John Ringo - To Sail a Darkling Sea

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.”