by John Ringo
They’d been locked down ever since. And the way things were going, the ladies who’d survived seemed hell bent on restoring the population. Not a one of them wasn’t pregnant.
“All right,” Robinson said, pulling on his wash-worn cammies and Altec tactical boots. “Let’s see what we got here.”
He got on some light battle rattle and took the ladder to the top deck. Sure enough, in the distance there was the sound of music, loud, and the rattle, rumble and squeal of tracks. You could barely hear the tracks over the music. There was also the occasional rattle of musketry.
“Amtracks,” the gunny said. “M1 too, sounds like. Got that extra rumble and no engine noise from the front.”
They’d seen the helos. They kept a top-watch twenty-four/seven. They’d even fired off flares to try to attract their attention. So far, the fuckers had failed to so much as waggle their rotors or whatever. This was probably the same group. But they’d never seen or heard the helos moving at night.
And these guys were blacked out. Sure as hell not for tactical reasons. The sound of the tracks reduced, they were slowing down. Then Nick jumped when there was a hellish, unholy, Boom! from up the road. That caused some light. A weird orange-purple glow.
“Heh, heh,” the gunny said. “That there was the main gun on the Abrams. Somebody done raided Blount Island. I guess that group that says it’s out of Gitmo.”
“What do we do if they’re not for real?” Nick said.
There’d been a lot of discussion of the radio reports. From the beginning, the radio waves had just been crazy. With no controlling authority anywhere to tell people they couldn’t broadcast, even before the Fall, anyone who could get ahold of a transmitter was broadcasting.
Just a month ago, what were alleged to be “U.S. Government” broadcasts started. There’d been other people saying they were the U.S. Government but mostly you could tell the crazy ones. These guys were more professional. One stated it was the “Voice of America in Exile,” another was “Devil Dog Radio,” which interspersed news and commentary with heavy metal and rap, and “Anchors Aweigh,” the Navy, which was mostly easy listening. All said they were broadcasting from Guantanamo, that there was a “continuity of government” in a secure facility in the U.S. and that there were plans to clear the U.S. mainland. But they also said they were keeping the plans confidential until action was taken. “To retake our nation and our world from the threat of the infected” as the VOA in Exile put it. “To render aid and comfort to the afflicted” was how Anchors Aweigh put it, pointing out that “afflicted” no longer meant “infected.” Or “Put a hurtin’ on the Gawd Damn Zombies” in the words of Devil Dog.
All three occasionally had discussed the formation of “Wolf Squadron” and notable actions. When the group in the store discussed the radio reports, which was most of the time, there being not much else to discuss, they’d all agreed that shit like clearing the Voyage Under Stars had to be double tough. And that the fuckers who ran Wolf Squadron were some serious dudes. Or chicks, in the case of the daughters of LantFleet, Shewolf and Seawolf. They never used the actual names of the people, just their handles.
Assuming it wasn’t all made up. Paranoia was a recognized survival trait in the group. Nobody was taking the reports at face value.
There’d been talk about plans for Jax. The group getting the Station up might be Wolf Squadron or might be pirates. Or it might be the Plague was the work of space aliens and they were taking over now. There were books like that . . . Could be . . .
There were two more booms, a series of hammers from Ma Deuce and . . . the tracks started moving again.
“Nick,” the gunny said. “Wake up Sheila if she ain’t woke up from that, then go to shelf Two-Six-Four. Section Three. Chemlights. Box Seven. Bring three. Box Seven mind you. And two of the up FLIRS.”
“Aye, aye, Gunny,” Nick said, heading below.
Nick was back before the first amtrack came around the bend. They were moving slow.
When the gunny put on the forward-looking infrared night-vision goggles, it was clear the tracks were using light. Just not visible light. They had IR headlights on full and even an IR spotlight set up on the track. And they were moving very slow. Not much more than a marching pace.
The gunny cracked one of the chemlights and tossed it into the street. It began to glow immediately.
Then he pushed the call button on his radio.
