To Sail a Darkling Sea btr-2

by John Ringo

  “And I suppose you’ll just stay on the boat, fat and happy?” Olga said.

  “No,” Sophia said. “Tomorrow, at least, I’ll be leading the away team. Frankly, I’d rather do that than sit on the boats and watch my people go out. Lieutenant Chen wanted to lead it but I convince him not only do I have more ground combat experience, he needed to be on the boats. I want to make sure they’re here when we get back. And what I really want to do is go find some harbor that’s not teeming with sharks and catch a tan and drink some rum and maybe do a little diving. But that’s not what we get to do right now.

  “What we get to do is go find people who are dying and hopeless. So that in a few weeks, some of them will be back, hopefully, helping do the same thing. And maybe, just maybe, if we get enough of them, one day we can go find that beach that’s not black fucking volcanic sand surrounded by friends-eating sharks and drink some rum and talk about Cody.

  “But now, it’s Navy shit. Cold, hard, math. And tomorrow, you’re going to be getting in that dinghy, in a shark filled marina, and cutting out yachts. And if you really want to honor Cody, instead of shooting sharks, remember to keep your damned balance and don’t feed them. The correct response is ‘Aye, aye, Lieutenant.’ ”

  “Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” Olga said.

  “Last thing,” Sophia said. “If it had been you in the water and Cody sitting here, what would he have done tomorrow?”

  Olga thought about that for a while and shrugged.

  “He’d have gotten in the dinghy,” Olga said.

  “Because Cody was always about the God damned mission,” Sophia said, choking.

  “Oh, don’t you cry, too,” Olga said. “We’re never going to get anything done if you start crying.”

  “Like a river,” Sophia said. “And all we’ve got to do right now is play bait.”

  “I should have screwed him,” Olga said. “I was going to. I was just playing hard to get.”

  “Yeah, probably,” Sophia said, shrugging. “But that was yesterday. For tonight… Well, I’m going to have to clear with a hangover in the morning. Let’s have a wake… ”

  * * *

  “Bloody hell,” Sergeant Major Barney said as the military “fast-boat” inflatable finally slowed. It had been going balls to the wall most of the night, more or less bouncing from wave-top to wave top. And not regularly by any stretch of the imagination. Barney’s kidneys felt as if they were going to bleed for a week. But the “Flotilla” was finally in sight, the only electric lights they’d seen since leaving Tenerife. “I thought Ferrets beat you up. I hope to never have to repeat this experience.”

  “Gotta love the ocean, Mick,” Chief Schmidt said. He’d slept like a baby most of the ride or at least seemed to have. “Think of her as a mother. An abusive one.”

  “Ah, well, that makes so much more sense, Yank, thanks,” Barney said. “But how do you handle it? I had a mum and dad.”

  “Flotilla, Fast Twenty-Nine.”

  The kid driving the boat was, well, a kid. He couldn’t have been more than twelve. But he seemed to know what he was doing. He’d found the Flotilla at least.

  “Oh, come on,” the kid said. “Somebody’s got to hear the radio, right?”

  As they neared the Flotilla they could hear music playing. Loudly. And there were people on deck dancing to the music. It looked like a party, not a military operation.

  Zombies apparently wanted to join in. The Flotilla was broken into two groups, one by a marina and one by some beaches to the north. Zombies were roaming both the marina and the beaches, obviously trying to join the party.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” a slurred voice answered. “And what’s a fast twenty-nine? Sounds like a band… ”

  “Fast boat coming up on your party, over,” the kid said. “Bringing some reinforcements from Squadron.”

  “Yeah, I dunno nothin’ about that. Hang on …”

  “S’up?”

  The new voice was female and just as clearly drunk.

  “This is Fast Boat Twenty-Nine?” the kid said. “From the Squadron? I’ve got two replacements for you.”

  “A’ight. Hey, hey, Paula! Get the flare gun. Go to the boats by the marina. Go to the one that fires the flare. Just tie up alongside. We’re having a rockin’ wake for Anarchy.”

  The voice was clearly, even deeply, Southern. Between the drawl and the slur it was hard to make out some of the words. “Git uh flar gone. Duh wun thet fars the flar.”

