Authors: John Ringo
Tags: #Fiction, #science fiction, #General, #Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic, #Military
Strands of Sorrow (22 page)
“Ma’am,” Sands said.
“Get with the
Grace
on getting us some MREs or something,” Faith said. “We’re about to pull an all nighter. I’m going to call the Hole and see if the acting commandant has any suggestions . . .”
* * *
“Son of a bitch . . .” Darnall muttered. “I completely forgot about that.”
“Forgot what?” Faith said fuzzily. It was three AM and they’d been poring over paperwork looking for the missing nukes for hours.
“There was a transfer,” Darnall said. “Post-Plague announcement. They were transported to Canaveral for loading.”
He handed her the receipt he was reading.
“
Cape
Canaveral?” Faith said. “What?”
“The actual missiles are loaded at Canaveral, ma’am,” Gunny Sands said, taking the receipts and examining them. “They have the facilities to attach the nukes to the missiles. And those are the missing serial numbers.”
* * *
“It should have been logged with us, Lieutenant,”
Ellington said.
“Can you see what I’m looking at, sir?” Faith said, holding the paperwork up to the camera.
“Roger, Lieutenant,”
Ellington said.
“If you hold it back a bit I can see it better. But hold the signature block right up to the camera . . . That’s the right signature. I know the officer. We don’t have the transfer logged. Wait one . . . Son of a . . . We have the receipt for the aircraft used to transport nuclear weapons and . . . the manifest that they were transferred. And they were logged in at Canaveral. It’s valid. We just didn’t get the data from King’s Bay.”
“So we know where they’re at?” Faith asked.
“Presumably,”
Ellington said.
“Until someone puts their hands on them I’ll only say that. They shouldn’t have been transferred at all with things they way they were going. But . . . water under the dam. They’re probably in the temporary magazines in Canaveral. Hopefully in the magazines in Canaveral.”
“Does that mean we have to clear
Canaveral
?” Faith asked.
“Looks that way, Lieutenant,”
Ellington said.
“Lieutenant, this is an order. Get some sleep. You’re punch drunk. We’ll deal with this later. Your devotion to duty is well understood but this is not going to get solved tonight.”
“Roger,” Faith said. “Just need to check in with the colonel and make sure the guards are posted, sir.”
“
Then
get some sleep,”
Ellington said.
“SAC is out.”
* * *
“I’m not even going to ask if this happens often,” Steve said during the conference call the next morning. “I really don’t want to know.”
“The transfer was well into the down spiral of the Fall,” Brice said, looking at the copies of paperwork they’d received. “Looks to me like there’s an order somewhere, we don’t have it, to go to ‘max load’ on every boomer in the event we, well, had to nuke cities. And this sort of thing, bad inventory, was
why
SAC was stood back up. Really shouldn’t have been done at all. Not my call at the time. The miracle is that the bird seems to have arrived. One reason not to have done it was I’d be surprised if the pilots were vaccinated. I’d have anticipated losing the bird.”
“We need someone to put their hands on those weapons,” Undersecretary Galloway said. “Which means clearing Canaveral.”
“I’ve slated seven days of clearance on King’s Bay,” Steve said. “There are valid reasons for that. Do I order them to proceed immediately, continue clearing King’s Bay, then Canaveral, or complete some or all of their planned missions then hit Canaveral on the way back? I’ll note the obvious that this is not the only such facility on the east coast alone.”
“We’re going to be a while getting to the ones out here,” Commodore Montana said. “The good news being that it’s because you wouldn’t
believe
how many God-damned infected there are on the West Coast. And if
we
can’t access them, nobody else can.”
“Going slow I take it, sir,” Steve said.
“We’ve got North Island,” Montana said. “But every other base, town and city is just as chock full. And I’d rather not shoot the full load on the
Michigan
. Cruise missiles are somewhat hard to build in the current climate.”
“Can you do a Mediterranean at any of the ports in Diego?” Steve asked.
“Possibly,” Montana said.
“Mediterranean?” Brice said.
“Pulling in to the dock aft-in, ma’am,” Steve said. “If you can get a big ship alongside Mediterranean . . . We have
Blount
, Commodore. We can send you . . .
Anything
you need. Ammo, tracks, guns . . . Do a Med, then roll out an M1. Of course, most of it needs work but we can send crews along to work on it on the way. And the ships are capable of going around the Horn. Especially since it’s still summer down there.”
“I graciously accept,” Montana said. “Some Abrams is what this calls for.”
“You’re going to owe me some M1028,” Steve said. “I’ll have them start prepping the ship right away. May be a couple of weeks before we can even get it going.”
