To Sail a Darkling Sea

CHAPTER 27

The computer did, indeed, have a number of quizzes. There weren’t any on mountaineering. The knot section was multiple choice on how to tie certain knots. There was a note that there would be a second, hands-on, test. He finished the test and was mildly annoyed that he’d only gotten a ninety-five. He must have missed one. He made a note to pay closer attention.

“Civilian shootings was interesting. Most of it was the written portion of the NRA personal defense with firearms test. But there were other questions that were odd and even off the wall. Some of them were phrases well known in the shooting community. “Be polite to everyone and… ” He picked the correct answer: “Have a plan to kill them.” Although he almost clicked “shower the world with random acts of kindness and gentle mercy” just for the hell of it. Some were almost philosophical. “1911 or H amp;K USP?” “AK or M4?” “Kukhri or chainsaw?” There was one question: “.45 or 9mm” that had only one answer: “.45 because there’s no.46.” He almost chuckled on that one.

He scored a 100 with the note: “This test is based upon the experiences of personnel currently involved in operations against infected and, therefore, your answer(s): 1911 has been judged INCORRECT. But we gave you a pass on it since it’s a cult thing with you guys and the Constitution allows for freedom of religion. Even if you’re WRONG. P3L Faith Marie Smith, USMC.”

“P3L?” Thomas said, leaning back. It wasn’t a rank he’d ever seen and he’d seen pretty much every rank. Then he nodded. “Oh. So a Provisional Third Lieutenant is telling me what gun to use, huh?”

He also found it interesting that “AK” and “Kukhri” were correct.

The boating one was the most extensive. It started with a short test that covered basic boating safety and nautical terms. He scored a one hundred on that one. Then a second test came up. He’d seen it, somewhere, before but he wasn’t sure where. He’d never taken this particular test but he’d seen it. Somewhere. He realized about half way through that it was from the master mariner’s course book.

He couldn’t answer all the questions which annoyed him. He’d read the book, once, on a deployment when it was about the only thing around to read. But that had been… during Desert Storm on that barge in the Gulf. He started remembering some of the questions after that, his memory was like that, and went back and checked to find the ones that he’d guessed. He found himself humming The Doors “Riders on the Storm” and remembering more. The SEAL lieutenant commander on the barge was a Doors fan and he played it constantly. The song triggered more memories and he went back and basically started the test all over again.

Others had gone to computers and gotten up as he was working on his tests. A new group had come in and a lady came over as he was working on the master mariner’s test.

“Sir, are you nearly done?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Thomas said. “I’m still only on the mariner portion. There’s truck driving and a couple of other things to go. How long is the linguistics test?”

“There are three questions on the language,” the lady said.

“Okay, be a while there,” Thomas said. “And some of these marine questions are tough. Could you give me a few minutes?”

“Take as much time as you wish,” the lady said. “We weren’t sure… Just take your time… ”

He finally finished the maritime questions and was pleased to see that he’d scored an eighty-nine. That should give him a shot at one of the boat crews. That sounded like more fun than being a linguist.

Then came the linguistics questions. The first question was a screen with click boxes that asked the user to click what languages were “fluent written and spoken.”

Thomas paused at that one. The screen had a few he couldn’t speak and a bunch were missing that he could. Finally he clicked German, French, Russian and because they were in the Canary Islands and they were going to Gitmo, Spanish. He thought about Chinese, Tagalog and Indonesian. But that would probably leave him translating the rest of his cruise and that was the last thing he wanted to do. They also had Arabic and Japanese but, well, the list was longer of what they didn’t have that he spoke and could read and write in cases where they had a written language. They were missing Urdu, Dari, Pashtun and Tajik for example. Not to mention Swahili, Kikongo, Lingala… The list was longer of what they didn’t have…

There was a test on each of them. Three phrases with multiple choice answers as to their translation. All three were what he would term advanced if he was teaching the course. He even recognized a couple of them from DLI.

That one he scored a one hundred. He damned well should, he’d written these tests before.

