To Sail a Darkling Sea

CHAPTER 6

“I guess coming down here wasn’t a total bust,” Sophia said, waving to the group on the aft deck of the Russian megayacht.

The ship was about as big as the Social Alpha. She wasn’t sure what the actual name was, because the name was in Cyrillic letters. And it had a bunch of survivors. They were all skinny as rails but it was more survivors in one place than they’d ever found. There was a real preponderance of females. And, like the ghosts of the Alpha, they looked like they’d been chosen for their looks rather than their seamanship.

“I think some billionaire loaded up on super-models,” Paula said, waving as well. “At least they were good at dieting.”

“Boat like that is nineteen or so crew and about as many guests,” Sophia said. “I’m counting at least thirty people.”

“Vaccinated?” Paula said.

“Bet so,” Sophia said, smiling.

“… can tie up… ” One of the men on the wash deck was pointing to the cleats for her to tie alongside.

“Tell Rusty to break out the dinghy,” Sophia said.

“It’s not rough,” Paula said. “And we’re going to have to cross-load them some supplies.”

“No offense, Paula, but I’m the skipper,” Sophia said, smiling again and waving. “Tell Rusty to break out the dinghy. Load up a bunch of water bottles. They’ve got solar stills going but I’d bet they’d like some water.”

“Okay,” Paula said, dubiously.

“And no weapons,” she added. “No infecteds, no reason.”

“It’s a little bumpy,” Sophia said over the loudhailer. “Middle of the ocean and all. We’re sending over a dinghy with some supplies! The guy’s got a radio.”

Turning out the dinghy was old hat at this point and Rusty, Paula and Pat made quick work of loading cases of bottled water. There was always bottled water on boats they cleared and they kept it for times like this. They mostly drank the water from the ROWPU system. It was the same stuff as “filtered” water.

Rusty putted the outboard over and tied off. Before he even started to unload, the same “pop hatch” as the Alpha had on the back opened up and men with guns, AKs, came out. One of them even had an RPG. Of course, if he fired it there, he’d kill most of the people

“Rusty,” Sophia called over the radio. “Don’t resist. Just give the leader the radio.”

“You were expecting this,” Paula said, angrily. “You sent Rusty over as bait!”

“I was expecting something,” Sophia said as the hangers on made themselves scarce. “You didn’t get attenuated vaccine by being nice. And there were too many women, not enough men. Where were the men? Where was the billionaire? Get downstairs and get a video of this. I want to be able to identify who’s there and who’s not.”

“You will turn over your boat or we will kill your crewman.” The man was heavyset and armed only with a pistol. He had a thick Slavic accent but the voice was… cultured. Something. He didn’t really sound like a thug.

“Hello,” Sophia replied. “Greetings from Wolf Squadron of the United States Navy. I’m Lieutenant Sophia Smith, skipper of the US Navy Auxiliary Vessel No Tan Lines. To whom am I speaking?”

“This does not matter. There is no United States so there is no United States Navy. You will turn over your boat. We will spare your lives. If you attempt to drive off, we shall open fire.”

“That would be the worst possible mistake you could make, sir,” Sophia said, calmly. “If you fire, you will destroy this boat, then we would both be adrift. Please, do not be… nekulturny. We have time. It is a nice day for conversation. You have been out of contact for some time. I would acquaint you with the current conditions. I will not, as you say, drive off.”

“What are the current conditions?” the man said. She could hear the hunger for information in his voice. Like most castaways.

“All land areas are under control of infected,” Sophia said. “As are most ships and boats. However, Wolf Squadron is part of the United States Navy. I am a Naval officer and this is a US Navy boat. A US Navy boat or ship, of even the smallest such as mine, has not been captured since the Barbary Pirates days. I am not going to be the first.

“Now, your actions have been aggressive. But they are not, so far, past the point of real difficulty. Castaways react in various manners. You wish to be able to get to some point of relative safety. You wish to have supplies again, some sort of a life other than eeking out a miserable living on raw fish and what water you can distill with your solar stills. I can sympathize. Most of the squadron has been in your situation at one point or another. We are more than willing to share supplies. We can even get you a boat so that you and some of your companions can go on your merry way. With your weapons. You’ll need them to clear boats of infected so you can salvage.

