To Sail a Darkling Sea

CHAPTER 23

“Grab a seat, gentlemen,” Steve said, tapping at his computer. “Be with you in just a second… ”

He looked up after a moment and frowned.

“I used to get to kill zombies,” Steve said. “These days I spend most of my time reading spreadsheets and reports. Which one is retired Chief Petty Officer Roland Schmidt?”

Both of the men were probably pushing sixty. They weren’t alike, visually, but he had only been given the names.

“Here, sir,” Schmidt said in a gravelly voice. He was silver haired with dark brown eyes, nearly black, and a compact frame.

“And that would make you retired Sergeant Major Raymond Barney, her Majesty’s Royal Army,” Steve said, looking at the second man. He was had the look of being formerly heavyset with sagging jowels. He’d recently shaved his head but it was apparent he was mostly bald, anyway.

“Yes, sir,” the Sergeant Major said.

“There are a million places I could use two former senior NCOs here in the main squadron,” Steve said. “God knows we need the experience and stability. That being said, we have an… opportunity with our littoral clearance flotilla. It’s already gotten a bit large for one Navy Lieutenant to manage and they’ve just lost their only ground combat leader with any significant experience. US Army tanker Specialist. He was the best they had since the Marines are all busy clearing these liners. Sergeant Major, do you have any experience with the fifty-caliber BMG?”

“We used them on our Ferrets, sir,” Barney replied. “Extensive.”

“I’ve got experience with them as well, sir,” Schmidt said. “And in a marine environment. Which I take it this is.”

“Small boats,” Steve said. “Yachts and fishing trawlers converted to gunboats… ”

“Sounds like we’re back to the War, sir,” Barney said.

“My masters thesis was on the defense of Malta,” Steve said. “I’m familiar with Her Majesty’s Navy’s ingenuity in the early part of the War, Sergeant Major. So, yes, very much so. The Flotilla needs some experienced hands. If you turn it down, no foul. As I’ve said, I have plenty of places to put you. This is small boats out on the sharp end. Rocks and shoals and falling over the side in a shark infested harbor in full kit. Which was how we lost Anarchy.”

“I spent my whole career in scouts, sir,” Barney said. “Except for the boat part, it will be old home week, sir.”

“I spent my entire career on carriers,” Schmidt said. “But there ain’t nothin’ I don’t know about the Navy, sir.”

“Few more points I want you both to consider,” Steve said, leaning back. “You’re never going to get what you think of as ‘discipline’ out of these crews. You never do with small units that are frequently out of contact with higher. You didn’t with motor gunboats in the War, you didn’t with PT boats. They’re small boat crews. That’s what they’re like. It’s about motivating, not alienating. That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t follow orders if given orders. They’ve been doing that. But… It’s not carrier ops and it’s not Her Royal Majesty’s Scouts. They’re a bunch of mostly kids who signed up to go shoot zombies without so much as a day of basic training. And you’re going to be the only professionals, except Lieutenant Chen, in the flotilla. That can be, assuredly will be, frustrating. That’s the first point and it’s an ongoing one.

“The second point is getting to the Flotilla. It is continuing operations down the coast. It is, currently, two hundred miles away and getting further away as we speak. Which means we’re going to have to run you down there in an open inflatable fast-boat. It’s not rough today, but it’s going to beat the ever living shit out of you, anyway, gentlemen.

“Last. I’m not quite sure how this happened but about half of the sailors and commanders in the Flotilla are women. Some of the boat commanders are civilian, some military. The gunboats are all commanded by Navy Ensigns and Midshipmen, two out of three are women. They’re willing to take direction but unless you want me to make you officers, and I can in your case, Chief Schmidt, most of your bosses as well as co-workers are going to be women. And they are, even for women, a screwy bunch. You know what the compartments are like. And you’re going to have to manage that, as well. I suspect it’s especially bad with losing Cody. He was a great kid and everybody liked him.

“So, last chance… ” Steve said, raising an eyebrow. “Yay or nay?”

“I’ll need some bloody Dramamine for the ride, sir,” Sergeant Major Barney said.

