Strands of Sorrow (eARC)

by John Ringo

  “The ones in the helicopters?” Faith said. “That’s exactly what I mean. But I’ll let Sophia play Ride of the Valkyries. I’m thinking… Immigrant Song? Winterborn? Hell, can we hook it up to a playlist?”

  “We’ll figure out a way, ma’am,” Januscheitis said.

  “Not to interrupt this planning session or anything,” Smitty radioed. “I think we got some survivors.”

  “Where?” Faith asked.

  “Couple of streets over, Shewolf,” Smitty said. “Over on Ocean Grove. Pretty sure somebody’s waving something out a window.”

  “Arise, Marines!” Faith radioed. “Fell deeds await! Now for wrath… Seriously, this time let’s make sure we’ve got the situation controlled before extraction…”

  * * *

  “Where the hell have you been?” the man said angrily, as he boarded the track. “The base is right up the road!”

  “You’re looking at pretty much the entire surviving Marine Corps, sir,” Smitty said, handing him some water. “So why don’t you sit down, shut up, don’t touch anything and don’t bitch. We got more ground to cover.”

  * * *

  “Shewolf, J, over.”

  “Hearin’ you, J,” Faith replied. They’d moved over to Seminole Road and were getting a lot more action. Both in terms of the occasional survivors and the infected.

  “We’re getting orange on ammo, Shewolf,” Januscheitis said. “Red on fifty and forty mike mike. Orange on everything else.”

  “Roger,” Faith said. She reached down and pulled out her laptop, then consulted the map on it. “Follow me. And hope I don’t get lost…”

  * * *

  “And I’m lost,” Faith admitted. “Hooch, get one of the locals up in the hatch. We’re looking for the nearest beach access road…”

  * * *

  “Here,” Faith said, ducking into the personnel compartment and handing over her magazines. “Have my mags.”

  The Marines were down to tossing grenades over the side of the tracks at the increasing crowds of infected around them. They’d ended up going too far down Seminole Road and well inland. When they’d passed the Atlantic Beach city hall, and were out of fifty and forty millimeter, they knew they’d gone wrong.

  “There!” the local said. “Turn left!”

  “And we’re headed for the beach,” Faith said as the amtrack bumped over something.

  “Please tell me that was a speed bump,” the woman closest to her said.

  “That was a speed bump,” Faith said. “For values of speed bump…”

  * * *

  “Run away, run away!” Faith radioed as the beach came in sight. “Full speed ahead and rendezvous offshore…”

  They’d closed up all their hatches. First order of business in the AAR, admitting she couldn’t map read for shit. Second order of business, amtracks should NOT be easy to climb. The things were ten feet high. If was it wasn’t for external climb bars and racks there was no way the zeds could climb on them. As it was, you could hear the scratching and banging from the zeds on the roof over the roar of the engines.

  Faith ducked back into the personnel area as the track moved into the water. As it did, the refugees could feel the track begin to float and the interior filled with eerie green light. So that might be why they were looking so green. Or not. The extra weight of refugees, who were packed in, and the zeds on top had them riding pretty damned low. If they’d had appliqué armor attached they’d have sunk like a stone. The bilge pump was working over time.

  “We need to get these zeds off the track,” Faith said loudly. “Take ’er down to fifty feet, helmsman!”

  “Fifty feet, aye, ma’am!” Freeman responded.

  One of the refugees fainted.

  * * *

  “…I definitely need to get better at map reading,” Faith admitted. “In my defense, the roads down there get a little screwy.”

  “Second Item: We probably should have turned around before we were orange on ammo…”

  There was a reason that AARs were referred to as “institutional scab picking.”

  “Third Item: We need to reconfigure the exterior of the AAVs,” Faith said. “They’re high enough that without the gear racks, there’s no way zeds could climb on them. If they weren’t on top, we could have just driven away from them. They can’t keep up. As it was, well…

  “Last item: We need to carry more spare ammo onboard. And it’s been suggested we attach claymores to the sides although having the actual swords onboard in this case would have been useful. Put somebody up on top with a six foot sword and the zeds aren’t boarding…”

  “… The basic concept of approaching from off-shore works,” Faith concluded. “Although if we’re going to get swarmed, putting some grease or something on top would be useful.”

