Authors: John Ringo
Tags: #Fiction, #science fiction, #General, #Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic, #Military
Strands of Sorrow (6 page)
“Make it so, ma’am?” the staff sergeant said. “You’re talking to the wrong staff sergeant, Lieutenant. Decker’s the armor guy. I’m helos.”
“Crap,” Faith said, dusting off her hands. She keyed her radio. “Force Ops, Ground Force, over.”
“Ground Force, Force Ops.”
“Base clear for Sierra and Sierra. Require Decker and Condrey for armored ground survey. Send over with Sierra and Sierra.”
“Roger. Will dispatch with Sierra and Sierra.”
“Now to get him to understand that all we need is it
running
,” Faith said.
“Good luck, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Getting one of these up to Decker’s standards will take—”
“Forever, since there is no such thing as absolutely perfect,” Faith said. “I’ll try to explain it to him.”
* * *
“I understand the vehicle does not have to meet full ORS inspection requirements, ma’am,” Decker said, standing at attention. “However, this vehicle will require a minimum of two hundred man-hours of depot-level repair, ma’am.”
“I’m not getting that, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said. “I’m not disagreeing with you. You’re the expert. But can you explain in terms simple enough for a second lieutenant to understand?”
“When armored vehicles are left unused, various materials break down, ma’am,” Decker said, breaking into lecture mode. “Rubber seals are almost the first to go. The air filter for the engine is paper based and often becomes a nest for pests both invertebrate and vertebrate. At the minimum, this vehicle needs: new batteries, complete seal replacement, adjust fuel injection system, full lube, replace hydraulic fluid, hydraulic seals, oil. . . . That is before even inspecting the vehicle, ma’am. Depot level maintenance, two hundred man-hours, ma’am. And despite the hatches being closed, watch out for brown recluse and black widows in the ammo storage area. That was a recurrent issue with material from this depot, ma’am.”
“Sounds about right,” Januscheitis said.
“Really?” Faith said.
“That’s what we were doing for
weeks
at Gitmo, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said. “Just with helos. Which had all the same problems. Think you’re going to have to settle for a LAV, ma’am.”
“What’s a LAV?” Faith asked.
Decker was far too dialed in and wired to wince. Januscheitis, not so much.
“It’s times like this that I recall your age and relative inexperience, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said. “If you would care to walk this way . . . ?”
* * *
“That’s a tank, too,” Faith said. “All I said was, I want a tank!”
“With due respect, ma’am!
That
is
not
a
tank
!” Staff Sergeant Decker, the Marine Armor Staff NCO, barked.
“S’got armor,” Faith said, gesturing at the LAV. “S’got a gun. S’atank!”
“With due respect, ma’am,” Januscheitis said, trying not to grin. “I have to agree with the staff sergeant on this one. It is a light assault vehicle. So . . . Not a tank.”
“’Cause it’s got wheels?” Faith asked.
“’Cause it’s got wheels, light armor and a light gun, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “The LAV-25 is an eight-wheeled, four-wheel primary drive, amphibious reconnaissance vehicle built by General Dynamics and based upon the well-proven Swiss MOWAG series of eight by eight vehicles. The LAV-25 has a crew of three and can carry up to six deployable Marines. Armaments: One twenty-five-millimeter Colt Bushmaster auto-cannon, two M240 machine guns. Light assault vehicle. Not a tank.”
“’Cause an
Abrams
could roll over one of these toys and crush it like a tin can, ma’am!” Decker said tightly. The staff sergeant was starting to twitch. Never a good sign.
“Very well, Staff NCOs,” Faith said. “I concur to your experience. Not a tank. But can we get it running?”
“I am less familiar with the operation and maintenance of the light assault vehicle, ma’am,” Decker said, calming down. “However, many of the same issues apply to a lesser degree, ma’am.”
“LAVs are way less maintenance intensive than Abrams, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Or helos. We can probably get one of these running in a day or two if the colonel okays it.”