“Scopalamine patch,” Steve said. “Takes about twenty minutes to kick in and it works better.”

“You’re still going to puke your guts up,” Schmidt growled. “If the Limey’s up for it, how can I say no?”

“By saying no,” Steve said.

“I’m Irish, Chief Petty Officer,” Barney said. “So that would be Mick, Yank.”

“I’m in,” Schmidt growled. “Reporting for duty, sir.”

“Sergeant Major, we have no contact with the British Government,” Steve said. “I therefore cannot reactivate your enlistment nor, as a British Citizen, make you a sergeant major, or Chief, in the US forces. You are therefore a civilian given control over US military personnel due to exigencies of service. There are precedents. I’ll ensure that Lieutenant Chen knows to have you referred to by your former rank. The rank and file won’t have a fucking clue about the difference.”

“Understood, sir,” the Sergeant Major said.

“Chief Petty Officer Schmidt,” Steve said. “With the concurrence of the Acting CNO and the National Constitutional Continuity Coordinator, you are hereby reinducted into the United States Navy with no loss in rank for the duration of hostilities.” Steve slid a piece of paper over. “Sign at the bottom.”

“Married forty-three years, four months, nineteen days, sir,” Chief Schmidt said, pulling out a pen. “Twenty-three of those were in the Navy. Dorene was a great Navy spouse but she never liked it. She said she’d strangle me if I ever joined the Navy again. I guess it’s a good thing I had to do it to her when she turned, sir.”

He signed on the line.

* * *

Puerto De Gulmar was just another damned town with another damned marina. With more damned boats and more damned zombies. And sharks.

“What are you doing?” Sophia asked, walking up on the flying bridge. The pop, pop, of an M4 discharging had made that obvious.

“Shooting sharks,” Olga replied. She had her M4 pointed at the water. “You shoot one, the other ones close in for the kill. Then you’ve got a target rich environment. And they’re not at the bottom of a fucking marina and out of range.”

“Olga,” Sophia said, carefully. “Unload your weapon and hand me the magazine.”

“They ate Cody!” Olga said, angrily.

“I saw,” Sophia said. “Helped pull him out. Remember?”

“You weren’t there!” Olga said. “You didn’t see him. He was trying! He nearly got his… ”

“Seaman Recruit, put down the weapon,” Sophia said. “Put it down. Now.”

“Screw this,” Olga said, throwing the M4 down. “Screw this. Screw this Navy shit… ”

“Olga,” Sophia said. “Sit.”

“No,” Olga said, crossing her arms.

“Sit,” Sophia said. “Now. That was not a request.”

Olga sat down with her arms folded. She looked like she was saving up spit.

Sophia picked up the M4 and unloaded it. She noticed that Olga had put it on safe before tossing it down which showed she wasn’t really round the bend.

“Olga… ” Sophia said, then paused. “Okay, let’s start with, ‘this Navy shit.’ ”

“It’s stupid,” Olga said. “Aye, aye this and three bags full and port and starboard and sheets go on a bed!”

“That’s not a big town,” Sophia said. “And tomorrow, whoever we get to climb aboard a dinghy is going to go in and pull out survivors. And you are going. You’re going not because you want to. But because I’m going to order you to. And if you don’t, Olga, I’m going to put you up on charges.”

“Oh, thanks a lot, Sophia!” Olga said. “Thanks a lot!”

“You’ll spend the rest of your time in the Squadron in a little cabin with other people who have committed crimes,” Sophia said. “Because you raised your right hand and said that you swore to obey orders. You don’t want to go onshore. I know that. But the choice is between going and spending years in a cell. And it will be years, Olga. I’ll make sure of it. You’ll be old and white and gray by the time you see a town like this again.”

“I thought you were my friend,” Olga said, crying.

“I am,” Sophia said. “And I’m your commander. And you are going to get in the boat. And you are going to cut out some of those yachts. And you are going to sweep the town. Because if I let you slide, nobody will get on the boats. Nobody will get those yachts. And one of those yachts will find more than the number of people we’ll lose getting them. That’s it. Cold, hard, math. And that’s what all this Navy shit is all about. When it gets down to something like tomorrow, it’s about forcing people to do things they don’t want to do because the alternative is worse.”

