Islands of Rage and Hope

by John Ringo

  “Not really, sir,” Faith said. “I sort of . . . I guess I sort of thought I’d found what I was going to do if I grow up.”

  “If?” Hamilton said.

  “No disrespect, sir, but have you taken a look around?” Faith said. “It’s not about being a Marine and getting in scrums, sir. It’s the world. I mean, Cody bought it by falling in a harbor and getting eaten by sharks, sir. If,” she concluded, shrugging.

  “Well, let’s go with ‘when’ for the time being,” Hamilton said thoughtfully. “The promotion ladder for junior Marine officers since World War II has been fairly fixed. You spend six months as a second lieutenant, and absent truly screwing up, like getting caught dealing drugs, you get promoted to first lieutenant. And about two years later to captain if you’ve done an even reasonably decent job. But that was then. Right now, we’ve got, well, a zombie apocalypse. We’re actually rank heavy. For less than a company of ‘other ranks’ we have a colonel in charge. We have two other Marine officers and an overabundance of sergeants and staff sergeants. So even under normal circumstances, I don’t see you making captain any time soon. There’s not really any slot likely. It’s not you, it’s . . . reality?”

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said. “Sir, I’m not sure I’m qualified to be a lieutenant. I’m sure I’m not qualified to be a captain.”

  “And so am I,” Hamilton said. “And that would be the case even if we had a crying need for one. That’s the second part. I think you’re qualified to be a lieutenant and you’ve shown that you can be a good one. You even do paperwork fairly well,” he added, smiling.

  “Not . . . what’s that thing like an asteroid? Not my best thing, sir?” Faith said.

  “Métier?” Hamilton said after a long thoughtful pause.

  “Sorry, sir, words,” Faith said. “Not me.”

  “Got that,” Hamilton said. “But you know, if I had a choice between some glib and glittering staff officer and ‘not words, me kill zombies,’ guess which I’d choose, Faith? Unfair question, that would be ‘me kill zombies good.’ Because, in case you haven’t noticed the world, Lieutenant . . .”

  “Heh,” Faith said, grinning slightly.

  “Back to the hallowed promotion ladder,” Hamilton said. “I agree with your assessment that you’d make a horrible captain. Now. You’re going to be a very good one. Some day. But absent strenuous objections, as long as I’m your commander, I’m going to keep you at your current rank for a looong time. You understand why?”

  “I’m thirteen, sir?” Faith said, shrugging. “It really doesn’t bother me, sir.”

  “That’s part of it,” Hamilton said. “Big part. But more than that, it will give you time. Time to get that confidence not just fake it. Time to do the jobs over and over again. Including, yes, paperwork. Probably some staff time. Which is, by the way, nothing but paper pushing.”

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said unhappily.

  “Don’t look so grumpy,” Hamilton said. “If you do anything enough you get better at it. I never expect you to be a perfect glittering staffer. Or, maybe you will be. But if you do nothing but for a year or so you will get better.”

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said.

  “So to recap,” Hamilton said. “Nobody trusts a thirteen-year-old girl. Nobody trusts a second lieutenant. So none of it is personal. It’s just cognitive dissonance. And when you hit the beach a bunch of it will just go away. The Marines who have worked with you before trust you and that will be infectious. Especially since you’re not really at home unless you’re killing infected, correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said.

  “In the meantime, we’re going to teach you how to fake it until you make it,” Hamilton said. “You’ve had the class from the gunnery sergeant in command voice. Correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said.

  “Why don’t you use it?” Hamilton said. “Skip the question. From now on, use it. Always.”

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said.

  “You must look up the definition of ‘always’ some time, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “When I say always, I mean All The Time, Lieutenant! When you’re talking to the staff sergeant! When you order dinner! When you’re talking to your mother! Every single word that comes out of your mouth from now until I tell you you can quit will be command voice! Do you understand, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said. “I mean, Yes! Sir!”

  “There you go,” Hamilton said. “Now you sound like a Marine lieutenant! Oorah?”

