by John Ringo
“Yes, sir.”
“My one suggestion is don’t under estimate Ensign Smith. I made that mistake, once, with her sister and I’m still regretting it. LantFleet has a bizarre and bizarrely competent family. They seem to positively enjoy this world we now inhabit.”
* * *
“And we’ll start with the standard institutional scab picking,” Colonel Hamilton said. “Before we get into what others thought went right and went wrong, anyone want to fess up? Junior first. Lieutenant Smith?”
“Do not fire forty-millimeter auto-cannons at infected at short range with undertrained gunners while bobbing in a basin smaller than their arming range, sir,” Faith said. “That could have, and should have, gone really bad. The fact that no one was injured is a miracle.”
“There were probably better ways to clear the basin for landing, admittedly,” Colonel Hamilton said. “Off the top of my head, using the troops up and out as you did later.”
“I think I should have used the fifties instead of forty mike mike, sir,” Faith said. “Much more direct.”
“And when you got bouncers, they could have hit the craft and sunk them,” Hamilton said. “Fifty would have been an inferior choice to forty, Lieutenant.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if we have to do it again, sir,” Faith said.
“Ensign Smith?”
“I’m getting better at flying, sir,” Sophia said. “Just a matter of practice and hours, sir. But I’m still not . . . dialed in on recovery hovering. Especially in any kind of wind, sir.”
“Just a matter of hours, as you said, Ensign,” Sanderson said. “You were on the controls when you hoisted me, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Sophia said. “And I know you were all over the sky on the way up.”
“While the Sea Dragon is a primary SAR platform for some services,” Sanderson said, “it’s got one hell of a lot of surface area. Also a bitch to maintain. I’m surprised you are using it, frankly.”
“We left our sole Seahawk in England,” Hamilton said. “Speaking of which, we’re going to have to send some parts to the prince. There’s a sub on the way and they’re sending a list. They’re also sending some prospective pilots and we’re going to have to send them at least three birds.”
“Any word on how clearing London is going?” Faith asked.
“Slowly is the best way to put it,” Hamilton said. “Next . . . Captain Wilkes?”
“You’re supposed to say something you’re doing wrong,” Wilkes said. “And . . . Not coming to mind. What is coming to mind is that we need better guns for the bird.”
“Oh, yeah,” Sophia said. “I don’t suppose there are any miniguns in storage?”
“There are,” Colonel Hamilton said.
“They mount those on Air Force 53s,” Commander Sanderson said, frowning. “But we’re not rated for them and the mounts aren’t interchangeable. Also, they burn through their ammo fast.”
“We should be able to do a battle box, sir,” Sophia said. “And we’ve mounted stranger weapons on stranger stuff, sir. I’m pretty sure we can figure it out. Our flight engineer knows the mini. He’ll be able to help.”
“Battle box?” Sanderson asked.
“The primary clearance weapon for small coastal towns, or islands for that matter, is fishing boats converted to gun boats,” Hamilton said. “They mount dual, water-cooled, fifty calibers. And carry about a hundred thousand rounds. The guns are fed from preprepared boxes, battle boxes, that hold five thousand rounds for each gun.”
“Ah,” the lieutenant commander said. “How many rounds were you planning on lofting, Ensign?”
“When we’re doing air clearance, as many as we can, sir,” Sophia said. “We have thirty-five tons of lift. I’m doing the math in my head of how much seven six two that is, sir. All I’m getting is ‘a lot.’”
“We’re probably going to be shifting to primarily Seahawk as soon as they are up and running,” Hamilton said, making a note. “But I’ll have the mech guys look into it. And we may be able to mount gun pods on them.”
“Could pick up some Sea Cobras, sir,” Captain Wilkes said.
“We don’t have limitations on how many airframes we have here,” Hamilton said. “We do on the boats. And dual purpose is probably the way to go there. We’re not going to be doing primary clearance from the air. Lieutenant Commander Chen is still on his away mission, which I hear is going well. Ah, tomorrow you’re doing a long-range rescue mission. Chen’s force spotted some survivors at the Jax NAS down the river. So tomorrow you’ll loft the personnel for the base, then head down there to pick them up. We’re sending Naval Landing Force as security for the airbase tomorrow. Marines will move to the airbase by air, then perform breach on the gates to the basin. Following that, clearance by fire of the base.”