“And I suppose you’ll just stay on the boat, fat and happy?” Olga said.

“No,” Sophia said. “Tomorrow, at least, I’ll be leading the away team. Frankly, I’d rather do that than sit on the boats and watch my people go out. Lieutenant Chen wanted to lead it but I convince him not only do I have more ground combat experience, he needed to be on the boats. I want to make sure they’re here when we get back. And what I really want to do is go find some harbor that’s not teeming with sharks and catch a tan and drink some rum and maybe do a little diving. But that’s not what we get to do right now.

“What we get to do is go find people who are dying and hopeless. So that in a few weeks, some of them will be back, hopefully, helping do the same thing. And maybe, just maybe, if we get enough of them, one day we can go find that beach that’s not black fucking volcanic sand surrounded by friends-eating sharks and drink some rum and talk about Cody.

“But now, it’s Navy shit. Cold, hard, math. And tomorrow, you’re going to be getting in that dinghy, in a shark filled marina, and cutting out yachts. And if you really want to honor Cody, instead of shooting sharks, remember to keep your damned balance and don’t feed them. The correct response is ‘Aye, aye, Lieutenant.’ ”

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” Olga said.

“Last thing,” Sophia said. “If it had been you in the water and Cody sitting here, what would he have done tomorrow?”

Olga thought about that for a while and shrugged.

“He’d have gotten in the dinghy,” Olga said.

“Because Cody was always about the God damned mission,” Sophia said, choking.

“Oh, don’t you cry, too,” Olga said. “We’re never going to get anything done if you start crying.”

“Like a river,” Sophia said. “And all we’ve got to do right now is play bait.”

“I should have screwed him,” Olga said. “I was going to. I was just playing hard to get.”

“Yeah, probably,” Sophia said, shrugging. “But that was yesterday. For tonight… Well, I’m going to have to clear with a hangover in the morning. Let’s have a wake… ”

* * *

“Bloody hell,” Sergeant Major Barney said as the military “fast-boat” inflatable finally slowed. It had been going balls to the wall most of the night, more or less bouncing from wave-top to wave top. And not regularly by any stretch of the imagination. Barney’s kidneys felt as if they were going to bleed for a week. But the “Flotilla” was finally in sight, the only electric lights they’d seen since leaving Tenerife. “I thought Ferrets beat you up. I hope to never have to repeat this experience.”

“Gotta love the ocean, Mick,” Chief Schmidt said. He’d slept like a baby most of the ride or at least seemed to have. “Think of her as a mother. An abusive one.”

“Ah, well, that makes so much more sense, Yank, thanks,” Barney said. “But how do you handle it? I had a mum and dad.”

“Flotilla, Fast Twenty-Nine.”

The kid driving the boat was, well, a kid. He couldn’t have been more than twelve. But he seemed to know what he was doing. He’d found the Flotilla at least.

“Oh, come on,” the kid said. “Somebody’s got to hear the radio, right?”

As they neared the Flotilla they could hear music playing. Loudly. And there were people on deck dancing to the music. It looked like a party, not a military operation.

Zombies apparently wanted to join in. The Flotilla was broken into two groups, one by a marina and one by some beaches to the north. Zombies were roaming both the marina and the beaches, obviously trying to join the party.

“Yeah, what’s up?” a slurred voice answered. “And what’s a fast twenty-nine? Sounds like a band… ”

“Fast boat coming up on your party, over,” the kid said. “Bringing some reinforcements from Squadron.”

“Yeah, I dunno nothin’ about that. Hang on …”

“S’up?”

The new voice was female and just as clearly drunk.

“This is Fast Boat Twenty-Nine?” the kid said. “From the Squadron? I’ve got two replacements for you.”

“A’ight. Hey, hey, Paula! Get the flare gun. Go to the boats by the marina. Go to the one that fires the flare. Just tie up alongside. We’re having a rockin’ wake for Anarchy.”

The voice was clearly, even deeply, Southern. Between the drawl and the slur it was hard to make out some of the words. “Git uh flar gone. Duh wun thet fars the flar.”