  “Oorah, sir,” Faith said.

  “That was laid-back oorah,” Hamilton said. “I sort of like laid-back oorah, but Lieutenant Faith Smith is not permitted laid-back oorah. Try it again, oorah.”

  “Oo-Rah!” Faith barked.

  “If you’re not sure what to say, what do you say, Lieutenant?” Hamilton said.

  “Oorah, sir!” Faith barked.

  “You’re still unconfident about marching and drill commands,” Hamilton said. “You sort of like Staff Sergeant Decker, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said, then frowned. “Sorry. Yes, sir!”

  “Before we continue, words to eliminate from your vocabulary,” Hamilton said. “Sorry and okay. Possibly others but those are a start. Understood?”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” Faith barked. “S . . . s . . . Aye, aye, sir!”

  “Marines are respectful,” Hamilton said. “They’re not exactly polite. They don’t apologize. Ever. They don’t say ‘Excuse me could you pass the pepper, please?’ ‘Pass the pepper, please!’ You should also try to eschew contractions. ‘It is,’ not ‘it’s.’ ‘Do not’ as opposed to ‘don’t.’ Short, declarative sentences. Whenever possible, less than ten words. To the drill thing. Where there are no more pressing details, you will continue to drill PFC Condrey to Staff Sergeant Decker’s direction. Since you’ll be doing the training schedule on the float you’ll find the time. Decker—though, in my professional opinion, bat-shit insane—has all the Marine aspects that you lack. You can learn from his example. Roger?”

  “Roger, sir!” Faith snapped.

  “Onboard, you will march, ramrod straight, absolutely everywhere,” Hamilton said. “Eyes front and on parade.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” Faith said.

  “When you hit the beach, it’s up to you,” Hamilton said. “I don’t want anything interfering with your combat ability. However, I strongly suggest that you bark every order. Forget you’re thirteen, forget you think they don’t trust you. You are the mistress of this mission. Own it. You do this for a year, and that’s the minimum I’m going to require, and you’re never going to be able to do anything else. And then you will truly be the epitome of a Marine officer. Oorah? Now we both have a briefing to prepare for.”

  “ ’Tention on deck!” Sergeant Smith snapped.

  The Marines had berths but the ship had not been designed to carry Marines. So most of their combat gear was stored separately. It was also where the weapons were being sorted and cleaned for issue to “local militias” if they found survivors.

  “Staff Sergeant!” Faith said without calling “at ease.”

  “Ma’am?” Staff Sergeant Barnard said.

  “Inspection in combat gear, quarter deck, ten minutes. All Marine landing personnel. Carry on.”

  Faith spun in place and exited the compartment.

  “What . . . the . . . hell . . . ?” Smitty said.

  “All of you fall in on your gear,” Staff Sergeant Barnard said, shaking her head. “You will be on the quarterdeck in five minutes.”

  CHAPTER 13

  First to fight for right and freedom

  And to keep our honor clean;

  We are proud to claim the title

  Of United States Marine.

  —Marine Corps Hymn

  When the Marines fell in on the quarterdeck, in this case an open area on the fantail of the forward-stack vessel, Faith was leaned up against one of the cargo containers, buffing her nails. She was, however, in full ground
combat gear with her own addition of spare knives.

  She let Staff Sergeant Barnard fall the Marines in and do a preinspection. When the staff sergeant was done she strode to her assigned spot at the front of the formation and saluted.

  “The unit is prepared for inspection, ma’am,” Barnard said.

  Faith looked at her watch and nodded.

  “You have one minute and thirty seconds left, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said, without barking, returning the salute or straightening up. “You sure you want me to take it?”

  “The unit is prepared for inspection, ma’am,” Barnard repeated.

  Faith straightened up, returned the salute, then marched over.

  “Follow me,” Faith barked.

  She marched to the first Marine, Staff Sergeant Decker, and held out her hands.

  “Inspection, arms!”

