by John Ringo
The other way to spot them was the roofs. There were survivors who had found some stash of food in an industrial building of one sort of another. Some were in grocery stores, others in warehouses. But some had survived in their homes or apartment buildings. In most cases, at some point they had climbed up or chopped through to the roof and painted a distress sign. H-E-L-P and S-O-S being the most common.
Spotting those signs, with a single helicopter, was tough. Not only the satellite people in the Hole but sub crews and pretty much anyone with free time was combing the satellite overheads for them. But they were spotting quite a few that were missed from the chopper.
And, unfortunately, some of those locations were now deserted. They never were sure why and wouldn’t be until someone checked them out on the ground. If that ever happened.
“Force Ops, Dragon, over,” Wilkes said.
“Force Ops.”
“Request permission to discontinue sweep and start doing active rescue, over.”
“Stand by.”
“Roger,” Wilkes said as they passed over the house. There was a woman on the roof waving a sheet. “Mark this.”
“Aye, aye,” Sophia said, hitting the waypoint marker on the GPS.
“Dragon, Force Ops. Permission granted.”
“Roger Force Ops. Dragon, out.” He switched to intercom. “Crew. Get the hoist ready. We’ve got clearance to start rescue ops. We’ll start with this one, then go back towards Mayport and work out from there.”
“Roger,” Olga replied. “’Bout time.”
* * *
“You know, sir, this is almost a waste of time,” Sophia said.
They were hovering, ramp down, over the roof of an apartment building. Five survivors were being loaded, all who had survived in the complex off of Wonderwood Drive.
“Because we can do this all day, every day, and still barely make a dent in the world?” Wilkes said. “I agree.”
“We need to get rid of the zombies,” Sophia said, looking down at the parking lot of the complex. Every time they hovered for any time, infected from the surrounding area closed in. “We could just hover and machine gun them. That way the survivors can self-extract.”
“There’s a lot of bullets on Blount Island, Wolf,” Wilkes said. “But not enough to clear an estimated one hundred million infected. Or weapons barrels or weapons for that matter.”
“We’re loaded and ramp up,” Anna commed.
“Figure out the strategic later,” Wilkes said, pointing southeast. “Next pick-up. Thataway.”
* * *
“You never realize how many cars there were in the world till you see something like that,” Wilkes said, looking down.
The I-295 bridge out north out of Greater Arlington was jam packed with vehicles. There were wrecks, places where people had desperately tried to ram their way out of the traffic jam, some evidence of fire, nothing huge. And now they were rusting ruins, roamed by a few infected.
“Same thing in London, sir,” Sophia said. The Queen Elizabeth Bridge had been dropped but the M25 had looked much the same. Heck, most of London was just as packed with cars. “Not sure how we’re going to move on the ground.”
“By going around the bridge,” Wilkes said. “Okay, do we see any obstructions?”
There was a group of survivors camped out on the mid-river island the bridge crossed at a sand quarry. Possibly they were from some of the people who had gotten stuck on the bridge. Or maybe they’d gotten there by boat but with the exception of one canoe, there didn’t seem to be any boats. What there was was a huge S-O-S composed of dump trucks and construction equipment. It was easily visible from space.
“Negative here,” Olga said.
“Nothing here,” Yu added.
“Negative, Tail,” Anna said, earning her a smile from EZ for her correct terminology.
The small camp had fifteen survivors and one of them apparently knew something about air-mobile operations. He’d set out a set of cloth panels anchored by metal parts that were in a Y indicating the wind direction and had the survivors lined up for boarding. He even had them to the side so they were out of the way of the rotor. The one sticky bit was that more than half of them were armed with bolt action or semi-automatic rifles.
As soon as the helo settled, the group moved forward, women and children first. A couple of the women were armed. Anna held up a hand, pointed to the weapons and motioned that they had to be cleared and pointed down.
The women who were armed showed that the chambers were open and she nodded and waved them in. Same with the men. One wanted to load with the magazine in an AR-15 and she shook her head and motioned for it to be dropped.
