by John Ringo
“Got it in one, Gunny,” Steve said. “Hopefully, with enough cooling, the weapon will be able to fire more or less continuously and thus tear up large numbers of zombies close to the waterline. The question is whether the design will hold up to continuous fire. Both in terms of barrel heat and vibration from the firing.”
“Ooo, ooo!” Faith said, holding up her hand. “Me, me!”
“Don’t think so, kiddo,” Rob Cooper said. The former maintenance engineer of the Voyage Under Stars patted the barrel proprietarily. “My build. I get first crack.”
“However,” Steve said. “This is an endurance test. And while the butterfly trigger has also been modified to be locked down, everyone will take turns maintaining fire. Because I’m fully aware that at a certain level even the Gunny is going ‘Oooo, oooo, me, me.’ ”
“Bit, sir, bit,” Gunny Sands said. “I’d rather be shooting up zombies with it. Is this going to be a Marine weapon, sir?”
“Not primarily designed as such, no,” Steve said. “The crew will be Navy. Marines will be used for landing parties. But, if everyone would don hearing protection… ”
* * *
“Now I know why the swabbies were unloading all that fifty!” Derek shouted as he hooked up another belt.
“I’m glad somebody thought of snow shovels!” PFC Kirby said, dumping another shovelful of spent brass and links over the side.
The test had started with a fifteen-second continuous fire. When there was no evidence of heating, it went to a one-minute, then two-minute, then a ten-minute test. While there was no heating at ten minutes, it was apparent the system needed some lubrication. The M2 Browning machine gun was living up to its name, working like an actual machine. The system fired between 475 and 575 rounds per minute. In ten minutes, that was five thousand rounds. And the .50 caliber was an unquestioned man-killer. Although the current target was open ocean, .50 caliber was considered a “light-materials” gun, i.e., designed to destroy vehicles and even small tanks. Even without its “armor piercing” rounds, it would penetrate a car block. When it hit humans they tended to explode and the round kept on going.
The entire group, even Gunny Sands, had at one point or another gotten to fire the weapon. The “support group,” both Marines and some Navy personnel, had been busy keeping one of the weapons fed and the brass and links cleared.
“Feeding these beasts is going to take some muscle,” Seaman Apprentice (Gunner) Bennett said. Rusty had volunteered to join the Navy when Anarchy was “cross-service transferred” to be one of the gunners. As a tanker Anarchy was intimately familiar with the MaDeuce. “Fortunately, I’ve been getting it back.”
There were two fifties mounted on the back of the converted trawler and both of them were in continuous fire.
“Check fire,” Steve shouted. “Break them down and check for wear… ”
* * *
“With them not getting hot, the barrels are taking the rounds just fine, looks like,” Gunny Sands said, examining the modified barrel with a penlight. “I’m not seeing any real wear at all.”
“The breech looks good,” Gunner’s Mate Third Class Mcgarity said, checking the parts with a loupe. “We’ll have to keep it lubed if we’re firing over a minute or so, but with continuous lube, I don’t know how long you could fire one of these.”
“The question, sir,” Gunny Sands said, “is do we have a target?”
“We do indeed,” Steve said. “We do indeed, Gunny.”
* * *
“Pretty,” Sophia said as the division pulled into the harbor of Valle Gran Re in the Canary Islands.
The small town on the island of Gran Re was surrounded by dry, rocky mountains and virtually cut off from the rest of the not particularly large island. The harbor consisted of a large, modern, outer breakwater to protect it from the heavy deep Atlantic seas as well as a smaller, older one interior. Both could be driven on by vehicles as evidenced by the abandoned cars and trucks. The inner harbor was still scattered with shallow-draft small-craft painted in a variety of bright pastels along with a few large sailboats. Two motor yachts, one at least the size of the Large, were tied alongside. The buildings of the town were mostly stone block, whitewashed or also painted in a rainbow of pastels.
“Scenic,” Faith said. “So’s the greeting party.”
And there were infecteds. They weren’t concentrated, ignoring the boats as usual, but they could be seen foraging for food on the water’s edge.
