John Ringo - To Sail a Darkling Sea

“My wife actually popped them out, Captain,” Steve said, smiling. He’d pulled a bottle out of a drawer and poured two glasses, then handed one to Wilkes. “And, yes, I consider them fine little sheilas. But the point to it is that people seem to always take booze with them when they evacuate. I was rather remiss in that area. Apparently, I was supposed to pack along two-hundred-year-old brandy instead of guns and ammo. Who knew? But the rich people with rich yachts that took to sea tended to stock rather fine booze. And from experience, your first day of clearing the fucking bowels of a supermax liner requires a little snort. Cheers.”

“Semper Fi, sir,” Wilkes said, taking a sip. “God, that is good.”

“We’ve got a post clearance meeting in fifteen minutes,” Steve said. “This is not any sort of official meeting. This is a debrief, only one you’ll get. Time to clear your head with someone you can, actually, be frank with. The first comment would probably be along the lines of the ‘Good God’ you already used or possibly ‘Holy Christ.’ ”

Wilkes leaned back and put his hand over his mouth, clearly thinking.

“How about ‘Holy fucking shit on a cracker?’ sir,” he said after a moment. “When I looked at the objective my first thought was ‘I’m expected to do this with thirty Marines?’ My second thought was ‘There is really no way anyone did this with four people. This is a battalion objective.’ I mean, sir, with respect, I just sort of thought… ”

“We’d made it up?” Steve said, snorting. “There are plenty of people who were around for it, Captain. I’m not offended, but… ”

“It’s not the sort of thing you go up to random people and say ‘They had to be lying,’ sir,” Wilkes said. “And that was before I actually went forward and saw what it’s like, sir. When I actually did it… Jesus Christ Eating a Holy Wafer in Hell, sir.”

“Are you still wondering…?” Steve asked. “I’m curious, not upset.”

“No, sir ,” Wilkes said. “Sir, I saw the video, sure. But working with Shewolf is a different deal, sir. I’m a pilot, sir. We understand muscle memory and how much time it takes to develop. And your daughter, sir, fights zombies with muscle memory like nobody I’ve ever seen.”

“She fights them in her sleep,” Steve said.

“Which is the next point, sir,” Wilkes said. “She needs a break, sir. That is an official statement as her commanding officer, sir. I’m pretty sure she really does fight them in her sleep. Every waking moment and every night is not good, sir. Her going off in the messdeck is now much more comprehensible, sir. Did that report cover how many hours of combat she’s had since the Plague, sir?”

“Do we count New York where she was a positive zombie magnet?” Steve asked. “No, there’s another team working on that one. Two hundred and fifty or so of ‘hard clearance,’ what you’re doing, on the Voyage alone. Week of twelve hours days on the Iwo … ”

“Lieutenant Smith needs some downtime, sir,” Wilkes said. “R amp;R. Swimming. A beach. Pina colad… Well, she’s thirteen, so… ”

“And really uninterested in drinking,” Steve said. “When we finish this clearance we’re headed across the Atlantic. Two weeks, minimum. I intend to sweep for any rescues on the way to Gitmo. That do?”

“Possibly, sir,” Wilkes said. “But that’s an official recommendation and not because she is, as an instructor, an absolute prick, sir. That’s actually a compliment, sir. She is one hell of a prick instructor.”

“So what do you think of the actual methods?” Steve said. “Official question.”

“I think that they’re… institutional memory, sir,” Wilkes said. “Not really developed SOPs. And they need to be developed SOPs. Some of them are rough, catch-as-catch-can. I know you think I’m… well, a regular military asshat, sir… ”

“I also am aware that there’s a method to the madness, Captain,” Steve said. “I did actually counsel Faith on that, if you’re wondering about my counseling session with her. That there is a value to even such things as military deportment. When we head off on our cruise, there will, again, be time to work on developing these as actual SOPs. Thoughts?”

“We certainly don’t have time right now, sir,” Wilkes said. “I can see why the pace is as slow as it is. And why we’re using so many damned batteries. I was going to bring up the subject of cutting down on the use of so many flashlights in clearance at this meeting, sir. That was until I did it. No way in hell. We don’t have enough light.”

“Lieutenant Isham brought it up already,” Steve said chuckling. “I told him I’d be glad to take him clearing and he could see what it was like. But it’s worthwhile for you to reiterate that. Especially given that you’d identified the same issue and now have a different take. Couple of things I’m going to be bringing up at the meeting that touch on your mission. We’re moving the Marines to the Boadicea . And they’re getting the good cabins.”

“Sir?” Wilkes said.

“Marines are supposed to be all about Spartan,” Steve said. “But as you pointed out, what they are doing is fucking God awful. The cleaning crews see your results but not how they happened. Maybe it’s just that I used to be a para and I’ve done it. But I think they need… I hate to call it TLC but that’s what it is. They’re specialists and they’re the only ones we’ve got. So they’re going into the first class cabins, no more than two to a cabin. The officers and senior NCOs into the better staterooms. They sure as hell don’t need to be stuffed into interior rooms, six to a stateroom, after clearing in the fucking dark all day. There’s a limit and I don’t want to push it.”

“I’m sure as hell not going to argue for shoving them into holds, sir,” Wilkes said.

“The second thing follows the first,” Steve said. “When they’re done with clearance, they clean their weapons. Gear goes to a team to be cleaned. That will have to be checked, probably by the Gunny, and I’m sure there will be some fuck-ups at first. We’re not going to get rocket scientists, or Marines for that matter, cleaning it. But I know how fucked up gear gets doing this, and after making the mess, picking bits of flesh out of your gear is the last fucking thing you want to do at the end of a long day of getting pummeled by zombies.”

“You sure about that one, sir?” Wilkes said. “I mean, the officers, I can see it. We’ve got at least two more meetings to go through this evening. The grunts are just… off, sir.”

“How many times would you like to go into that shithole, Captain?” Steve said. “That’s not a threat, but the fact that it sort of sounds like it should answer your question.”

“I won’t disagree, sir,” Wilkes said. “But who’s going to do it?”

“I have some people who are on my shit list,” Steve said. “All they need is the proper encouragement.”

* * *

“Mister Zumwald,” Steve said. “Walk with me.”

“You’re Captain Smith,” Zumwald said. “You don’t have much of an Aussie accent. Where we going?”

“For a little walk, followed by a boat ride, followed by a little walk,” Steve said. “This way.”

“Walk in concrete overshoes?” Zumwald asked.

“You have my personal and professional assurance that you will return, alive, from this little excursion,” Steve said, seriously. “You’re not an idiot. The damage to my reputation if I really did dump you over the side would be extreme. Management is, to an extent, about trust. Nobody could trust me if I took such a high handed approach. I’d lose my position, with justice, and my agenda would be disrupted or destroyed. You will return alive and unharmed. Physically. We’ll see about otherwise.”