Islands of Rage and Hope

CHAPTER 7

“Well, this is convenient,” the lieutenant said, her hands on her hips, looking at the Humvee. “Anybody know if this thing still runs?”

Hoag had, at the orders of the “Lieutenant,” sent Capedon up to tell Weisskopf he was relieved and to head to the boats. But she had to “stay on site” until relieved. And the lieutenant had “hey-you’d” her to “show them around.”

She wasn’t sure about the lieutenant. Not ’cause she was a female, obviously, but because Sheila was wondering just how old she was. She didn’t look old enough to have gone to college.

“We used it for charging the radios until the fuel ran out, ma’am,” Hoag said.

“No fuel, less convenient,” the lieutenant said. “Staff Sergeant Januscheitis!”

“Ma’am,” Staff Sergeant Januscheitis said.

“Wheels.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the staff sergeant said.

Hamilton accepted the hand of the Navy crewman on the Zodiac, who looked as if he was a teenager, and boarded the boat gingerly. He was the last on of the personnel who were evacuating the base. And he still wasn’t sure it was the right choice.

“Sergeant,” Hamilton said to the Marine who had led them to the craft. “I have a few quick questions.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.

“Were you a Marine prior to the Plague?” Hamilton asked.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied. “I was on the Iwo when we got hit, sir. I was a thirty-three eighty-one, sir. Corporal, sir.”

“Where’s the Iwo?” Hamilton asked. “Other operations?”

“Not enough trained people to man her, sir,” the sergeant said. “It’s floating in the Sargasso Sea with the hatches welded shut, sir. Our total manning is only three thousand and change, sir. That includes sick, lame, lazy, old and children, sir. Mostly civvies.”

“So…this is an actual Navy operation, Sergeant? Or not?”

“It’s…it’s Wolf Squadron, sir,” the sergeant said. “The captain’s a real captain, sir. Gunny and the captain both agree he’s just like any Navy captain, sir. But he was a high school teacher before the Plague, sir. It’s civilians who’ve never been in the military who are trying to figure it out and civilians who didn’t want to be military who are bosses. Hell, sir, Shewolf, Lieutenant Smith, sir? She’s thirteen and there is not one damned person who works with her, or is under her command, sir, who minds. Not after you see her in action, sir. The lieutenant is one badass zombie killer, sir.

“Sir, I’m a cook. But Captain Wolf’s approach is that every Marine is a rifleman, sir. Navy and civilians can do chow. Marines are for killing zombies, sir. Period. The last few months I’ve blown more rounds than most guys did in Fallujah, sir. Clearing ships which is a bitch, sir. Clearing a God-damned supermax liner, sir, is a stone-cold, black-as-pitch ungodly bitch, sir. And, sir, I’m losing count of how many we’ve cleared.

“It’s just…I don’t know how to explain it, sir. It’s Wolf Squadron, sir. I mean, sir, just trying to explain Staff Sergeant Decker is hard enough, sir.”

“And who is Staff Sergeant Decker, Sergeant…?”

“Coming up!”

The person emerging from the roof hatch was a staff sergeant with the nametag “Decker.” He climbed up, then marched, as if he was on parade, to the edge of the roof and looked around. Then he did an about face and marched back to the hatch.

“Begin evolution!” he boomed into the hole. He had bent at the waist to shout and then straightened to the position of attention and did an about face. After that, he marched back to the edge of the roof, did another about face and assumed the position of parade rest.

“May the sergeant inquire what the evolution is, Staff Sergeant?” Hoag asked. She’d never seen a guy wound this tight who wasn’t straight out of Boot Camp. She’d seen some Staffs who were pretty wound, but this was ridiculous.

“Two-forty, Sergeant,” the staff sergeant replied, looking into the distance. “My team is to emplace and maintain a fire-support position against infiltration of additional infected to this zone, pending clearance operations.”

“Are there any additional orders for my team, Staff Sergeant?” Hoag asked.