“We need these for more than just to give your lieutenant a driving lesson,” Faith said. “I haven’t discussed it with the colonel, but there’s an argument for having some amphibians. I know the tank doesn’t count for that. But we need some amphibious vehicles. And also not just because we’re Marines and Marines without amphibious vehicles are, well, Army.”
“Ma’am?” Januscheitis said.
“I’ll discuss it with the colonel,” Faith said. “This is amphibious, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Barely. Not rated for ocean.”
“Can it swim the river?” Faith asked.
“It will operate downstream, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Upstream? Possibly. The last SLEP eliminated most amphib capability.”
“SLEP?” Faith asked.
“Service Life Extension Program, ma’am,” Januscheitis replied.
“Why would a program eliminate amphibious ability from one of its vehicles?” Faith asked.
“That is one of those questions that falls into ‘God and the Pentagon work in mysterious ways,’ ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “We
all
asked that.”
“So what do we need if we need an amphib?” Faith asked. “Some of those hovercraft?”
“No, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “If you’ll follow me, ma’am?”
* * *
“And this is or is not a tank?” Faith asked, looking up at the tall slab-side of the AAV. “’Cause, again, sorry, it
looks
like a tank. Sort of. Cross between a tank and a Winnebago maybe.”
“This is not a tank, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “This is an amphibious assault vehicle, ma’am. Specifically an AAV-7A1. Crew of three, can carry up to twenty-five Marines in adequate discomfort. It is fully ocean capable and can easily negotiate the river, ma’am. This, ma’am, is what most Marine infantry use to get from ships to shore. And if you want to swim the river, probably a better choice than the LAV.”
“How long to get one of these running?” Faith asked.
“Not as long as an M1, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Less to break. Few days with some manuals, parts and tools.”
“Which should be somewhere on this base,” Faith said, hands on hips. “We’ll spend more time looking for the stuff than getting these things running, I suspect. And first S and S has to get some of the base operating.”
“Getting a class on Marine vehicles, Lieutenant?” Gunny Sands asked, walking up.
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant,” Faith replied. “I have been respectfully informed that just because something has armor and a gun it is not a tank, that for some reason the Pentagon decided that Marine vehicles didn’t have to be amphibious, that any military vehicle that has been sitting out for months requires more than new batteries to run, unlike half the civilian cars we’ve gotten into operation, and that I lack patience. But we all knew that last one.”
“For that matter, I knew the other ones, ma’am,” Gunny Sands said. “The LAV was never very good at amphibious ops and keeping the drive train for the propeller operating was always one of those things that failed on inspection. So they just removed all the parts. It will still move in water using the wheels for propulsion but not very well. And they have a hell of a tendency to sink at the worst possible moment. If you’re thinking of using something to cross the river and clear the base using this as your safe point, I’d suggest the AAV. For clearance on the civilian side, which we’re going to be assigned pretty quick, I’d go with the MAT-V.”
Faith paused, then opened her mouth.
“Before you even go there, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “With due respect, it’s a type of fighting vehicle based on the MTVR. Five tons, ma’am. But I didn’t see any.”
“Should have looked closer at the satellite image, Staff Sergeant,” Gunny Sands said. “If you would care to follow me, ma’am?”
The walk was long. To a completely different parking area near the river. The walk had taken them past lines and lines and lines of Humvees, MTVRs, wreckers, what looked like weird forklifts, LVSs and every other kind of support wheeled vehicle. They all showed signs of having been sitting out in the weather for a while. It might as well have been Patton’s used car lot. Finally the gunny pointed at something that looked like what you’d get if a five-ton mated with a tank.
“That is a M . . . whatchamacallit?” Faith asked, looking up at what was basically a massive armored truck.
“Mine-resistant, ambush-protected, all-terrain vehicle, ma’am,” Gunny Sands said. “M-ATV. Armored. Pintle mount accepts M2, M240 or Mark 19. TOW for that matter, not that we’re going to need those. Also has a very nice climate control system. Stereo was an option the Corps in its infinite wisdom did not choose to purchase. Last but not least, change the oil and fuel, change the battery and I’d bet my life it just cranks up and goes.”