“Not only no,” EZ said on the intercom, which the passengers couldn’t hear. “But fuck no. Keep an eye on that asshole, Port.” His own fingers twitched toward his .45 holstered on his vest, but he stayed in place. Sophia abruptly remembered that EZ’d been shot during an op, and the interpreter who’d done it had been on board his aircraft. The flight engineer was out of his seat, standing in front of the cockpit access, watching the onload with steel in his remaining blue eye.
Leo was forward, casually leaning on his machine gun which could be swung inboard.
“Keep the rounds out of the chamber,” Olga shouted, moving down the line of refugees. “Rounds, magazines, out.”
Some of them had pistols. She was just going to have to accept those. This group didn’t look like the type to try to fully disarm.
“Tell the Bo that the incoming group is fairly heavily armed,” Olga said. “Somebody is going to have to explain that they’re turning in their rifles at least.”
“Saw that and called ahead,” Wilkes replied.
“And one of the women is going into labor,” Olga added.
“We’ll call medical.”
“I do so love this job,” Olga said. “Seriously. Like rescuing people. Tired of the question ‘what took you so long?’”
“Would you rather be back on the Money?” Sophia asked.
“Before or after you jacked it?” Olga asked.
“I didn’t jack it,” Sophia said. “Officers of the United States Navy do not hijack nor pirate ships. We requisition them for the duration of the emergency.”
“Pirate.”
“Slut.”
“Can it,” Captain Wilkes said. But you could hear the grin in his voice. “Coming into the Bo. Get ’em ready to move.”
* * *
“We’re not giving up our guns,” the man said calmly. He was nearly seven feet tall, dressed in jeans and an Ozzy Osbourne T-shirt with an old jungle cammie top with staff sergeant’s rank on it thrown over the top, and as unshaven and burly as a biker. “We are citizens of the United States, not subjects of Great Britain.”
Sergeant Major Raymond Barney, late of Her Majesty’s Light Cavalry, British Army, was not a happy camper. He’d been left behind from the mission to secure Prince Harry and therefore was still stuck helping out the bloody Yanks, but at least now with some controlling legal authority. However, he also was still in their bloody Navy, even if he had retained his rank of sergeant major. It was confusing to Naval professionals and even more confusing to the raw, untrained, recruits that they were getting through the process of saying “Do you want to be in the Navy? Here’s a uniform. If it’s moving fast, don’t salute, if it’s moving slow, salute, if it’s standing still, paint.” Since he tended to move at what he considered a “measured” pace, he was so constantly being saluted he’d given up and just returned them.
He understood Yanks had a bloody love affair with their guns but he also understood Naval law and tradition and the reason for them.
“I respect that, sir,” Sergeant Major Barney said. “And if you were on land, I would be the first to insist upon retaining your arms. You are not on land. You are on a ship. A ship flagged by the U.S. Navy. Only officers of the U.S. Naval forces and designated persons, masters-at-arms such as myself, may retain arms on a ship, sir. I and
my men shall be pleased to escort you and your people to the arms room. There you shall be given the opportunity to clean and service your weapons and turn in your ammunition. Or you may simply turn them in and clean them after you’ve gotten some food in you and a bit of rest, sir. But you are not boarding this ship further without turning in your firearms, sir. It is not going to happen.”
“Just give us a second,” the man said, his head down and the AR-15 clutched with white knuckles. Finally he looked up and breathed out. “Follow the sergeant major to the arms room.”
“Sergeant . . .” one of the younger members of the group started to protest.
“It was not a suggestion, Terry,” the man barked. “The sergeant major is absolutely correct in his reading of Naval Law. And this is, or should be, a secure area.”
“It is secure,” the sergeant major said. “We’ve established a vaccination program and obviously the infected cannot access the ship. The reason that arms must be secured is, in fact, to ensure it is a secure area, sir. Point of order: Sergeant? Unofficial title or official?”
“I’m a National Guard staff sergeant, Sergeant Major,” the man said. “Light cav.”