“Your team’s orders are to maintain a presence on this facility until ordered relieved by your colonel, Sergeant. Does your team have sufficient materials to do so?”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

A lance corporal had climbed up the ladder and dropped a rope down, then hauled up a machine gun while they were talking. He then started hauling up box after box of ammo. His movements were almost as robotic as Decker’s.

“Do your watch personnel all remain by the hatch, Sergeant?” Decker asked. “I am unfamiliar with your standard operating procedures.”

“Private Capedon is the roving patrol, Staff Sergeant,” Hoag said, taking the hint. “Who should, in fact, be roving, not watching other people work.”

“Roving, aye, Sergeant,” Capedon said, walking down the roof.

“We did determine, early on, that the rover had to move to different paths, Staff Sergeant,” Hoag said. “Otherwise the roof tar gets worn down and causes leaks.”

“Understood,” Decker said as the sweating lance corporal finished hauling up a ton of ammo.

“Two thousand rounds, Staff Sergeant,” the lance corporal reported, standing at attention.

“Where is the rest of the team, Lance Corporal?” Decker said.

The lance corporal bent over, at the waist, and looked down.

“Climbing the ladder, Staff Sergeant.”

“Pending their arrival, emplace the weapon on the south wall, oriented to the southeast, Lance Corporal,” Decker said.

“I do not have a compass, Staff Sergeant,” the lance corporal replied as a corporal climbed out of the hatch. He hoisted a PRC over the coaming and dropped it practically on the lance corporal’s feet.

“I’m going to shove one up your ass if you don’t get out of my way, Lance Corporal,” the corporal said.

“Aye, aye, Corporal,” the lance corporal said.

“Lance Corporal Condrey,” Decker snapped. “Two steps back, march!”

“Permission to emplace and prepare the weapon, Staff Sergeant?” the corporal said. His tone was a mixture of bored and pissed.

“Emplace the weapon, Corporal Douglas,” the staff sergeant said. “Weapon shall be emplaced on the south wall, oriented to the southeast.”

“South wall, aye,” Douglas said. “Southeast orientation, aye. Pag, grab the ammo.”

“Grab the ammo, aye, Corporal!” the new lance corporal said, snappily. “Grabbing ammo, Corporal!”

The weapon was emplaced and loaded, then the corporal tapped the assistant gunner “Pag” on the shoulder.

“Maintain the watch, Lance Corporal,” Douglas said. “Staff Sergeant, permission to engage the local expert in intelligence transfer?”

“Permission granted,” Decker said.

“Sergeant, a moment of your time?” Douglas said.

“Granted,” Hoag answered, waving him towards the center of the flat roof.

“Corporal, a question?” Hoag said. “Is there an issue with the staff sergeant?”

“Staff Sergeant Decker’s okay, once you get to know him, Sergeant,” Douglas said. “For being flat fucking nuts, that is. He’s up here mostly to give him something to do that doesn’t take a lot of flexibility. He’s in charge as long as he doesn’t tell me I have to march everywhere with a fricking two-forty.”

“So…that’s wound pretty tight, Corporal,” Hoag said, making a slight gesture with her head.

“Oh, you should have seen the staff sergeant when he boarded, Sergeant,” Douglas said. “This is him being laid-back. Short story, the last order his gunny gave him when they evacced the Iwo was ‘Take care of the LT.’ So when the LT went zombie, instead of, you know, quote taking care of him, strangle or shoot him, have a short ceremony, toss him over the side, as any rational human being would do, they kept him alive. As a zombie. On a life raft. For six months.”

“Holy shit,” Hoag said, trying not to look over at the staff sergeant.

“So, I really asked you over here to fill you in, Sergeant,” Douglas said. “Because with Staff Sergeant Decker around, do everything as if you were doing guard mount at the White House and he’s happy. When you don’t do everything precise and by the book, he starts to get…fidgety. You don’t want Decker the Deranged getting fidgety. It’s not pretty.”