“Approaching Marine unit,” he growled. “You up on sixteen, over?”
“Up on sixteen. That your IR chemlight, over?”
“Roger,” the gunny said. He was having to talk louder and louder over the music. They must have hooked up psy-ops horns.
“Are you prepared to exit, over?”
“Will be in ten,” the gunny said. “This is a Marine unit, right?”
“First Platoon, Alpha Company, USMC,” the man replied. “Task Force Kodiak, Wolf Squadron. Being the only platoon, USMC. So far. We got less people than joined at Tun Tavern. Over.”
“Fast, what’s the last stanza of the Marine Corps Hymn?” the gunny asked.
“If the Army and the Navy ever look on Heaven’s scene, they will find the streets are guarded by United States Marines.”
“Roger. Will be up and ready to egress from the roof in five,” the gunny said. “We will be bringing weapons, over.”
“You got to turn them in when you get to the ship,” the Marine replied. “Got an arms room. But you’re welcome to weapon up for the ride. If your people know what they’re doing, they can even pot infected. If they can do it in the dark, of course. Over.”
There were zombies trotting down the street, attracted by the noise. They ran right past the IR chemlight he’d thrown. They’d normally gather round any light source, which was why he’d thrown the IR. The approaching amtrack took them under fire with the turret Ma Deuce. Now the street was littered with bodies.
They’d never shot any zombies from the roof. First of all, one shot and they descended in hordes from the noise and to feed. Second, he wasn’t going to have the place surrounded by rotting bodies.
“Nick, get everybody up and ready to egress,” the gunny said, frowning.
“Aye, aye.” Nick ran below again.
The gunny was torn, though. He knew he had to egress. That was what made sense. But God-damnit, that meant leaving all his shit behind unguarded. And if they were clearing off the fucking zombies, first place looters were going to hit was his store.
Getting the civilians out, though, was a priority. Especially the ladies who hadn’t popped yet. They’d managed the two deliveries they’d had, so far, pretty well he thought. But getting them some medical attention was a priority.
So he started making a hole in the concertina. . . .
* * *
The amtracks dispersed when they reached the chemlight, three going forward and taking up positions, firing their turret guns at approaching infected. The trail two spread out leaving a gap in the middle. They weren’t firing because there was a tank in the way.
Even without the FLIR, you could see the mass of zombies following the Marines under the light moon. Thousands of them. Some of them were almost up to the tank and some on the sides were trying to climb on. It seemed like the wave would be unstoppable.
Then the tank with the psy-ops bullhorns pulled into the gap. It was driving forward but the gun was pointed to the rear. And there was something weird about the color. It looked gray under the moonlight and had some weird camo along the base. Looked almost like flames or some shit. But you could see the Globe and Anchor in various spots. It looked like they weren’t even subdued. On the side of the turret was written “Trixie” which was just . . . wrong. There were serious regulations against naming vehicles like that.
The horns were blaring some God-damned modern shit about “fury” and “darkest hour” so loud you could hardly think. Everybody on the roof had their hands on their ears or hearing protection on. You could still hear it clear. Th
ey hadn’t had to wake everybody up. The noise would wake the dead. It was a good thing they did have something over their ears, because about the time it stopped, the main gun fired.
Canister. Mother fucker. They had 1028.
Three shots by the main gun and some coax and cupola and . . . there weren’t any more moving zombies.
The music cut out and switched to the Marine Corps Hymn at a much lower volume.
“Y’all ready to get out of there?” a female voice asked over the radio. The tank TC took off her helmet and shook out her hair. “Or you want to just stay? Seems like a nice position. If you’re coming out, bring all your fucking guns. Shit is hot out here. Hey, you got any Altec in woman’s size twelve . . . ?”
* * *
“Of all the motherfuckers to survive . . .” Gunny Sands muttered as the unit rolled ashore. He’d already been informed by radio that Robinson had survived. He’d say he’d wondered where the bastard had gotten to but that would mean he hadn’t tried to purge the memory of Master Gunnery Sergeant “Where’s your authorization requirement form for a pencil, Sergeant? What do you mean you need a pencil to fill it out . . . ?” Robinson.
