Strands of Sorrow (eARC)

by John Ringo

  “From reports, base appears as clear as it’s going to get without night clearance,” Hamilton said.

  “Up to you, sir, if we’re going to exit the base to continue, sir,” Faith said. “I’m thinking that we can at least patrol down the beach, sir. We can bypass the pole line with the amtracks and if we get really in the busy we can just head out to sea. Also, we’d be staying together in that case for fire support. It would get some of the clearance going, sir.”

  “We’ll bat that around in a bit,” Hamilton said. “Next.”

  “On general security, the main opening is on the beach, sir. Suggestion?”

  “Go,” Hamilton said.

  “There’s a Panamax spilled on the beach, sir,” Faith said. “Deck cargo is in the water. If we can get one of those all-terrain container movers over to the station side, we can just pick those up and plop them down in the water, sir. Out into the surf. Maybe drag some further out with the amtracks if it comes to that. That will force any infected that want to get around it out into the surf. And I’d guess that the sharks are patrolling for them, sir. At the very least, it’s going to be a heck of a swim.”

  “We’ve got a barge ready to get Trixie across the river,” Hamilton said. “The issue has been hoisting on the other side. I suppose testing that out first with a forklift would be useful. We’ll put that on the schedule. Anything else?”

  “I’m going to be careful with the last, sir,” Faith said, looking at some notes. “During the first day’s clearance, the platoon found nine survivors during ten hours of clearance. Rounding that’s one survivor an hour.”

  “Which is good, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “Any survivor is good but these were military and dependents. Pardon me for saying that is better.”

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said. “Agreed, sir. Today, sir, we spent four hours doing security and FOD walk-down, sir. I am not bitching about that, sir. What I am saying, as an official statement, is that I do not think it was the best use of our time, sir. My Marines are specialists at clearance and killing infected, sir. I understand that FOD walk-down has to be meticulous, sir. My professional opinion is that we could have rounded up some refugees and have them overseen by Navy security with back-up of aviation ground personnel and achieved the same objective, sir. While my Marines were clearing zombies and saving people, sir. But I could be wrong. I’d like to…look at that, sir.”

  “Commander Sanderson?” Hamilton said. “You made that call.”

  “You were available, Lieutenant,” Sanderson said. “And the security situation was still questionable. To get refugees over, assuming they’d volunteer, we’d have had to dispatch the Sea Dragon. Also a questionable use of resources.”

  “Last point first, sir,” Faith said. “We’ve accessed the basin including the direct access from the field to the main basin. As secure a transfer point as you can ask. We have boats. We kept back two of the Navy light craft from Lieutenant Chen’s flotilla. They could have been used as ferries. The area was secure, obviously, since there were no infected encountered and none had been observed in the area that day or even the previous, sir.

  “On volunteering: That’s a really complicated subject. I’m not getting into personnel resource use, over my paygrade. But experience shows that if you ask a group of refugees for help, you get some that respond immediately. And those tend to be your best people, ongoing. So just asking the question, sir, lets you start sorting the sheep from the goats, sir. Not always, of course. Sometimes the people who don’t volunteer end up being very good. But it’s a method, sir.”

  “You’re very carefully not looking at me, Faith,” Isham said, grinning. “But the lieutenant has a very valid point. That is the general experience. The counter is that people who have been…significant prior to the Fall often are initially resistant to menial tasks while having often high ability at more advanced tasks. I’ll add that Ernest Zumwald’s newsreels and radio shows have had a very positive impact.”

  “Well put, sir,” Faith said, smiling thinly. “Very politic.”

  “Having a pistol shoved in the back of your neck can make you politic, Lieutenant,” Isham said.

  “On availability:” Faith continued. “That is the question, sir. And it is a question, sir. My professional opinion is that it was not the best use of resources. But I am very junior, sir. And I may be wrong, sir. I am aware that my professional knowledge base is not perfect, sir. However, sir, I would like to explore whether every time the runway needs to be walked down, are my Marines supposed to divert from their primary tasks? Is that a good idea or should we look at some alternative? ’Cause it will happen again. You gotta walk the line regularly. Is that our job? Or is our job killing infected and saving people?”