  “Yes,” Colonel Hamilton said. “Although the gunny and I positively delighted in carefully shooting off the zombies you brought back with you, Lieutenant. And, of course, the alligators appreciated it.”

  “And we appreciated the care, sir,” Faith said. “Forty-five makes a really funny sound when it’s pinging off the armor, sir…”

  * * *

  “Shewolf, Hawk Seven, approaching from your six.”

  “Nevada, that you?” Faith replied.

  “Roger. You’ve got a bunch of tangoes clustered to your northeast. They’re trying to follow you and getting hooked up on what looks like… Stand by… My GPS is saying Six-Zero-Two Selva Lakes Circle. That’s Selva. Sierra, Echo, Lima, Victor, Alpha. Do you copy?”

  “Selva,” Faith replied. “Good copy. We’ll head over there and make them good tangoes.”

  “Roger. Hawk Seven continuing mission. Out.”

  “He’s just eating this up, isn’t he?” Faith said, smiling. “I’m so glad we found him. Now… Selva… Selva… There you are…”

  * * *

  “Okay, not this Selva…”

  * * *

  “Or this one…”

  * * *

  “Selva Circle, right…? No.”

  * * *

  “Selva Boulevard?”

  * * *

  “Ah! There you are…! Open fire!”

  * * *

  “…in conclusion, suburbs, especially suburbs that use the same damned name over and over again, are really confusing, but the addition of more ammo and removal of all external holds has made the mission extremely effective. And it gave us the opportunity to make lots of good zombies. That concludes my report.”

  “Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “Remind me not to have you ever navigate in Atlanta.”

  “Sir?” Faith asked.

  “So I say this with some trepidation,” Hamilton said. “We have modified a barge, and tested it, capable of RO-RO of an M1 on any suitable landing point. Which does not, let me make this very clear, mean anything that has pilings under it. A solid landing point. This means we can move Trixie across the river.”

  “Oh…” Faith said, her eyes wide. “Oh…” She started to say something and stopped and frowned. “Sir, that is tremendous news. Really, sir. But…”

  “But there aren’t enough concentrations south of the base to warrant using M1028,” Hamilton said. “Or a tank.”

  “No, sir,” Faith said.

  “The same barge, which is more of a landing craft at this point just not self mobile, will allow the amtracks to climb up onto it and cross it to land at otherwise inaccessible points such as wharfs,” Hamilton said. “So tomorrow, what you are going to do, is practice landing using the barge with Trixie, driven by Lance Corporal Condrey and not yourself, as well as using it to move amtracks from the water to the land. Crew of Trixie will be yourself as commander, Staff Sergeant Decker as gunner, Lance Corporal Condrey as driver and Private First Class Twitchell as loader. And if you drop it in the water, if you survive, you don’t get another one. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir,” Faith said.

  “The day following, if all tests are a go, you will proceed to t
he Bay Street Wharfs area of Jacksonville to perform a hard entry for clearance,” Hamilton said.

  “We’re going downtown?” Faith asked.

  “You’re going downtown,” Hamilton said. “There are survivors in some of the buildings who cannot or will not access the roof. Your mission, initially, will be clearance only. You will be covered by Hawk Three in the event that you run into a problem. The amphibs can, as you pointed out and proved, just drive into the water to get rid of most of their fleas. You cannot. You also are enjoined to avoid a repetition of LRI. If you get too in the busy, pull back. The barge will wait offshore for your extraction. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Faith said, beaming.

  “Last point,” Hamilton said. “The point has been made, several times, that we need more noise to attract the infected. So Trixie has been further…accessorized.”

  “‘In this episode of Pimp My Tank,’” Commander Sanderson said, “‘we attach the largest speakers in the world to an M1 Abrams.’ I hope I like your taste in music, Lieutenant. I’m going to be able to hear it from the chopper…”

  “We’re going dooowntooown,” Faith sang.