“Sands,” Robinson said bitterly, as soon as he was out of the amtrack. “Of all the motherfuckers to survive . . .”
“I was thinking the same thing, Jimmy,” Gunny Sands said, smiling. He knew that Robinson hated to be called “Jimmy” and he was taking the opportunity while he had it.
“Who the fuck authorized personalization of a military vehicle?” the master gunnery sergeant fumed. “And fucking pink? A Marine Corps vehicle painted pink? That’s what we’ve gotten to? First God-damned DADT and now we’ve got PINK VEHICLES?”
“Guns, you need to lock it the fuck up,” Sands said. “You’re not in the Old Corps. I know you’d just casually flip off second lieutenants by not saluting ’cause you’re a fucking prick that way. But if you fail to salute Lieutenant Smith, I and every remaining surviving Marine will fucking kick your fat ass. Even if, and I say if, they activate you at rank. And if we don’t, Master Guns, the LT will. This is the new/old Corps, Guns. If the LT fucking offs you, Master Guns, for failure to provide her and her beautiful pimped-out tank proper and due respect, not one motherfucker from the lowliest wing-wiper to the NCCC will so much as bat an eye.”
“Okay,” Faith said, walking over to the two glowering NCOs. “I take it you two know each other?”
“Master Gunnery Sergeant James Robinson, retired,” Sands said, his arms crossed, “Second Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith. Master Guns Robinson, Shewolf.”
“Wait,” Robinson said, knife-handing at Faith. “You’re Shewolf?”
“Got a problem with that, Master Guns?” Faith asked, her arms crossed. The refugees had gathered around the confrontation by that time.
“You’re Shewolf?” one of the women said. She was holding a newborn.
“Last time I checked,” Faith said, unfolding then smiling and cooing at the baby. “She’s beautiful. She, right?”
“Yeah,” the woman said, beaming. “I can’t believe . . . We heard about you on Devil Dog.”
“Word gets around,” Faith said, grinning. “The reality’s not really up to the reputation.”
“Not from what I saw,” the woman said.
“Can I hold her?” Faith asked diffidently.
“I’d love that,” the woman said.
“I love your tank!” one of the kids said. “It’s totally pimped! Can I get a ride?”
“No,” Faith said, taking the baby carefully and cradling her. “’Cause she’s armed up. When you get a little older, maybe we can get you one of your own. Hey, baby, welcome to the world . . .”
“Can I get a picture with you?” the woman asked.
“Master Guns,” Sands said. “You want to get your people checked in? And what the f— heck is this, some sort of fag— qu— convention?” Sands bellowed at the gathering Marines. “If you can’t find something to do I will find something for you to do!”
“Could I get one with you in front of Trixie?”
“Better make it quick,” Faith said, holding the baby and smiling at the camera.
“Sands,” Robinson said.
“Guns?”
“Can I just get a ride back to my God-damned store?” Robinson said, shaking his head as the flashbulbs popped in the dawn light. They really brought out the flames on Trixie’s sides. “I’m not sure I’m ready for your new/old Corps.”
“Gotta see the colonel about that one, Master Gunnery Sergeant.”
“And it looks like rain,” Robinson grumped. “Figures.”
* * *
“‘Got on board a westbound seven forty-seven . . . ’” Walker half hummed as he watched the track.
The problem with cruise missiles is range. At least when you’re a couple of miles from the target. They’re not really designed to hit something in view of the launcher. In fact you can’t really hit something closer than about twenty miles away. The choice was to either take the Michigan well out to sea and fire from there or fire from in close where the crew could watch the arrival.
In close just made more sense. Which was why twenty BGM-109E cruise missiles had been fired more or less at Miramar airfield with programming to turn around, come back and impact on Silver Strand. Twenty more BGM-109Ds were currently violating Mexican airspace and in the process of turning north over Tijuana. Those would arrive first.
