Strands of Sorrow (15 page)

“Got that,” Hamilton said. “I’m going to say, definitively, and I’ll point it out to LantFleet, that the more time you spend getting the basis right, the more efficient the program will be ongoing. Once we can turn the lights on at night on the base, for that matter get the lights
going
on base, we’ll be pulling out to continue sweeps north. I really don’t expect your training program to be hitting stride until that point, Commander. During the sweep, not as we leave. So get it right at the start and I’m confident that it will work out long-term.”

“Will do, Colonel,” Sanderson said. “One question.”

“Go,” Hamilton said.

“Am I also commanding the station, sir?” Sanderson asked.

“For now, you’re station commander,” Hamilton said, making a note. “Aware that doing that and the training program and squadron commander is a bit much to ask, I’ll find someone to take over base command. It’s not me. For one thing, it’s a base command. Navy deal. For another, I’m the Force Commander, at least for present, and will be going forward with the Force. But as Captain Smith pointed out, we have a slew of capable lieutenant commanders, commanders and even lieutenants promotable who could handle it. We’ll find a station commander from that group.

“Commander Isham, plans on mechanical production,” Hamilton said.

“What we lacked before was resources, Colonel,” Isham said. “Steve and I have been batting this idea around for a while. I’ve got a pretty good concept of operations on it and I brought along a couple of my people who have a clue. Like you said on the training operation, more time spent at the beginning getting it right means more efficiency as you go. But I’d say two weeks and we’ll have the basics in place and start cranking out containers. Don’t say ‘One week.’ When I say a time, I don’t pad it. I could give you one in three days. Might have one in a week to at least test the concept. Getting people in place, trained and prepared to do all the tasks . . . Two weeks is a miracle.”

“Two weeks sounds fine, Commander,” Hamilton said. “Air Ops. Any points?”

“One more day’s full ops and the Dragon is down for at least two days,” Captain Wilkes said. “The question is, do you want us to do another day of ops or put it in for service now?”

“Can you service it at the airfield, Commander?” Hamilton asked.

“Yes,” Sanderson said. “I was going to raise moving the helo support personnel to the station. We can do the work over there with them. And I may have to steal some for the training program.”

“We’ll need them back on the
Grace
when we leave,” Hamilton said. “I get your point about experience in the trainers. We still need a solid crew on the
Grace
. We’re going to be out on a limb, as usual. I’d prefer our air branch not be cut off. But they’ll move over to begin work at the station tomorrow. Send the Sea Dragon over with one set of personnel, then get to work on it. The rest can, as the lieutenant pointed out, ferry by boats. Missions for tomorrow: Service the Sea Dragon. Begin work on mechanicals production facility. Continue work on the base systems. Closure of the beach to infected infiltration. Clearance operations down the beach. Air Ops at Commander Sanderson’s direction. Setting up a regular ferry schedule. Now to the details . . .”

* * *

That evening in his quarters, Commander Sanderson turned on his computer, logged into WolfNet and typed a query: “London Research Institute.”

There was already an “official history” of Wolf Squadron. The writer was a historian who had been tapped to write up “significant actions” post-Fall. Sanderson had already read the bios of the various senior officials and noted that Captain Smith’s background was as a history teacher. So it made sense. It was from those as much as the, frankly, propaganda movies that Commander Sanderson had been getting caught up on this new world he’d entered.

“Operation Golden Lion: Airmobile insertion raid on the London Research Institute . . .”

Sanderson read the entry and realized that it was carefully crafted. “Stuff” had been left out. So he hit the links at various points and did some more research. Then he dug into additional information on his new ensign. It took some piecing together to see why she was inserted as a “technical expert” on the raid.

“Son of a bitch,” Sanderson said when he was done. “I now get why the colonel said ‘Never underestimate a Smith.’ I knew where the vaccine came from but . . . that’s double cold . . .”

* * *

“Permission to make a nonprofessional comment, sir,” Sophia said as she banked the Seahawk around. They were staying over the cleared areas since her “check ride” was doubling as a test-flight of the newly refurbished bird.

“Your choice,” Sanderson said.

“This is
so
much easier to fly than the Dragon, sir!” Sophia said.

“We try to use Rangers, which are about the easiest bird in the world, for first flights, Ensign,” Sanderson said. “It would take a zombie apocalypse for anyone to have a person train and solo on a Dragon. They are, yes, a bitch and a half. Since we’re having not-on-point conversation. Personal question.”

“Sir?” Sophia said.

“You were sent to London in part to look for vaccine production materials?” Sanderson said.

“Yes, sir,” Sophia said. “I worked in a corporate lab making vaccine before the Fall if that’s what you’re tiptoeing up to asking, sir.”

“That was what I’d gleaned,” Sanderson said, nodding.

“I’ve got an official pardon from the NCCC, sir,” Sophia said. “And I’m past apologizing, sir. Especially given that that is where all our vaccine comes from at this point. Thank God Dr. Shelley turned up or I’d be stuck in a lab instead of doing this, sir.”

“It’s inappropriate for me to ask something like this,” Sanderson said. “But how did you feel about that?”