“Works,” Montana said. “And thanks, Steve.”
“Thanks for saving both my daughters’ asses in London,” Steve said.
“Back on the subject of the
missing nuclear weapons
,” General Brice said.
“They’re in Canaveral, Shelley,” Montana said. “Ninety-nine to nine nines percent chance. Assuming that Canaveral has the same security issues the rest of the world seems to have. And if they’re not . . . They’re gone. They could be in some building to be installed, or some kid playing Zombie Apocalypse The Rising could have found them and gone ‘cool.’ Which is not a huge issue. The combination of someone who can override a Positive Action Lock and is crazy enough to do so was
likely
in the pre-Fall world. You could find that person if you had enough money. Losing a nuclear weapon was devastating. Literally. In this one . . . Highly unlikely.”
“So we should just consider them lost?” Undersecretary Galloway asked.
“General Brice is your primary advisor on all things military, sir,” Montana said. “She is the acting CJCS and also a specialist at this field, which I am not. But my nonprofessional opinion is to not lose sleep over it. We had no firm knowledge of the situation with the nukes at King’s Bay until yesterday. They were
all
in this condition. This changes little if anything about the overall security situation. Especially given the difficulty of bypassing a PAL. What to do about it, to divert the Force now, or later, or not at all, should be a recommendation from General Brice, sir.
“My only counsel is psychological. This would be something to definitely freak out about pre-Plague. These days, it falls into a minor peccadillo. The conversation the captain and I just had was more useful to the needs of the nation than where ten nuclear weapons happen to be. That may seem absurd, but it is not, sir. They affect nothing. They are expensive toys that are useless to our needs and are going to have to be disposed of soon enough since we’re not going to be refurbishing them any time soon.”
“Captain, do you wish to input, since this is your Command?” Brice asked.
“Yes, General,” Steve said, looking at the view of Canaveral. “I’m going to request to split the difference and add a mission.”
“Go on,” Brice said.
“There were a number of defined and potential missions on this sweep,” Steve said. “The defined were thoroughly clear King’s Bay, and recover what nuclear weapons were on hand. Note,
on hand
. Clear and perform SAR on Parris Island and Lejeune and perform SAR on the Hampton Roads region. If possible, remove any special weapons from Hampton Roads.
“Could we cut out one of the LHDs? We need a better platform than the
Grace Tan
. Can we get some landing craft? Well, that depends on what we get elsewhere, as usual. How many Marines are we going to get at Lejeune? What shape are they in? Can we turn them into a cohesive fighting force in any short time frame?
“We’re starting to get some reasonable statistics on survival at this point,” Steve said. “Horrible statistics, but reasonable for planning. Active duty military and dependents seem to have one of the highest survival rates if they were on bases. Not
high
, mind you. Just higher than normal, ranging from five to possibly in some cases as high as ten percent. We are used to a trickle of survivors in the areas we’ve cleared. Even in London they’re looking at one percent or less. In the Mayport area we’re looking at possibly five percent of the base personnel and dependents surviving. Which isn’t a lot but if you’ve been out here finding God-damned
nobody
, it’s a bloody miracle.
“If it runs the same in and around Lejeune, say, we’re looking at
ten thousand
survivors.”
“I hadn’t done that math,” Brice said, nodding.
“Now, all of those won’t be active Marines,” Steve said. “But quite a few of them, virtually all, will be military oriented. Very useful people to have around in a zombie apocalypse. Which is
why
we’re clearing the bases. But we’ll need to do something
with
them. Move them. Some, if the clearance is thorough enough, will wish to, or be ordered to, hold the area. Most will wish to move. If for no other reason than their services are needed. At which point, we face a logistics issue: How do we move several thousand people from these bases to Mayport or Blount or Gitmo or, indeed, all three? At which point, we get to what else is at Canaveral.”
“Rockets?” Brice asked.
“Festival Cruise Lines has four,” Steve said, holding up his hands with fingers up. “Count ’em, four, cruise liners alongside at Canaveral. Two fall into the mega-cruise category. Each of the four is larger than the
Boadicea
.”
“And they won’t need much clearing,” Montana said, nodding.
“And they should be virtually clear, Commodore,” Steve said, nodding. “Very few of the infected will have survived and they wouldn’t be packed with crew or passengers. That’s where they load, not a destination. Getting them up and going is another issue: they won’t just start at the turn of a key. We’ve been training Navy crews on other ship types. So . . .