There were no tests for truck driving or mountaineering so he was done.

He took a seat and waited.

“Thomas Walker?”

* * *

“You were an English as a Second Language instructor?”

There was a printed out folded-paper sign on the desk that read “Matthew Scott Baker.” The placement officer was skinny which vaguely surprised Thomas until he realized that probably everyone had come off a lifeboat or from a compartment like his.

“Yes, sir,” Thomas said. “In England working mostly with Spanish and French managers transferred to England who needed some brushing up on their linguistic skills. But I’d really prefer do something on the nautical side.”

“You certainly appear qualified for that on paper,” Baker said, shaking his head. “We’ve master mariners that couldn’t remember this much of the test. Do you have a mariner’s ticket?”

“No, sir,” Thomas said. “I just enjoyed reading and read the book a few times. Also I had a few friends with boats and I’d cadge rides on yachts. I know my way around. I forgot to include I can also cook. I’ve never been a professional cook but I can find my way around a galley.”

“Cooks we have,” Baker said. “Even professional navy and cruise line cooks. People who know how to pass the mariner’s course are rare. Despite that, you won’t be placed directly into a boat captain’s position. Sorry, it’s a matter of trust. You have to spend some time crewing on a vessel.”

“And cleaning compartments,” Thomas said. “I understand the need for that.”

“Oh, no,” Baker said, shaking his head. “We’ve got a very high priority for persons who can show any ability with these yachts. You’re going to the very head of that list based on your answers. And civilian shooting experience with a one hundred? You’re going to boat crews unless you somehow fooled the tests. I’ll schedule you for the hands-on testing phase for tomorrow’s class if you’re really ready?”

“Absolutely,” Walker said. “I don’t like sitting around.”

“You’re scheduled,” Baker said. “There should be a message passed to you at your compartment but if that gets fouled up, be on the aft deck at eight AM tomorrow morning. And if you’re not on their list, have them call me and I’ll straighten it out. Thank you for volunteering; we really need all the help we can get.”

“Just proud to be here,” Walker said. “Any idea where my compartment might be?”

Baker looked at his screen and shook his head.

“You didn’t even get assigned a cabin?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Walker said. “I just signed in and came down here.”

“I can assign one from here, I know I can… ” Baker said. He tapped at the keyboard and fiddled for a bit then nodded. “All right, I’m assigning you cabin as well as a provisional boat crew ration level. The only pay right now is how good your quarters and food is. And there’s not, truly, much difference. Boat crews, civilian and Navy, get a share of the salvage. So they generally eat well and can pick up some pretties to wow the ladies. I’m also told that when you run into someone you’ve rescued, they tend to be fairly grateful. I know I was to Seawolf but I’m not going to try to express it physically, you understand.”

Thomas didn’t but he just nodded.

“Go back to the main saloon,” Baker said, taking a print-out from his computer and signing it. “The port side is the… Oh, I don’t suppose I have to explain port and starboard?”

“No,” Walker said.

“On the port side, forward, there’s a desk that says ‘Reservations.’ Go there and they will issue you your rations card and your room key. You may or may not get a room on this boat. But you still need to be back on the transom deck by eight AM. There are those zodiacs that move around all over. If you end up on a different ship, catch a ride back. All right?”

“All right,” Walker said.

“Welcome to Wolf Squadron and good luck,” Baker said, shaking his hand. “I’ll leave you the small boats. I bounced around in a lifeboat for long enough, this isn’t even big enough for me.”

“I’m looking forward to the fresh air,” Walker said.

* * *

“You just got out of a compartment and you’re already signed up for crewman training?” the lady at “Reservations” said. “Have you even had anything to eat?”

“I had some soup,” Walker said. “There was food in the compartment. And I’ve been sitting on my ass for six months. I’m ready to do something.”

“We’re out of cabins on this boat,” she said, looking at her computer. “I’ll put you on the Boadicea. They have some cabins that just came open. They should be clean but they may be a bit whiff. Well, the boat may be a bit whiff. Are you extremely claustrophobic after being in the compartment?”