“With due respect, Ensign,” Staff Sergeant Januscheitis said. “Might I call your attention to the shoals forward.”
“Got it under control, Staff Sergeant,” Sophia said mildly, turning to port. “I haven’t spent a lot of time in harbors, but I have been around this block a time or two.”
“We’ll set up for fire on the inner jetty,” Lieutenant Zachary “Zack” Chen radioed from the USNA Wet Debt, formerly the Fishing Vessel (F/V) Wet Debt, a sixty-foot oceanic shrimp trawler. Lieutenant Chen was the division commander for Littoral Clearance Division One. The recently rescued navy lieutenant had previously been an ordnance officer on the Arleigh Burke-class destroyer USS Truxtun. The Truxtun was also known to be somewhere in the Sargasso Sea but with the exception of the lieutenant and another survivor from a life raft, so far nobody had seen hide nor hair of it. It wasn’t at its last reported position; Sophia had broken away from the division on the way down to the Canary Islands to check. He’d elected to command the division from the fishing trawler. The No Tan Lines carried the Marine Assault Team and would act as a ferry for any survivors from the town who wished to evacuate.
“Stand by while we anchor and watch the shoals.”
The Wet Debt dropped anchor off the jetty seaward towards the outer breakwater. It dropped anchor nearly at the breakwater, paid it out, then used the pivot point to arrange itself so it was at a forty-five degree angle to the inner jetty about a hundred meters out. There it dropped two more “stream” anchors at points of a triangle and last paid in on the main anchor so it was about a hundred and fifty meters from the jetty.
The second fishing trawler, the Golden Guppy, did much the same thing at the reverse angles, starting from landward. Then Sophia dropped anchor with the No Tan Lines well back, in line with the end of the jetty and in parallel.
“You know,” Januscheitis said. “The sound of an anchor going down used to be one of those great moments. Port call. Exotic wom… Port calls… ”
“Join the Marines, they said,” Derek said. “Travel to foreign lands, they said… ”
“Meet interesting zombies and kill them,” Faith finished. “I say we just party til tomorrow.”
“More or less the plan,” Sophia said, shutting down the engine. She flipped on the stereo and set it to full blast then plugged in her new iPod, Mister Lawton’s “gift.”
There had been a stash of iPods on the Alpha. Apparently Mickerberg handed them out as party favors. Problem being, nobody had the “permissions” to load anything on them.
Lawton’s company hadn’t been involved in hacking but Lawton himself had attained his degree in computer engineering at the age of nineteen. He was a past master of all things hardware and software. For him, creating a bot to fix the permissions issue was child’s play.
Thus what he had given to Sophia was not just a newer and better iPod but a six terabyte hard drive filled with about a gazillion songs. She was still ooing and awing over some of the stuff that was on the hard drive.
On the way down she’d set up a playlist. The fishing boats didn’t have the same system but she could retrans it to their radios and they pumped it through their loud-hailers.
The zombies had been ignoring the boats until the music started. At the first blast of reverb guitar their heads popped up and they started moving towards the end of the jetty.
“Becoming the Bull,” Faith said, nodding. “Nice choice. Appropriate.”
“I thought so,” Sophia said as the Wet Debt fired a burst at the group of zombies.
“Hell with taking the bull by the horns. We’re gonna be the bull.”
“And now they have something to eat,” Januscheitis said, nodding. Seagulls descended on the dead infecteds and that must have been a signal for other zombies. More appeared from the town, heading for the pile of new carrion.
“I knew I forgot something,” Sophia said, snapping her fingers.
“What?” Faith asked.
“Flock of Seagulls.”
“Oh, please, ma’am,” Derek said. “Anything but that.”
“Who?” Faith said.
“Okay, now we wait,” Chen radioed. “Like, say, crab fishing. Let the bait do the work for you. Good choice by the way, Seawolf. Crank it up.”
“Hope you like the rest of the playlist, sir,” Sophia replied. “Okay, let’s party.”