“My recommendation as LantFleet, is to clear King’s Bay, clear Parris Island, clear Lejeune, establish a safe point at Lejeune, which shouldn’t be hard with Marines, shovels and concertina—then take a larger Marine force to Canaveral. Clear Canaveral, which is functionally an island and has several extremely convenient drawbridges and fence lines, then return to Lejeune with sufficient lift to pull out all the survivors who are going to join the effort. Oh,
and
that way we’ll have more Marines along in case it turns into a nuke hunt. Then Hampton Roads. Then, assuming we have an LHD at that point, all the other bases within close range of the water. Hunter, Groton, Stewart, some of the D.C. area bases, even Bragg and possibly Bragg sooner.
“My estimate is that with the clearance of Lejeune alone, we’ll have so many survivors plus equipment we can really get started on serious continental clearance. We will also be exceeding my competence level. If we find an admiral or general, at least one who has the right feel for the zeitgeist, I’m going to recommend turning over LantFleet to him. Or her.”
“We’ll discuss that if the time comes, Captain,” Galloway said. “And I see your reasoning on the mission strategy.”
“Concur,” Brice said. “And don’t you quit on me, Wolf.”
“Oh, not going to
quit,
ma’am,” Steve said, grinning. “But there’s a mission I don’t have the right person for. I’d just ask to take that one. If General Montana wasn’t so obviously the choice for PacFleet I would have asked him to take it. He’d have loved it. Or gladly switched places. I hate being chained to a desk. Did it for too many years as a teacher.”
“What’s the mission?” Montana said.
“Gulf Coast Irregulars, Commodore,” Steve said instantly. “Bunch of small boats and airboats clearing the Gulf Coast. Basically a barely disciplined littoral militia. Just feed them ammo, guns and vaccine and let them rip a new asshole through the infected while screaming ‘Yahoo!’ Think Florida rednecks and Cajuns with Ma Deuce and maybe some miniguns if they find them.”
“God,” Brice said, shaking her head. “You really are a pirate at heart, aren’t you?”
“Hoist the black flag, mateys,” Steve said, grinning. “I’m still looking for the right guy. Besides me, that is. I mean, the
Keys
haven’t been cleared and they’re just sitting there, low infected numbers and easily securable. Maybe Chen. He’s gotten fairly irregular. I digress. That is my recommendation, ma’am, sir. King’s Bay, Parris, Lejeune, Canaveral, figure it out from there.”
“And we concur,” Galloway said. “Sounds like a plan.”
“I’ll pass it to Colonel Hamilton,” Steve said.
“SAC, out.”
“Now you make me sorry I took this job,” Montana said, grinning. “That does sound like fun.”
“Biggest problem for me would be no wenching,” Steve said. “Sure you want CINCPAC?”
“No,” Montana said. “But a ship full of gear and ammo will probably change my mind. You can spare it?”
“We’re about to take Lejeune, sir,” Steve said. “And we’re in the process of pulling in the
Iwo
. Even with worst case scenario in the mid-Atlantic bases, we can spare it.”
“As soon as possible, then,” Montana said. “CINCPAC, out.”
“LantFleet, out,” Steve said to himself, then keyed another icon. “Get me Kodiak.”
CHAPTER 17
“Current mission remains the same,” Colonel Hamilton said. “Destroy the heavy weapons in magazines today. Don’t worry about the nukes for now.”
“Yes, sir,” Faith said, still a bit muzzy. “Are we supposed to eventually?”
“Eventually,” Hamilton said. “And our mission for Lejeune and Parris Island has changed. We’re to do a thorough ground level clearance of both. But for today, just take care of the magazines.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said.
* * *
“Oooh!” Faith said as the first torpedo magazine erupted. The blast doors had been left open and the blast went halfway across the massive magazine area. “That gives me an idea. Wait on the next one . . . Seahawk, Ground.”
“We saw that from way over here,” Sophia said. “Felt it, too. We’d appreciate some warning next time.”
“Sure,” Faith said. “But any chance you can pied piper some infected over here . . . ?”
* * *
“Oooh,” Januscheitis said as the blast ripped through the group of infected. The center of the group simply evaporated. Those on the edges were . . . well, some of them were almost intact. “That’s
vicious
.”
“Glad that the bird was far enough away,” Faith said. “But that’s it for fun today. Next magazine . . . Wait . . . Let me call higher . . .”
“It’s an interesting suggestion, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “But I think the normal clearance methods work well enough.”
“There’s only so much 1028 left in this fallen world, sir,” Faith said. “And we’ve got a lot of power, here, we’re just throwing away. Waste not, want not, sir.”