“In that case, Staff Sergeant, let me be the first to welcome you to the United States Bloody Navy,” Sergeant Major Barney said, smiling coldly. “I was retired bloody light cav and now I am forced to stand here explaining plain sense to you bloody Yanks! As soon as that information is verified, you are transferred at pay rate to the Navy. And as a member of U.S. Navy combat arms, you are automatically detailed to the rate of master-at-arms. Therefore, Sergeant whatever your name is, you are my new next senior NCO and I am your boss. Which means that you can stand here, after you get a bloody haircut and shave that unmilitary beard, and explain to your bloody Yank gun-huggers that, no, they are not carrying bloody arms onto my bloody ship! Is that clear, Petty Officer?”
“Clear, Sergeant Major!”
“So you lot go turn in your weapons,” Barney said, in a softer tone. “You’re at the barracks, for God’s sake. You don’t keep a bloody shotgun in your room at the barracks. You keep it where, Sergeant?”
“In the arms room, Sergeant Major.”
“Get some bloody food, take a breath. You’re safe. No bloody tricks, no bloody zombies. This is not a movie. This is not a video game. We are not going to stick a wire in your head or something. You are safe. It is my job to keep you safe when you’re on this ship and I take that job seriously. Which means not allowing persons who are untrained in shipboard firearms use running around with bloody arms. So if one of you keeps a holdout and I find out about it, I shall feed you to the bloody gators.”
* * *
“Lieutenant, ma’am?” an unfamiliar petty officer wearing master-at-arms insignia said as Faith was tightening a torsion bar.
Faith had insisted on it. Officers do not normally crack track or do other maintenance. By the same token, they are “familiarized” with it in Officer Basic Course and need to know the general outline so they can do planning. Faith’s insistence was based on that. She needed to know, generally, what was involved in getting the tracks back into shape to “increase her general military knowledge.”
The fact that it got her hands dirty and got her out of an office had nothing to do with it. Really.
So Staff Sergeant Decker was “instructing” her on the Preventative Maintenance and Service Schedule of an AAV-7A1. He was telling her what needed done, politely, and she was doing it.
“Stand by,” Faith said. She braced and hauled back on the massive fucking wrench, letting out her breath in a controlled “saaah.”
“Right there, ma’am,” Staff Sergeant Decker said. “That’s the right tension.”
“Roger, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said, letting up. She undogged the wrench and set it up on the track, carefully. Decker had already, politely, read her the riot act for just dropping it on the ground. You did everything perfectly by the book with Decker, which is why she liked him as an instructor.
“Yes, Petty Officer?” she barked.
“Lieutenant Commander Kinsey would like to see you at the Headquarters Building at your earliest convenience, ma’am,” the PO said.
His uniform was straight out of the package and missing a nametag. His facial skin also had a reddened look and a very distinct beard tan-line. Together with the buzz-razor burns on his head, she could spot a “veteran” refugee who had been shanghaied.
“Roger,” Faith said. “Staff Sergeant!”
“Ma’am!” Decker said.
“Receive tools!”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Decker said, making a mental inventory of the present tools. “One seven-eighths wrench is not in inventory, ma’am!”
“My bad,” Faith said a little sheepishly. She pulled the wrench out of a cargo pocket after a bit of patting, wiped it down with a cloth and set it in the toolbox. “One seven-eighths wrench, Staff Sergeant.”
“Tool receipt complete, ma’am!” Decker said.
“Carry on with maintenance, Staff Sergeant!” Faith said.
“Aye, aye, ma’am!”
“Headquarters building is . . . Nine, right, PO?” Faith asked.
“Roger, ma’am,” the petty officer said. “Do you know the way? I am to act as escort.”
“Only at night, PO,” Faith said, smiling thinly. She picked up her battle rattle, put it on and got it adjusted, then attached her M4, dropped the mag, racked it a couple of times to check the action, then did the same with her H&K. The H&K felt a little sticky so she squirted in some CLP.