  * * *

  “‘These mist covered islands, are home now for me…’” Montana sang quietly, watching more infected falling off the Ronald Reagan. It wasn’t the zombilanche Lyons had faced but they were still coming. The Special Boat guys seemed to be having fun shooting the occasional survivor who made it to the SOC. Between their covered wheelhouse and maneuverability they were making sort of a game of moving in, getting a zombilanche, moving back. They were wearing respirators since there weren’t enough sharks or giant squids in the ocean to clean up all the offal in the harbor. And the damned things just kept coming.

  “I’d like to know where they’re getting water,” Captain Carter said stoically. He was watching the operation with arms crossed and a set expression on his face. Possibly because at least some of the falling infected were Navy personnel.

  “I’d like to know how to turn off that damned light,” Montana said. “At a certain level this is a perfect situation. Wolf would do something similar to draw infected to kill zones. But they would only do it overnight. This has been going on for months and has drawn a goodly portion of the entire infected population to one relatively controlled areas. Viewed in that light this is a good thing. The problem is the level of infected. All we need is sufficient controlled firepower and at least half our problems in the San Diego area are solved. We can’t just hit North Island with all the Tomahawks in the Michigan.

  “Driver,” Montana said, looking south in the bay. “Head south down the bay.”

  “Aye, sir,” the kid said, starting the motor again and heading south.

  “Sir?” Carter asked.

  “Was it just me or is there a long stretch of open area south of the base?” Montana asked.

  “Technically it’s part of the base, sir,” Carter said. “Just unused except by BUD/S and runners. The locals have been petitioning for decades to get it opened up to development. But, yes, it is untenanted.”

  “Driver, you know where we’re talking about?”

  “Silver Strand,” the coxswain said. “Yes, sir.”

  “Thataway.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  * * *

  The area south of the base was a long, narrow peninsula with beaches on both sides. Just north of the area was the BUD/S facility, parked on the seaward side of the stretch of beach.

  “Scenic,” Montana said, nodding. “Hell of a lot better than Camp McCall. I think one of the reasons there was always a rivalry between Special Forces and the SEALs was we were so damned jealous of where you were based.”

  “Beaches are kind of our thing, sir,” Carter said.

  “Having taken a close look at the situation,” Montana said, “how would you rate the success likelihood of a mission to cut out the Jimmy Carter and take it under tow?”

  “Low, sir,” Carter said. “And that ignores what effect it would have on the reactor. They are very sensitive to temperature fluctuations.”

  “Pretty much my thought as well,” Montana said. “We need a meeting. Gah. I hate it when I say that…”

  * * *

  “We need to get the infected to move off North Island,” Montana said. “At least the main base zone.”

  The meeting included Halvorson, Lyons, the COB of the Michigan, Captain Carter and Montana. If they needed more brainpower they’d expand but Montana was a big believer that the size of a meeting was inverse to its output.

  “Specifically we need to get them to move to the uninhabited portion of the island south of the BUD/S base. To do that we need to either cover or turn off the light on the Jimmy. Then we need an alternate attractor set up alongside the open area. That can be something mounted on a barge with minimal crew. But it needs to be a lot of light. And that skips the part of turning off or covering the light on the Jimmy. Brainstorm time. Cutting the light on the Jimmy. The other is easy.”

  “Team of SEALs onto the Jimmy,” Lyons said. “There’s less of a zombilanche these days. Keep their heads up. Mount the sail. Cover it with a rubber mat.”

  “Problems,” Commander Halvorson said.

  “Wait on those,” Montana said. “Alternatives.”

  “Hit the sail with a rocket launcher,” Captain Carter said.

  “Out of the box,” Montana said, as Lyons made a note. “Good. Next.”

  “Slide something under it to block the water intake to the reactor,” the COB said. “One way or another it’ll shut ’er down. I don’t think it’s a good idea but it’s an idea.”

  “I am going to formally protest if that one even gets a mention, sir,” Halvorson said. “We don’t know exactly how that reactor is still running and any attempt to futz with it without such knowledge has the likelihood of creating a meltdown. Strongly protest. Through channels.”

  “Duly noted. Now come up with something yourself.”