“Tires are sort of flat,” Faith said, kicking same.
“They have a central inflation system, ma’am,” Januscheitis said.
“But not amphibious,” Faith said.
“No, ma’am,” the gunny replied. “But you can use this to clear the civilian side while Staff Sergeant Decker, Lance Corporal Condrey and Sergeant Hocieniec’s team get five AAVs functioning.”
“Five,” Faith said.
“Enough for one per team and plenty of room for survivors if we have to pick them up that way, ma’am,” Gunny Sands said.
“Do I even have a job here?” Faith said. “I was sure it was thinking ahead to the future of operations so as to be prepared to give orders about them. I know I read that in one of them manual thingies. But it seems my gunny has that well in hand.”
“Somebody has to sign for them, ma’am,” Gunny Sands said. “They’re very expensive. Above my paygrade, ma’am.”
“I knew there would be paperwork,” Faith said, shaking her head. “Gunnery Sergeant!”
“Ma’am!”
“We’re going to need some sort of vehicle for ground clearance on the civilian side,” Faith barked. “I have selected the Mat . . . the . . . the Matathingy as the optimum vehicle. You’ll have three up and running by zero eight hundred tomorrow!”
“Aye, aye, ma’am!” the gunnery sergeant replied.
“In addition, it may be necessary to do an amphibious assault on Mayport,” Faith said. “The optimum vehicle for that I have determined to be the amphibious assault vehicle. We will need five of those when the time comes. You are to detail such personnel as necessary to get five of them up and running. We’ll determine the schedule on that at a later date.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Gunny Sands said.
“I’m going to go see the colonel about the paperwork necessary to draw these from stocks,” Faith said.
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” the gunny said, saluting. “We’ll get started on that right away, ma’am.”
“Carry on,” Faith said, returning the salute, then walking away.
* * *
“Staff Sergeant Decker,” Gunny Sands said as soon as Faith was out of sight and earshot.
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!” Decker barked.
“Building Fourteen is the tank repair depot. There are four M1A1 main battle tanks in Building Fourteen in covered ‘hurricane prep’ condition and in apparent good order. In addition to your other duties, you, Lance Corporal Condrey, Sergeant Hocieniec and Staff Sergeant Januscheitis
shall
get
one
M1A1 into operation suitable for mobility
only
prior to the nineteenth of this month.”
“Aye, aye, Gunnery Sergeant!” Decker said.
“I will get with Sierra and Sierra on location of additional parts, tools and supplies,” Gunny Sands said, referring to Survey and Salvage. “That is in addition to getting five AAVs up and running as well as three M-ATVs.
That
will be an all-hands evolution. However, only you, Lance Corporal Condrey, Staff Sergeant Januscheitis and Sergeant Hocieniec will work on the tank. Nor do I think that mission needs to be discussed with, by or around higher including specifically the lieutenant. Is that understood?”
“Aye, aye, Gunnery Sergeant,” Decker replied.
“Permission to speak, Gunnery Sergeant,” Januscheitis said.
“The nineteenth is the lieutenant’s birthday, Staff Sergeant,” Gunny Sands said.
“Aye, aye, Gunnery Sergeant,” Januscheitis said, trying not to grin.
“NCO only word, pass the word that the lieutenant is
not
to be given driving lessons until then,” Gunny Sands said. “Skipper wants her first car to be a tank, we are by God going to get her a tank. Semper Fucking Period.”
CHAPTER 4
Anchors Aweigh, Shipmates!
Naval forces under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Craig Hamilton continue their clearance of the Mayport Naval Station and Blount Island Marine pre-position base. Blount Island has been entirely cleared with the help of local gator Navy forces. In this case, though, we’re talking actual alligators . . .
Nicola sat down at the console and examined the first screen. Besides the general “This is to sort out the sheep from the goats” stuff there were several preference links. Civilian including LEO, Current Active Duty Military, Reserve/National Guard, Veteran.
