shirt with a Lakers ball cap he’d picked up somewhere and a p
air of shades. But his back was rigid straight and he was at attention and holding a perfect salute. And he didn’t seem to have an issue with the incoming swells. That was muscle memory. The kind of muscle memory you didn’t get with a guy who had been an enlisted truck driver twenty years ago. That was “Gunny” or “Chief” muscle memory. Fixed that way, there was something about him. She couldn’t put her finger on it but she was suddenly wondering what the hell she was doing in command instead of him.
“Order arms,” Sophia said as they passed the tableau at the end of the wharf. There were swells coming in and she didn’t want anyone going in the drink. “That means stop saluting, Olga. Fall in and secure all weapons.”
“I should have worn my uniform,” Olga said, coming up on the flying bridge. Her mascara had run. She had been crying.
“Yeah, probably,” Sophia said. “But that right there was an Olga moment. And this was about seeing who we are, not who anybody wants us to be.”
She watched as Walker went below.
“The question being, who are we?”
EPILOGUE
“Captain,” General Brice said. “I’m glad to see all your people, if not boats, survived to make it out of Tenerife.”
“The fact that this lash-up works at all is the surprising part, General,” Steve said, shrugging. “The occasional Keystone Kops moments are to be expected. I take it you got that via the subs in living color?”
“Satellite,” Brice said. “Happened to be making a pass. Speaking of which, we’re not terribly busy down here and have been using them to do a bit of diplomacy.”
“Still having issues with General Kazimov?” Steve asked. “I’ll get his subs the vaccine as soon as possible.”
“The general is no longer an issue,” Brice said, frowning. “It seems that he nearly made good on some of his threats and subsequently suffered from lead poisoning. Committed suicide by shooting himself twenty-three times in the back or something similar. Colonel Ushakov is a rather charming rogue who sends his regards to Seaman Apprentice Zelenova. He apparently was an acquaintance, even friend, of her father and is unsurprised she is ‘a little tigress.’