Islands of Rage and Hope (eARC)

by John Ringo

  "No, sir," Faith barked.

  "I want the full operations order on my desk by thirteen hundred," Hamilton said. "Good brief."

  "Mission...blow the fuck out of a bunch of infected and rescue survivors...No, won't fly..." Faith said, biting her lip as she slowly typed with two fingers. "E... Expectations? No, Environment? C-O-M-E...? No, shit, it's...P-O-M-E? Why the fuck does the U.S. Marine Corps use Aussie slang...?"

  "Pretty," Sophia said as they approached the island.

  Saint Barthelemy was a volcanic island with lush vegetation. The main town, Gustavia, and the surrounding hills were packed with houses of all sizes, most sporting red-tile roofs. Once a destination for the "rich and famous" of Europe, it had obviously suffered from the secondary effects of the Plague. Many of the houses were burned out and the numerous cliffs and reefs that surrounded it were littered with boats of every size. And it wasn't just the shore. There were sunk boats all over the place. The "rich and famous" had had a lot of boats.

  Sophia had the Bella anchored with the rest of the force well off-shore to the west of Les Gros Islets. She was making her way in in a Zodiac piloted by Olga and carefully checking the soundings.

  "Nope," she said, looking back over the side into the clear water. There was a wooden sailboat, about sixty feet, sunk and turned on its side in the channel. Partially unfurled sails were flapping in the light tide. There was a school of medium sized fish using the boat for cover. "I'm not sure we can get the Grace in here without doing actual salvage and raising some of this."

  "So what are we going to do?" Olga asked.

  "Change the plan, I guess," Sophia said. "We've got to find a way to get the gunboats in at least. And we'll have to check each of the approaches. This is going to take time."

  "Now is when we could use a helicopter, sir," Lieutenant Commander Chen said. "Much of this wasn't apparent on the satellite due to cloud cover."

  "What's your plan, Commander?" Hamilton asked.

  "Getting the Grace in is out of the question," Chen said, looking up at the police station. There were survivors. They were up on the roof waving a French flag at the moment. He wasn't sure if that was an order to stay away or what. Usually people had the sense to wave the American flag when they turned up. The odd part was that they all seemed to be women. "We'll find channels to get the gunboats in and just continue the plan, if that meets with your approval, sir."

  "Any thoughts on the sweep?" Hamilton asked.

  "We've swept towns this size in the Canaries just using locally acquired vehicles, sir," Chen said, shrugging. "This has more people, which may mean more infected. But we should be able to clear it without the five-tons, sir. The other issue is the gunship placement. Governor's Cove looks like a nonstarter. There isn't easy enough egress to attract many infected."

  "Recommendations?" Hamilton said.

  "We need to look at Baie de Saint Jean," Chen said. "We'd ignored it since it was on the windward side. And it's rocky. And even in the satellite you can see submerged wrecks. And their guns will be pointed at, well, us. And there's almost no channel. But it looks to be the only viable alternative."

  "We need someone competent and responsible with that division," Hamilton said.

  "I'll attach Chief Schmidt, sir," Chen said. "He'll make sure they're in their fire zones. And there are hills in the way. And I'll send Div Five. Bowman's a pretty good boat driver, sir."

  "We're going to have to take another day," Hamilton said, looking up at the buildings on the peninsula. "I'm not going to pull up and then sail away. But we need to figure out these channels and pick our way in. That's a daylight operation. We'll pick our way in tomorrow, then do the usual zombie pre-wake. Without the party, of course."

  "Of course, sir," Chen said.

  "Get that spread and have Div Five move out as soon as the chief can get aboard," Hamilton said, watching an infected moving along the wharfs.

  "Aye, aye, sir," Chen said.

  "Bonus is it gives the gunny another day to rehearse the landing action," Hamilton said.

  "That would be useful, sir," Chen agreed.

  "What part of 'keep your barrel pointed at the deck' was unclear, PFC?" Gunnery Sergeant Sands growled.

  "No excuse, Gunnery Sergeant!" Summers said, gulping.