“I so need some time off,” Hoag said.

“Welcome aboard the Boadicea, Lieutenant Colonel,” the officer of the deck said as Hamilton reached the top of the floating dock’s stairs.

He’d already been informed it was a “Navy Auxiliary” vessel so Hamilton saluted the OOD, then turned and saluted the flag.

“Permission to come aboard,” Hamilton said.

“Granted,” the officer wearing NavCam and silver chicken wings said. “Captain Steven Smith, Colonel. Glad you made it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hamilton said, shaking the captain’s hand.

“Let’s get out of the way so my people can get your people settled,” Captain Smith said, taking his elbow. “If the people coming aboard have been severely deprived we generally offer them tomato or chicken soup. In your case, might I offer you a small belt…”

“America,” Smith said, raising his glass. There was a finger’s thickness of scotch.

“The Corps,” Hamilton said, raising his and tossing back the drink. “That’s good.”

“Lots of good hooch to be had on yachts at sea,” Smith said. “Shortest possible in-brief. Then you can go get a shower and a real rack or food someone has cooked or whatever. You are hereby relieved of your duty of holding Gitmo. I’m not sure who we’re going to leave behind when the majority of the squadron sails out, but it’s unlikely to be you. One thing we’ll do before food, shower, et cetera is get you on the horn with the Hole, which is the only remaining headquarters, so you can relieve your suspicions about this outfit. But here’s the in-brief.

“There are no significant land areas not held by infected. There are a few self-sustaining, for the time, one family basically islands that show light. We haven’t contacted any of them; we know they’re there by satellites. Other than that, it’s infected on every continent and major island. This squadron was bootstrapped. There’s a video that’s part of the larger in-brief.

“There are thirty-six submarines still at sea, and nine crews who are on desert islands, which are uninfected. We have to produce vaccine for them. We cannot produce quote modern vaccines. The only choice is attenuated virus vaccines. That requires spines of infected and a radiation generator. The primary purpose of taking Gitmo was to access the base hospital and get its X-ray machine and various other equipment working as well as raid it for supplies. With that, and the spines of poor dead Marines, sailors and civilians, we can make vaccine. Then we can get the subs replenished and in many cases put their people to work on surface jobs. We are critically short of technical personnel. With the sub crews and the shops here and elsewhere, we can really get going. We’re going to give your people three days off here on the Boadicea or in some cases on one of the megayachts. That’s standard. After that, it’s back to work. God knows I can use a professional officer.

“For your information, I’m Australian born, a naturalized American citizen and an ‘instant captain’ by grace of the NCCC, Under Secretary of Defense Frank Galloway, and the acting Joint Chiefs who are a collection of one Air Force brigadier and some colonels and equivalent in the Hole. There’s more, much more. But that’s the short and skinny. Any questions more important than talking to the Hole or getting a shower?”

“Just that you do intend to hold Gitmo, sir,” Hamilton said. “There’s a treaty that states that if we ever leave the base unattended, it automatically reverts to Cuban ownership.”

“I’m aware of the Treaty,” Smith said, smiling grimly. “That is the least of our concerns, Colonel. There is no Cuba. Nor shall be any time soon. The main concern is that from time to time when there were people who did not care for our culture, they were put to sea in sailboats and told to make their own way. Some coasted along behind the squadron and we make sure they get fuel and food. Others have more or less disappeared. Some of them are known semi-hostiles. I don’t want any of the latter availing themselves of the material generously paid for by the U.S. taxpayers. So we will maintain a significant presence here until the stores are exhausted or we relocate them. At that point, we’ll probably pull out. If anyone wants it, they can have it. This is not truly American soil and if I’m going to put our energies to anything, it is clearing our nation. There continues to be some minor interest in it from a SLOC perspective but that may have to be ignored due to manning constraints. Which will be up to the JCS and the NCCC and not on your plate. Understood, Colonel?”

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton said. “Still trying to adjust to the new conditions.”