“I’m thinking about the safety issues and have to reluctantly say no, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “Reluctantly. Your point on 1028 is valid. But the thought of our few amtracks rolling past an open and rigged magazine acting as pied pipers is . . . No.”
“Well, at least there’s a buttload of forty and fifty in the small arms magazines, sir,” Faith said. “But somewhere in the world there is a reserve of 1028. A true treasure trove, sir. And I make it my personal quest to find it, sir.”
“That’s the spirit, Lieutenant. Eventually we will clear Fort Hood.”
“Where’s that, sir . . . ?”
* * *
“Check fire!” Olga shouted over the intercom. “Check fire!”
The helo had been doing pure clearance while the Marines were blowing up bunkers. There were a lot of infected between the outer perimeter fence and the pier fences. The base had had a population of fourteen thousand on-site military and dependents at the Fall. At this point estimates of infected populations were thirty percent of pre-Plague population, skewed almost entirely to prime age males, most of whom lived on base. That was a lot of infected. They’d seen survivors waving but the plan this time was to do a “yellow” clearance, then pull out the survivors.
“Check fire, aye,” Anna said.
“Status?” Wilkes said.
“Command, have civilian SUV moving south on . . . hell, that double road down there . . .”
Apparently at least one group thought “orange” was good enough.
“Roger,” Sophia said. “Got it. Command, heading for infected concentration.”
“Then let’s get down and plow the road for them,” Wilkes said, banking the bird around.
“They’re taking the turn towards the piers,” Olga said over the sound of firing. “Command, gate closed. Say again, gate closed.”
“Roger,” Wilkes said. And there was a solid mass of infected sitting right on Henry L. Stimson drive. “Sophia, handle the phones.”
“Force Ops, Seahawk Four . . .”
* * *
“Ground Team, Force Ops.”
“Ground Team,” Faith replied, signing another sheet of damned paper. Like someone was going to check the inventory of ammo? They were leaving most of it behind, anyway.
“Discontinue evolution. Respond group of survivors attempting self-extraction.”
“Roger, Ops,” Faith said, grabbing her helmet. “STOP THE LOAD. WE GOT A MISSION!”
* * *
“Damnit,” Wilkes said, looking out the side window. “They’re panicking.”
The SUV had skidded to a stop when it saw the mass of infected on the road, then tried to do a three point turn and gotten at least temporarily stuck in the median.
“Time to start plowing,” Wilkes said, dropping the bird down over the struggling SUV. “Fire.”
The four miniguns opened up in their laser lines, shredding the group of infected. Until the fire slowed, then stopped abruptly.
“Looks like a jam on four,” Sophia said. “The others are out.”
“Starboard has rounds,” Anna called.
“Port is low,” Olga said.
Wilkes pivoted to bring his starboard side around and Anna finished off the last of the infected in the group.
“I’ve got more closing port,” Olga called over the sound of fire.
“Check fire,” Wilkes said.
“Check fire, aye,” Olga and Anna said simultaneously.
Wilkes spun the bird, again, dropping down to almost ground level. The SUV had gotten freed but the female driver was looking wide-eyed. There were kids in the car.
“Stay here,” Wilkes said, making standard hand-and-arm motions. “Stay here!”
The woman nodded at him, still wide-eyed.
“Go hot,” Wilkes said, picking it up. “Freaking
dependents
! You couldn’t wait a
day
? Ground team, Air. Where are you?” He started moving the helo around in an out-of-ground-effect hover to allow the door gunners to engage the closing infected.
“Moving to your location,”
Faith responded.
“In sight of the gate at this time, over.”
“Hurry,” Wilkes said. “We’re clocking out and there are closing infected, over.”
“Roger. Will comply. Make sure the vehicle is clear of the gate, over.”
“They are two hundred meters beyond the gate,” Wilkes said.
“On the way.”
* * *
“Force Ops, Ground, emergency, over. Condrey,
punch it
.”
The M1 was in the lead for a change and it was
much
faster than an amtrack. It quickly left the rest of the Marines behind.
“Force Ops.”
“Need permission to breach the main gate, over.”
“Stand by.”
“You have twenty seconds and I’m making a command decision,” Faith replied. She could
see
the car. She could also see the infected closing on it in a wave. The helo was down to spitting fire from one gun. Then that stopped.
“Just stand by.”
“Ain’t happenin’,” Faith replied. “Condrey, we’re going to have to rebuild the gate. You got that?”
“Roger, ma’am,” Condrey replied.
Faith reached down and keyed on the still installed speaker system. The Marine Corps Hymn started to boom across the area in a brassy flourish.