She chose “Reserve.”
She was asked for her social security number which she typed in and hit “Enter.”
She was asked to enter and reenter a password which would be used to “Access the Wolf Squadron Network.”
She entered and reentered the password, then hit “Enter.”
The screen filled with her military, veteran and even employment information and asked if there was anything incorrect.
Reserve Captain, U.S. Army, check. Military and civilian helicopter qualifications, with list of qualified airframes. Check. Blackhawk, Chinook and Bell Jet-Ranger qualified instructor pilot, check. Masters degree in aviation engineering, check. Aviation technical support instructor contractor, Mayport Naval Station. Check.
She hadn’t been entirely clear with Kiera. Pretty much every job she’d ever
had
, she was one of the few women.
She hit the “All Correct” link.
“Thank you for your information. You are automatically reactivated as of this date at the Rank of LIEUTENANT, United States Navy Reserve, Aviation Branch. After being medically cleared, see the Military Reactivation Sponsor for processing. Again, thank you for your contribution to saving the world and welcome to Wolf Squadron, LIEUTENANT.”
“You’re welcome,” Nicola said, breathing out tiredly. “Like I’m going to be medically cleared in my current condition.”
* * *
“Okay,” the corpsman said, shaking his head. “I’ve seen a lot of weird maternity clothes since getting out of the sub. But that’s a new one.”
“I was in a Navy warehouse,” Nicola said, getting up on the table without asking. “It was what we could make.”
“There’s a sewing shop downstairs,” the corpsman said. “They’re putting out all sorts of maternity clothes since it’s not the sort of thing you just run across. You should show them that. They’ll want to put it up on a bulkhead. Any notable health problems? High blood pressure, aching headache?”
“Just morning sickness,” Nicola said.
“Heard your baby’s heartbeat, yet?” the corpsman asked.
“No,” Nicola said.
“Well, pull off the maternity gown, put on the paper one and I’ll get a fetal heartbeat monitor hooked up . . .”
* * *
Nicola put her hand over her mouth and tried not to cry as she heard her baby’s heartbeat for the first time.
“That’s a strong one,” the corpsman said, looking at the monitor. “We’ll schedule you for an ultrasound but this one looks pretty solid and you’re not exhibiting any of the symptoms associated with major side effects, thank God. Is this your first child?”
“Yes,” Nicola said.
“Don’t slap me for this next question,” the corpsman said, making a note. “Any idea who the father is?”
“Yes,” Nicola said. “I take it that’s been an issue?”
“Five guys, one woman in a compartment?” the corpsman said. “You think? Any idea when you conceived?”
“It’s one of two cycles so, no,” Nicola said. “I could be due this month or next.”
“This one, most likely,” the corpsman said. “We’ll be able to figure out better with the ultrasound. Assuming you don’t pop before then. Okay, clothes back on. We only brought ten expectant mothers with us and two corpsmen. We rescue many more like you, Terry and I are going to be busy as hell.”
“I’m surprised
any
corpsmen survived,” Nicola said.
“Guess you didn’t have a shortwave, huh?” the corpsman said. “We were in subs. Uninfected. We got uncanned, thank God, when the Squadron started making vaccine. And most of us have been landed pending the arrival of the baby wave. Which is shaping up to be a doozy. Twenty corpsmen, six physician’s assistants off the boomers, one SF medic, two if you count a guy who turned out to be a general and is on his way to Pac, one, count ’em,
one
, female nurse. Nearly two thousand pregnant women most of whom appear to be scheduled within a month of each other. So far we’ve had fourteen viable births from the Wave. A few from earlier who were pregnant when the Plague hit and survived everything. But fourteen, so far, from the Wave. And, unfortunately, a bunch of stillbirths and a few ladies we’ve lost due to complications. When it hits in earnest . . . it’s going to be interesting. Don’t figure on seeing any of us unless you’ve got serious complications. You’re probably going to be handling most of it on your own or with a friend.”