  "Why are you still standing, then?" Gunny Sands asked. "FRONT LEANING REST POSITION, MOVE! WHAT? YOU CAN'T COUNT...? THAT GOES FOR THE REST OF THE SQUAD! MOVE IT!"

  "How's it going, Gunny?" Faith said, poking her head in the compartment.

  The Marines had been training in the lower deck areas of the Grace Tan. Being a good little lieutenant she had stayed out of it and spent her time continually updating the operations plan when yet another snag was discovered.

  "Just fine, ma'am," Gunny Sands said. "Coming right along."

  "Passing the word that the operation has been put off for a day," Faith said. "All the harbors and other firing points are choked with wrecks. And we won't have the five-tons."

  "Aye, aye, ma'am," Gunny Sands said. "Hear that, Marines? Good news! You get another full day of training! The more you sweat, the less you bleed!"

  "I won't interfere with your fun, Gunny," Faith said, grinning. "But I'd like them to be able to walk and, you know, hold their arms up, when we hit the beach."

  "They'll be dialed in, ma'am," Sands said. "We'll get it done. RECOVER! Now, try it again, this time WITH FEELING...!"

  "I said to port, helmsman!" Chief Schmidt said, pointing. "That's left, you frigging yardbird!"

  Trying to find a way into Baie de Saint Jean was bad enough. There was only one, narrow and twisty, channel deep enough to get the yachts and gunboats into the bay. And it was partially blocked by a powered catamaran that was upside down on the bottom. The "edges" of the channel weren't just shoals, either. They were nasty, jagged, rocks that were slightly below the low tide line.

  Dealing with another undertrained, moronic, child driving a Zodiac was simply icing on the cake.

  "Yes, sir," the Zodiac driver said nervously.

  The nearly sixty-year-old formerly retired chief petty officer ground his teeth. Damn that stupid game!

  "I am not a 'sir,'" he retorted angrily. "And do not quote Halo or I swear to God I will throw you to the sharks and drive this boat myself!"

  "Yes, si... Okay?" the driver said. "Hey, Chief?"

  "What?" Schmidt growled.

  "There's a boat coming this way."

  "What?" Schmidt said. Sure enough, there was a sea kayak headed their way. It was only then that he noticed there were people, survivors, up on the big rock situated by the beach. The "rock" reared ten to twenty feet out of the water and had a cluster of buildings on it. Now there were people up on a balcony waving. About five.

  "Away team, be advised, you're about to have company."

  Schmidt straightened up and went back to the radio.

  "Roger, Div Five, got that," he radioed. "Are we following the Prime Directive, over?"

  "Bonjour! Bonjour!" the very tanned man in the kayak said, pulling alongside the Zodiac and grabbing the sponson.

  "Hey," Schmidt said. "Hope like hell you speak English."

  "Mai oui," the man said. "Yes, of course! Serge Laurent Lamar, monsieur. We are pleased to finally see the U.S. Navy. We had given up hope. You are the U.S. Navy, yes?"

  "We are the U.S. Navy, yes. Chief Petty Officer Kent Schmidt with Division Five, Kodiak Force."

  "We are prepared to leave at any time," Lamar said. "St. Barts is beautiful but it palls after this long."

  "Might want to hold off on that, sir," Schmidt said. "Although, probably gonna need to evacuate your group. We're going to be making a mess sometime in the next couple of days. This won't be someplace you want to stay for a while. But right now, I'm trying to figure out how to get into the bay. You got any clues about a better channel, sir?"

  "No," Lamar said. "This is the best entry. Pour qua do you want to bring your boats in? There is a harbor in Gustavia."

&n
bsp; "There are other boats over there, sir," Schmidt said. "See the fishing trawlers? They're gunboats. We've got the mission of killing off the infected in this area. Which we do with machine guns. The boats over on the other side of the island will do the same. Then Marines land and sweep the island. Then we leave and you can have it back."

  "Will all the infected be...dead?" Lamar asked.

  "As many as we can get in a day or so, sir," Schmidt said. "After that, up to you. We brought some guns along and there are some survivors at the police station. Presumably some of them are police."

  "Certainement," Lamar said thoughtfully. "And for us? Our party?"

