by John Ringo
“Did you get the announcement that military personnel do not have authority until evaluated?” Sands asked.
“Yeah, and that was another thing,” Evan said.
“The DIs had been locked in with their recruits for ten months,” Sands said. “You know that nightmare you have when you first get to your unit and you’re back in PI and it’s hell and it’s never going to end?”
“I had that nightmare as recently as two weeks ago,” Evan said. “Hell with when I first joined.”
“Well, it was like that,” Sands said. “They’d just been doubling down on boot camp for ten months. Some of the recruits were around the bend. So were some of the DIs in a way. One of the DIs went off on one of our troops. I wasn’t there or I’d have handled it. Guy is a ragbag, admittedly, but the DI was out of line. Faith locked him up. Acting post sergeant major got involved. Faith was having a bad day. She’d gotten half eaten by a gator reconning the landing the night before. She went off on the sergeant major. Colonel decided this salty young officer drunk on power needed ‘counseling.’ When he found out she was fourteen he ordered her to turn in her rank and weapons. She was out. So she went bush on PI.”
“Jesus,” Evan said, shaking his face. “Do I get to punch out the sergeant major? I’m retired. They can only charge me with assault.”
“They didn’t even charge me with that,” Sands said. “Past issue. That was the stand-down. Getting them all back in shape, the ones that were recoverable. Colonel Downing might have been, might not. Wolf gave him a task and more or less the standard we’d have for ourselves. He failed. Then we sent down one of our good staffs, put him in charge of the colonel and his team and showed them how you do it the Wolf Way. Colonel’s now a stevedore. Sergeant major was reduced to sergeant. He’s on the West Coast. And that’s the reason for the ‘unmilitary vehicles’ to answer your other question.”
“That I don’t get,” Evan said.
“You said ‘what’s with the paint job,’” Sands said. “Part of that is you know me and you’ve been on a radio. But you could handle it.”
“Paint’s fairly ship-shape,” Evan said. “Just seems weird. Looks more like a militia.”
“There is that issue,” Sands admitted. “It’s why Trixie was pink, then sand, and now pink again. And when we go back to clearing civilian areas, we may switch back to regular paint jobs. But the bigger issue is people who cannot handle the fact that we’re not hiding from enemy forces, we’re trying to draw them out, cannot handle command or authority in this world. They’re useless to us, at least as combat officers and NCOs. So we get to test them right away. And if they don’t pass, they don’t have any real authority. And until they’re evaluated, they definitely don’t have any authority. They try to lock our people up for unmilitary vehicles, we just log that and they have a long road back to ever being able to give an order.”
“That makes sense,” Evans said. “I guess. Are we evacuating the base?”
“No,” Sands said. “We’re pulling most people off shore until they’re evaluated. You’re already evaluated by the way. Pass. If you want back in, you’re onboard. If not, we’re picking up enough people these days it’s not an automatic reactivation. Up to you.”
“I think I got one more war in me,” Evan said.
“We’ll get you cleared immediately, then,” Sands said. “Can I tell you the truth?”
“Sure,” Evan said.
“I’m glad you made it,” Sands said. “Sort of. If Charlotte was dead and you didn’t make it, I was going to propose to Gladys. So . . . sort of.”
“Bastard,” Evan said, grinning.
“Second finest woman I ever met,” Sands said.
“Second?”
“Okay, so Shewolf is crazy as a bedbug,” Sands said. “And way too young for me. But, yeah, second.”
“Going for the crazies was always your problem, shipmate.”
“Who the hell authorized personalization of vehicles!”
The major was a little wild-eyed and clutching an AR15. This one would have to be handled carefully.
“You’re not real Marines!”
“Yes we are, sir,” Gunny Sands said calmly. “United States Marine Corps. Full controlling legal authority. Major, you need to put the weapon down or we’re going to fire on you with prejudice.”
“Answer my question, Gunnery Sergeant!” the major said. “Who the hell authorized personalization of vehicles?”