“No,” Thomas said.

“I’ll put you in an interior compartment, then,” the lady said. “I can put you in a stateroom that way. You get your own bathroom and shower.”

“A flush toilet will be luxury in itself,” Thomas said. “I thank you.”

“This is your rations card and, functionally, your identification for now,” the lady said, handing him what looked like a hotel room key. “The people on the Boadicea will have to issue you your room key. This will let you get something to eat on any of the ships.” She handed him a yellow card on a lanyard. “This shows that you’re in training for one of the regular squadron positions. It allows you access to any of the public areas on any of the ships as well as travel from ship to ship. By the ships I mean the ships in the Squadron, not the liners such as you came off of. Those are off-limits to non-clearance personnel. Even if you have something that was in your cabin, until you get cleared they are off-limits. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Walker said. “I can imagine you don’t want people roaming around on them getting lost.”

“Or getting shot by the Marines by mistake,” she said. “You can pick up a zodiac headed to the Boadicea on the transom deck. That’s the waterline spot at the back of the boat you entered by. And you’re scheduled for your first class at eight AM tomorrow. Be back here on time. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Thomas said, taking the IDs.

“Thank you for signing up. There’s a big world to save. We need all the help we can get.”

* * *

“Anybody headed to the Boadicea?” Thomas asked.

There were three RHIBs tied up on the transom deck. The presumable drivers were chatting up one of the Russian chicks. The drivers were all young, teens or twenties.

“I am,” one said. He had a strong Scottish accent. “But unless you’re in a hurry, I’m waiting on some more passengers.”

“No rush,” Thomas said. It was a nice day to be out of the compartment.

“Did you not just come aboard?” the Russian chick asked.

“I didn’t want to sit around for three days doing nothing,” Walker said, shrugging. “So I signed up for the nautical course already and they put me on the Boadicea.”

“That’s a fair do, mate,” the Scot said. “Must be a tough old bird.”

“Just don’t like sitting around,” Walker said. “Did you take the course? I mean, am I gonna get stuck on a zodiac?”

“That’s the shit, man,” one of the others said. “Driving these things is a blast.”

“Be a bit less fun when we get offshore, mate,” the Scot said. “But, aye, it’s one of the choices. Mostly they put young blokes on it, no offense. It’s a bit physical for most of the older blokes.”

“You take the course, then based on how you do you can volunteer for zods,” the third said. He was English. Midlands probably but it was hard to tell with young people from England these days. “There’s another day training on them if you get it. Like Bran said, mostly they take the young blokes that volunteer.”

“Are you Navy?” Thomas asked.

“Not hardly, mate,” Bran said. “There are some but they’ve got the boats that can carry guns. We’re just offshore, inshore right now, taxi drivers.”

“Yeah, but one of the things we’re supposed to taxi is Marines,” the American said.

“I need one of your boats for the Bo.” The man was wearing a US Navy “blue-cam” uniform and had the tabs for an engineering petty officer.

“I’m for the Bo,” Bran said. “This bloke was headed over as well.”

“That’s fine,” the PO said. “Let’s go.”

“Right you are, captain,” Bran said. “All aboard for the Boadicea? Anyone else for the Boadicea? Let’s cast off.”

“You first,” the PO ordered. “It’s a nautical thing. Senior boards last.”

“Roger,” Thomas said, climbing in the Zodiac. It was, for a change, a Zodiac.

“Didn’t mean to be a dick,” the PO said. “Just one of those things.”

“Not a problem,” Thomas said. “Tom Walker.”

“Petty Officer Third Class Larry Baker,” the PO said.

“Were you Navy before the Plague?” Walker asked.

“Yeah,” Baker said. “But I was a Seaman Apprentice. Sort of a private in the Navy. What they call an oiler. But they’re so desperate for people who know one end of a boat from the other, I’m a PO3 now.”

“Were you on a ship?” Walker asked.