  “Rig up a boat with overhead protection and a crane,” Halvorson said with a clearly unexpressed sigh. “Use that to install blocking material on the light. It can’t be just a rubber mat. That light produces a fair amount of heat. Steel box?”

  “That’s the ticket,” Montana said. “Keep going…”

  * * *

  “Seasons don’t fear the reaper…’” Montana muttered, watching the evolution of covering the light on the Jimmy Carter.

  The “crane” on the end of the motorized barge was originally a boat lift found in “abandoned and inoperable” condition at the NALF. Four days of crack Navy nuclear engineering, “crack” being a variable term in this case, had created a “crane” capable of lifting a large steel box sixty feet into the air and forty feet sideways. One where the operator was, furthermore, covered in plates of corrugated steel taken from the same cargo container that had provided material for the “lights-out” box.

  “The Beast” having already been taken, they called it “Franky” after Dr. Frankenstein’s monster. Leuschen’s suggestion of “Jaeger” had been ritually shot down in flames.

  Leuschen and the barge driver had practiced maneuvering the box but it was still tricky. North Island had a more or less continuous wind from the sea which tended to push the barge off station. And the box was swinging on a single line which meant it wasn’t always lined up to fit over the sail. Then there were the falling zombies hitting the barge, the crane and the box. The impacts of those falling from the flight deck could be heard a hundred yards away. However, after twenty minutes and what was clearly a good bit of swearing they had the box in place and the light at least muted.

  “To the strand, driver,” Montana said, pointing south.

  Along the strand seven barges, previously cut out by SEALs and boat operators, were now arrayed along the shore. Each of them contained one or more generators and as many powerful lights as the remnants of Pacific Fleet had been able to find. They’d tried them the previous night and gotten some response. But wi
th most of the infected concentrating on the light on the Jimmy the response had been muted at best. With that light turned off, hopefully they’d get more response over the subsequent nights.

  There were crews on the barges, fixing light bulbs, reinforcing gear, fueling the generators. Despite the long trip down they’d put them in the bay. Less damage from waves that way. Alas, that also meant they were going to lose them. ’Cause it was gonna rain.

  CHAPTER 13

  “You okay?” Sophia said. Nobody had seen Faith since the meeting and she finally tracked her down in her quarters.

  Faith was hunched in front of a computer, staring at it like a mouse stares at a snake.

  “I’m fine,” Faith said. She didn’t move.

  “Homework?” Sophia asked. Despite being “Officers and Ladies” with full-time jobs, they were both expected to keep up with school work. Faith was considered the “bad” student of the two of them and despite being a fourteen-year-old officer in a zombie apocalypse was up to eleventh grade work. Sophia, fifteen, was working on college courses.

  “Sort of,” Faith said.

  “Need help?” Sophia said. She wasn’t usually so nice but Faith looked…scared. She walked into the room and examined the computer. Faith was looking at an iTunes screen. “So, seriously, what’s up?”

  “I’m trying to figure out the playlist,” Faith said in a small voice.

  “Is that all?” Sophia said, laughing. “I did dozens of those!”

  “I know!” Faith spat. “Okay, I know! I was there, okay? For shooting up a beach filled with infected on a raid, Sophia! I’m taking an M1 tank ashore in a CITY. You remember LONDON?”

  “Faith, calm down,” Sophia said, sitting down next to her.

  “I almost lost in London, Soph,” Faith said, clearly trying not to cry. “I almost LOST. I almost lost all my Marines, Soph! ’Cause I was stupid and I thought…”

  “Faith…” Sophia said. “I… You made the right call. The general backed you up.”

  “That’s the ONLY reason it was right,” Faith said. “Because, Soph, you were THERE. If it hadn’t been for General Montana, we’d be…” She stopped. “And I didn’t know that, okay, Sophia? How could I? It was just Walker. It was wrong. I was wrong. And now… I’ve got to do this? Okay? And this is important, okay, Sophia? We’re going into a city, okay? Just like God-damned London, okay? And this time there is no way that the fuckers are getting my Marines! I’m going to fucking SLAUGHTER them. Those fuckers need to pay! And they cannot stop me! They just can’t, okay? This is where we prove we can fucking win, Sophia. So it’s important! It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done, okay?”