  “Roger,” the kid said. “Uh… Fast Twenty-Nine, out. I guess we go to the flare, sirs.”

  The chief just hung his head at the “sir.” There really wasn’t any point.

  There were three yachts and two gunboats anchored by the marina, bouncing on the light waves. As they approached one of them fired off a red signal flare, then another. Then another. Then one at the zombies on the shore. That one landed in the midst of them, hitting one of them. The rest scattered from the flame then chased down the injured one and piled on to eat. The resulting feeding frenzy was a scene from Dante’s Inferno, complete with red lighting.

  There were shouts and applause from the yachts. They were barely audible over “Welcome to the Jungle” cranked to nuclear level.

  Then there was a burst of fire from one of the gunboats. It initially seemed aimed at the infected. Then it was turned on the water, then up as if trying to hit an invisible plane. Then back to the infected still clustered to feed. Tracers were bouncing of rocks and pinging into the air wildly. Lord only knew where the rest of the rounds were going. This produced still more shouts.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Barney said.

  “Okay, a little loose around the edges I can handle,” Chief Schmidt said. “But are we US Navy or fucking hajis?”

  “My thoughts exactly, Chief,” the sergeant major said. “Bloody fifty just keeps going.”

  “Uh, do I tie up alongside?” the kid asked. “Are you gonna climb over?”

  “Pull alongside the transom deck,” the Chief said. “That’s for boarding.”

  “The what deck?”

  “The trans… Oh, just let me do it!” Chief Schmidt unbuckled from his seat and took the wheel. “Just get ready to handle the lines.”

  “Okay,” the kid said.

  “The correct response is ‘aye, aye, Chief Petty Officer,’ ” Chief Schmidt snapped. “And I am not a ‘sir.’ I work for a living.”

  “Yes, s … Ok …”

  “Try ‘Yes, Chief Petty Officer,’ ” the Sergeant Major said.

  “Okay.”

  “I would weep, but the ocean is made of the tears of men,” the sergeant major said.

  Some people at the party caught the tossed lines and tied up the boat.

  “Permission to come aboard?” the Chief Petty Officer asked. There didn’t appear to be an Officer of the Deck. In fact, there was no way to tell who was who. Everyone was in civvies, mostly shorts and T-shirts or Hawaiian shirts. A couple of the chicks were in bikini tops.

  “Sure,” the woman greeter said. “We figure if you can talk and you’re wearing clothes, you’re probably not a zombie. Come on over. What’s your tipple?”

  “I don’t mind a drink,” the Chief said. “But it sort of looks like people have had enough.”

  “Not even close,” the woman shouted. “We’re having a wake for Anarchy. Besides, it’s how we draw in the zombies. Who are you guys?”

  “Chief Petty Officer Kent Schmidt,” Chief Schmidt said. “And Sergeant Major Raymond Barney. We’re coming aboard as Chief of the Squadron and Sergeant Major of the clearance forces.”

  “Oh, cool,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “Paula Handley, recently promoted to skipper of the Linea Caliente. Glad to see you guys. We could use some people who know what they’re doing. Especially after… ” She paused and shrugged and looked around for her drink. “Hey, come on in the saloon. I’ll get you a beer… ”

  “Is Lieutenant Chen aboard?” Chief Schmidt shouted. “We’re supposed to report t
o him.”

  “I think he’s up on the sundeck with Soph,” Paula said. “Go on up there. I think there’s a couple of bottles up there anyway.”

  “Okay,” Chief Schmidt shouted.

  They made their way past the superstructure to the sun deck. There were four people sitting there in mostly darkness, passing a bottle around.

  “Is there a Lieutenant Chen present?”

  “Here,” one of the men said. “You the new people?”

  “Chief Petty Officer Kent Schmidt, sir,” Chief Schmidt said. “And Sergeant Major Roland Barney, late of Her Majesty’s Light Horse.”

  “Light Cavalry, you twit,” Barney muttered.

  “Cop a squat, Chief, Sergeant Major,” Chen said, with careful diction. “You are probably wondering about the party.”