“LantFleet, sir,” Gunnery Sergeant Sands said. “And you shall place the weapon on the deck or you’re not going to survive.”
“You can’t give me orders, Gunnery Sergeant! The commandant would never approve personalization of vehicles! You’re not Marines!”
The guy had family or something. Hopefully family. There was a young male watching the tableau from the home he’d emerged from.
“Until you are psych cleared you are functionally a civilian, sir,” Gunny Sands said. “We’ve had this issue before in clearance, sir. Now you are going to stand down or my troops are going to have to shoot you in front of your child, sir. I don’t want that to happen, sir.”
The major started as Trixie pivoted and backed. The main gun swung around with a squeal until it was inches from the major’s head.
“PUT . . . THE WEAPON . . . DOWN.” Faith said over the speaker system.
The major put the weapon down.
“Now, sir, if you’d like to go retrieve your son we’ll be happy to transport you to the evac ships for eval . . .”
* * *
“Looking for Master Gunnery Sergeant Evan Walters,” Faith said after sticking her head in the compartment.
Lejeune was a big area. Even with a company of Marines in five times the number of tracks a company would use, it was taking time to clear the whole thing. They were done with the base and working on the nearby towns. That was where they’d stopped at the gunny’s for a cold beer and picked up his friend.
“Be right with you, ma’am,” Evan said, rolling out of his rack.
“Just uniform or whatever, Master Gunnery Sergeant,” Faith said.
Faith led him down to one of the “civilian” bars in the liner and took a table.
“I understand the whole thing about back pay,” Evans said, grinning. “But you may be buying, ma’am.”
“Glad to,” Faith said as a server came over. “Hey. What do you have that has no carbonation and no alcohol that is not coffee or tea?”
“Water?” the woman said. “Fruit juices. I’m not sure what we’ve got available.”
“Water, then,” Faith said. “Give the master gunnery sergeant whatever he’d like.”
“Coffee?” Evans said. “I’ve been out for a while.”
“Anything to eat? We’ve got some frijoles?”
“Sushi?” Faith asked.
“And that, yeah,” the waitress said. “Most people are pretty over that.”
“Sushi if it’s fresh,” Faith said. “I mean really fresh. I’ve been eating it practically quivering for a while. Tataki if it’s possible.”
“I’m good with sushi,” Evans said.
“I’ll check,” the woman said.
“So,” Faith said. “While we wait on sushi that’s probably stinking . . . I’ve been with the gunny since we pulled him off the Iwo.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Evans said.
“And the one time that someone brought up . . . female company, he pointed out that he was married. Waiting for the float to be over and get home for his cold-beer. And the first spot that we went to when we hit the civilian side of the bay was the gunny’s house. Which was . . . Well . . .”
“Yeah,” Evans said, nodding.
“I’m sorry for your loss as well, Master Gunnery Sergeant,” Faith said quickly. “I don’t mean to . . .”
“Not an issue, ma’am,” Evans said. “Gladys was my third wife and the first one that was worth a damn. But she died as peaceful as you can from that damned disease.”
“Having had it, I know it’s not the best way to go,” Faith said. “But it’s better than turning.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Evans said. “It really wasn’t all that bad. Quick, anyway.”
“Days of agony,” Faith said. “But I was sort of bitten.”
“That’s double tough,” Evans said.
“Think that’s bad,” Faith said, holding up her scarred left hand. “Alligator.”
“Shark,” the gunny said, pulling up his pants leg. “Little one in surf off Phuket.”
“Since we’ve established our CVs,” Faith said. “The gunny just made that one comment. It was his crazy. Everybody’s got at least one. But . . . he must have really loved her. I don’t think he’s ever talked about her except that one time. That’s how people who can’t really handle it . . . deal. They don’t talk about . . . who they lost. I’m just wondering . . . What was she like?”
“You really want to know, ma’am?” Evans said as the waitress came back over. She had a beautifully prepared plate of thinly sliced tuna and their drinks.