“Oorah,” Faith said. “Sitting around watching people count parts is boooring.”
“We’re looking at ways, other than crushing all the cars on the 295 bridge, to get Trixie over to the base,” Hamilton said. “If we can do so, over the next week or so the mission will be using Trixie to do clearance throughout the Jax area—”
“Oh, yes,” Faith said.
“That is while we’re working on getting the mechanicals up and going,” Hamilton said. “The decision has been made that we need to use the base as is rather than moving the assets to Blount. So reducing the infected level in the area has just been increased in priority. We’re not going to do even a yellow clear, just down to orange or so. But if we can get the numbers down to the point they don’t breach the perimeter fences . . . that’s good enough. Gitmo is sending reinforcements. Notably, Lieutenant Commander Isham is headed up. He’s going to take over the mechanicals operations. LantFleet has stated that he wants ‘several hundred’ completed by year’s end.”
“Mechanicals are okay for clearing coastal cities, sir,” Sophia said. “Not sure what we’re going to do about interior. Except, possibly, helos with battle boxes.”
“Trixie,” Faith chanted quietly. “Trixie, Trixie . . .”
“We get it, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said.
“Trixie?” Sanderson said.
“I’ll let you catch up on that with others, Commander,” Hamilton said drily. “Not in your bailiwick, anyway. But until we get Trixie across the river, just use what you’ve got to clear the base.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said. “Sir, point of . . .”
“Before you strain yourself looking for the latest word big-word, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “Just say it.”
“I’ve been looking at the map, sir,” Faith said.
“Oh, dear,” Captain Wilkes said.
“No, seriously, sir,” Faith said. “There’s a river to the west of the base, sir, between here and Arlington. South of the base there’s suburbs stretching for just miles. But that river, sir, there are only four crossings within the range of probably infected closure. We block those crossings, sir, and they’re not getting to us that way, sir. Basically takes Jax, per se, out of the equation.”
“Interesting point, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “What about the suburbs?”
“Well, sir, then there’s Trixie, sir,” Faith said, grinning. “But we close those crossings, sir, then do clearance just south . . . Base is as secure as it’s going to get in this fallen world, sir.”
“Use containers?” Hamilton asked.
“Yes, sir,” Faith said. “But we can probably pick some up along the way. We’ll have to sort of fight our way down, sir, but with Trixie . . . not going to be an issue. Probably wouldn’t just with the amtracks, sir. And if we get in a London, we just egress to the beach and swim back. Except Trixie, sir, which I can’t imagine getting in a London, sir.”
“Trixie is the only M1 we’ve refurbished, Commander,” Hamilton said.
“You’re talking about the Chicopit, Lieutenant?” Sanderson said. “It’s part of the Intracoastal Waterway. And, yes, there are only so many bridges. It is . . . was part of t
he fun of dealing with traffic on the way to the base. Rather than sending down land forces to drop containers, sir, it would be easy enough to do it with the Dragon. Empty or lightly loaded we could do it with a Seahawk.”
“Satellite image,” Hamilton said, bringing it up on the plasma. “You’re talking about these bridges, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir,” Faith said, standing up and going over to the plasma. “Block Wonderwood Drive, Atlantic Boulevard, Beach Boulevard, and Butler Boulevard and the only direction infected can approach is from the south, sir. And that’s just suburbs, sir. Again, can probably do that with amtracks, at least to reddish orange. And if we get stuck, pull out through the beach, sir. Get some amphib training, feed a few sharks, sir. Oorah.”
“Clearing the base, first,” Hamilton said. “Keep the unit together or split up?”