The BGM-109D had been removed from production due not so much to violation of international law as violation of what some people thought was international law or should be international law. The BGM-109D carried “dispersal munitions,” more commonly called “cluster bombs.” Instead of one big explosion, a “unitary” warhead, the warhead consisted of 166 bomblets, more or less big grenades, that exploded over an area of about two hundred meters by seven hundred meters. The problem being they never all exploded. Therefore a large area was left with scattered undetonated munitions. Since they were a bit finicky they could explode if you kicked them, dropped them, etc. Not only had the occasional complete idiot soldier or Marine who should have known better found this out, so had various kids from developing countries with nothing better to play with. Thus the reason they were being removed from inventory. The Michigan only had sixty.
They were, however, just the ticket for infected in the open.
“TV breaks and movies . . .” Montana sang as the missiles arrived.
They’d been stacked nose to nose, headed north along Silver Strand Boulevard. There were thousands of infected roaming the strand looking for the source of the lights just off-shore in the bay. Lights meant people meant food. And there was food. Plenty of them had succumbed to dehydration. Those could be spotted by the huddles of feeding infected. Then they disappeared in a welter of red-cored explosions and dust.
Montana had been close enough to cluster strikes to fill in the sound of a million firecrackers from hell. He knew the screams the strikes produced. He’d heard them over half the Middle East at one time or another. He didn’t have to see the shredded bodies in the dust. The wounded, bodies torn in half or limbs flying off. Been there, seen that.
Then the “unitary” warheads arrived from the east.
Spread over half a kilometer, twenty-one thousand-pound bombs detonated with near-simultaneity. Then the concussion reached the submarine. Even from sixty feet underwater and two miles away the massive submarine rocked.
“Think that’ll do ’er,” the Michigan’s Chief of Boat muttered.
“It pours, man, it pours . . .” Montana whispered.
CHAPTER 15
“Commander Daniel J. Wojcik, reporting aboard with a crew of sixty, sir,” the commander said, saluting.
“Welcome aboard, Commander,” Hamilton said. “Glad you’re here.”
The “crew of sixty” was unloading from the USS Florida, another OMFG class.
One important aspect of the OMFG class, post-Plague, was that it had additional berthi
ng and thus could be used for moving personnel around. Two OMFGs had carried the core of PacFleet to the Pacific and now the Florida had brought the Base Operations group up from Gitmo to take over running Mayport.
Some of the arrivals had clearly not enjoyed the experience of speedy travel in the ocean’s depths. A few were being carried out on stretchers.
But the base operations force was here. Just in time, too.
“We’ve got two days to do hand-off,” Hamilton said. “Then payday activities for my crews, day and half off and we roll north. Official turn-over and stand-up of Mayport will be a ceremony involving turning on the exterior lights. We’ve refrained both there and on Blount until we had the infected in the zone reduced. Our electrician’s mates say that we’re ready and the security situation is getting to the point it’s doable. We’ve got two of the barracks being cleaned and prepped for more arrivals and we’ve informed the refugees that they’re going to be moving from the Bo and temporary space on Blount over to the Station. As usual, they’re handling most of the cleaning. The main issue unresolved is the damaged POL point which is on your plate. Questions?”
“No, sir,” Wojcik said. “We’ve got plans in place to begin rebuilding of the POL point. The Eric Shivak is a day behind us with POL resupply and we should be good until we can get it up and going. Two days should be about right.”
“Then as fast as your people can get recovered from their voyage, they need to link up and start turn-over,” Hamilton said.
“We’re ready when your people are, sir,” Wojcik said. “Well . . . most of them are. The rest it’s going to take a few hours for the tranquilizers to wear off. Some people, sir, are ill-suited to the sub service . . .”
* * *
“King’s Bay, Georgia,” Colonel Hamilton said, pointing to the overhead.
Hand-over was complete. They were waiting for that evening to turn the lights on at both bases. The last ground sweep had been completed and now it was time to talk about the next mission.