  “When you put it that way, Lieutenant, the answer seems fairly obvious,” Commander Sanderson said. “I’m man enough to admit it was probably a mistake.”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Faith said. “I wasn’t even aware that the order had come from you, sir. I just did what I was told. Do what you’re told and ask questions about it later when the time is right. So now I’m asking, officially, as is my job, if we need to be available on an ongoing basis, sir.”

  “No,” Hamilton said. “I’m not going to explore whether it was a right or wrong call in this case. Receiving the P-8 was a snap-kick. Further, it was a snap-kick when the commander was just getting his feet on the ground. My gut is that it was not that big an issue in this case but it is not a primarily ground force Marine job. If there’s a need in the future that cannot be filled by other resources, we’ll address it. But the primary job of the Marines is outer perimeter security and clearance. Secondary is secondary. Subject closed.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said.

  “Status of the aviation side of the Station,” Hamilton said.

  “One Seahawk will be up and running for testing purposes tomorrow, sir,” Sanderson said. “We’ll have a rate of about one per day thereafter. Working with survey and salvage on getting the training facilities back online. Notably the simulators, which is going to take some work. We could, possibly, do without them but having them will assist in reducing the training time. We’ll have to have a round-the-clock ground training, including simulators if we have them, training schedule. And until we have more qualified pilots and airframe engineers, we’re dying for instructors. It’s going to be a matter of senior and experienced people staying as instructors and newly minted personnel going out in the field, sir. Once they get some field experience, they’ll rotate back as instructors and so on and so forth. Anyone with serious experience will be a senior officer, sir.”

  “Got that,” Hamilton said. “I’m going to say, definitively, and I’ll point it out to LantFleet, that the more time you spend getting the basis right, the more efficient the program will be ongoing. Once we can turn the lights on at night on the base, for that matter get the lights going on base, we’ll be pulling out to continue sweeps north. I really don’t expect your training program to be hitting stride until that point, Commander. During the sweep, not as we leave. So get it right at the start and I’m confident that it will work out long-term.”

  “Will do, Colonel,” Sanderson said. “One question.”

  “Go,” Hamilton said.

  “Am I also commanding the station, sir?” Sanderson asked.

  “For now, you’re station commander,” Hamilton said, making a note. “Aware that doing that and the training program and squadron commander is a bit much to ask, I’ll find someone to take over base command. It’s not me. For one thing, it’s a base command. Navy deal. For another, I’m the Force Commander, at least for present, and will be going forward with the Force. But as Captain Smith pointed out, we have a slew of capable lieutenant commanders, commanders and even lieutenants promotable who could handle it. We’ll find a station commander from that group.

  “Commander Isham, plans on mechanical production,” Hamilton said.

  “What we lacked before was resources
, Colonel,” Isham said. “Steve and I have been batting this idea around for a while. I’ve got a pretty good concept of operations on it and I brought along a couple of my people who have a clue. Like you said on the training operation, more time spent at the beginning getting it right means more efficiency as you go. But I’d say two weeks and we’ll have the basics in place and start cranking out containers. Don’t say ‘One week.’ When I say a time, I don’t pad it. I could give you one in three days. Might have one in a week to at least test the concept. Getting people in place, trained and prepared to do all the tasks… Two weeks is a miracle.”

  “Two weeks sounds fine, Commander,” Hamilton said. “Air Ops. Any points?”

  “One more day’s full ops and the Dragon is down for at least two days,” Captain Wilkes said. “The question is, do you want us to do another day of ops or put it in for service now?”

  “Can you service it at the airfield, Commander?” Hamilton asked.

  “Yes,” Sanderson said. “I was going to raise moving the helo support personnel to the station. We can do the work over there with them. And I may have to steal some for the training program.”