“Roger,” the kid said. “Uh… Fast Twenty-Nine, out. I guess we go to the flare, sirs.”

The chief just hung his head at the “sir.” There really wasn’t any point.

There were three yachts and two gunboats anchored by the marina, bouncing on the light waves. As they approached one of them fired off a red signal flare, then another. Then another. Then one at the zombies on the shore. That one landed in the midst of them, hitting one of them. The rest scattered from the flame then chased down the injured one and piled on to eat. The resulting feeding frenzy was a scene from Dante’s Inferno, complete with red lighting.

There were shouts and applause from the yachts. They were barely audible over “Welcome to the Jungle” cranked to nuclear level.

Then there was a burst of fire from one of the gunboats. It initially seemed aimed at the infected. Then it was turned on the water, then up as if trying to hit an invisible plane. Then back to the infected still clustered to feed. Tracers were bouncing of rocks and pinging into the air wildly. Lord only knew where the rest of the rounds were going. This produced still more shouts.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Barney said.

“Okay, a little loose around the edges I can handle,” Chief Schmidt said. “But are we US Navy or fucking hajis?”

“My thoughts exactly, Chief,” the sergeant major said. “Bloody fifty just keeps going.”

“Uh, do I tie up alongside?” the kid asked. “Are you gonna climb over?”

“Pull alongside the transom deck,” the Chief said. “That’s for boarding.”

“The what deck?”

“The trans… Oh, just let me do it!” Chief Schmidt unbuckled from his seat and took the wheel. “Just get ready to handle the lines.”

“Okay,” the kid said.

“The correct response is ‘aye, aye, Chief Petty Officer,’ ” Chief Schmidt snapped. “And I am not a ‘sir.’ I work for a living.”

“Yes, s … Ok …”

“Try ‘Yes, Chief Petty Officer,’ ” the Sergeant Major said.

“Okay.”

“I would weep, but the ocean is made of the tears of men,” the sergeant major said.

Some people at the party caught the tossed lines and tied up the boat.

“Permission to come aboard?” the Chief Petty Officer asked. There didn’t appear to be an Officer of the Deck. In fact, there was no way to tell who was who. Everyone was in civvies, mostly shorts and T-shirts or Hawaiian shirts. A couple of the chicks were in bikini tops.

“Sure,” the woman greeter said. “We figure if you can talk and you’re wearing clothes, you’re probably not a zombie. Come on over. What’s your tipple?”

“I don’t mind a drink,” the Chief said. “But it sort of looks like people have had enough.”

“Not even close,” the woman shouted. “We’re having a wake for Anarchy. Besides, it’s how we draw in the zombies. Who are you guys?”

“Chief Petty Officer Kent Schmidt,” Chief Schmidt said. “And Sergeant Major Raymond Barney. We’re coming aboard as Chief of the Squadron and Sergeant Major of the clearance forces.”

“Oh, cool,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “Paula Handley, recently promoted to skipper of the Linea Caliente. Glad to see you guys. We could use some people who know what they’re doing. Especially after… ” She paused and shrugged and looked around for her drink. “Hey, come on in the saloon. I’ll get you a beer… ”

“Is Lieutenant Chen aboard?” Chief Schmidt shouted. “We’re supposed to report to him.”

“I think he’s up on the sundeck with Soph,” Paula said. “Go on up there. I think there’s a couple of bottles up there anyway.”

“Okay,” Chief Schmidt shouted.

They made their way past the superstructure to the sun deck. There were four people sitting there in mostly darkness, passing a bottle around.

“Is there a Lieutenant Chen present?”

“Here,” one of the men said. “You the new people?”

“Chief Petty Officer Kent Schmidt, sir,” Chief Schmidt said. “And Sergeant Major Roland Barney, late of Her Majesty’s Light Horse.”

“Light Cavalry, you twit,” Barney muttered.

“Cop a squat, Chief, Sergeant Major,” Chen said, with careful diction. “You are probably wondering about the party.”

“I understand it is a wake for your ground clearance commander, sir,” Barney said.