“When we were first clearing, sir,” Sophia said, “there were still some child infected left, sir. And I occasionally had to shoot them, sir. That’s about how I felt, sir.”

“Ensign,” Sanderson said. “Absent being unable to land this bird safely, your flying meets standards. My standards. You’d have been cleared pre-Fall, if you were, you know, old enough and went through all the right schools. I would prefer you to have more time as copilot and that seems to meet the mission plan. But you’re a good, competent pilot. On the point we just discussed: I spent some time working with spec-ops. One of their unwritten mottoes is ‘We do a lot of things nobody should have to do because they’re things that have to be done.’ Your . . . attitude on the matter was what I was looking for. And that fits that motto. I have no issues with you as a pilot, Ensign. I’m trying to figure out why you’re still an ensign.”

“Pretty much everyone up to the NCCC is okay with me being an officer, sir,” Sophia said. “I’ve been working as an officer, effectively, since before I was sworn in. But there’s a similar resistance, from just about everyone, to promoting me until I’m a little older. Either sixteen, which is coming up, or eighteen. They’ll probably relent and promote me to JG when I turn sixteen. I’m not holding my breath but it’s probable. I’m not really worried about it, sir. We really don’t do this stuff for pay and I’m not zoned in on who salutes me or doesn’t. I just want to do everything I can, to the best of my ability, to help, sir. Really don’t care what rank I’m at doing that, sir. If I was a pilot and . . . I dunno, a petty officer, I’d be fine with that, sir. I just try to do whatever needs to be done even if some of it has been, yeah, pretty distasteful. And I don’t really care what people call me when I’m doing it. Sir.”

“‘We just do what needs to be done, even if it sucks, to make the world a better place,’” Sanderson said. “Maybe we need a new squadron motto.”

“Not many children infected anymore, sir,” Sophia said. “And shooting up zeds gets to be . . . You just don’t see them as people after a while, sir. At least I try not to.”

“Bring her in for a landing, Ensign,” Sanderson said. “The aircraft and the pilot seem to be functional. And we have promises to keep.”

“And miles to go before we sleep, and miles to go before we sleep . . .” Sophia said.

“And she knows the classics,” Sanderson said.

“Once more unto the breach dear friends, once more,” Sophia said. “Or close up the stairs with our American dead!”

“That . . . is not a classic,” Sanderson said.

“It will be, sir,” Sophia said. “It will be . . . Tower, Hawk Three approach for landing . . .”

* * *

“Forth, Marines!” Faith called over the radio. “Forth and fear no darkness! Arise! Arise! Arise Riders of Shewolf! Spears shall be shaken! Shields shall be shattered! A sword day . . . A red day . . . Ere the sun
rises
!”

With the decision to start clearance of the beach towns south of the station, some of the plan had been adjusted. The Marines had left before dawn, catching the outgoing tide, and swum their tracks out to sea. A large park extended south of the base for a mile and a half. When they were clear of the base, they’d turned on powerful spotlights and trolled down past the park to where the civilian houses started.

Now they were arrayed in a line with the sun rising behind them and facing them were a few hundred zombies.

“Death cried King Theoden,”
Januscheitis radioed.
“Charging the line of the enemy.”

“Open fire and let’s roll!” Faith shouted, pointing to the shore. “Death! Death!”

It really was no contest. By the time the amtracks engaged their tracks and waded ashore, the entire group of zombies was shattered bodies from .50 caliber fire. Several were then ground into the sand by the tracks.

“You know,” Faith said. “Few of these at the Battle of Minas Tirith and Sauron wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“Sauron would have been the one using them, ma’am,”
Hooch argued.
“Or Saruman. Saruman was way more into machines, ma’am.”

“
Wizards
,” Januscheitis said.

“Well, they were, right?” Faith said.

“I meant the movie, ma’am,”
Januscheitis said.
“From the
seventies? The evil wizard had tanks. The good wizard didn’t.”

“He had a Luger, though,”
Hooch radioed.

“Point,”
Januscheitis said.

“This is the geekiest conversation,” Faith said. “I’m afraid of what I’ve started. Hey, there’s a road off the beach. We’re not getting many takers, let’s go inland.”

“We need to be able to extract, ma’am,”
Januscheitis warned.
“We’re not getting hit heavy now. We may.”

“In which case, we drive back to the beach,” Faith said, holding up a standard auto GPS. “Everybody remember where we parked. Looks like . . . Nineteenth Street.”

* * *

“Staff Sergeant,” Faith said over the radio.

“Ma’am?”
Januscheitis said.

They’d hit some pockets of zombies. So far no survivors but the day was extremely young.

“In all seriousness, we need some big ass speakers on these things,” Faith said, watching the fire. The infected weren’t even getting close to the amtracks between the fire of the main guns and the fire from the up-gunned Marines in the back. “Zombies are attracted to light and sound. And loud as these things are, they’re not loud enough.”

“Psy-ops speakers, aye, ma’am,”
Januscheitis said.

“Which are?” Faith asked.

“Big ass speakers, ma’am,”
Januscheitis said.
“Big ass. Ever see Apocalypse Now?”

“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 . . .”