“However, we have only two real penalties at this point. We don’t have much in the way of prisons or brigs so you get either the ‘leave us and other uninfecteds alone and we’ll leave you alone,’ the offer I’m making to you now, or death. There, really, isn’t much in the middle. So, you might want to consider that in light of your threat to destroy a US Navy vessel. Because, then, well, ‘leave you alone’ isn’t going to happen.”

“You are one boat and you are under my guns. And I still don’t believe you are Navy. Where is your uniform? Why would the Navy use yachts? Where are your supercarriers?”

“Full of infected,” Sophia said. “Although we’re clearing a baby carrier at the moment. And I am the only vessel in view. There are others. So, what do you say? I’ll get you a boat, full of fuel, full of supplies, you can sail off with your… henchmen and we’ll let bygones be bygones. I’ll even throw in a case of scotch. You like scotch? Me not so much.”

“The boat I am going to take is here already,” the man replied. “And you will either surrender it or be destroyed. You have one minute to tie alongside. I have a rocket launcher, in case you don’t know what that is.”

“You have a rocket-propelled grenade launcher,” Sophia said. “Slightly different beast. And if we’re playing one-upmanship, I have a submarine. Alex, you monitoring?”

“ROGER, SEAWOLF,” a powerful transmission came in. “SURFACING AT TWO-TWO-SIX, RANGE ONE THOUSAND YARDS.”

Sophia didn’t bother to look over her shoulder, she just watched their faces as the Alexandria came to the surface a kilometer out.

“So, yes, there is still a United States Navy and yes, I am a United States Naval officer and yes, you are in a heap of trouble. But we can work that out. So far it’s no harm, no foul. So you can put down your poxie little crap AK knockoffs and your dinky little RPG or I can sink you. I’ll even give you the choice of machine-gun fire, torpedo, Harpoon missile or Tomahawk. Your call, fucktard.”

* * *

Rusty had collected the AKs, dumped the RPG into the drink, left the water and come back to the boat. In the meantime, the Alex had contacted Flotilla. After that it was a matter of a nine-hour wait until Kuzma showed up in the Large along with the Midlife Crisis which was captained by another CG petty officer, the Pit Stop and a sailboat Sophia had never seen before called the Knotty Problem. Appropriate name. The Large had a machine-gun team on the “sundeck” forward. Sophia knew that while the two “security specialists” were both “into” guns-civilian shooters, that is-neither of them had ever handled a machine gun before the Plague. So she was really hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

“See why the skipper doesn’t do away teams?” Kuzma radioed when he was alongside.

“Yes, and in agreement, sir,” Sophia said. “On the other hand, wasn’t going to in this case. Knew there was something fishy. How are we going to handle this, sir?”

“Do we have some clue who are goats and who are sheep?” Kuzma asked.

“When the guns came out we took video,” Sophia said. “There were seven who were armed. We don’t know who they are, but we know what they look like.”

“Roger.”

“Russian vessel, this is Commander Vancel, skipper of the united States Navy Attack Submarine USS Alexandria. There were seven armed personnel who threatened to hijack a Us Navy vessel onboard your ship. Those persons will stand on the wash deck of the vessel. The sailboat Knotty Problem will be brought alongside along with two dinghies. We will toss you lines. Tie it up. Our crew will offload, taking one of the dinghies. Those seven will enter the sailboat. Anyone who wants to accompany the seven may leave with them as long as it is clearly of their own free will. Any evidence of coercion will be dealt with by lethal force.

