Islands of Rage and Hope (eARC)

by John Ringo

  "I've done it for a long time in similar circumstances," Hamilton said. "You might have caught it from me. But I know when it's appropriate. So I want you to really try to internalize that, Faith. Absent significant experience to the contrary, as in getting things right when it matters, troops don't trust second lieutenants. They mostly act as not particularly bright messengers from higher, that being me, and impediments to getting the job done. Good ones, smart ones, follow their NCOs around like baby ducks and try to only whisper possible orders to them lest their ideas be awful. They're not stupid. Most of them anyway. But they are inexperienced and suddenly dealing on a day-to-day basis with a Brave New World called the Marines or Army or Air Force which are filled with in-jokes, institutional knowledge and arcane terminology, most of which they have no clue about since you can't cover it all in any reasonable training course, even West Point or Annapolis. And acronyms. My God, the acronyms. So they are, by and large, extremely useless. They exist solely as sort of larva of officers-that-may-be. Some day they may be of use. Some day they may be very good indeed. But not, generally, as second lieutenants. I'm aware that you have a similar lack of experience with the military. Do you get that is how the military views your rank?"

  "Yes, sir," Faith said. "Sort of."

  "There is one sort of second lieutenant that is somewhat more trusted by the troops," Hamilton said. "That is a mustang. You know what I mean by that?"

  "An officer with prior service, sir," Faith said.

  "In that case, the troops tend to trust them more," Hamilton said. "Oddly, many officers are less enthusiastic even in this day and age. Or were in the pre-Plague military. So we get to your earlier 'but.' You are, in a way, a mustang. But your prior experience is not military. It is quite simply surviving and fighting in this environment and doing so splendidly. The problems with this being that you are, yes, thirteen, not prior military much less Marines, and last but not least, even in this age, you are a girl. It was only recently that women were approved for front line combat and none had made it through any of the Marine combat officers' courses. Very few women have significant combat experience. If there was a woman in the pre-Plague military with as many combat hours as you already have amassed I would be very surprised. So while Marines may be aware of, and often admire, female Marines who have some combat experience, even those women's experience tends to be limited. And thus they are not thought of as 'real infantry fighters.' So all of this causes...Sorry, Faith, get ready..."

  "Sir?" Faith said.

  "I'm about to pull out a psychobabble phrase," Hamilton said, grinning. "The term is 'cognitive dissonance.' Can you say 'cognitive dissonance,' Lieutenant?"

  "Cognitive dissonance?" Faith said. "Which means what, sir?"

  "Let's imagine for a moment that you grow up and the sky is always blue," Hamilton said. "Then one day you're taking a class in college and the professor quite seriously intones: 'The sky is not blue.' Which for certain values is true, by the way. It's not blue. It's clear."

  "Okay...sir?" Faith said, frowning. "Really?"

  "Really," Hamilton said, smiling. "That feeling you have, that sort of pulling in your brain, is cognitive dissonance. It's when your knowledge set is suddenly challenged by new information. It can actually cause some slight discomfort. 'Thinking about that gives me a headache.' It's because your brain is having to open up new areas to additional resources and the disused arteries swell causing a slight headache."

  "So that's what causes it," Faith said happily.

  "I take it I've been giving you headaches," Hamilton said, grinning. "Good. Proves you're doing your job. Some people learn to shunt it aside into a sort of box. 'I don't like that thought so I'm not going to think about it.' Those are the people that they joke about a new thought and a cold drink of water which has some truth..."

  "Sorry, sir, lost me," Faith said.

  "You've never heard the expression 'You could kill her with a new thought and a cold drink of water'?" Hamilton said, frowning.

  "No, sir," Faith said.

  "Skip it then," Hamilton said after a moment. "The point being that your Marines, the Gitmo ones at least, are dealing with cognitive dissonance. Our job is to get them past it as simply and rapidly as possible. Because the truth is that you really are the right person for this job. If you weren't, you'd be doing something else in a jiff. I really don't care who your daddy is."

  "Yes, sir," Faith said.

  "A lot of it will wash out when we get to the action phase," Hamilton said. "That is where you are preeminent. Staff Sergeant Barnard will obey your orders. She's not the sort of NCO to undermine her officer. And she will intelligently expand upon them. Just tell her what needs doing and she'll get it done. Oorah?"

  "Oorah, sir," Faith said.

  "Going to cover a few things I haven't had time for before we get to the skill training," Hamilton said. "Faith, have you ever really thought about what you're planning in terms of career?"

  "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.

  "Metier?" 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," Hamilto
n 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 seven 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?"