“Which is why you get three days off,” Smith said. “One aspect that is more or less mandatory is a short orientation film. I hope you enjoy it.”

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton said. “Sure I will. With due respect, though, sir, I would like to speak with the Hole, sir.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Steve said, smiling.

“So, is there a purpose to this machine gun mount, Corporal?” Hoag said. She was mildly afraid to try to ask the staff sergeant. Or turn her back on him. He was standing at attention, staring into the distance as if zombies would start coming over the ridges at any second. The lance corporal wasn’t much better. He’d been assigned to the radio and was holding the mike in his hand, instantly ready to answer any call.

“If the clearance teams run into trouble they can’t handle, they bring the trouble back here,” Douglas said. “Or to one of the gunboats. Amazing how far an infected will follow a vehicle that’s moving slow enough. Also in case any of them show up to interfere with the landing areas.”

After getting the Hummer going, the lieutenant and her crew had used it to get some of the five-tons running. The five-tons had fifty mounts. They’d been loaded up, taken to the docks, had Brownings mounted in them, then headed out to go clean up any remaining infected.

“That I’m familiar with,” Hoag said. She’d really wanted to go with them. She wasn’t even sure what she was doing on this rooftop and wondered when they’d be relieved. It wasn’t a Marine thought but they’d patrolled this same damned roof for so long.

“Alpha One Four, Alpha One Four, Squadron, over.”

“Squadron, Alpha One Four, Papa, over,” Condrey replied.

“Original Gitmo Team to evac to Boadicea for crew rest. Code is Honor, over.”

“Oh, thank God,” Hoag said.

“Original team to evac to Boadicea, aye,” Condrey replied. “Code is Honor, aye.”

“Squadron out.”

“Sergeant,” Staff Sergeant Decker barked. “Secure your roving patrol. You are relieved of guard duty. Proceed to Pier Three for pickup by fast boat. Copy?”

“Secure roving patrol, aye,” Hoag replied. “Relieved of duty, aye. Proceed to Pier Three for pickup, aye. Permission to speak, Staff Sergeant?”

“Permission granted, Sergeant!”

“The pick-up point is three hundred meters from this location, Staff Sergeant,” Hoag said. “Request cover fire.”

The staff sergeant seemed to freeze. He was barely breathing.

“I think you overclocked him,” Douglas whispered.

“Corporal Douglas!” Decker barked. “Redeploy machine gun to cover evaccing team.”

“Redeploy to cover evac, aye,” Douglas said.

“Sergeant Hoag,” Decker barked. “Move out!”

“Oorah!”

“Oorah!” Faith shouted, laying down fire with the .50 BMG. “I LOVE these things!”

There weren’t really that many infected to engage. But she was, by God, going to lead the convoy doing “initial clearance” and she wasn’t going to let some PFC have all the fun.

“With due respect, ma’am,” Januscheitis radioed. “Short controlled bursts.”

“Staff Sergeant there shall be a vehicle-mounted water-cooled version,” Faith radioed back. “Make it so.”

The “initial clearance” process was simple. Drive around in “medium lift” five-ton trucks looking for infected and kill them. The infected were drawn to the sound of the heavy diesels, not to mention the firing. As they came in sight the machine gunners and Marines in the back of the trucks took them under fire. If anyone ran into anything heavy, they could fall back on the support point or the gunboats.

So far that hadn’t been an issue. The base, while complex, was easily enough laid out that the majority of the infected had come down to the points to be killed. The clearance teams had gotten into the dependent housing and so far there hadn’t been anything they couldn’t handle. The very few infected that had made it all the way to the five-tons were instant road kill and the occasional small piles made by the lieutenant or the other gunners was easy enough to negotiate.

“Yes, ma’am,” Januscheitis replied.

“Seriously, Staff Sergeant, a water-cooled vehicle-mounted version should not be an impossibility and the additional firepower would be a useful addition. I think this is a very good idea. Of course, it is my idea so of course it’s a good idea.”