  Decker unclipped his M4 then threw it at her, which she caught and inspected. She tossed it back and then began a meticulous inspection of his gear. Starting at the top she inspected his helmet, pulling on all the straps, looking under it, yanked at every loose bit of equipment, checked every button. She pulled out his magazines and inspected them. She handed one to Barnard.

  “Spring is weak, get that DXed,” she snapped.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said.

  “A weak spring can cause jamming in combat, Staff Sergeant,” Faith stated. “My Marines do not go into combat with bad mags. Other than that, good turn-out, Decker.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Decker snapped.

  She pivoted right, stepped to the next Marine, Corporal Douglas, and pivoted left to face him.

  “Inspection . . . arms!”

  “This Ka-Bar is not sharpened.” A fast-clip on an M4 sling snapped when she yanked on it. “Dirty gas tube.” A helmet strap weakened from wear. Faith didn’t appear to check a single item that was cosmetic. All she checked was what they were going to need in combat.

  It took nearly two hours while the Marines stood at parade rest or attention sweating in the sun. They were sweating not so much from the heat as from the reality that a thirteen-year-old was making some of them look like dumb recruits. And Barnard was slowly acquiring a pile of equipment that did not meet her lieutenant’s satisfaction.

  Finally it was done and Faith marched back to the front of the formation followed by Barnard. Faith paused for a moment looking at the Marines balefully.

  “Sergeant Smith, front and center!” Faith barked.

  When Smitty was in place, at attention, Faith gestured from the staff sergeant to the sergeant.

  “Staff Sergeant, transfer that pile to Sergeant Smith.” Once the transfer was complete she gestured back to the formation with her chin. “Resume your position, Marine.”

  “Aye, aye, ma’am,” Smitty snapped, double timing back to his place.

  “When I say ‘fall out,’ fall in on the gear locker and carry on with your previous mission,” Faith boomed. “Fall OUT. Staff Sergeant, a moment of your time,” she finished. It was very nearly a whisper.

  When the Marines were gone, Faith gestured to the rail.

  “Staff Sergeant, the colonel gave me an order,” Faith said mildly. “That order was to ‘command voice’ every word that came out of my mouth. I think he’ll forgive me for not command voicing this. If I start in on command voice, by the time I’m done they’ll hear me belowdecks and I think this should be between us, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said.

  “Staff Sergeant, how many tours did you do in combat zones, pre-Plague?” Faith asked. “I assume you were in the Sandbox.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said. “Six, ma’am.”

  “Your MOS is . . . administrative, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said. “Oh, One-Eleven.”

  “Was the Fall your first taste of combat?” Faith asked.

  “I was in a couple of ambushes in Afghanistan, ma’am,” Barnard said. “I wasn’t just a fobbit on my last tour. I had to go outside the wire as part of my duties. Outside the wire there wasn’t much that was safe, ma’am. And we took a good bit of mortar and rocket fire.”

  “So, total, maybe, what, ten hours?” Faith asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said.

  “And in the Fall, when did you go to free-fire?” Faith asked. “I get that it was pretty much the last day.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said.

  “So maybe ten more there?” Faith asked. “Because, sorry, standing on a rooftop does not count.”

  “About that, ma’am,” Barnard said.

  “When people ask me ‘how many times have you done this’ I generally say ‘I’d have to check the log,’ ” Faith said. She pulled out her H&K, slid back the slide with her thumb, checked for a round, dropped the mag and pressed down to make sure it was full all without looking and without a break in speaking. “So after I got done talking with the colonel and the preplanning meeting, I decided to actually check the log. I am technically credited with a thousand hours of direct infantry combat against infected.” She reinserted the mag and holstered the weapon, again without looking, and just kept staring out to sea.

  “Thousand, ma’am?” Barnard said, her mouth dropping open.