“By the way,” Chen radioed. “Do you have Flock of Seagulls?”
“Oh, God,” Derek said. “No, no, no… ”
“Not on this playlist, sir,” Sophia said. “I’ll have to check my hard drive… ”
* * *
“What’s wrong with this song, Derek?” Faith asked, writhing to the music.
The sun had slowly set over the harbor and the boats had all their lights on full blaze along with the booming music. They’d even been firing off flares from time to time as the party got into full swing.
Lieutenant Chen was an Annapolis grad and raised in the tradition, going back to the first Secretary of the Navy, of ships being dry. He also was trained in the tradition of “never give a rule you know won’t be obeyed.” They’d compromised on “light drinking” for the “zombie bait party.”
“You okay, Derek?” Faith asked.
There were plenty of military rules, as well, about having a party involving officers and enlisteds. Chen, again, was smart enough to know that in this mix, that was impossible to manage. There were no “wardrooms” or “officer’s clubs.” Just tiny boats with people packed cheek to jowl. So the party on the boats was decidedly mixed. And Faith had been enjoying a chance to metaphorically and literally let her hair down. Until Derek stopped dancing.
“I just remembered why I didn’t like this song, ma’am,” Derek said, looking off into the darkness. There was a light sea breeze, a tropical night in a picturesque harbor. A perfect evening. “My parents used to play it all the time whenever we’d go on a long drive and sing it together. It was one of their songs.”
“Oh, Christ, Der,” Faith said, stopping dancing. “You want me to get Sophia to… ”
“No, ma’am,” Derek said, starting to dance. “I just decided it’s one of my favorites… ”
* * *
“Okay, try this, ma’am,” Januscheitis said, setting down a shot glass with a clear liquid in it.
“What is this?” Faith said. She sniffed it and her nose wrinkled. “Seriously? A Marine has to drink?”
“Not has to, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Just interested. And it’s chilled vodka. Try it.”
Faith tossed back the drink as the assembled group watched with sneaky smiles.
“Okay, that’s not bad,” Faith said, shrugging.
“No reaction at all?” Paula said, looking shocked. “No coughing? No choking?”
“Was there supposed to be one?” Faith asked. She picked up the bottle, poured another shot and tossed it back. “There, happy?”
“Try this one… ” Sophia said, carefully, sliding across a shot of dark liquor.
“Ick,” Faith said. “That’s not so good. What was it?”
“Twenty-five-year-old Strathsclyde,” Sophia said.
“Which is?” Faith asked.
“Scotch, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Good scotch.”
“Tastes like piss,” Faith said. “Not that I’ve ever drunk piss. Okay, what else you got?”
* * *
Thirty minutes later there were a dozen bottles on the table and Faith had had at least one shot from each.
“Okay, rum’s pretty good,” she said, smacking her lips. “Not as good as Razzleberry tea but not bad.”
“She’s not even slightly drunk?” Derek slurred. He was, for sure.
“Isn’t it supposed to be doing something by now?” Faith asked, taking another shot of 151.
* * *
“I mean, I’d just finished seventh grade,” Faith said. “I’ve been to, like, two school dances! I’m never going to get to go to prom… ” She took another drink and frowned. “That sucks. That’s one of the reasons I hate fucking zombies. I’m never going to get to go to prom.”
“Marine corps ball, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. He’d stopped drinking when the LT started to get shit-faced. Which had taken enough straight booze to drown a Force Recon platoon. “Way better than prom.”
“Really?” Faith said.
“Really,” Derek said. “Marine Corps ball is like prom for Marines.”
“Christ, it’s coming up, isn’t it?” Januscheitis said. “Time’s sort of gotten to be one of those things you forget.”
“We gonna have one?” Derek said.
“Bet you,” Januscheitis said. “Gunny will insist. Probably use the Alpha or the Money.”
“That’d be cool,” Derek said, grinning. “Use the Alpha. Marine Corps ball on a megayacht captured from zombies? I can dig that. Besides it’s more trashed out. You know how ball gets… ”
“Semper fucking Fi,” Faith said. “I get to go to prom.”