“The sailboat has been resupplied and refueled. The engines, peripherals and all sailing equipment are in good running order. There is one, repeat, one pistol onboard for self defense or light clearance for the purposes of salvage. The seven individuals as well as any others who wish to accompany them will then sail away. As long as you are not further known to engage in hostilities, stay away from us, don’t pirate vessels, and don’t kill uninfected, we’ll let bygones be bygones. Come to our attention in a negative way and you will be dealt with. As I believe Lieutenant Smith pointed out, we have ‘go away’ and ‘death’ as our only current penalties. This is the ‘go away’ option. You have fifteen minutes to prepare.”

The heavyset man was on the back upper deck, by the entrance to the main saloon. He still had the hand-set Rusty had been carrying.

“Do you know who I am? I am Nazar Lavrenty! This is my yacht. You speak of piracy but you are stealing my yacht.”

“I didn’t know who you were until I contacted higher,” Vancel replied. “They, in turn, contacted the Russians they are in communication with. General Kazimov’s response was ебать твою мать.”

The man was waving his arms and shouting into the radio.

“KAZIMOV! KAZIMOV? HE IS NOT THE RUSSIAN GOVERNMENT!”

“Think that name touches a nerve?” Paula said, grinning.

“Sounds like it,” Sophia said.

“He is what is left,” Vancel radioed. “We might have tried to work with you and left you in some control of the vessel, which we need, had you not shown your inability to be trusted. This has been authorized by higher, and what remains of the Russian government. That is all there is to it. You have fifteen minutes or US Marines will perform a hostile boarding. If you survive that you shall be given a very brief trial, shot, and dumped over the side. The clock starts now.”

The sailboat was brought alongside. Some of the crew on the Money caught the tossed lines and secured it while the Wolf crew unassed into a dinghy and headed back to the Large.

In a bit more than fifteen minutes, “Lavrenty” came out with his henchmen and the same number of women.

“Coincidence?” Paula said. “I don’t think so.”

“Lavrenty, leave the women on the yacht. Board the sailboat with your personnel. Put the women on the radio, one by one, on the upper aft deck away from the sailboat with the radio. We have to have assurances they are not under duress. Do not attempt to exit the boat while we are getting those assurances. The machine-gun crew on the Large will take you under fire if you try to exit.”

“These are girlfriends. And they don’t speak English.”

“You’d be surprised how many translators survived,” Vancel replied. “Pick a language. It was not a request.”

The following conversation was in foreign languages. Most of them, after a few gabbled words, dropped the, fortunately robust, radio and darted back into the interior of the yacht. Only two went with Lavrenty in the end.

“They’re going to be busy,” Paula said, drily. “Not that they weren’t already.”

Most of the women were visibly pregnant.

“What happens in the compartment,” Sophia said. “I sincerely doubt any of them were virgins before they got on that boat.”

“Point.”

There was a good bit of arm waving and angst onboard the Knotty Problem. Apparently, while it was supplied, the supply crew had not bothered to clean it up. Then there was the issue of the women. One of the “henchmen” slapped one of the women right in front of God and everybody which earned him a burst of machine-gun fire from the Large. Finally the aptly named sailboat started up its engines and putted away from the megayacht.

“If there are any qualified crewmen left onboard, could you pick up the radio, please… ”

* * *

“Permission to come aboard?” Sophia said, tossing the line of the dinghy to a sailor on the wash deck of the megayacht.

“Come aboard, please.” The woman waiting on the wash deck was gorgeous. Most notable were long, incredibly shapely legs. “I am Olga Zelenova, and you are…?”

“No Tan Lines,” Sophia said, hopping onto the deck.

“Never leave the boat” referred to boardings of hostile or potentially hostile vessels. Not boarding the new flagship of the flotilla.

“I… yes, I have no tan… What?” Olga said, confused.

“Sorry,” Sophia said. “It’s a Navy thing. I’m the skipper of the No Tan Lines. Acting Ensign Third Class Sophia Smith.”

“Ah,” Olga said, brightening up. “The boat which found us. Thank you. Yes, ‘You may have a rocket launcher but I have a submarine.’ Very funny. And, yes, Nazar was, as you say, a ‘fucktard.’ ”

“You know where the meeting’s at?” Sophia asked.