“Okay,” Nicola said.
“There are umas,” the corpsman said. “Midwives that is. Some of them have experience, some of them just went through the class. You’ll probably have an uma. Who might be a guy, by the way. Main thing is sanitize the area, both the bedding and your pubic region.
Clean
and fresh newspapers, if you can find them, work well for that. They’re disposable and the ink is antiseptic. Shave the pubic region for sanitary purposes. Wet it down with Betadine of which, fortunately, we have a shit load. Then grit your teeth and dig in for the ride. Nine times out of ten, even first mothers just manage to push the baby out eventually without a lot of problems. Pain, yes. Seriously life-threatening complications? No. There’s classes going on on how to breathe and what not. You’ll find the schedule posted on the bulletin boards or on the Squadron net. Questions?”
“Anesthetics?” Nicola asked.
“The only good one, for values of good from what I hear, is an epidural,” the corpsman said. “The only person barely qualified to administer one is our single MD, who is in Gitmo. And he’ll be busy doing C-sections when there are complications. We’ve got some soma which is supposed to help, some. Other than that, it’s the really old-fashioned way. Big thing is keep the area as clean as possible. More questions?”
“No,” Nicola said.
“You’re going to be fine,” the corpsman said breezily. “You’ve got a good strong baby there from the heartbeat, and you’re in good physical condition. Right now, our PA and our SF medic are performing assembly line C-sections of women from the civilian side of Blount’s Island who are at death’s door and still carrying a fetus. You seriously want to
complain
?”
“No,” Nicola said after a moment’s thought. “One issue. I’m reactivated.”
“What are you?” the corpsman asked. “Or were or whatever?”
“Captain, U.S. Army Reserve,” Nicola said. “I got activated as a U.S. Navy lieutenant for some reason.”
“Oh, sorry, ma’am,” the corpsman said. “And, yeah, if you’re reserve, you’re reactivated, ma’am. At rank but into the Navy or Marines since we don’t have an Army right now. Wasn’t on your paperwork, ma’am. I’ll clear you for light duty, ma’am.”
“I’ll need a flight physical as well,” Nicola said. “I’m a pilot.”
“Great,” the corpsman said. “Just great. Sorry, ma’am, but that’s not going to happen any time soon. I’m not even sure what all a flight physical entails. I’m clearing you for light duty right now. When Captain Wilkes gets back, you can see him about the flight physical issue. I wouldn’t suggest putting you in a bird until you’re cleared on the baby thing. After that . . . somebody else will have to decide how to handle it. Fortunately, our one MD may be learning the baby thing, but his actual PhD is in astrophysiology. Should know the requirements. Any other questions, ma’am?”
“No,” Nicola said.
“Here’s your profile,” the corpsman said, pulling off a receipt and handing her a pill bottle. “And some neonatal vitamins for what they’re good for at this point. For what it’s worth, again, you look like one of the ones who has done okay. Baby seems healthy as hell. You’re healthy. It all looks good. Which is much better than some of the stuff I’ve seen, ma’am.”
“Thanks,” Nicola said.
“Now I’ve got a slew more of these, ma’am,” the corpsman said. “If you’ll excuse me?”
* * *
“Lieutenant,” the woman behind the desk said, pointing at her screen. “This service record is a sight for sore eyes. Squadron has been screaming for qualified pilots and aviation maintenance people and you’re both. The only problem will be deciding which is more important.”
“Glad you think so,” Nicola said. “I’m not too sure about a cross-service transfer to the Navy.”
“We’re getting more Army personnel now that we’re clearing land areas,” the woman said. “But for right now, we’re consolidating to Navy and Marine until there’s a skeleton of Army personnel to set it back up.”
“I suppose that makes some sense,” Nicola said. “But I personally don’t think I should be flying at the moment, though. I have to pee every ten minutes.”
