Authors: John Ringo
Tags: #Fiction, #science fiction, #General, #Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic, #Military
Strands of Sorrow (2 page)
“Take a boarding team and get the light turned off, aye, sir,” Lyons said.
“Anyone onboard familiar with the Seawolf class, Commander?”
“The COB served on them, sir,” Halvorson said. “And Petty Officer Gomez.”
“Take them and a security team,” Montana said. “And put that light out. Take a hammer. Break it if you have to.”
“That would be tricky, sir,” Halvorson said. “It’s recessed and extremely robust to withstand pressure. I would suggest the lieutenant take a small explosives charge, instead.”
“Already on my list, sir,” Lyons said.
“Betraying my lack of knowledge of all things sub-nautical,” Montana said. “What in the hell do you use something like that light for?”
“Hull shots,” Halvorson and Lyons said simultaneously.
“And helping lost SEALs find their way back to a submerged boat, sir,” Halvorson added.
“Quite quite helpful in that regard,” Lyons said. “If somewhat untactical.”
“Technically it’s a standard navigation light,” Halvorson added. “That’s how it’s listed in the white papers, anyway.”
“Love to have seen that line item,” Montana said. “‘And we need a navigation light that can light up the moon!’”
* * *
A RHIB was duly deployed; the boarding team boarded, carefully, given the reception committee in the water, and headed over to the
Jimmy Carter
.
However, before they even began to board, they came to the furious attention of the infected crowding the hangar deck hatches and the flight deck.
“This might not be good,” Commodore Montana muttered as the first few infected dropped from the flight deck.
In the case of the increasing shower of infected from the flight deck, it was, as it were, hit or miss. The flight deck loomed out and over the smaller submarine. Thus the infected who were not so much jumping off as being pushed trying to get to the RHIB were aiming at water. It was sixty-six feet, as any Naval aviator knows, from the flight deck to the water line on a Nimitz-class carrier. Sixty-six feet is survivable under some conditions. It is approximately the same height as a twenty meter diving board in the Olympics. However, surviving the impact is one thing. Surviving it conscious is another. Absent careful entry, water at that speed tends to feel somewhat like landing on concrete. Thus the “miss.” The waters of San Diego Bay were home to not just the Humboldt squid but the great white as was
immediately
apparent. Conscious or not, there were not going to be many infected surviving the fall.
Some, however, were aimed more or less at the RHIB. Thus the “hit.”
“Back up!” Lyons said as the first infected landed on Petty Officer Gomez. The infected didn’t survive, not to mention it wasn’t all that great for Gomez. And the impact very nearly tore the bottom out of the RHIB. Which would have made it, very briefly, an “IB.”
The COB threw the outboard into reverse and backed up as fast as the boat could manage as the water around it started to churn with impacting infected.
“Zombilanche!” the
Michigan
’s chief of boat shouted, then cackled madly. There was essentially a
wall
of infected falling off the flight deck.
“Just get us out of here, COB!” Lyons shouted, then, “Incoming!”
The remaining crew dove to the side as an infected impacted square in the center of the RHIB.
“I don’t know how many more of those we can take,” Lyons said. “Jefferson, Garcia, toss those over the side.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Seaman Jefferson said, grabbing the legs of the infected. Who, as it turned out, was sufficiently cushioned by Gomez and the previously impacted infected to survive. Albeit with two broken legs. “Sir!”
“Got it,” Lyons said, drawing and giving the infected a “Mozambique tap” to the chest and head. “Now toss it.”
“Aye, sir,” Jefferson said, gulping. He and Garcia tipped the dead body over the side, then reared back. “JESUS!”
A particularly greedy great white had not even waited for the body to fully hit the water. Its teeth sunk into the body and ripped it out of Jefferson’s hands.
“Think we need a bigger boat, sir!” Garcia shouted nervously.
“It’s like feeding the dolphins at Sea World,” Jefferson’s voice quavered. “But way, way, way grosser.”
“Which is probably how the fish feel,” Garcia said.
“Just
toss
the next one,” Lyons said. “Carefully.”
Fortunately, the COB had backed the RHIB out of the “zombilanche” and slowed it as the shower continued.
“Oh, that’s just wrong,” the chief of boat said, shaking his head. “Look at the
Jimmy
.”
The hangar deck openings were lower and more in line with the
Jimmy Carter
. Most of the infected being shoved out as the mass tried to reach the RHIB were landing on the deck of the submarine. Or the sail. Or the fairwater planes. All of which were very hard steel. Most of them were surviving but only with severe orthopedic trauma. Which was exacerbated when another infected would land on top of them.