  “I understand it is a wake for your ground clearance commander, sir,” Barney said.

  “More or less,” Chen said. “And we also do it fairly regularly. Not, usually, with this much abandon.”

  “With due respect, sir, I hope you’re not normally that free with fire,” Sergeant Major Barney said.

  “Depends,” Chen said. “I had them stop when they clearly couldn’t hit the broad side of the barn. And they did. I really should keep the briefing for the morning but we have ops in the morning. So here goes. We go to these little seaside towns. We anchor overnight where there is a clear field of fire on shore. We then play music, fire off flares, keep all our lights on and, yes, frequently have a little party. At dawn, we fire up the zombies that have been attracted to the shore. We then go in and either cut out more boats or clear the town, depending. I’m of two minds on clearing this town tomorrow. But we’re going to have to clean out the harbor of all its large yachts. This is called, Chief?”

  “You mean a cutting out expedition, sir?” the Chief said. “I don’t think we’ve done that sort of thing since the War of Eighteen Twelve. If then.”

  “But that is our current mission,” Chen said, taking a drink from the bottle. “Littoral clearance and yacht salvage. We then get the yachts in running order, if possible, and continue on to the next town where we have a party, lather, rinse, repeat. With, hopefully, minimal casualties and, just as hopefully, picking up some survivors.”

  “You’re going to have your work cut out for you tomorrow, Sergeant Major,” one of the women said. The one from the radio. The accent was strong. “There’s a lot of enthusiasm for killing zombies. And sharks. Not so much for grabbing boats.”

  “Lieutenant Sophia Smith,” Chen said. “She will be in charge of the away team tomorrow. When it comes to working with the boats, I listen to Lieutenant JG Smith who grew up in a yachting family.”

  “Hey,” Elizabeth said, waving. “Welcome aboard.”

  “When it comes to pretty much everything else, I listen to Seawolf,” Chen said. “She’s been doing this since she and her father and sister captured the… What was it, Sophia?”

  “Tina’s Toy,” Sophia said, thickly. “Put a bit of a burr under Da’s saddle.”

  “That would be Captain Smith,” Chen said.

  “The boss,” Sophia said. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

  “How old are you, ma’am?” Chief Schmidt asked.

  “Fifteen,” Sophia said, taking a drink. “A fifteen-year-old who’s seen more dead bodies and chewed up children and shit that nobody should have to see than the Sergeant Major there. Guaran-fucking-teed. And I was in charge of the away team when Cody went in the drink.”

  “And we have been attempting to convince her that it was not her fault,” Chen said.

  “I think you’re trying to convince yourselves,” Sophia said. “I know it wasn’t. It was just… shit happens.”

  “No life preserver, ma’am?” Chief Schmidt asked.

  “No,” Sophia said. “No point. We’ve tested it. You can’t do the job with a Class Three; you can’t access your gear. And we wear Marine ballistic protection, not those Navy flak jackets. With that and the weight of ammo and gear, an inflatable won’t support you. And if you go in the drink, it’s the first thing you’ve got to take off. When there’s a specifal… specfical… really bad maneuver like climbing a boarding ladder, we’ll rig up with floats and a safety line. Floats if we can. But he was just cutting out a fucking inflatable and slipped. And that was that. Rusty and Olga got to watch him get torn to mincemeat on the fucking bottom.”

  “Bloody hell,” Barney said, shaking his head.

  “Then we had to fish him out with a grapnel,” Sophia said, taking another drink. “What was left. That was, by the way, this afternoon, Chief. Sergeant Major. So you shall forgive us, I hope, if we drown ourselves in really good booze. Now, what do you drink? And if you answer ‘I don’t,’ I swear to God I’ll see if you can outswim the fucking sharks.”

  “I’m trying to figure out if I’m still a recovering alcoholic,” Chief Schmidt said. “My wife of forty-three years finally convinced me I had a problem. On the other hand, she is no longer with us. But you go right ahead, Lieutenant.”

  “I take it back, Chief,” Sophia said. “I’ll go find some of the tea I usually hold back for my sister. Or we’ve got some coke.”