  “Thousand, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said. “Kind of surprised me. And that is in the last six God-damn months. The point to that is not that I’m a billy bad-ass. It’s that every single item I checked was something that fucked up on me, Sergeant. In combat. Because, yeah, I’ve seen that much combat. I’ve got that much experience of fighting for my life, generally at short ranges when seconds count. I’ve had guns jam, straps break, knives not be sharp enough to cut a throat. And, Staff Sergeant, don’t ask me how many throats I’ve cut because there’s no log for that. My point is that thing about assumptions. I assumed that a Marine staff sergeant would understand what her boss meant by ‘make sure all the gear is straight and get anything that needs it DXed.’ That’s on me. I should have made sure you understood what I was saying. And now we got to get it fixed on the float instead of back at Gitmo where there was a bunch of spare shit. Oorah?”

  “No excuse, ma’am,” Barnard said, stone-faced.

  “The point to this stuff we just did was not to make you look or feel like a fool, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said, still not looking at her. “I know I don’t work real good when people make me feel stupid. I figure most people are like that. I just realized a couple of things after the colonel was done ‘counseling’ me. Since you didn’t trust me you didn’t trust that I knew what I was talking about. You didn’t trust my experience ’cause I was a kid and a second lieutenant. You were, Staff Sergeant, assuming. And you didn’t understand what I meant. Not with this. I don’t mean to cut you down in any way, Staff Sergeant. But you’re a clerk. You’re not infantry. I don’t know if you wanted to be infantry but you couldn’t ’cause you were a girl. But you’re not, and you’re not real experienced at it.

  “You don’t know how shit fucks up at the best of times in combat. Forget that ‘fog of war’ crap. I’m talking about an M4 jams with a bunch of infected running at us and the guy has to remember how to clear it and ends up ADing his buddy in the ass. And our M4s are gonna jam. ’Cause we have to cover them in oil to keep the salt from fucking them up but as soon as we hit the fucking beach that fine sand is gonna stick to them and jam them like a son of a bitch. That kind of ‘shit fucks up in combat.’

  “Now, I realize that you probably didn’t understand that and you so you didn’t understand the order. Again, my bad. That doesn’t mean I think I know everything, Staff Sergeant. I’m not . . . what’s that word? I’m not salty. I don’t know shit about the Marine Corps. You’ve got me in spades on that. I can find Parris Island on a map, now, but all I know is that Quantico is in Virginia someplace. And what the fuck is that thing about a Tavern?

  “And you can probably score high expert on a rifle range and I’d maybe score marksman. Hell, if you hadn’t been getting
the platoon in tune, I’d have brought you in to explain all the paperwork crap the colonel’s been throwing at me ’cause I spend most of my time trying not to cry I’m so fucking clueless. And I hate feeling stupid. I’m getting so fucking frustrated with all this paperwork and planning crap . . .

  “But day after tomorrow we’re going ashore on what is sure to be a really great little island, the overheads are awesome, to go do the only thing I do know, which is killing the fuck out of infected. And Staff Sergeant, for God’s sake, if you don’t understand one of my orders, please, Cindy, ask. Because if you don’t, you’re going to get some of my Marines killed. And that will really piss me off. And, Cindy, you don’t want somebody like me pissed off.”

  She turned and looked the staff sergeant in the eye.

  “Because I don’t do words real good, Staff Sergeant, and I don’t know how to do that crap where you write an evaluation report that sounds good but makes people look like shit. I can’t do that stuff good. When I say I’m gonna kill somebody, Staff Sergeant, I ain’t talkin’ about their career. Oorah?”

  * * *

  “So this is Anguilla,” Ensign Joseph Buckley said, conning his way into Road Salt Pond Bay. “Not much to look at.”

  The island was low and sandy with a few small hills. The shore of the bay was a nearly perfect crescent-moon-shaped beach with bright white coral sand and waving palm trees while the waters of the bay were a gorgeous mixture of turquoise and cerulean. There were low, one- and two-story, block buildings scattered among the trees. There were two piers, one to the east and one to the west, located at about the one third position on the beach. The westerly pier was their primary target, a medium sized “cargo” pier which, unfortunately, did not have cargo cranes but appeared to be intact and unblocked. The easterly pier was a small pier for small boats. A large “deep water” outboard was still attached by one line but it was sunk to the gunnels.