“The Iwo Jima,” Baker said. “It’s a Marine Assault Carrier. Then I was in a fucking lifeboat for four damned months before anybody found me. Fucking sucked.”

“Not a sub, then,” Walker said.

“No, the subs that weren’t infected are still closed up,” Baker said. “We’re headed to Gitmo mostly so we can, hopefully, find a working lab to produce vaccine. There was a really good hospital there for the detainees. They think they can use it to make vaccine.”

“Oh,” Thomas said. “That makes sense. Are you working on the boats?”

“I’m one of the guys in charge of the engine room on the Bo,” Baker said. “Working for a pretty smart civilian engineer. I was over at Ops trying to wangle some parts. Or, rather, get them to send somebody into the Festival to get some parts. I really don’t want to go crawling around the engine room on the Festival looking for an oil pump. But unless we can get them to send a salvage team in, it looks like I’m gonna have to.”

“Parts for your main liner would seem to me to be important,” Walker said.

“They said the same thing,” Baker said. “Also that there’s a lot of stuff that’s important. And the pump isn’t out yet, it’s just old. So… I think I’m going to have to go into the fucking dark and try to find Barry’s pump. Or he’s going to make my life hell.”

“Sounds like you need to talk to a Chief,” Walker said.

“I would if we had any,” Baker said, shrugging. “The only chief we’ve found was a retired guy on one of the liners. And they sent him off to the small boat squadrons down the coast. I’m going to go brace the Gunny, I think. I sort of knew him on the Iwo. I knew him, don’t think he knew me. I’ll ask him if he could free up a couple of Marines. It’s fucking dark in there and there are zombies. I’m not going to take a fucking Beretta in there hoping for the best. I’m not.”

“If I didn’t have some sort of class coming up, I’d offer to cover you,” Walker said. “I can use a Beretta. Prefer a 1911 but I can use a Beretta.”

“If you’re available and I can’t find Marines, I might just take you up on that,” the kid said. “There’s a liquor storage compartment that’s barely been touched from what I hear. If we’re taking in a pallet to get out a pump, we might as well fill it, right?”

“As long as we get the pump,” Walker said, as the zodiac reached the floating dock on the liner.

“What was that name again?” the kid asked.

“Walker,” Thomas said. “But I’m going to be taking the nautical class so I don’t know how much time I’ll have.”

“Zero,” the driver said. “Bloody zero. Runs from early morning to late at night.”

“Shit,” the kid said. “I guess I’ll need to find some Marines, then.”

* * *

The cabin wasn’t bad but it was interior. And while he wasn’t claustrophobic, Thomas was about tired of four walls. He used the delicious luxury of a flush toilet, with toilet paper, took another shower then took a walk.

There was a dining area that served from morning to midnight according to the posted schedule. He decided to check out the food. A middle aged guy swiped his card and looked at the readout.

“You can eat as much as you’d like,” the guy said, handing him two printed tickets. “But eat everything you take. The tickets are for the bar if you want some booze.”

The food was bland and clearly canned. Some of it had the look of being from Navy rations. The only thing fresh was baked mackerel. And there was a lot of it.

“Where’s the fish come from?” he asked the server.

“Some of the boats just brought it in,” the girl said. She was English, southern England. “It appears that submarines can stun fish with their sonar. They stun them and the boats pick them up.”

“They’re going active to go fishing?” Thomas said, his normally bland expression flickering.

“They’re out of food, too,” a woman said, tartly. She was American and apparently in charge of the chow line. “The subs are. They mostly do it to feed their crews. We get what’s left over.”

“Okay,” Walker said. “That makes a little more sense.”

He took some of the mackerel and looked for a table by the windows. They were mostly occupied but most of the people were probably European and thus wouldn’t mind sharing. One person, one table was an American thing.

There was a self-serve soft drinks stand, Pepsi products, and a bar with wine and beer. He decided he could really do with a beer.

“You look like you’re fresh off the boat,” the bartender said, looking around then waving away the ticket. “Hang onto it. You can use it later.”