The top deck of the
Jimmy
was also curved, somewhat slippery and seemed to be the primary territory of the Humboldts. As the writhing mass of screaming, broken infected would discharge a member, the giant squids would reach up
out
of the water and pull them in with claw-covered tentacles.
“That is a behavior never before witnessed,” Lyons said. “And it just put paid to swimming off the Southern California coast for
my
lifetime at the very least. These things have been proven to be smart, adaptable and to have very good memories. There are some indications they even learn socially. Which means this behavior might just be passed down generations. Okay.” He keyed his handheld. “Commodore?”
“Just come back to the boat,”
Montana replied.
“Back to the drawing board . . .”
“Are we there yet?” Gomez asked, groaning.
* * *
“The positive aspect to this latest debacle is that Lieutenant Lyons found an easy way to kill zombies in job lots,” Montana said.
“Pull a boat up and let them avalanche?” Lyons said.
“Got it in one,” Montana replied. “The tricky part is making sure the boat crew survives.”
“I’d prefer not to bring this boat in any closer, sir,” Commander Halvorson said.
“They wouldn’t recognize it as a target, anyway,” Montana said. “But using the RHIB again is out of the question. We need a better boat.”
“This is San Diego Harbor, sir,” Lyons said. “Even with people punching out due to the plague there are plenty of boats available.”
“However, this is an untenable objective at the moment,” Montana said. “We’re going to drop back and punt. We need a base and to start building personnel. Let’s fall back to the NALF for now. See about clearing that first.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Halvorson said.
* * *
“More infected than I’d expected,” Lyons said, looking at the shores of the barren island.
San Clemente Island was a twenty-one-mile-long brown, barren bit of rock sticking out of the Pacific Ocean about ten miles from the California coast. Part of it was an impact range but on the north end was a support facility and the Naval Air Landing Field. And there were infected. Not as many as North Island.
New York
didn’t have as many as North Island. But quite a few. Most were clustered near a few of the large buildings on which, yes, there were clear survivors. Quite a few of those as well.
“If you start rhyming every statement I
shall
have to find a new aide, Lieutenant,” Montana said.
“Noted, sir,” Lyons said, looking through a stabilized scope on the sail. “And the relatively high number of survivors as well as infected is now explained.”
“Oh?” Montana said. “Don’t keep me hanging.”
“I recognize people on the buildings, sir,” Lyons said. “Looks as if NavSpecWar moved . . .”
* * *
“Damned right we moved.”
Captain Owen Carter was the former commander of Navy Special Warfare, Basic Underwater Demolitions/SCUBA School, universally referred to as BUD/S. It was the West Coast’s SEAL school normally based at Coronado on North Island.
The good part about the introductions was that Carter recognized him. There were no questions raised as to why a former Army lieutenant general was now a commodore and CINCPAC. Nobody in Special Operations questioned his competence. Now if he could just figure out a way to take
anything
on the land side . . .
“Holding Coronado was untenable, sir,” Carter said. “Freaking infected were coming over the fences. Most of the teams were out trying to control the infected. I obtained orders to move the dependents, instructors and students to San Clemente. Various others joined as they had transport. Pretty much the entire Special Operations boat contingent moved over when it all came apart, along with some civilians and Team survivors. We moved sufficient supplies for a long siege, especially given the loss rate due to infection. What we did
not
bring is enough ammunition to deal with all the infected. I’m not sure there’s enough in the world.”
“And we, too, are about out,” Montana said, trying not to sigh. The Beast had shot through the last of its ball bearings and all the subs in the area were about shot out on machine-gun rounds. But they had a land base and an infusion of fighters. “Commander Halvorson.”
“Sir.”
“Have the
Hampton
and
Topeka
do a run back to Gitmo or Blount, whichever Captain Smith prefers. Pick up more ammo. See about ball bearings. They might have found some on Blount. Vaccine. Medical supplies if they have spare. General supply run.” For better or worse, most of the pregnant female dependents seemed to have already given birth so he wouldn’t have to repeat the nightmare that had been Gitmo when the baby wave hit.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Captain Carter,” Montana said, looking at the small beach by the NALF. Drawn up on the sand or anchored in the tiny cove was an amazing cluster of just about every type of small boat imaginable. There were Special Operations Boats, yachts, off-shore inflatables and “hard” hulls; there was even one ten-foot inflatable dinghy that must have been a real joy to maneuver across the strait.
“Sir?”
“Any of those SOCs still operational?”
The eighty-one-foot “Special Operations Craft Mark V.1” were just the ticket to handle a zombilanche. They should even be robust enough to handle the impact.
“Unsure, sir. They’ve been parked for the better part of a year.”
“Well, time to
get
them operational,” Montana said, humming “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner.” “The FAST boat guys have a new mission . . .”