“RAMMING SPEED!”
* * *
When Trixie hit the gates, she was going “in the region of 45 miles per hour.” That was what the after action report stated. “In the region of 45 miles per hour.” Why? Because the M1 Abrams had a governor that limits it to 45 miles per hour and there were stiff regulations against removal of same.
The guys doing most of the detailed mechanical work on Trixie were nuke mechanics, mostly from fast attack boats. There’s a reason they’re called “fast attack” boats. They’re attack boats and they’re fast. Very fast. Why? Because in submarine warfare, there are two main prerequisites, silence and speed. They couldn’t figure out a way to make Trixie stealthy but the hell if they were going to let her be slow. The governor was the first thing to go flying out of the engine compartment. They’d ended up with a lot of “excess” parts, which is a common characteristic of engineering in the nuclear submarine service.
Thus Trixie was going well in excess of 45 miles per hour. Which, coincidentally, was the posted speed limit. She would have definitely been ticketed were there any remaining Shore Patrolmen because she was going closer to sixty. Okay,
over
sixty.
The gates of the nuclear submarine facility were very heavy. They were designed to stop a suicide truck bomb.
They didn’t stand a chance against something weighing as much as a train locomotive that was made out of steel and depleted uranium and doing better than sixty miles per hour.
They might as well have been tissue paper.
“Gun up on canister!” Decker said as the gates and part of the gate house flew in every direction.
“Not a chance,” Faith replied, straightening back up. One of the speakers had been ripped away but The Hymn was still booming. “Coax and treads only. Condrey, if you hit that car I’ll have you up on charges.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” the Lance Corporal replied.
The behemoth plowed into the crowd of infected surrounding the car, splashing the blue SUV with body fluids and offal like a car passing through a puddle. While the tank technically missed the SUV, the impact on the crowd of infected caused a ripple effect of bodies crushed between seventy-three tons of tank and a half a ton of SUV. The SUV lost, to an extent, being pushed nearly over by the impact of thirty human bodies that were more or less jelled by the physics.
The windows held, though, and that was the main thing.
Then Trixie was past and still going
way
too fast in the wrong direction.
“Condrey!” Faith said, spinning around the cupola gun and giving the most boneheaded order she’d ever given in her short life which had already included more than a few boneheaded orders. “Turn around! NOW!”
Lance Corporal Steve Condrey was an experienced tank driver. He knew full good and well that you
did not
attempt a radical turn of
any
tracked vehicle, much less an M1 Abrams, when going “in the region of 45 miles per hour.” You were bound to throw a track.
But he had also spent waaaay too long being capable of only cadaver obedience to orders. So despite his understanding of all the bad things that happen when you try to pivot a tank going “in the region of 45 miles per hour” he turned the wheel hard over . . .
“JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH!” Decker bellowed, holding onto the gun as the tank seemed to be headed for who knew where. Sideways.
What should have happened at that point was the tracks should have popped off like tiddlywinks whereupon the tank would grind to a halt in a shower of sparks. Then the crew, including Faith by order of Colonel Hamilton, should have had to put the tracks back on, an incredibly tedious, time consuming and back-breaking business, while the amtracks covered them from raging infected. Seahawk Four should have had to return to base to rearm. There should have been a spectacular and tense battle as the gallant, if somewhat ignorant of tank driving, young female lieutenant led her crew in heroic tank tread reattachment while under attack by waves of howling zombies well into the night, as the helo repeatedly screamed by overhead, laying down masses of fire, possibly having some catastrophic malady to add to the drama, requiring the Marines to rush to
their
rescue and possibly starting up a star-crossed love affair between Januscheitis and Anna and by the end of the long night of tense, dramatic and heroic battle, much of the base would have been cleared by default. Or, possibly, the situation might have forced them to tearfully leave Trixie behind until they could clear the base enough to repair her, leaving Faith despondent and remorseful for all of, say, three minutes or several paragraphs of exposition.
That’s what
should
have happened. What
would
have happened in any
sane
universe.
But then we get to the subject of . . . lubrication. And friction. Much about friction.
Patton once famously remarked that his forces were going to “use their (Germans’) guts to grease the treads of our tanks.” That is because, well, the human body is not actually
good
grease, it’s not something that you’d want to, for example, pack a wheel bearing race with, but it has, at molecular level, some of the same constituent elements. Even in a slender body, there are a fair amount of lipids, the basic component of lard. And the human body is ninety-five percent water. Which is slippery. Ask anyone who’s ever driven on a wet road. Wetness, to a certain degree, decreases the force of both static and mobile friction. Huh?