“Thanks,” Walker said. “I am. And I signed up for the nautical course.”

“Good luck, mate,” the man said, drawing a beer. “I tried that and quit on day two. Bloody ball buster that is. You’re not cleaning first?”

“I studied for the master mariner’s test one time,” Walker said. “And I remembered enough of it they put me in the class right away.”

“I’ll just sit here and pour, then,” the man said, pouring himself a beer. “Leave it to you.”

Walker went to one of tables by the window with an open seat and gestured to it with his tray.

“May I?”

“Please,” one of the men said, waving to it. “I suppose you’re another enjoying a last evening of freedom?”

“Yes,” Walker said. “Taking the nautical course tomorrow.”

“We’ll be together then,” one of the men said. “Robert O’Toole. No relation to the actor.”

“Tom Walker,” Thomas said.

“I am celebrating my first night of not cleaning up zombie crap,” O’Toole said, taking a sip of his beer. “The people who do that full time have my respect. I don’t care if we’re using rubber gloves, masks and suits. There are things a man should not have to see. I don’t remember seeing you, Tom was it? Were you on one of the other boats?”

“I just got off the Nordic Venture,” Walker said. “As in a few hours ago. Signed in, went to HR and volunteered. When I took the mariner’s test they sent me over to take the course right away. I studied for the master mariner’s ticket one time and I remembered some of it. That excited them. So, no, no cleaning up zombie crap for me. I offered to, but they wanted me to go straight to the course.”

“Lucky bloody you,” the first man said. “Rick Ewald. I’m starting on cleaning zombie poo tomorrow morning. Apparently all that a man with a bachelors in business is good for.”

“They’ve got lots of positions that need managers,” O’Toole said. “And it’s not nearly as bad as being in a compartment.”

“I understand the nautical course is a ballbuster,” Walker said.

“You’ve been talking to Timothy,” the third man said. “He’s a bit of an idiot but he draws a good beer. Steven Schaper, at your service, Mister… Walker?”

“Yes,” Tom said. “At yours, sir.”

“Tim is cut out for a life of working as a clerk,” O’Toole said. “But he’s a hard worker. He cleans in the day and draws at night. You get points for both, you see.”

“Points?” Walker said. “Fresh off the boat.”

“Chits, points,” Ewald said, gesturing to the drink tickets. “You get points you can trade for drinks or better clothes or food. Even accommodations. They’ve become the de facto currency. There’s even a bit of an exchange.”

“Bit different with the boat crews,” O’Toole said. “One of the reasons to join. Take, oh, clothes as Rick pointed out. You’re salvaging boats at sea as well as doing rescue. If there’s something your size, you can grab it. And from what I hear, the boats always have the good liquor. If they have time they’ll strip a boat bare then bring the stuff back here. What they don’t want, goes to the stores. People who handle the stores tend to get next pick. The ladies who wash the clothes that are brought in pick out anything they’d like to keep. Then if your job doesn’t involve either of those, well, you can trade chits. There’s a bit of a market place down in the Atrium. Prices fluctuate depending on what’s come in but it’s all quite legitimate. The Commodore encourages it from what I’ve gleaned.”

“Otherwise it’s functionally a communism,” Ewald said, shrugging. “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.”

“Or a bit like the military,” Schaper said. “You get rations cards for different ration levels, better or worse accommodations depending on your rank as it were.”

“I suspect there’s a good bit of graft,” Walker said.

“Figuring out the difference between graft and efficiency in an economy like this is difficult,” a voice said from behind him.

Walker knew there was someone behind him but was trying not to actively notice.

“Commodore,” O’Toole said, starting to get up.

“Oh, please,” the Commodore said, waving. “You’re not Navy and I’m not the bloody Queen. Captain John Smith, United States Navy, sir. These gentlemen I’d met but I don’t recognize you.”

“Thomas Walker,” Walker lied. But he shook the Captain’s hand.

“You’re fresh out of a compartment, Mister Walker,” Smith said, tilting his head. “But you’ve got a yellow card. Graft?”