* * *
“Ball bearings?” Isham said, looking at the video transmission.
Commander Halvorson gave a brief précis of The Beast.
“That makes so much sense I don’t know why Steve didn’t think of it first,” Isham said. “Okay, I’ll put the word in to Survey and Salvage to keep an eye out. There might be a container or so at Blount Island. There might be a container of the Holy Grail for that matter. But I’ll add ball bearings to the list of critical items . . .”
* * *
There was more to do. Zombie bodies had to be dealt with since they needed the facilities. There were some backhoes. More boats were gotten operational and spread out to see about at-sea rescue. They’d used up most of their machine-gun ammo but husbanded their small-arms rounds. Clearance happened. The nice thing about finding a bunch of BUD/S instructors and students was the instructors were specialists at clearing boats and ships. All they needed was a bit of touch-up on the “Wolf-Way.” On the other hand, it wasn’t much different from normal SEAL clearance techniques. Although they occasionally trained to sneak aboard boats, once they were onboard they rarely bothered to keep quiet. It was all about fast and hard. The only thing they had to be retrained on was “bring the zombies into your killzone, don’t go into theirs.” And Lyons had spent enough time around the Wolf Marines to be able to hum the tune.
But the land. Oh, the land . . .
CHAPTER 1
“Once again, let me congratulate everyone on the mission to London,” Steve said. “You did an exceptional job. So you get the usual thanks for a job well done. Another one.”
Captain Steven John “Wolf” Smith, Commander Atlantic Fleet, had been a high school history teacher prior to the Plague. At this point there were any number of professional submariner officers who had far more experience and could easily take over as Commander Atlantic Fleet. The reason that no one had so much as broached the subject was that the only reason they could now take over was due to the efforts of one Steven John Smith, his redoubtable family and the massive and almost entirely volunteer rescue effort called “Wolf Squadron” that had allowed them to finally climb out of their steel cans.
“As I remarked to Stacey, now we can really get started. The question, of course, is start what?” Steve continued. “And the answer is: Triage.”
“I don’t really think we’re up to repair, sir,” Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton said.
Craig Hamilton was another rescuee of Wolf Squadron. The Marine lieutenant colonel had been the senior surviving officer at Guantanamo Bay when a ragtag fleet of yachts, liners and trawlers converted to gunboats had sailed into the harbor. Since then the Infantry branch former interrogator had been running the Wolf Marines doing various clearance operations. Including commanding, up to a point, the near debacle in London.
“No, we’re not, Colonel,” Steve said. “But we have to figure out where to start working the problem of clearing the mainland. My initial plan was to start with Key West and simply work north. There are arguments for it. It keeps us on one vector. It is, how to put this, fair? Start at one place and work towards another and that’s it. People can’t complain that we overlooked them. That plan may still have some validity. However, there are problems . . .”
He paused and considered the ceiling for a moment.
“The continued clearance of London is going slowly,” Steve said carefully. “The reason being that Prince Harry cannot decide between saving people and training more helo pilots. Captain Wilkes,” he said, nodding to the Marine captain, “and the prince, of course, recovered some helos from Wattisham. All good. Parts? Crews? He’s having to make his own.”
“As we have, sir,” Hamilton said. “And trained them as we went. Sophia is coming along well as a helo pilot.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sophia said, rubbing her new wings.
Sophia Smith, Steve’s oldest daughter, had made ensign at fifteen. She had just turned sixteen when she made her first “pilot in command” flight on a helicopter. It helped that her father was LantFleet. Not to mention that they were in a zombie apocalypse. But mostly she had done both those things because she was a founding member of Wolf Squadron and just that damned good. The main argument for “just that damned good” was commanding a rescue yacht for nearly a year and making that first “pilot in command” flight on an MH-53 Sea Dragon, arguably one of the hardest helicopters in the world to fly.
“Which is why she wore her stupid flight suit,” Faith said.
Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith, USMC, was two years younger than her sister and already had more combat hours than most grizzled gunnery sergeants. She had come to the conclusion her dad made her a Marine officer not so much because she was an over-the-top crazed zombie-killer or because her Devil Dogs worshipped her for it but because he knew she’d go for the Marines as boyfriends and he was putting as many as possible off-limits.
“Lieutenant,” Colonel Hamilton said.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said, smiling faintly.
“Frankly, I’d love to have some of my original Marines back, sir,” Captain Wilkes said. “The new crews are . . .”
“Spotty,” Steve said. “We’ll work on that, Captain. Some of the sub crews are going to be transitioning to helo mechanics. And they’re about as good as you’re going to find in any world, much less this fallen one. But don’t expect Januscheitis back any time soon. The point is . . . There are no specific personnel or material targets going up the peninsula that way. Boca Chica has virtually nothing that we need. Notably, we need helos, helo crews and helo parts.”