  "When we do this we end up leaving behind a big pile of bodies, sir," Schmidt said. "You'll want to be elsewhere since it will have to be on that beach," he added, pointing to the smaller beach south of the rock. "You won't want to be around them as they decompose. Even if we can't get the boats in, we can pull you all out by Zodiac. If you're ready to go, they can all fit on this one. No luggage, though."

  "Je comprends," Lamar said, nodding. "Can I ask...How bad is the rest of the world? Have you heard news of France?"

  "Gone, sir," Schmidt said. "What you see here is everywhere. And the U.S. Navy is about a hundred small boats like this. Most of them aren't even Navy, sir. Gone pretty much covers it, sir. Believe it or not, you're not in bad shape here. You're out in the fresh air and sunshine but not on a lifeboat. Most of us were either trapped in compartments on ships, like myself, or on disabled boats or lifeboats. This isn't actually that bad compared to most of the world."

  "Je comprends," Lamar repeated, sighing. "We had hoped... But as the time passed."

  "Oui, monsieur," Schmidt said. "Mes condoleances."

  "Vous parlez francais?" Lamar said.

  "Oui, monsieur," Schmidt said. "Parfait."

  "Then why did you ask if I spoke English?" Lamar asked.

  "Je parlais Francaise, monsieur," Schmidt replied. "Ce n'est pas ma preference."

  "And that's the skinny, sir," Chief Schmidt said. After the day he'd had he dearly wanted a drink. But he'd given that up years before and knew that one was too many. He took a sip of unreinforced coffee instead. "We might be able to get in at high tide."

  The survivors had been evacuated and spread out in the boats. There were only five of them and they were grateful for some real food. They'd been surviving on raw fish and rainwater.

  "And high tide tomorrow is seventeen thirty-seven," Lieutenant Bowman said, letting out a breath of air. "What's your take on getting this cluster of...Should we call it? Tell Force this isn't possible?"

  "Pilots," Schmidt said. "My recommendation is that we bring all the captains forward tomorrow and have them get a good look at the problem. Then I'll take the helm of the boats, sir. Bring them in one by one. That way, if one of them gets grounded it's on me. We can get them in. It's just going to be tricky. And we don't, technically, have to bring in the yachts. Just the two gunboats. The rest will stay moored out here. If that meets with your approval, sir."

  "Good plan, Chief," Bowman said. "Make it so."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Schmidt replied. "You might want to explain it to the captains, though."

  "That wasn't a bad set-up," Bowman said, circling in close to the rock.

  The buildings were part of a resort perched on a prominence called "Eden Rock." The nearly circular rock, essentially a mini-island, reared up out of the shallow water surrounding it between ten and fifteen feet on the water side, then sloped down to a short stretch of sand and rock at near water line that connected it to the rest of the island. At that point, the survivors had cobbled together a series of wood and chain-link barriers. The water spouts of the buildings were connected to jury-rigged cisterns for water. Fish and even lobster had been available by fishing off the rock or venturing out in one of the kayaks.

  "From what your crews say, one of the better," Serge Lamar said.

  The former chef had worked at the Eden Rock Hotel and had, like most survivors, fallen back on food stores immediately. There hadn't, apparently, been many visitors at the resort when the Plague broke out or they had gone home while air-travel was available. All the survivors had been workers at the hotel.

  "Did you have many turn?" Bowman asked. "Although if you don't want to talk about it I understand. What happened in the compartment, stays in the compartment."

  "We had some," Lamar said, shrugging. "We had to put them outside. Most...did not survive long. We tried not to joke about 'throwing them off the island' but just before the plague they were filming a Survivor episode here. The joke was too obvious however black, no?"

  "I suppose it's better than most alternatives," Bowman said. "I was the compartment's official strangler."

  "Oh," Lamar said. "I believe the term for that in English is the same as French. A non sequitur."

  "It's become sort of a...mixed blessing," Bowman said, turning the Zodiac back out to the channel. "Someone in each compartment or lifeboat had to do it. While nobody liked it... The people who were able tended to also be the ones who ended up running the compartment. Which means most of the captains of these boats were the official stranglers. Because the sort of person who could do that, even if they hated it, are the sort of people who can run a boat. If for no other reason than at a certain point everyone is fully aware that you're not going to take any more shit."