“This way,” Olga said. “I am greeting the visitors.”

“Nice,” Sophia said as they entered the main saloon. “Much nicer than the Alpha. Of course, you never got overrun with infected.”

The saloon had taken a beating in use, no question. But it was still reasonably clean and very very ornate. And huge. If anything it was bigger than the Alpha’s. Now that the ship was under power again, it was even pleasantly air conditioned.

“It is very nice,” Olga said. “At first. When you are on here with no power or water and people you really did not like in the first place… It is less nice. I am pleased there is new ownership.”

“Were you one of the ones Lavrenty tried to run off with?” Sophia asked.

“Yes,” Olga said, frowning. “I do not want to go. But they still had guns, you know, pistols. And they are… brutal. Still, all has come out well.”

“I don’t know about well,” Sophia said as they entered the massive dining room. “But better.”

“Lieutenant,” Kuzma said, waving to a chair.

“I’m not late, am I?” Sophia asked.

“No,” Kuzma said. “And we’re still waiting on Captain Sava. Miss Zelenova, if you could see where the captain’s got to?”

“Sava?” Sophia asked when the girl had left the room.

“Skipper of this,” Captain Lloyd A. Behm II said.

“Who is, probably, going to keep on being the skipper,” Kuzma said. “With some security onboard, of course.”

“I am sorry I am late.” The skipper of the ship was medium height with dark black hair and a heavily muscled body. “One of the water pumps is still not working. I was discussing it with the chief engineer.”

“You’re actually right on time,” Kuzma said. “All right, everyone, Captain Vladan Sava, skipper of the… akuba…?

“Perhaps ‘Money for Nothing’…?” Captain Sava said. “It is the rough translation.”

“Skipper of the Money for Nothing,” Kuzma said. “From left to right, Captain Behm of the Sea Hooky. Captain Poole of the Noby Dick.”

“Yo,” Gary Poole said, waving. The skipper of the awkwardly-named 73' Arquela was tall, still quite emaciated, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a broad-brimmed straw hat. “So wish tradition let me change the name… ”

After Sophia had decided it would honor the owners to keep the name “No Tan Lines,” the tradition had stuck fast. Captain Poole just happened to draw a very short straw.

“Captain Richard Estep of the N2 Deep. Captain Elias Rostad of the One Toy Two Many. And Captain Richard Purser of the Finally Fishin’.”

“It is good to meet you all and I look forward to helping in this endeavor.”

“Captain Sava,” Kuzma continued, “who is an experienced master mariner, thank God, has agreed to assist the efforts of Wolf Squadron. The Money will begin to act, immediately, as the Flotilla One’s flagship. However, all personnel onboard are currently suffering from malnutrition due to lack of stores. We have stores already delivered to the Pit Stop which will be transferred, however all excess stores should be moved to the Money beginning immediately after this meeting. Anybody going to say they don’t have excess? And, yes, I know you’ve got your little stashes, I’m talking regular excess?”

“Plenty,” Behm said. “We were getting ready to shift some of it to the Pit Stop anyway.”

“We will also begin rotation of personnel to the Money for crew rest,” Kuzma said. “I know you all could use some time in a bunk that’s not rocking quite so much.”

“All for that,” Sophia said.

“With the exception of the Lines which I’ll get to,” Kuzma said. “You’re going to get screwed a bit; sorry, Lieutenant.”

“No worries,” Sophia said.

“The first boat to unload will be the Lines. Soph, what’s your fuel status?”

“Not full,” Sophia said. “Close. More than three-quarter’s tank. We unrepped from a sailboat we found that still had onboard.”

“That should be enough for this,” Kuzma said. “Lines will then proceed to 30.532,-28.169 where we have report of a small tanker. I’ll send a prize crew and another security officer with you to check it out. If it’s diesel, we’re golden. If not, you’ll need to rendezvous with the Pit Stop at another freighter we found. That had plenty of diesel in its bunkers. This ship is going to need way more than the Pit Stop had to deliver.”

“What about Squadron?” Behm asked.