“Split up, sir,” Faith said. “If they get in a scrum, that gives us the ability to come in from the outside. And I don’t see any scrums on the base, sir. There’s a perimeter fence so we’re only dealing with the personnel who were on base. And we’ve taken a good few out already, sir. Cover more ground as well. I’d estimate yellowish orange clearance in a day, sir. Yellow if we continue into night clearance ops, sir. Getting to green will require repeated sweeps. If we just sweep the base day and into night for three days . . . Could get it to chartreuse, sir. Combine that with external sweeps . . . A week or so we can probably turn on the lights at night and not have any issues with day and night operations in the secured areas.”
“Tomorrow’s missions,” Hamilton said. “Move personnel to the Station by air. Survey and Salvage continue survey and getting the base up and running. Helo maintenance personnel to accompany and begin refurbishment of birds there. Navy Security teams for security on that. Marines: Breach the Basin for further eval and use. Sweep the station in individual amtracks. Check fence-line and gate security. Air: Transport personnel to the station, then pick-up for survivors at the NAS with further SAR after based on time. Usual extract begins at sixteen-thirty. I think that’s a fairly full plate . . .”
CHAPTER 11
“Oh what a beautiful morning . . .” Faith said as her amtrack ran down the beach. Turned out there were no fences along the beach or the water-side of the base. There was a low wall designed to stop vehicular traffic, but no actual fence. There was a south perimeter fence, but it stopped at the shoreline. And infected were on the beach. Quite a few, all things considered. They were spread out until the amtrack came rolling along. Then they started to close in. Since the amtrack was barely rolling along, they were following in what had been dubbed “Pied Piper Marching Formation.”
“Hold up here,” Faith said. They were between a boardwalk, one of several, and a beached Panamax freighter that had listed so far over, the cargo containers on the deck had spilled onto the beach. It was still slowly leaking oil but the slick was nicely away from the amtracks so no fear of fire. And it gave them something at their back so all the zombies were in just a couple of directions. And most of them at range.
That was what .50 caliber was made for. Nice long ranges, lots of targets. They were closing by climbing over the low wall, as well. That triggered a long-dormant memory that Faith was having a hard time pulling out.
“Hooch,” Faith said over the intercom. The squad leader had started wearing a crewman’s helmet since they didn’t really unload that much and Faith didn’t have an issue asking questions.
“Yes, ma’am?” the squad leader said, pointing out a target to the SAW gunner.
“We’ve been together a while, right?” Faith said. She tapped Twitchell on the arm and pointed to a group of infected clambering over the wall.
“Yes, ma’am,” Hooch said.
“Those zeds climbing the wall,” Faith said. “What’s that remind you of? Canary Islands somewhere? Crib?”
“Not that comes to mind,” Hooch said.
“Damnit,” Faith said. “I know I’ve seen it somewhere. Where, where, where . . . ? Okay, I think this cluster’s done for.”
The once pleasant beach was now scattered with shredded bodies. They just added to the debris of a fallen civilization, the small boats, garbage, discarded clothing and even picked bones. Seagulls were already starting to descend. In a few weeks, these zeds would just be skeletons to add to the piles.
“Move out,” Faith said. “See if we can chum up some more . . . Where was that? Zombies climbing over a low wall. I don’t think it was during the day, either . . .”
* * *
“You ever have one of those déjà vu all over again moments, sir?” Sophia asked as the survivors from the NAS were hoisted up.
NAS Jacksonville was a medium-sized facility that dated back to the First World War when it was a quartermaster training camp. Demobilized after the war, it was set back up for World War Two and had remained in operation ever since. Pre-Plague it had been host to a mass of fixed wing Navy aircraft including P-3s and the new P-8s. Besides having operational squadrons, it was, like Mayport, a major training command for them and a military airlift “hub” for the southeastern regions. It had dozens of hangars and support and maintenance facilities as well as over twenty long-range prop and jet birds on the pads.
Several of the birds had somehow burned. So had one of the hangars, a couple of the support buildings and about half of base housing. It almost looked like the security response was “use a flame thrower.” There was a security vehicle, doors open, sitting on the pad with the remains of a body, mostly bones and a black security uniform, scattered around the rear hatch. Compared to Mayport, it was a wreck.
“Sort of looks like Northolt?” Wilkes said.