  “Coca-cola would be great, ma’am,” the Chief said. “I would normally say an officer should not get a Chief a coke, but I’m not sure I’m going to be able to stand up again without help.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Now all you recruities what’s drafted to-day,

  You shut up your rag-box an’ ’ark to my lay,

  An’ I’ll sing you a soldier as far as I may:

  A soldier what’s fit for a soldier.

  Fit, fit, fit for a soldier

  Fit, fit, fit for a soldier

  Fit, fit, fit for a soldier

  Soldier of the Queen

  Kipling, “The Young Recruit”

  “Oh,” Sophia croaked, holding her hands over her ears to blot out the sound of the guns. “I have got to either give up drinking or give up early mornings.”

  The sun was just rising over the marina of Perto De Gulmar and it was another fine morning in the Canary Islands. Seabirds squawked over the dead bodies of infected as fish jumped to avoid the sharks that were swarming to the flowing blood.

  “More water, ma’am,” Sergeant Major Barney said. “When is the rest of the team arriving for the operations meeting, ma’am?”

  “After they finish firing and secure, Sergeant Major,” Sophia said. She took a sip of her coffee and grimaced again. “And hopefully after the Tylenol kicks in.”

  The chosen target zone was a small beach outside the entrance to the marina. The guns had finished off the infected on the beach and the Golden Guppy raised its three anchors and pulled out to sea. There was another group of infected at the end of the seawall protecting the marina. The problem was, if it fired from its current location, it would be firing into the marina and probably hit some of their target vessels. It moved out to sea, into the rolling combers, and prepared to engage again. This time, it was doing so without anchoring.

  The fire was much less on target, with rounds going over the zombies as well as below. The problem with “below” was the large rocks of the jetty. They had various angles to them and tracers went everywhere, including towards the anchored boats.

  “Guppy, Division. Check fire, check fire, check fire. Try it again, anchored.”

  “I told ’em that wouldn’t work,” Sophia muttered, picking up the radio. “Catenary is a bitch. And we don’t have all day. Division, Senorita, over.”

  “Senorita, Division.”

  “Recommend pull into the marina entrance, fire from there. Very little wave action, over.”

  “The tide is going in, Senorita. They’d have to maintain position to fire against the flow, over.”

  “Permission to approach for close rifle fire. There are only ten or fifteen. And I can maintain position against the tide. Over.”

  “Roger, stand by. Guppy, clear and lock all weapons and st
and off. Senorita approaching for close rifle fire. Confirm.”

  “Division, Guppy. We can get this, over.”

  “Wasn’t a request, Guppy. Confirm.”

  “Clear and lock all weapons then stand off, over.”

  “Roger. Division out.”

  “And so we’re moving,” Sophia said, raising the anchor. “Sergeant Major, I assume you can still fire a rifle?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the Sergeant Major said. “And I even was given an opportunity to zero.”

  “I’m going to back in,” Sophia said, turning the boat around. “Get Olga and you and she fire ’em up.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the Sergeant Major said.

  * * *

  There was a nasty little eddy at the entrance caused by a combination of the wave action and a small metal wall that was probably to prevent silting. But Sophia finally found a stable point.

  “Okay, this is as good as you’re going to get,” she shouted.

  * * *

  “We may have to discuss uniform at some point,” Sergeant Major Barney said.

  Olga had turned out in shorts and a bikini top with her LBE thrown over.

  “Yes, Sergeant Major,” Olga said.

  “How do you normally do this?” he asked.

  “The only time I fired from the boat I was up on the flying bridge,” Olga said. “And I didn’t hit many. We were anchored but the boat was rocking.”

  “There is a technique for that,” the sergeant major said. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t a Marine and I’ve never studied it. We’ll use the deck up front. What’s it called?”

  “The sundeck, Sergeant Major.”

  The sergeant major followed her up to the sundeck, trying not to pay too much attention to the butt and legs.

  “Prone position,” he said, getting down creakily. It had been a bit since he’d done this and he mentally made the note that he was going to have to figure out how they were going to engage in physical training. Not to mention general discipline and uniform standards. “Slow, aimed, fire. We have time.”