“Tell me about it,” the civilian said. “I’ve left a note for Captain Wilkes to look you up. Right now you have three days to get comfortable with being back in civilization, such as it is. After that we’ll find a slot for you. Company grade cabin space is at a premium. You’ve got a choice of interior solo, for now, or exterior shared. If you’re sharing, it will probably be with an O-1 or O-2.”
“Exterior, shared,” Nicola said.
“Either of the Bobbsey Twins it is,” the woman said. “Would you prefer your roommate to be a fellow, if extremely junior, pilot, Navy ensign, or a vicious, psychotic, zombie-killing Marine second lieutenant?”
“You make the choice so difficult,” Nicola said, laughing. “I’ll take the Navy pilot.”
“Shewolf isn’t that bad,” the woman said. “Once you get to know her. Which you will. You eventually get to know everybody in this gypsy band, and Shewolf and Seawolf are two of the main stars. Okay, you’re bunking with Seawolf. Room One-Seventeen, Marquee deck. It’s right by the helo pad ready room.”
“Okay,” Nicola said, taking the room key.
“The key acts as temporary ID as well as rations and materials draw,” the woman said. “I don’t know if you want to hit your room, first, or the clothing store. Despite your being an officer, due to exigencies of conditions all uniforms and rations are issue rather than pay. Because that basically
is
the pay. There are some Navy maternity uniforms. Another reason to have people Navy or Marines is those are the uniforms we’ve got. You also get to draw civilian clothing. You don’t have to be in uniform until the third day of your three days off. Day three, report to the S1 at oh-nine-hundred hours in uniform.”
“Roger,” Nicola said.
“Welcome back, Lieutenant,” the woman said.
“You seem to be pretty experienced at this,” Nicola said.
“I was a Navy dependent for thirty-two years,” the woman said. “And a civilian DOD employee for a good bit of that. I know the dance. When you get some downtime in your room, I’d suggest you sit down and watch three videos. The usual series is the Welcome to Wolf Squadron video first, but I’d save that for last. Watch the Cruise Liner Boarding video, then the London Research Institute. I didn’t mention it, but your new roommate is a fairly badass zombie-killer in her own right and she used to be a boat skipper and division commander. Then watch the Welcome to Wolf Squadron video. It’s better on a big screen, but you’ve got a fair-sized plasma. At that point you’ll be more or less caught up on the major players in the Squadron and you’ll get my description of Shewolf. She considers ‘psychotic zombie-killer’ to be a compliment.”
“Okay,” Nicola said, puzzled.
“But you probably want to get some more comfortable clothes, first,” the lady said, standing up and holding out her hand. “You’re going to fit in just fine, Lieutenant. And by the time your baby grows up, he or she won’t have to fear the zombies.”
“That’s a cause worth fighting for,” Nicola said, shaking her hand.
* * *
“Oh, hi,” Sophia said as she entered her room. There was a very pregnant lady in civilian maternity clothes she’d never met occupying the other bunk. Five eight or nine, black hair with a faintly Asian look, slim for being pregnant but not starved. She looked as if she’d recently been crying. “Um, are you sure you’re in the right place?”
“Hi,” Nicola said, clambering to her feet. “They’re running out of company grade officer’s quarters. So we have to share. Sorry.”
“Not a problem,” Sophia said, setting her flight bag down. “I’m Ensign Sophia Smith. And you are . . . ?”
“Lieutenant Nicola Simpson,” Nicola said, sticking out her hand. “I
was
‘Captain’ Nicola Simpson, U.S. Army Reserve. Aviation. Now I’m Navy. Gotta love it.”
“A pilot?” Sophia said, her eyes going wide and shaking her hand. “Hooray! Wait, fixed or rotary?”
“Rotary,” Nicola said, sitting back down. “But I’m not going to be flying any time soon,” Nicola said, patting her stomach. “I could, but it wouldn’t be prudent.”
“Only one airframe at the moment, ma’am,” Sophia said. “But God knows, we can use instructors.”
“You don’t need to use rank in quarters,” Nicola said. “You’re not used to dealing with many other officers, are you?”