“Try it,” the lady said. “The chopping guy says it’s fresh yellowfin. He was also real excited you were in the restaurant but he speaks some weird language. I couldn’t get what he was gabbling about. You famous or something?”
“Or something,” Faith said, taking a bite. “Tell him thank you. That’s great. Really incredible.”
“You got chit or scrip?” the lady asked. “That’s ten chit, eighth piece, or two-fifty scrip.”
“Card,” Faith said, handing over her charge card.
“Scrip it is,” the lady said.
“Eighth piece?” Evans said.
“We get paid some in gold or silver sometimes,” Faith said, shrugging. “We got some from banks, people turn junk in and it’s minted at Blount.”
“Pirate days,” Evans said, shaking his head then grinning. “That could be fun.”
“True,” Faith said. “Some of this stuff is. Not much. So . . . I don’t even know her name. The gunny’s wife.”
“Charlotte,” Evans said, taking a sip of coffee to give himself time. “And the truth is, ma’am . . . You know what a dependapotamus is?”
“No?” Faith said, frowning. “Dependent of the river?”
“What?” Evans said.
“Potamus is ‘of the river,’” Faith said. “Hippopotamus is ‘horse of the river.’ Figured it was mixed with dependent.”
“A dependapotamus, ma’am, is a dependent that supplies nothing to the relationship, ma’am,” Evans said, shaking his head. “Sands was one of the finest young Marines I’ve ever had. I mean right from the day he reported as a boot, you could see the makings of a gunny. Motivated, dedicated, competent. Just fucking squared away. Dad was a Marine. Granddad was a Marine. Sort of guy who really should have gone to OCS. Sort of gunny, when he made it . . . You ever hear that in Vietnam they took gunnies and just promoted them straight to brigadier general?”
“It’s come up,” Faith said. “Been discussed in this situation. We’ve tended to get two kinds. The kind you could do that if we had unlimited bodies, which we don’t, or the type that can’t get their heads around the fact that this is a zombie apocalypse we have to win, not a guerilla war in some foreign country that really doesn’t matter a hill of beans. Generally, if the first thing they look at is the shine of the troop’s boots or whether they have their hands in their pockets . . . we put them out to pasture. But you’re saying Sands was one of those. Which I agree about. But his wife . . . wasn’t.”
“She was his millstone, ma’am,” Evans said. “Fat. Ugly. Well, not ugly. Just one of those women who might have been cute at eighteen but they went downhill fast. Slovenly. Hoarder. Sands’ room was always neat as a fucking pin. God-damned house was a fucking wreck. Always. Covered in unemptied ash trays, piles of junk. She had two little dogs that crapped everywhere. Jesus would they bite. And they hated Tommy. Just a fucking wreck. He’d just say that when he made a commitment it was till death do they part. In that way, this damned plague is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”
“Jesus,” Faith said, shaking her head. “Why would . . . Seriously? The gunny? Why marry somebody like that in the first place?”
“Sands is all about honor, right, ma’am?” Evans said. “But you know, this was years ago. When he was a boot, practically. She ‘got pregnant,’” Evans said, making quotes in the air. “I told him it probably wasn’t his and he should wait or just pay the child support. But he upped and married the scheming little bitch. Then she ‘had a miscarriage’ after they were married. I’m not even sure she was really pregnant. Or she might have had an abortion. She sure as hell never got pregnant afterwards. Sands wanted to. She said she was off the pill. But . . .” He shrugged again.
“Hell, and he might not have fooled around but she had a parade of hog fuckers in and out of the house every time he was on float, pardon my language, ma’am. If she wasn’t on the Pill she’d have had some other guy’s kid.”
“That is fucked up,” Faith said.
“That it is, ma’am,” the master gunnery sergeant said. “I made much the same mistake myself when I was a youngster. Just didn’t feel I had to torture myself the rest of my life for it. You saw the beer, ma’am?”
“He said that he was waiting for the float to be over,” Faith said. “Wanted his cold-beer. One word. I told him the first place we were going was his house so he could have his cold-beer. He did point out that what with the power out and all it probably wouldn’t be cold.”