  “We’ll need them back on the Grace when we leave,” Hamilton said. “I get your point about experience in the trainers. We still need a solid crew on the Grace. We’re going to be out on a limb, as usual. I’d prefer our air branch not be cut off. But they’ll move over to begin work at the station tomorrow. Send the Sea Dragon over with one set of personnel, then get to work on it. The rest can, as the lieutenant pointed out, ferry by boats. Missions for tomorrow: Service the Sea Dragon. Begin work on mechanicals production facility. Continue work on the base systems. Closure of the beach to infected infiltration. Clearance operations down the beach. Air Ops at Commander Sanderson’s direction. Setting up a regular ferry schedule. Now to the details…”

  * * *

  That evening in his quarters, Commander Sanderson turned on his computer, logged into WolfNet and typed a query: “London Research Institute.”

  There was already an “official history” of Wolf Squadron. The writer was an historian who had been tapped to write up “significant actions” post-Fall. Sanderson had already read the bios of the various senior officials and noted that Captain Smith’s background was being a history teacher. So it made sense. It was from those as much as the, frankly, propaganda movies that Commander Sanderson had been getting caught up on this new world he’d entered.

  “Operation Golden Lion: Airmobile insertion raid on the London Research Institute…”

  Sanderson read the entry and realized that it was carefully crafted. “Stuff” had been left out. So he hit the links at various points and did some more research. Then he dug into additional information on his new Ensign. It took some piecing together to see why she was inserted as a “technical expert” on the raid.

  “Son of a bitch,” Sanderson said when he was done. “I now get why the colonel said ‘Never underestimate a Smith.’ I knew where the vaccine came from but…that’s double cold…”

  * * *

  “Permission to make a nonprofessional comment, sir,” Sophia said as she banked the Seahawk around. They were staying over the cleared areas since her “check ride” was doubling as a test-flight of the newly refurbished bird.

  “Your choice,” Sanderson said.

  “This is so much easier to fly than the Dragon, sir!” Sophia said.

  “We try to use Rangers, which are about the easiest bird in the world, for first flights, Ensign,” Sanderson said. “It would take a zombie apocalypse for anyone to have a person train and solo on a Dragon. They are, yes, a bitch and a half. Since we’re having not on point conversation. Personal question.”

  “Sir?” Sophia said.

  “You were sent to London in part to look for vaccine production materials?” Sanderson said.

  “Yes, sir,” Sophia said. “I worked in a corporate lab making vaccine before the Fall if that’s what you’re tip-toeing up to asking, sir.”

  “That was what I’d gleaned,” Sanderson said, nodding.

  “I’ve got an official pardon from the NCCC, sir,” Sophia said. “And I’m past apologizing, sir. Especially given that that is where all our vaccine comes from at this point. Thank God Dr. Shelley turned up or I’d be stuck in a lab instead of doing this, sir.”

  “It’s inappropriate for me to ask something like this,” Sanderson said. “But how did you feel about that?”

  “When we were first clearing, sir,” Sophia said, “there were still some child infected left, sir. And I occasionally had to shoot them, sir. That’s about how I felt, sir.”

  “Ensign,” Sanderson said. “Absent being unable to land this bird safely, your flying meets standards. My standards. You’d have been cleared pre-Fall, if you were, you know, old enough and went through all the right schools. I would prefer you to have more time as copilot and that seems to meet the mission plan. But you’re a good, competent pilot. On the point we just discussed: I spent some time working with spec-ops. One of their unwritten mottoes is ‘We do a lot of things nobody should have to do because they’re things that have to be done.’ Your…attitude on the matter was what I was looking for. And that fits that motto. I have no issues with you as a pilot, Ensign. I’m trying to figure out why you’re still an Ensign.”

