John Ringo - To Sail a Darkling Sea

“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.”