“With due respect, sir,” Hamilton said, frowning. “You can’t kill all the infected on the continent with helos, sir. Nor save everyone.”
“On the first point, you’d be surprised,” Steve said. “I’m still keeping some cards on my chest. On the second point, you’re correct. But we can save many. Especially those in land-based materials points. Not to mention accessing them. However, all of that is moot.”
He brought up a satellite image and dialed in.
“Before I zoom much more,” Steve said. “Lieutenant Smith?”
“Sir?” Faith said.
“You are specifically ordered not to squeal,” Steve said. Then zoomed in more.
The image was of a large island. That it was on a river near a city was all that was clear. As the image zoomed in more, it revealed a huge mass of military material, including M1 tanks.
“Squeeeeeee!” Faith squealed, then clapped her hand over her mouth.
“And, no, Faith, you don’t get a tank,” Steve said, grinning. “Probably.”
“You didn’t get me a present for Christmas, Da,” Faith said, grinning back.
“Enough,” Steve said. “But that is your next objective.”
“That is Blount Island,” Colonel Hamilton said. “Correct, sir?”
“Yes,” Steve said. “This is one aspect of not being, admittedly, a professional. I was entirely unaware of Blount Island until it was brought to my attention.”
Faith nodded sagely for a moment, then threw up her hands.
“Okay, I give up,” Faith said. “Do the other newbies get to find out? Sirs?”
“Blount Island is an MPF support and conditioning facility, Lieutenant,” Colonel Hamilton said. “Are those MPFs alongside, sir?”
“Yes, they are,” Steve said. “They were drawn into port at the beginning of the plague to change out their equipment and, well, never managed to leave. The same was done with all the other MPFs.”
“MPF, sir?” Sophia said, raising her hand.
“Maritime Prepositioning Force, Ensign,” Captain Wilkes said. “Three ships carrying all the material to support a Marine Expeditionary Unit for thirty days. Roll-on/roll-off capable. Also capable of loading or unloading on unsupported ports.”
“So . . . geared freighters and ferries with lots of military equipment and supplies,” Sophia said. “Thank you, sir.”
“Their usual mission was to float around somewhere off-shore for months at a time, waiting for an emergency,” Steve said. “If they had done that, they’d probably be uninfected. Instead, they were brought in to switch out some of their combat gear for disaster support materials. Bad call on someone’s part. As it is, they are all alongside. Somewhere. Notably Blount, Diego and Guam. The problem being, as usual, mass. As in too much of it. However, that is better than not having what you need. And it should be quite clearable. Blount Island only has two access points. Half of it is military, the Marine pre-po base, the other half is civilian, a container and car port.”
He slewed the image around to the civilian side.
“No problem finding wheels,” Faith said sarcastically. There were about a hundred thousand cars parked in the port. “Threat, sir?”
“Some infected were spotted on the one pass that’s been caught,” Steve said, zooming in again. He hit the play button and it was apparent there were infected roaming both the military and the civilian side of the port. They seemed to be clustered around certain buildings. And on at least one of those there were some clothed, thus noninfected, people.
“Survivors,” Colonel Hamilton said. “Which would be useful. Just finding your way around in Blount Island is a chore.”
“There is one other issue. Minor. There is a POL point,” Steve said, referring to a supply point for petroleum, oil, and lubricants. “But it is accessible to the infected and, frankly, way too large to clear and get into operation. So we’ll be depending on Statia for the time being. The
Alexandria
poked its head into the St. Johns River channel and it’s clear enough to get the
Grace
in with care. Not as bad as the Thames, that’s for sure. So, mission of Kodiak Force: Clear Blount Island and prepare to get it back into operation as a forward logistics and support base. You’ll be augmented with Navy submariners as well as some nugget sailors from here who have been halfway trained. Usual odds and sods. You’ll also be augmented with your usual divisions of gunboats for this mission since you’re not going to have to cross the Atlantic this time. Your mission after that will be Mayport, which we’ll get to later. Questions, comments, concerns?”
“Fuel,” Captain Gilbert said. The civilian captain of the
Grace Tan
was merchant marine but it was hard to tell the difference these days between civilian and military. “And parts. We’ve got some issues cropping up.”
“We’ve replenished POL stores here from Statia in your absence,” Steve said. “And there are still all the other stores here. You’re scheduled to replenish this evening. You’ll want to take on extra aviation fuel since you are, hopefully, going to need it. And we’ll send the
Ho Yun
up with more when you’re getting low. Anything else?”
“No, sir,” Colonel Hamilton said, looking around the group.
“Again, good job on London,” Steve said. “Enjoy Jacksonville.”