  “Pretty much everyone up to the NCCC is okay with me being an officer, sir,” Sophia said. “I’ve been working as an officer, effectively, since before I was sworn in. But there’s a similar resistance, from just about everyone, to promoting me until I’m a little older. Either sixteen, which is coming up, or eighteen. They’ll probably relent and promote me to JG when I turn sixteen. I’m not holding my breath but it’s probable. I’m not really worried about it, sir. We really don’t do this stuff for pay and I’m not zoned in on who salutes me or doesn’t. I just want to do everything I can, to the best of my ability, to help, sir. Really don’t care what rank I’m at doing that, sir. If I was a pilot and… I dunno, a petty officer, I’d be fine with that, sir. I just try to do whatever needs to be done even if some of it has been, yeah, pretty distasteful. And I don’t really care what people call me when I’m doing it. Sir.”

  “‘We just do what needs to be done, even if it sucks, to make the world a better place,’” Sanderson said. “Maybe we need a new squadron motto.”

  “Not many children infected anymore, sir,” Sophia said. “And shooting up zeds gets to be… You just don’t see them as people after a while, sir. At least I try not to.”

  “Bring her in for a landing, Ensign,” Sanderson said. “The aircraft and the pilot seem to be functional. And we have promises to keep.”

  “And miles to go before we sleep, and miles to go before we sleep…” Sophia said.

  “And she knows the classics,” Sanderson said.

  “Once more unto the breach dear friends, once more,” Sophia said. “Or close up the stairs with our American dead!”

  “That…is not a classic,” Sanderson said.

  “It will be, sir,” Sophia said. “It will be… Tower, Hawk Three approach for landing…”

  * * *

  “Forth, Marines!” Faith called over the radio. “Forth and fear no darkness! Arise! Arise! Arise Riders of Shewolf! Spears shall be shaken! Shields shall be shattered! A sword day… A red day… Ere the sun rises!”

  With the decision to start clearance of the beach towns south of the station, some of the plan had been adjusted. The Marines had left before dawn, catching the outgoing tide, and swum their tracks out to sea. A large park extended south of the base for a mile and a half. When they were clear of the base, they’d turned on powerful spotlights and trolled down past the park to where the civilian houses started.

  Now they were arrayed in a line with the sun rising behind them and facing them were a few hundred zombies.

  “Death cried King Theoden,” Januscheitis radioed. “Charging the line of the enemy.”

  “Open fire and let’s rol
l!” Faith shouted, pointing to the shore. “Death! Death!”

  It really was no contest. By the time the amtracks engaged their tracks and waded ashore, the entire group of zombies was shattered bodies from .50 caliber fire. Several were then ground into the sand by the tracks.

  “You know,” Faith said. “Few of these at the Battle of Minas Tirith and Sauron wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

  “Sauron would have been the one using them, ma’am,” Hooch argued. “Or Saruman. Saruman was way more into machines, ma’am.”

  “Wizards,” Januscheitis said.

  “Well, they were, right?” Faith said.

  “I meant the movie, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “From the seventies? The evil wizard had tanks. The good wizard didn’t.”

  “He had a Luger, though,” Hooch radioed.

  “Point,” Januscheitis said.

  “This is the geekiest conversation,” Faith said. “I’m afraid of what I’ve started. Hey, there’s a road off the beach. We’re not getting many takers, let’s go inland.”

  “We need to be able to extract, ma’am,” Januscheitis warned. “We’re not getting hit heavy now. We may.”

  “In which case, we drive back to the beach,” Faith said, holding up a standard auto GPS. “Everybody remember where we parked. Looks like… Nineteenth Street.”

  * * *

  “Staff Sergeant,” Faith said over the radio.

  “Ma’am?” Januscheitis said.

  They’d hit some pockets of zombies. So far no survivors but the day was extremely young.

  “In all seriousness, we need some big ass speakers on these things,” Faith said, watching the fire. The infected weren’t even getting close to the amtracks between the fire of the main guns and the fire from the up-gunned Marines in the back. “Zombies are attracted to light and sound. And loud as these things are, they’re not loud enough.”

  “Psy-ops speakers, aye, ma’am,” Januscheitis said.

  “Which are?” Faith asked.

  “Big ass speakers, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Big ass. Ever see Apocalypse Now?”