“I volunteered for the nautical course, sir,” Walker said.

“Right off the boat?” Smith asked.

“Right off the boat, sir,” Walker said.

“Good for you,” Smith said. “I most sincerely thank you. Lord God do we need every helping hand we can get.”

“You’re welcome,” Walker said. “But could you explain your comment on graft?”

“The term is broad,” Smith said, pulling up a chair. “For example, we recently busted one of the quarters people for accepting sexual bribes for better quarters. That is a non-valuable form of graft. On the other hand, when the market in points and chits started, some of my officers wanted to shut it down. I told them no and made it official. We’re even looking at setting up something like and SEC to monitor it.”

“I volunteer, sir,” Ewald said. “I worked the Exchange in London.”

“Name?” Smith asked, pulling out a green notebook.

“Ewald, sir. Richard Ewald.”

“I’ll put you on the possible list,” Smith said, closing the notebook. “It won’t be a high points job but it’s a desk job. Getting back to graft. There’s a very underground market in things like parts. Any military tends to have that but especially ones that don’t, as we do not, have a standard and steady logistics stream. My masters was on the Defense of Malta and specifically keeping their planes running. The reason I named my younger daughter Faith. Their real supply line was almost entirely what you would refer to as graft. Trading what they officially got, or stole, for what they needed. The main comparison was the British Army in Crete. They had a similarly poor supply line but much tighter control on their resources due to a very professional commander and an active inspector general. The fact that they could not, in fact, keep anything running was not the only reason they lost, by a long shot, but it was part of it. And when the commander in Malta changed to one who put his foot down on ‘black marketeering,’ it became nearly impossible for the crews to keep their planes running.”

“The engine room on this has an oil pump that’s iffy,” Thomas said. “Not out, but iffy. There’s one that they want off the Festival. Are you saying that they should, what, steal one? I’m interested, not arguing.”

“That’s worth looking into,” Smith said, making another note. “We need this thing to make the crossing. And I doubt there’s one to steal exactly. But if I were they… I’m sure that they have various items they could trade. They can requisition materials that is in short supply and thus valuable. All they really need to do is pass around that they need it. There are ‘unofficial’ salvage people who would get it for them. Most of them have day jobs which give them access to the liners and salvage bits that people want or that they think they can trade.

“Alternatively, we’d have to send in an official salvage crew, backed by Marines, who would otherwise be finding people like yourself, Mister Walker, or our few capable Navy security people. Frankly, an ‘unofficial’ salvage and some back scratching is the more efficient route. Do you begin to grasp the concept? I’m not saying you’re not intelligent… ”

“No, I get it,” Thomas said. “I don’t even disagree. I’m just surprised to hear a Navy captain supporting back channeling.”

“I was a history teacher before this,” Smith said. “And an Aussie para. I doubt that most Navy captains would support it. But I am unusual. And we cut down on it when someone is clearly causing issues. But… Mister Ewald, is it?”

“Yes,” Rick said.

“You understand markets,” Smith said. “There is a person who has various exchangeable goods or services who needs something fulfilled that he cannot fulfill easily. How would you handle it?”

“Find someone who could fulfill it and broker the deal,” Ewald said. “But I’m going to be cleaning compartments tomorrow. And I don’t know anyone who can fulfill it. I’m not even sure what they’re looking for.”

“Find the Chief Engineer,” O’Toole said. “Ask him what, exactly, he needs. Then find some of these ‘unofficial’ salvagers and broker the deal.”

“I suspect by now that that particular deal has come and gone,” Steve said. “If Mister Walker, fresh off the boat, knows about it, the word has gone around. That is one thing that is currently traded and has always been a currency; information. But it is, more or less, the future of the free market. Salvage is what we are going to be doing from now until we die. There’s little that is worth manufacturing given all the potential salvage. Only disposable commodities are going to be produced in the foreseeable future and many of those are going to be a glut.

