Strands of Sorrow (20 page)
Authors: John Ringo
Tags: #Fiction, #science fiction, #General, #Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic, #Military
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. They 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 berthing 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.
“Home of every boomer in the Atlantic,” the colonel continued. “And quite a few of the fast attacks. Which in strategic terms means . . . Gunny?”
“Big stash of special weapons, sir,” Gunnery Sergeant Sands said.
“Master Guns” had found his niche. He’d remained “retired” and had settled into an office on Blount Island like he was born there. They were never going to be able to get another round out of the place. They’d have to scrounge for pens and pencils for the rest of the war.
“Special weapons storage facility is here,” Hamilton said, pointing to the magazines. “No infected have been detected inside the facility. Indications are the roving guards all succumbed, were eaten or died of starvation and thirst, unable to break out. Lots of infected on the outside, fortunately. I say ‘fortunately’ because there are other groups starting to move around. And whatever your beliefs in the Second Amendment, nuclear weapons are not something we want getting loose.”
“Oh, God, no,” Faith said. “And I say that as a born, bred and trained gun-hugger, sir.”
“So the first and overriding priority is to secure the special weapons,” Hamilton said. “The second priority is destruction of all heavy weaponry in the other magazines with the exception of some that we will extract for later use. By direction, LantFleet, with concurrence JCS and NCCC, small arms magazines will be left intact except for what we extract for our own use.”
“LantFleet wants any survivors to have access, sir?” Gunnery Sergeant Sands asked.
“That is the Atlantic Fleet commander’s intent,” Hamilton said. “When I asked the same question, not particularly surprised, he pointed out that they would most likely be accessed by American tax-payers who had paid for it in the first place and have an obvious need. On a purely legal basis, it’s the Federal Government arming the militia. On the other hand, the militia does not necessarily need to be playing around with W-88s, Tomahawks and ADCAPs.”
“Sir?” Faith said.
“Nukes, cruise missiles and torpedoes, ma’am,” Gunny Sands said.
“Thank you,” Faith said.
Hamilton paused for a moment and looked around the room.
“The submariners are, obviously, critical to all ongoing operations. And they, like many of the rest of us, are wondering and worrying about whether their dependents survived. In addition, the boomers had a dual crew system so half the crews were ashore when the Plague broke out.
“Most recent satellite sweep has detected multiple survivor groups. Looks like every building that had stash has survivors. A couple of homes have been spotted as having probable survivors. Therefore, due to both morale and personnel value issues, over and above
any
other base, including Marine bases, Marines will perform
intensive
search and rescue sweeps of the base housing areas as well as nearby town areas. To give you an impression of what I mean by ‘intense,’ we have allotted seven days of SAR and clearance of an area that is a fraction of the size of Jax. By contrast, I’ve been reliably informed, we’ll have only
two
days on Lejeune.”
“Son of a bitch,” Gunny Sands said bitterly.
“Are we taking Trixie, sir?” Faith asked.
“On reflection, yes,” Hamilton said. “It was discussed and we came to the conclusion the value was obvious.”
“Then there are two ways of looking at this, Gunny,” Faith said. “One way is Da doesn’t care about the Marines so he’s leaving them and their dependents to die. Care to think about that for a second, Gunny?”
“I know your father cares about the Corps, ma’am . . .” Gunny Sands said.
“The other way to think about it is this:” Faith said. “With submariners, you’re obviously going to have to drive up to their house. They like to hide. They’re shy. And they scare easy. We’ll probably have to coax them out with treats. We’ll need to lay in some pogie bait. Drive Trixie around the Lejeune area for two days straight, drop some caches behind as we go and the Marines will rise up in an
unstoppable tide,
Gunny. We ain’t takin’ two weeks on Lejeune ’cause Da figures we ain’t gotta. Just leave ’em a note the assembly area is Jax. Marines’ll canoe down.”
“That is a point, ma’am,” Gunny Sands said.
“And my first op-order on Lejeune, Gunny,” Faith said, “I’ve already written the opening line: ‘We’re rollin’ hot to the gunny’s for some cold-beer.’ Oorah?”
“Oorah, ma’am,” the gunnery sergeant said. “Semper Fi. Power’s been out. Beer might not be cold. And knowing my wife, probably ain’t but the one can left.”
“Well, then, Gunny,” Faith said. “That can will be waiting for you. Discussion closed. Sir?”
“We are taking one Seahawk,” Hamilton said. “We’ve reconfigured so it can operate solely off of the
Boadicea
. No more perching like a . . . Seahawk on its nest.”
“Hoowah or oorah or whatever you’re supposed to say in the Navy,” Sophia said. “On behalf of the mechanics who had to work on the bird up there, thank you, sir.”
“I think it’s hooyah or ooyah or something,” Captain Wilkes said.
“I think that’s just SEALs, sir,” Gunny Sands said.
“And on the
subject
of Navy,” Hamilton said, cutting off the discussion. “Captain Wilkes?”
“Sir?” Wilkes said cautiously.
“Congratulations are in order,” Hamilton said. “And possibly condolences. You just made Lieutenant Commander.”