“More or less,” Chen said. “And we also do it fairly regularly. Not, usually, with this much abandon.”

“With due respect, sir, I hope you’re not normally that free with fire,” Sergeant Major Barney said.

“Depends,” Chen said. “I had them stop when they clearly couldn’t hit the broad side of the barn. And they did. I really should keep the briefing for the morning but we have ops in the morning. So here goes. We go to these little seaside towns. We anchor overnight where there is a clear field of fire on shore. We then play music, fire off flares, keep all our lights on and, yes, frequently have a little party. At dawn, we fire up the zombies that have been attracted to the shore. We then go in and either cut out more boats or clear the town, depending. I’m of two minds on clearing this town tomorrow. But we’re going to have to clean out the harbor of all its large yachts. This is called, Chief?”

“You mean a cutting out expedition, sir?” the Chief said. “I don’t think we’ve done that sort of thing since the War of Eighteen Twelve. If then.”

“But that is our current mission,” Chen said, taking a drink from the bottle. “Littoral clearance and yacht salvage. We then get the yachts in running order, if possible, and continue on to the next town where we have a party, lather, rinse, repeat. With, hopefully, minimal casualties and, just as hopefully, picking up some survivors.”

“You’re going to have your work cut out for you tomorrow, Sergeant Major,” one of the women said. The one from the radio. The accent was strong. “There’s a lot of enthusiasm for killing zombies. And sharks. Not so much for grabbing boats.”

“Lieutenant Sophia Smith,” Chen said. “She will be in charge of the away team tomorrow. When it comes to working with the boats, I listen to Lieutenant JG Smith who grew up in a yachting family.”

“Hey,” Elizabeth said, waving. “Welcome aboard.”

“When it comes to pretty much everything else, I listen to Seawolf,” Chen said. “She’s been doing this since she and her father and sister captured the… What was it, Sophia?”

“Tina’s Toy,” Sophia said, thickly. “Put a bit of a burr under Da’s saddle.”

“That would be Captain Smith,” Chen said.

“The boss,” Sophia said. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

“How old are you, ma’am?” Chief Schmidt asked.

“Fifteen,” Sophia said, taking a drink. “A fifteen-year-old who’s seen more dead bodies and chewed up children and shit that nobody should have to see than the Sergeant Major there. Guaran-fucking-teed. And I was in charge of the away team when Cody went in the drink.”

“And we have been attempting to convince her that it was not her fault,” Chen said.

“I think you’re trying to convince yourselves,” Sophia said. “I know it wasn’t. It was just… shit happens.”

“No life preserver, ma’am?” Chief Schmidt asked.

“No,” Sophia said. “No point. We’ve tested it. You can’t do the job with a Class Three; you can’t access your gear. And we wear Marine ballistic protection, not those Navy flak jackets. With that and the weight of ammo and gear, an inflatable won’t support you. And if you go in the drink, it’s the first thing you’ve got to take off. When there’s a specifal… specfical… really bad maneuver like climbing a boarding ladder, we’ll rig up with floats and a safety line. Floats if we can. But he was just cutting out a fucking inflatable and slipped. And that was that. Rusty and Olga got to watch him get torn to mincemeat on the fucking bottom.”

“Bloody hell,” Barney said, shaking his head.

“Then we had to fish him out with a grapnel,” Sophia said, taking another drink. “What was left. That was, by the way, this afternoon, Chief. Sergeant Major. So you shall forgive us, I hope, if we drown ourselves in really good booze. Now, what do you drink? And if you answer ‘I don’t,’ I swear to God I’ll see if you can outswim the fucking sharks.”

“I’m trying to figure out if I’m still a recovering alcoholic,” Chief Schmidt said. “My wife of forty-three years finally convinced me I had a problem. On the other hand, she is no longer with us. But you go right ahead, Lieutenant.”

“I take it back, Chief,” Sophia said. “I’ll go find some of the tea I usually hold back for my sister. Or we’ve got some coke.”

“Coca-cola would be great, ma’am,” the Chief said. “I would normally say an officer should not get a Chief a coke, but I’m not sure I’m going to be able to stand up again without help.”