“To do that properly we’d need to write a staff study, ma’am.”

“Agh!” Faith said. “Not a staff study! Now I’m conflicted, Staff Sergeant. Is it worth a staff study? Yes, I do believe it is. I can combine it with my regular course work as an ISS. Kill two birds with one paper.”

“That is being intelligently lazy, ma’am,” Januscheitis said.

“I take that as a compliment, Staff Sergeant,” Faith replied. “Now find me more infected to kill.”

“Team Two, Clearance Ops. Status.”

Faith switched frequencies without looking.

“Serious lack of resistance, Ops,” Faith replied. “Estimate less than two hundred infected found and eliminated. No serious concentrations. Clearance path ninety percent complete. No survivors found.”

“Green flare observed from direction of Base Housing Area Six. Location southeast of Grenadillo Point. Clear housing area, search for survivors.”

“Survivors would be nice,” Faith said. “Roger, Ops.” She switched freqs again. “Objective: base housing area Six, southeast of Grenadillo Point. Janu, you got any clue where that is?”

“Back to the main base road, hang a right, couple of miles up on the right.”

“Kirby, find us a place to turn around…”

“Team Two, Clearance Ops.”

The sun was sinking in the west and Faith had been half wondering when they’d get the call. Clearance on boats was a day or night proposition. Didn’t really matter when you were in the bowels of a ship. Clearing on land, zombies could come at you from any direction. The plan had been to suspend at sunset.

“Team Two,” Faith replied. They’d found fifteen survivors in addition to the “survival centers.” Most of them were dependents, a couple of civilian workers and two Navy storesmen. They’d found one Marine, the only survivor of a team sent out to shut down and redirect some of the water mains. He’d holed up in the base club with a group of dependents that hadn’t made it to the survival center. Fortunately, they’d left the water on to the base club.

“Suspend clearance,” Ops radioed. “Return to piers for evac.”

“Roger, Ops,” Faith said and switched frequencies. “Janu, we’re done for the day. Turning around and heading for the pier.”

“Roger,” Staff Sergeant Januscheitis replied.

What they hadn’t seen in the last two hours was infected. The combination of the gunboats and their own sweeps appeared to have run them out of town.

“This job is getting boring,” Faith said, dropping into the seat in the five-ton. “I’m ready for a serious scrum.”

“Ma’am, with due respect, knowing your father there’s all sorts of scrums we’re going to get into in the future,” PFC Kirby said.

“There’s that,” Faith said, crossing her arms. “But I’m named Faith not Patience. At least I’m not doing paperwork….”

“…proceeded…through…base…housing…area…four…” Faith typed, laboriously, with two fingers, her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth. “Re…covered…four…survivors… God, I hate reports!”

“Oh, nummy, nummy,” Sophia said as she pulled up to the dock. “Nummy nummy Navy preprepared rations. What a treat!”

“I can do many things with these, ma’am,” Batari said.

“Getting them loaded is going to be the interesting part,” Sophia said. She had two pregnant crewmen. Very pregnant at this point. “We’ll have to…” She paused as the radio squawked.

“Bella Senorita, Flotilla.”

“Bella Senorita,” Sophia said, handling the radio as she pulled up to the dock.

“Change of orders. Stop replenishment ops and proceed to the Boadicea. Master to meet with Squadron Commander.”

“Frack,” Sophia said, backing the boat. “Cancel replenishment, aye. Report Squadron Commander, aye. You hear that everybody?” She keyed the loudhailer. “We just had a change of mission. See you guys later!”

“Check-in time with Dad?” Walker asked.

“I have no clue,” Sophia said. But she had a sinking feeling she did.

“Bella Senorita, Flotilla.”

“Bella Senorita.”

“Additional orders: Crewman Thomas Walker, report Squadron Commander.”

“Have you been bad, Thomas?” Sophia asked.

“I was born bad, miss.”