“She was a serious drinker, ma’am,” Evans said. “They were always short on money what with her either buying cheap stupid shit or spending it on booze. I kept hoping cirrhosis would kill her. Thought about just feeding her some margaritas with antifreeze in it.
“I had Sands on his first float. Squared away. Perfect fucking Marine, ma’am. Hard worker, fast learner. Never fell for the tricks people play on the new guys. I got him promoted to first class as fast as I could. He was too good to have mosquito wings.
“Got back from the float, looking forward to his new mamasan. She never even turned up at the homecoming. He had to catch a ride to the apartment they had. She’d gained thirty pounds and there was no beer in the house. He just went off about the beer. I mean, he was losing his military bearing at the unit; I’m sure he was going off about it at home. There was something about that that got through her thick head. So every time he came home from float, there’d be one beer left. Just one. Maybe it was one of her sick games. But he always had his cold-beer when he got home. Only thing she ever got right as a dependent in all the years I’ve known him.”
“Fuck,” Faith said.
“He’s free of that she-devil, ma’am,” Evans said. “I miss my Gladys, but he’s free of that she-devil. I just hope like hell he don’t make the same mistake.”
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” Faith said.
“You just for the first time made me realize you really are fourteen, ma’am,” Evans said, shaking his head.
CHAPTER 22
“Well, that’s a pisser,” Faith muttered as the doors of the supply warehouse were cracked open. The first person through the door was a two-star general.
She’d learned to just let the gunny handle the senior guys. They couldn’t see past the Barbie and the bars. Unless, like Evan, they’d had a hand-crank radio. Which they never seemed to have in the “official redoubts.”
* * *
“General,” Sands said, saluting. “Gunnery Sergeant Tommy J. Sands, First Marine Battalion.”
“Good to see you, Gunny,” the general said, returning the salute. “Major General Lowell Ramos, deputy post commander. I’m going to hope that there’s a damned good reason Marine vehicles are painted up like ghetto cruisers.”
“That, sir, is my platoon leader,” Sands said, pointing up to Faith. She wasn’t watching the interplay, just keeping an eye out for leakers. “Who holds two Navy crosses for actions against infected, s
ir, from just the first six months of her tour, sir. Lieutenant Smith is fourteen and earned both while thirteen, sir. Officers who cannot grasp that a fourteen-year-old girl is the baddest-ass zombie-killer in the post-Plague world, and that that is the only criteria right now for how good of an officer you are, have repeatedly broken their careers on Shewolf, sir. There is no actual need for camouflage, sir, and some arguments against it. So it’s a test, sir. Can you adapt, react and overcome to this new world or are you ‘pre-Plague’ and just need a nice quiet desk job, General?”
“Had issues in the past?” the general said.
“Yes, General,” Sands said. “Current standing orders are that rescuees are to be treated with due military courtesy but, as with prisoners of war, until they have passed evaluations and are cleared for duty, they have no actual authority, sir. So we don’t have to break any more careers of officers who don’t get that you’re looking at the Chesty Puller of the post-Plague world, General. And because people who cannot are really not much good to us, sir. Those that cannot . . . There are plenty of desk jobs, generally at lower rank, waiting on them, sir.”
The general thought about that for a long moment.
“Chesty Puller,” the general said.
“Not an exaggeration, sir,” Sands said. “Fourteen. Two Navy Crosses. Really deserves more.”
“This is going to be a very long brief, isn’t it?” the general said.
“You’re getting there, sir,” Sands said, breathing out. “Considering that LantFleet is a directly promoted civilian Navy captain whose previous military service was as an Aussie para, CINCPAC is a commodore who was an Army lieutenant general and took a voluntary demotion and service transfer, the CJCS is an Air Force brigadier, the NCCC is one hundred twenty-sixth on the list and we’re finding between zero and five percent survivors world-wide . . . Yes, sir.”
The general took a deep breath and breathed out.