“We’ll make sure of it, ma’am,” Januscheitis said.
“Great!” Faith slurred. “So why do I gotta puke?”
* * *
“Oh, I’m glad I’m not on the gun boats,” Faith said, holding her head. “This is the other reason I don’t drink. Can we turn the music down, yet?”
“More water, ma’am,” Januscheitis said, holding out the tube of her hydration unit.
Dawn was breaking and there was a huge concentration of zombies at the end of the jetty. The Debt had occasionally fired overnight to make sure they had food to keep them sticking around. Now in the early morning light, they could be seen as a mass of naked infecteds, alternately feeding and concentrating on the light and sound from the boats.
“And now the last song,” Sophia said as the music temporarily stopped.
“In the quiet misty morning… ” Faith sang. “Another good choice, sis.”
“When the summer’s past it’s gleaming, when the corn is past it’s prime… ” Derek sang in a not bad tenor.
“Set me free to find my calling, and I’ll return to you somehow… ” Januscheitis sang. He really didn’t have the voice for the song but nobody minded.
“In the quiet misty morning,” Faith and Sophia sang in duet. “When the moon has gone to bed, When the sparrows stop their singing, I’ll be homeward bound again.”
“All gun boats, open fire,” Lieutenant Chen ordered as the second of official nautical dawn was reached and the song ended.
Both boats opened fire, the massive .50 caliber rounds chewing up the crowd of what must have been nearly two hundred infecteds. It took less than a minute of concentrated fire for the crowd of zombies to be reduced to so much offal.
“Landing team is a go,” Chen radioed. “Drop some of Captain Carrion’s Little Helpers on that pile on your way by.”
“Time to board the boats,” Faith said, hefting her AK. “And keep an eye out for some ammo for this thing. I don’t care if it’s a haji gun. It works. Let’s take that jetty, Marines.”
CHAPTER 9
[F]ar from being the Great Satan, I would say that we are the Great Protector. We have sent men and women from the armed forces of the United States to other parts of the world throughout the past century to put down oppression. We defeated Fascism. We defeated Communism. We saved Europe in World War I and World War II. We were willing to do it, glad to do it. We went to Korea. We went to Vietnam. All in the interest of preserving the rights of people.
And when all those conflicts were over, what did we do? Did we stay
and conquer? Did we say, “Okay, we defeated Germany. Now Germany belongs to us? We defeated Japan, so Japan belongs to us”? No. What did we do? We built them up. We gave them democratic systems which they have embraced totally to their soul. And did we ask for any land? No. The only land we ever asked for was enough land to bury our dead.
General Collin Powell
“Permission to look for some wheels, ma’am?” Staff Sergeant Januscheitis said.
“Oh, definitely,” Faith said, trying to keep from swaying. “There’s no clearing this place on foot.”
The lieutenant was in charge of, more or less, a fire team of Marines. But that suited Faith just fine. And they weren’t wearing “full fig” zombie-clearing kit, just basic combat gear with the addition of Tyvek suits, gas masks and hoods to reduce the chance of bites on exposed flesh. They had military headphones and mikes for radio communications and two of them carried Halligan tools and other entry systems.
All of them had a tendency to rock in place as the ground seemed to be moving. This was the first solid land any of them had stepped on in nearly six months.
“See if you can get something running that’s got a moon roof,” she added. “We can stick somebody out of the top with a loud-hailer. If my head can handle it.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Two-man teams. One checking for keys and functioning vehicles. One on sentry.”
There was a large parking lot on the jetty but it was mostly empty and none of the vehicles would crank. There were more cars at the square at the base of the jetty but those were, also, non-functional.
“The boats always have a spare battery,” Faith said. “Staff Sergeant, send a team back to get a battery while the rest of us clear these buildings. I think it was my job to think of that.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Derek, Kirby, hump it.”
“Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant,” Derek said. “Let’s go, Kirby.”
“Clear this one first?” Faith said, pointing to a cafe. “I’m supposed to get input from my NCOs, Staff Sergeant.”