“Ma’am, with due respect,” the PO said. “If you are unaware, ‘at your earliest convenience’ actually means ‘right away.’”
“I am aware, Petty Officer,” Faith said, holstering the H&K now that it cycled to her satisfaction. Then she started walking. “And I will walk from here to there with only a master-at-arms whose combat capabilities I do not know when I am assured that my safety is as fully as possible in my hands and not his. Including duly functioning weapons.
“You will note that Lance Corporal Condrey is on security, as I have been familiarizing with the maintenance procedures of an amtrack. For your information, zombies just pop the fuck up no matter how many times you’ve swept an area like this. So if you have just been strolling around this base, we may shortly be less one petty officer second class. And if a zombie gets you ’cause you’re not being paranoid enough, it will be no great loss to Naval Landing Security Force. Is that clear, Petty Officer?”
“Clear, ma’am,” the petty officer said in a certain “tone.” The tone an experienced soldier uses on a second lieutenant who thinks she’s salty.
“Heh,” Faith said. “Where’d Sophia pick you up?”
“Ma’am?” the PO said.
“The helo pilot is my sister, Petty Officer,” Faith said. “Where’d you get picked up?”
“On a nearby island, ma’am,” the PO said. “Doesn’t really have a name, ma’am.”
“I am aware that you are prior service,” Faith said. “Not Navy, right?”
“Army, ma’am,” the petty officer said. “Florida National Guard light cav.”
“I know all about ‘butter bars,’ oorah?” Faith said. “I get your assumptions. It’s sort of like the assumptions about me being a teenager. And a girl. And cute. Although the scar on my cheek should be a dime for a clue, Petty Officer. I don’t even care at this point, especially not about assumptions from some No-Go sergeant who just got off the chopper. So I’ll just go on and let you assume. No reply is necessary.”
* * *
“Lieutenant Smith reporting as ordered, sir!” Faith barked as soon as she found the commander. She added a salute since she was in the vernacular, “Under arms.”
“Shewolf,” Lieutenant Commander Kinsey said, returning the salute. He was sitting at a desk that was part of a large “cube farm” and had turned around as she approached. The gunnery sergeant was at another desk, keying through an inventory. “We’
re in.”
“Mr. Lawton, sir?” Faith asked, looking at the screen. All it was, from her perspective, was a mass of long numbers and strange acronyms.
“The man is a wizard,” Kinsey said, spinning back around to the screen. “Dismissed to security post, Petty Officer.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the PO said.
“Defense Logistics Management System,” Kinsey said, pointing at the screen. “Version 9.6. Which is, amazingly, an improvement over versions one through nine point five. Fairly intuitive, easily sortable, pretty good search functions. You need to become familiar with it. From now on, all your requisitions will be by computer and we’re actually going to have an inventory control system. If for no other reason than to anticipate when we’re going to run out of stuff and get more. Logistics was never my chosen field but here I sit and I do intend to do a good job. So you can’t just grab stuff anymore, Lieutenant. Got it?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said.
“Sit down with the gunny,” Commander Kinsey said. “He’s going to fill you in on the system, then the two of you are going to figure out what you already grabbed and get it released properly . . .”
* * *
“The basin is double fenced and the airfield is double fenced,” Faith said, pointing at the satellite images. “Priority should be elimination of infected inside those fenced areas . . .”
It had taken thirty some-odd Marines, with occasional help from Navy nuke machinists, four days to get the amtracks up and running. Getting the computers hacked so they knew where the parts and tools were had helped immensely. On the other hand, she was, personally, tired and frustrated from spending most of the four days in front of a computer or in meetings. In fact there seemed to be an organized conspiracy to keep her away from the actual work. She knew that officers were supposed to sit in the office and handle the paperwork while the NCOs got the “real” work done. That was the point to the old saw about “I work for a living.” Officers sat in offices, note the similarity of name, and did important paperwork “stuff.” NCOs did the “real” work. But the last few days had been insane. Any time she put on her battle rattle and tried to exit the building, something had come up that needed her attention “right now, Lieutenant.”