  "I'll keep that in mind," Lamar said. "Would it be giving you shit to ask if we could pick up one of the lobster traps?"

  "Not at all," Bowman said. "I could do with some lobster for supper. Where?"

  "You sure you can get this in there, Chief?" Ensign Gary Poole asked as the chief carefully negotiated the Noby Dick through the channel.

  "She's a tight one, that's for sure, sir," Chief Schmidt said. "That's why I chose your boat to go first, sir. Get ready, we're probably going to grind on the catamaran."

  "Oh, joy," Poole said as there was a scraping sound from underneath the boat. "You're going to get me the same reputation as Buckley, Chief!"

  "Think of it as a quicky way to clean off your hull, sir," Chief Schmidt said as they cleared the worst part of the channel. "Your boat, sir. I need to go get the Guppy..."

  "Permission to speak, ma'am?" PFC Jesse Summers said as the platoon awaited the go order. There were seven Zodiacs filled with heavily armed Marines idling just off the point of Gustavia peninsula.

  Faith was sitting in the front of the lead Zodiac in a full lotus position despite her gear, her eyes closed, and appeared to be meditating. The iPod buds in her ears were emitting a pulsing beat that could be heard over the putter of the idling motor.

  "Speak," Faith said, loudly.

  It was finally done. All the op orders had been written, issued, re-written, re-issued, lather, rinse, repeat. The platoon had gone over a map table of the upcoming landing. Everybody had been shown the primary and secondary routes to the objectives. Probable infected routes of attack had been analyzed, spun, folded and mutilated. Fire objectives and primary defense points had been defined, designated and resignated.

  Now all that was left was killing zombies. But the final, final, really final, no, seriously, this is the absolutely last, frago had just taken it out of her. She could not even muster interest in rescuing people. They were probably French, after all. And her dad was already having a hard time with the French collective in the squadron. And all the people at the police station looked to be girls. There was no fun to rescuing girls. Cute guys, maybe. Girls not so much.

  "May I ask what you're doing, ma'am?" Summers said.

  "Centering my aggression," Faith said.

  The song changed and she glanced at her watch. A few seconds later, the gunboats opened fire. She could hear it even over the pounding music in her earbuds.

  "That's our cue," she said, holding her finger over her head. She made a circling motion then pointed at the shore. The Zodiac started moving forward, gaining speed quickly. "Once upon a night we'll wake to the carnival of life
...LOCK AND LOAD!"

  She slid out her left earbud and slid in her radio bud, seating it hard to ensure it stayed. She knew she should use cans, full headphones that slid under her helmet. But the hell if she was going into battle without her tunes.

  "And you keep your muzzle up in a boat, PFC," Faith said, pointing Summers's muzzle skywards. "That way you don't shoot a hooole in the bot-tom."

  "Aye, aye, ma'am," Summers said.

  "First Platoon, do you require fire support, over?"

  "Better over than on," Faith muttered, then keyed the radio. "Negative. Position is currently clear."

  "Ish," she added as an infected loped into sight from around the corner. She switched frequencies without thinking about it. "Gunny, can you bag that one?"

  There was a shot from the gunny's boat and the infected dropped from a headshot.

  "Show-off," she said as they arrived at the jetty. She stepped off the Zodiac and waved for the rest of the team to pass her. God knew she didn't want most of them behind her.

  She and the gunny were in the lead and center boats. But one of the "revisions" to the op-order had subtly moved the teams that were "Iwo heavy" to the outside of the formation. The flanks were where infected were most likely to leak through and the reality was that the Iwo Marines were just steadier.

  Colonel Hamilton had finally come to the conclusion that was the case when the gunny asked him to review comparative combat times. Which Faith should have thought of given her discussion with Staff Sergeant Barnard. When Colonel Hamilton realized that despite eight tours in the Sandbox, three in "combat leadership" positions and nearly twenty years in the Corps, Sergeant Smith had accumulated three times his own combat time in three months, he accepted the disparity.