“As in getting it from squadron, or their situation?” Kuzma said. “They unrepped to the Grace and Alpha from the Iwo so they’re in good shape. If necessary, we can run the Pit Stop up to the Iwo to unrep but we should be able to get it from the freighter. Best would be if the tanker has diesel. From the reports, it sounds like it’s one of those small tankers that is used to resupply local ports. Sometimes it’s gas, sometimes its diesel. You never know.

“Once we have this boat fully resupplied and refueled, the squadron will form a rough line perpendicular to the Equatorial Current. The Large will take and hold the center point with the Money and any other support type vessels we recover in trail. Small boats will spread out on either side, each with a packet to cover. The ones to the center will come in to the Money for off-load of recovered personnel and materials. If we can get a supply ship like the Grace at some point, they may be taken aboard for repair. Start ripping out any parts you find. We’ll find a place in the support zone to hold and inventory them. Vessels will stay inboard for a few days after recovery doing local support. Including ‘fishing ops.’ Turns out the subs have been using their active to knock out schools of fish. They generally get more than they can use. Most of you have cold fish storage. We’ll scoop up their excess. That is the general outline of the plan until we’re recalled to squadron. Lieutenant Smith, do you have any questions?”

“No, sir,” Sophia said, trying not to sigh. She knew they were planning on rotating people to any big vessel they found, and she’d been looking forward to a few days off. But…

“Get with Gary on your security and prize crew,” Kuzma said. “They’re already detailed off. If you don’t have anything, we need to get cracking on finding some fuel.”

“Will do, sir,” Sophia said, standing up. “Have a nice chat.”

* * *

“Okay,” Sophia said. “Here’s the thing with tankers. You really don’t want to fire onboard.”

The “augmentation” for Rusty was a former Army armor cav sergeant named Cody “Anarchy” Mcgarity. With a nickname like “Anarchy” she wasn’t thrilled to have him as a clearance specialist but he seemed more on the ball than Rusty. It’s possible that Rusty was just fine before his experiences onboard the Voyage but he was not the sharpest tool in the shed. Maybe it was drinking too much ammoniacal urine.

She’d already circled the vessel named the M/V Eric Shivak and she knew two things. One, it was diesel. Two, as usual, there was a leak somewhere. It wasn’t just a tanker, though. There were two ship containers chained down on the deck.

“So… Melee?” Mcgarity asked. “Half-life Two fail: No crowbar.”

“We’ve got about six,” Rusty said.

“And some hammers,” Sophia said. “And Halligan tools. This is more a Faith deal than mine, but you really want to avoid fire and sparks. However, there are no evident infecteds so you may get lucky.”

* * *

“Three KIA,” Anarchy radioed. “All appear to be former infecteds. Crew boat is missing. Plenty of supplies left onboard. I think some of them turned and the rest abandoned ship. Ship’s clear. Well, we didn’t check the containers but they’ve got seals on them so they don’t look like they’ve been opened.”

“Roger,” Sophia said. “Sending over the survey and prize crew.”

* * *

“Mixed groceries, general stores, some parts including auto parts,” Captain Hebert said. The “captain” had been a mate on a freighter that had abandoned ship when the crew started to turn. “And the main bunkers are full which is a relief. The spillage was minor. It’s got more pure fuel than the Grace. Not as fancy but it’s what we needed.”

“Can we unrep from it?” Sophia asked.

“We can tank you up right now,” Hebert said.

* * *

“You know,” Paula said as the two boats got back underway to rendezvous with the flotilla. “We haven’t known Hebert all that long. We didn’t even leave Rusty and Anarchy aboard. What’s to keep him from just taking off?”

“You think there’s not going to be a fast attack following him around?” Sophia said.

“Oh, yeah, those.”

* * *

“Flotilla Ops, No Tan Lines,” Sophia radioed.

“Lines, Ops, over.”

“One tanker tack islands-support-boat full of goodness delivered,” Sophia said. “Orders?”