“That’s the one,” Sophia replied. The RAF base outside London had been, if anything, even more wrecked.
“Fuel state?”
“Seven thousand three hundred,” EZ said.
“We’re in and secure,” Olga commed. “Seventeen. Not bad.”
“We’ve got enough to do a rough clear of the base before heading back,” Wilkes said. “Eyes out and let’s see how many more we can find.”
* * *
“Son of a bitch,” Faith said as a sole survivor waved from the balcony of a two-story home along the beach. They’d slowed down to check since there was a line of surf-casting rods set up. That was a new one. Getting back and forth must have taken some balls. Or ovaries in this case.
“Helo missed one. Give some cover fire, people!”
The female survivor dropped off the balcony, carefully, then trotted towards the amtrack. She wasn’t in the greatest shape and wasn’t moving fast. A zombie coming around the corner of the house was moving faster.
“Unass,” Faith said, pulling her M4 out of its rack. “Try not to scrum but do not let it get her.”
Hooch’s team opened up the rear personnel hatch and deployed. The 240 team stayed up and out, firing carefully past the survivor. They got the first zombie in pursuit, with rounds close enough the survivor hit the deck as they went past. But there were more coming.
“Hooch, move ’em up and get her into the damned track,” Faith said. The survivor was now down on hands and knees doing a slow leopard crawl. “Check fire all weapons. Twitch, fire 19 past her and lay down suppressing on the right side of the house. Two-forty, lay down suppressing on the left side of the house. Hooch, get her into the track, now!”
Hooch’s team ran forward to the woman and got her on her feet as the two heavy weapons poured fire to the sides. Faith looked up the beach and they had a few more infected closing from there. Glory.
The woman seemed to be struggling and saying something to the Marines. She was also pointing with her one free hand at the house.
“Ma’am, there’s more in the house,” Hooch said. “Kids.”
“Stand by,” Faith said. “Freeman, back us around. Twitch, switch to fifty, take the zeds on the south. Two-forty, north. Hooch, you’re going to have to cover the sides. And get the damned wood off the doors. I’m deploying
.”
The house had plywood over all the lower windows and doors. It was a fairly common preparation for hurricanes in the region and had clearly come in useful in the apocalypse.
Faith pulled herself up out of the hatch, then stepped nimbly down the side of the moving track. As it humped up on the dune in front of the house she almost lost her balance but corrected. As soon as it stopped, she jumped off the back, landing in a parachute landing fall, then rolled to her feet.
“Hooch, Quade, left side of the house. Curran, Randolph, right. Flip, survivor on the track. Haugen, Halligan tool. NOW.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Haugen said, darting to the track as the Marines deployed.
“Hooch, status left?” Faith said, banging on the wood covering the main door. “Anybody in there, gather here and get ready to move!”
“Two children,” the woman said, still not willing to leave.
“Get in the track, ma’am,” Faith barked. “We have this.”
“Got a few,” Hooch yelled. “Handled.”
“Randolph?” Faith yelled. “Status?”
“Quite a few, ma’am,” Randolph replied. He’d just fired a 40mm from his 203 then switched back to 5.56. “Sort of hot.”
“Moving right,” Faith said, sprinting to Randolph’s position. “Haugen, get that damned wood off and get those kids into the track!”
“Sort of hot” was about twenty infected closing the position. More were down on the ground from the fire from the Marines. Randolph had a 203 while Curran was using a SAW.
“Cover me while I reload!” Curran said, scrabbling for one of the box magazines for the SAW.
“Right about now is when some one hundred round mags would be nice,” Faith said, firing at the oncoming infected. As they closed to within twenty yards she switched from multiple rounds into the chest to double tap, one to the chest, one to the head. She was hitting most of the head shots.
A few got through the fire just as she ran out of rounds in her M4 magazine. She let go of the weapon, letting it pull back on its slings, and drew her first pistol. A .45 did tend to stop the zeds when you center punched them in the chest. She fired off her whole mag, dropped the pistol, drew one from her chest holster and continued firing. Halfway through her second pistol, the wave of infected was on the ground.