“Agh,” Wilkes said, clutching his chest. “What’s that psychological term, Colonel?”
“Conflicted?” Hamilton said.
“That’s the one, sir,” Wilkes said. “I thought that might be coming, but . . .”
“Marines are, for the time being, pure amphibious and boarding combat arms,” Hamilton said. “The current split, and I’m told it may change back and may not, is Navy handles
all
support including
all
aviation. Which means our mechanics will be Navy, our cooks will be Navy, our clerks will be Navy, our
armorers
will be Navy and most notably our
pilots
will be Navy. For the immediate future, if you were pre-Plague Marine, you are driving something with a primary gun system, holding a weapon or commanding same. Period. In the event that we recover aviators from Cherry Point or New River . . . They just became either Navy flyers, if rotary, carrying a rifle, commanding a company of armor, et cetera, if fixed. Possibly aviators if we have more fixed wing needs or possibly cross-trained to rotary. In which case they’ll also be transferring services.”
“Pretty much how it went when the Marines first started out, sir,” Gunny Sands said. “I’m not even sure when we started having things like our own cooks and mechanics, sir.”
“When we started having expeditionary forces, Gunny,” Hamilton said. “It was Nicaragua and the World Wars that forced us to change and grow into an independent service. Which was the point that Captain Smith made. We’re not currently mounting those nor does he intend to do so in any conceivable time-frame. All ‘inland’ operations will be Army when it is reactivated. Marines are hereby entirely littoral and thus can draw upon the Navy for support personnel. We’re not even bivouacking ashore in case you haven’t noticed. When we have enough Marines for a company, we’ll probably have a Marine company clerk. Unit armorer will probably be Navy. Anyway, congratulations on your promotion, Lieutenant Commander. Well deserved. And once a Marine, always a Marine.”
“Yes, sir,” Wilkes said.
“One aspect of this general ‘support’ subject that has always held true is the assignment of corpsmen to the Marines from the Navy,” Hamilton said. “We’re hoping that the same rubbed off esprit de corps that corpsmen have will work for the rest of the rates. However, again as people may have noticed, we have yet to have a corpsman actually assigned to the ground unit. That is because they are all assigned to other duties, notably the baby-boom we’re currently experiencing. I discussed this with higher and we have been assigned a corpsman.”
“Hallelujah,” Faith said. “About damned time.”
“Volunteers were solicited and several of the former sub corpsmen have volunteered,” Hamilton said. “Gunnery Sergeant Sands, I’m putting you in charge of selection. I’d recommend running them through a PT and marching test, then interview. Anything else they’ll have to pick up OJT. Oh, and a range qualification. Zombies really have no regard for the Geneva Convention and thus the corpsmen will be armed. It’s a pity, but that’s life.”
“Yes, sir,” Gunny Sands said. “When?”
“Tomorrow,” Hamilton said. “We’re on short time.”
“Yes, sir,” Sands said.
“And that is the outline,” Hamilton said. “Now to wrestle the devil . . .”
* * *
“Moment of your time, sir?” Faith said as the meeting broke up.
“Of course, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said, gesturing with his chin.
The gunny took the hint and left. Officer talk.
“It’s not a big deal, sir,” Faith said. “It’s about Trixie, sir.”
“Tiring of your toy, Lieutenant?” Hamilton said wryly.
“Not a bit, sir,” Faith said, grinning. “And I love every bit of it. I think, given that there’s no threat from enemies with anti-tank systems that we’re fighting, pink is an awesome color and it was, absolutely, the best birthday present ever, sir.”
“That being said?” Hamilton said curiously.
“She needs to be a regular color, sir,” Faith said. “Some people were great with it but it causes a lot of consternation, sir. When it was just the greatest birthday present, ever, and, yes, a toy, sir, that was one thing. But we’re using it as a vehicle of war, sir. I don’t go fighting zombies in a mini-skirt, sir. Trixie needs to be in uniform if she’s going to war, sir.”
“Concur, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “We’ll have to do the paint-job on the float. And we’re not going to be floating long. Get with the gunny and Staff Sergeant Decker on the particulars.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said, then grinned. “She’s going to miss the paint-job, sir. But Trixie’s really excited about going to war, sir.”
“Glad to hear that, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said delicately, then sat down. “However, I have to ask . . . Did Trixie
tell
you that, Lieutenant?”
“Sir,” Faith said, shaking her head and grinning. “I know that you’re a great psychologist. And crawling into the head of an Islamic terrorist was probably worse than crawling through rotting bodies in the bowels of the
Voyage
, sir. But I can guaran-damn-tee you, the one head you
don’t
want to troll through is mine, sir.”
* * *
“Who decided a swamp was a good place for a Navy base?” Faith asked.
King’s Bay was, unquestionably, a swamp. It was surrounded by swamp. It looked like a swamp. And it was slowly turning back into swamp.
The waterside portions of the base were nothing much to look at. There were a few “covered” submarine pens, more or less hangars built on the water. They were already falling apart due to lack of maintenance.