“As long as no one strips a critical ship or depot, it’s all good. And we’re never going to put any of these liners back in service. But that is why I don’t want to cut down on ‘graft’ Mister Walker. It’s a more efficient method of supply. As long as it does not impact the official supply line. If someone pulls the pump then holds it to ransom… Well, I have Marines,” he added with a grin.

“Understood,” Walker said. “As I said, I even agree. It makes sense. If I had the time, I’d go get it myself. And charge the Chief Engineer through the nose.”

“For which he’d put in a requisition through the official supply line,” Smith said. “For things that we’re holding that cannot be easily obtained. For example, I make sure we have a lock on the really soft toilet tissue. Currently three rolls of Charmin are trading for one bottle of ten-year-old scotch. And that’s all the time I have, gentlemen. I, alas, have to go meet with some gentlemen who are less enthused by the process. Enjoy your evening.”

* * *

“Thousands of Europeans are working in this Squadron and you are doing nothing for Europe!”

Ariel Arsène Laurent was two things for which Steve did not care: French and a solicitor. He was also the head of the Le Comité Européen pour la Liberté. Which he had managed to get given a French name. Despite the fact that there were less than twenty people of French extraction in the Squadron.

“I was just meeting with some of them in less contentious circumstances,” Steve said, calmly, holding up two fingers in a V. “However, two facts, Monsieur Laurent. The first is that there are not thousands of Europeans in this Squadron. The total manning of the Squadron is currently two thousand three hundred and eight-six. Of those, eight hundred and change are from countries which could be defined as European, with the exception of Russian extraction. That is less than one thousand, much less ‘thousands.’ Hundred, yes.”

“Hundreds, then,” Laurent said, waving his hands in the air. “The fact remains…!”

“The fact remains that I said two facts,” Steve said. “Two. The second fact is that the Canary Islands are part of Spain which is part of Europe. So you were, in fact, wrong in both particulars.”

“The Canary Islands are not Europe!” Laurent snapped.

“The majority of the inhabitants we recovered are European in extraction and Spanish citizens,” Steve said. “I have done something for Spain which is a member of the EU, or was when there was a Spain or an EU, and therefore I have done something for Europe. Besides find and secure their distressed citizens, such as yourself. Monsieur. But, pray, do continue.”

“ ‘The fact remains that not a single town or village has been freed in Europe!” Laurent shouted. “When will you begin the liberation? Is the United States to be fully freed before you even begin to consider the people suffering under the scourge of this disease which started in America?!”

“Avec ce, Monsieur?” Steve said. “With what?”

“You have Marines,” Laurent said. “You have the gunboats. You have cleared towns in the Canary Islands. But you have not touched Europe! Are you afraid?”

“Terrified,” Steve said. “But, you can feel free, Monsieur.”

“What?” Laurent said.

“I will give you a Division,” Steve said, shrugging. “Two gun boats. One yacht. I started with far less. When you need more ammunition, well, we’ll keep in touch. Come and get it. Would you like it this evening? I do have many other things I could be doing.”

“I do not know how to run any of those things,” Laurent said.

“And this is my fault, how?” Steve asked. “But, seriously, I would be more than willing to give you a boat. Sail up to La Belle France. Free towns. Free villages. Go right ahead.”

“There is more than France to free,” David Murphy said. The Irishman more or less represented the British Isles bloc in the Squadron’s civilian population.

Not quite behind Steve’s back a democratic movement had started. It made sense except for the fact that they were still a. at sea and b. not exactly out of the woods, yet. He liked democracy except when it looked to derail any forward momentum the Squadron might have achieved.

Times like this he wished he had an Eisenhower around. Just being able to speak more than English and Spanish would help.

“Oh, most agreed, Mister Murphy,” Steve said. “Totally agreed. If you’re asking me what I would notionally do to free Europe, it would be to take it in stages, starting from Ireland.”

“That is absurd!” Laurent said. “Clearing Ireland, alone, would take… ”

“About a year the way I hope to eventually do it,” Steve said. “Possibly less. Msr. Laurent, you don’t care for me and the feeling is mutual. But if I thought you would actually take such a offer, I’m not sure I would give it to you.”