“Proceed to 23.274,-27.949. Rendezvous, USS Santa Fe for fishing ops.”

“What?” Sophia shouted. They were supposed to be the next on schedule to spend a night aboard the luxury yacht. She thought about it for a moment then keyed the radio. “Roger, Ops. Proceeding… ”

“You’re in the Navy, now,” Paula sang. “You’re in the Navy now… How do I get out?”

* * *

“USS Santa Fe, USS Santa Fe, No Tan Lines, over,” Sophia radioed. “Come on, be around here somewhere.” There was no sign of the sub but that was sort of the point. “I know you know where I am.”

“No Tan Lines, come to heading one-six-niner, range fourteen thousand yards, over.”

“Heading one-six-niner, fourteen klicks, aye,” Sophia said. It was back the way they’d came. “I know you had me on sonar. You could have told me to wait up there… ”

* * *

She could see the ECM mast about two klicks out.

“No Tan Lines, hold your position. We will intercept and engage the fish, gather ours, submerge, then you get yours.”

“That sounds vaguely wrong for some reason,” Anarchy said. “They get theirs first. And how are they going to ‘engage’ the fish?”

“Not sure,” Sophia said. “Usually when we run across a school we just, you know, fish for them… ”

The Yankee search was so powerful, reverberations of it could be felt through the hull, and her depth finder went nuts. As they watched, a school of yellowfin floated to the surface.

“What the hell was that?” Paula said, flying up to the flying bridge. “My teeth are rattling.”

“And so we have another zombie apocalypse moment,” Sophia said, shaking her head.

* * *

“Well that’s something you don’t see every day,” Gunny Sands said.

The USS Annapolis was towing behind it a small yacht that would, possibly, have made a decent dinghy for the football-field-length submarine.

There was already a medical and resupply team standing by in moonsuits to bring the family vaccine and supplies. The moonsuits weren’t to protect the greeting party but the family onboard the yacht. The MREs had even been decontaminated.

“Welcome a zombie apocalypse moment, Gunnery Sergeant Sands,” Faith said. “Defined as a ‘What the fuck’ moment that could only happen in a zombie apocalypse. We tend to call it a zam or a zammie.”

They were standing on the lead edge of the flight deck of the Iwo Jima after completing morning PT. They could use most of the ship for PT, now, running up and down companionways, climbing stairs, running the flight deck, jumping coamings, and generally having a oorah Marines afloat day, because the ship was just about completely clear of infecteds. They still had some areas to check for survivors but that was getting to the point of no returns.

The Iwo might even run again, someday-the infected had done a lot of damage, but most of it was repairable-given parts and trained personnel. They had gotten personnel from the boat but it was a grab bag and, for fairly obvious reasons, tended towards store keepers and cooks. They were in the areas which had stores when the abandon ship call went down. They’d found damned few engineering personnel. Alive and uninfected, at least.

“I’ll keep that in mind, young lady,” the gunny said. Two weeks “limited activities” and food and he was starting to look like a gunnery sergeant again. He still didn’t fill out his uniform but he was PTing. Not exactly running the young bucks into the ground but he was getting there. Faith had to admit that, no, she could not keep up with most of the Marines, especially since they PTd in gear. So she and the Gunny had been working out together. Turned out the Gunny was, unsurprisingly, an A-Number One coaming jumper, a skill she was still trying to master.

He was, also unsurprisingly, a master of Marine lore and trivia as well as an expert tactician and weapons expert. He’d started off sort of disgruntled at the suggestion that he PT with a guuurl but had taken the opportunity to increase her store of professional knowledge. And while in agreement on “The Wolf Squadron Way” of clearance had put his professional knowledge and acumen to the subject and suggested useful “tweaks” that had been tested then implemented.

“Thank you for increasing my understanding of this brave new world in which we reside and fight, ma’am.”

“That wasn’t meant as a… ” Faith said. She really liked and admired the Gunny and didn’t want to insult him.

“That was not intended ironically, Miss,” Gunny Sands said. “As I have been teaching you a bit about the hallowed lore of the U-S-M-C, the information transfer has not been all one way. That is an example thereof. Just as you previously pointed out that zombies do not retreat and, therefore, small teams can expect at some point to come to melee distance or, as you put it ‘get into the scrum.’ Which has now become Post-Plague Marine slang on the same level of commonality as ‘FUBAR’ and ‘BOHICA.’ And that, therefore, it is useful to keep multiple knives on your person when clearing in case you’re in a ‘scrum’ or even worse ‘in a dunny.’ Rather than it being purely an affectation.”

“Understood, Gunnery Sergeant,” Faith said.

“Miss Smith, your father, tentatively, brought up the subject of making you a Marine.”

“I don’t think I’ve got what it takes, Gunny,” Faith said, shrugging. “I can’t keep up with the guys now that they’re getting back in shape. Heck, I can only climb a hawser once in gear. The guys go up them over and over again.”

“You are female, Miss Smith,” Sands said. “Men and women do not directly compete in the Olympics for a reason. I would never expect you to compete head to head in PT with the troops. The question is not can you compete as a male in PT or even certain types of combat. Although you are one of the few women I could honestly see being qualified in all respects for infantry combat. You make the grade at the point of low-level male infantryman, which is all that’s required if you were to be a regular Marine rifleman.

“The questions are many others. Are you emotionally mature enough for the job? Are you physically fit enough as a female? Can you handle the physical and mental aspects of this type of combat? The only traditional ways of judging those thing is by putting you through some sort of introductory training and testing. Boot camp, for example. Are you, in fact, tough enough to be a Marine? Boot camp puts stresses on you that even this type of combat does not inflict. We stop clearance after a certain point each day. Can you continue for days with little rest or sleep?

“Then there are the technical legal aspects. You are performing, would be expected to continue to perform, front-line combat. You are, again obviously, thirteen. When he suggested it, I found it ludicrous on its face but I was… polite. I told him you’d probably make a great Marine in five years.”

“Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant,” Faith said. “I hope I can make the grade in five years.”

“He suggested that I spend some time examining the new reality and table the discussion,” Sands said. “I have since revisited the issue. With the approval of the L-T and Colonel Ellington, and if you agree, you are to be sworn in as a probationary third lieutenant, U-S-M-C at noon tomorrow.”

“I’m not sure that’s… wise, Gunny?” Faith said. “I mean, I know I’m sort of a mascot… ”

“Oh, you are far more than a mascot, Miss Smith,” the Gunny said. “The reality is that we have exactly thirty Marines in current manning. We are so very few. They can all serve as clearance specialists but most are not, in fact, infantry. Aircraft crewmen, tankers, mechanics. Cooks. We also have five oceans and seven seas worth of ships to clear. There are cruise liners still at sea. Entire Carrier Strike Groups. We need every single person who can make the grade and, Miss Smith, thirteen, chick and all, you make the grade in a leap.”

“Thank you, Gunny,” Faith said, her chin working. “I’ll try to… I’ll try to be a good Marine.”

“Marine Officer, note,” the Gunny said. “The one thing I’ll ask you to do is tighten up, a bit, on the decorum. Only a bit, though, because there is, also, yes, the aspect of what you call ‘a mascot.’ ”

“If that is… ” Faith said, carefully.

“If I may, Miss,” Sands said. “What you call ‘a mascot’ is more what should be termed ‘an icon.’ A subject not just of morale but of veneration or even worship. These men are United States Marines, yes, and they will continue to do their duty. But they are Marines who have lost everything. Family, friends, buddies, country. We are one and all lost and adrift on a darkling sea. You, Miss Smith, have become not their pin-up girl but their heart and soul. They would follow me into hell. Charge any shore, face any fire. I am their Gunny. That’s what Marines do. If you hinted that Satan had a case of ammo you particularly liked, they would charge in without a bucket of water. As Staff Sergeant Januscheitis said when he, separately, brought the idea up: ‘The only thing we’ve got left, Gunny, is Faith.’ ”