“So first you offer, then you take it away?” Laurent said. “This is so American!”

“Msr., you failed to note my statement that I would be terrified to attempt any action in Europe at the moment,” Steve said. “And although you are quick to argue for some sort of Europe First campaign, you might want to consider why moving to Europe, versus the Caribbean, during this time of the year is the lesser choice.”

“Weather,” Murphy said.

“The weather,” Steve replied. “We are barely able to manage the Squadron’s boats in nearly ideal conditions, Msr. Would you have us take the whole force into the North Atlantic? In December?”

“People are dying,” Laurent said. “People are wondering about their loved ones… ”

“There is a map of the world, Msr.,” Steve said, pointing to the wall. “Please show me the spot where people are not. As to numbers of people from where, were it based entirely on population, we should up stakes and head for Indonesia and the Philippines. Or the United States. The States are closer. So. We go to the States.”

“The fact that you are an American officer and American forces control all the guns has nothing to do with it?” Daimon Eberhard asked. The German represented many of the “continentals” in La Comite.

“Of course it has something to do with it,” Steve said, reaching into a drawer. “So does this,” he said, holding up a round. “Pop quiz for who knows what I’m holding?”

“A bullet?” Laurent said.

“A round,” Steve said. “Bullet, casing, primer and propellant. Specifically, a fifty-caliber Browning Machine-gun round, Msr. We’re using quite a bit of these and we will continue to do so because they are faster at clearing infected than mechanicals from ports. Msr., do you know where I can get some more? We still have quite a few, but at the rate we are using them, we will need ten times the amount we currently have simply to clear the ports I’ve been looking at in Scandinavia and the Baltic.”

“No, I do not,” Laurent said. “And you are planning on clearing Scandinavia?”

“I have what are described as ‘notional’ plans going out some distance, Msr.,” Steve said. “Mister Murphy, would you care to venture a guess as to where there are more of these rounds?”

“At Guantanamo Bay?” Murphy asked.

“Guantanamo Bay,” Steve said. “Key West. Mayport. Blount Island. Cherry Point. Fort Eustis. Gitmo and Key West I know I can take. Fort Eustis, possibly. Mayport and Fort Stony, the primary objective would be the RO-ROs. Msr. Laurent, you noted that quite a few of the members of the Squadron are European. Do you know where I can get some master mariners to run the RO-ROs so that I can, in fact, roll off the ammunition, guns, trucks, supplies and tanks that are onboard?”

“Many of your mariners already are,” Laurent said. “Which is why if you do not take action to free Europe, soon, you will face a strike.”

“But finding any of them is a matter of happenstance,” Steve said. “Do you know where there is a stockpile of such mariners? On submarines. American. Submarines. Filled with American. Naval personnel. And do you know who paid for those submarines? The training of their crews? The RO-RO pre-positioned ships? This ‘bullet’ as you put it? American taxpayers, Msr. Laurent. So, yes, the primary objective is and remains, America First.

“Once I have the sub crews, Msr. Laurent, and once the summer is upon us, I fully intend to send flotillas, squadrons in fact, to various points around the globe. Including, but not limited to, Europe. Can I guarantee this? No. But when summer comes, I will gladly avail you of your own boats to go clear La Belle France. Feel free. You can even leave as soon as we clear Guantanamo. If you are stupid enough to do so.

“But when and where I send my ships, my men, my boats, is up to me, gentlemen. And as to your threat to strike, Msr. Laurent, this is not the land. This is the sea. And the law of the sea says that even organizing such a movement is mutiny which is punishable by death. I would not, of course, kill you or any of these fine gentlemen. Nor the captains and mates who performed various acts to show their solidarity. I would simply strand you somewhere until there is some town you can be dropped off upon. Or, possibly, if I am feeling generous, a stout ship and you can find your own star to sail her by. In the meantime, there are people to rescue and deeds to be done by the brave. Good evening, gentlemen.”