John Ringo - Under a Graveyard Sky

“Primary, associate?” Faith said. “Bosses and subordinates?”

“Generally, but not exactly,” Fontana said, banging on a hatch. “You can call it racist, but primaries are all from developed nations. Generally. Associates are guys hired from developing nations. Associates are cheaper and generally not as well trained. Not always. Some groups use former Ghurkas for associates or even primaries. There’s one run by a former Ghurka that does shipboard security.”

There was no response so he entered the compartment. There were several bodies in there but none had been chewed. Some men, some women. Most had been shot in the head.

“So what’s with Socorro?” Steve asked.

“I won’t get into my personal issues with former Special Forces major Evan Socorro,” Fontana said. “Although I had personal issues with Socbreath. Which term came from his tendency to…fellate highers from SOCOM. Pretty much anybody who worked for him did. But he finally got a chain of command that, officially in writing, asked how an asshole, and a not particularly competent asshole, got to be a major in the Groups in the first place and he got out. And started his own security company. He had some assbuddy primaries that were mostly not former military, just call them gun geeks. Some of those guys are fine. A lot of them weren’t military cause they couldn’t make the grade. ‘How soon do I get to kill somebody?’ couldn’t make the grade. That’s the kind he liked to hire. Then instead of hiring good associate contractors like, say, former Peruvian mountain commandoes or El Salvadorans or even some of the SA or Angolan ‘bleks’ he picked west Africans.”

“Bloody hell!” Steve said, looking around a corner. “Seriously? More here.”

“Is that bad?” Faith asked. “I guess so.”'

“Think child soldiers whose ‘military experience’ consisted of rape, loot, pillage and burn,” Steve said. “Again, there are good West African troops…”

“For values of good,” Fontana said. “I think ‘good’ for even their elite is a stretch.”

“But the majority are pretty damned bad,” Steve said. “By any definition of bad you’d care to name. Competence, ability, discipline. I’m surprised anybody would hire a group like that.”

“They were cheap,” Fontana said, shrugging. “He didn’t pay his primaries at full standard rate and his associates got paid dirt. So he could shave a few bucks off a contract.”

“Looks like he got what he paid for,” Faith said, pointing to a hole in the bulkhead. “Steel. I’d say… 7.62?”

“Yeah,” Fontana said, staring at one of the female bodies. “I think these were potential infected that were terminated. I don’t see any bites but that might not have been how they were chosen. And…”

“The women have all been raped,” Steve said. “From the ligature marks.”

“Oh, God,” Faith said, grimacing.

“‘If one holds his state on the basis of mercenary arms, he will never be firm or secure; because they are disunited, ambitious, without discipline, unfaithful; gallant among friends, vile among enemies; no fear of God, no faith with men; and one defers ruin insofar as one defers the attack; and in peace you are despoiled by them, in war by the enemy,” Steve said.

“Da and his quotes,” Faith said. “Which one is this one?”

“Macchiavelli’s The Prince ,” Fontana said. “I know some good guys who are contractors. And some good companies.”

“So you’re facing a zombie apocalypse where every reasonable person foresees a potentially permanent breakdown in law and order, and you bound onto your megayacht, load up with models, then hire a security company filled with freaking West Africans ?” Steve said.

“Well, no,” Fontana said. “ That was stupid. You might as well put a steak around your neck and go jump in a tiger pit.”

“So…” Faith said. “Guy’s smart enough to build and run a billion dollar company. How come he makes that mistake?”

“Situation he’s in is a tough call,” Fontana said. “I mean, in normal times no way that you’d have to deal with a take-over by your security. There’s laws. Bad things will happen to them. Post-apoc? Don’t ask me what I would have done if I was the guy running security, had all the guns and all the people who knew how to use them, and the boss was now utterly useless.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve said.

“Different situation entirely,” Fontana said. “And I’m not Socorro.”

“I’m not talking about that,” Faith said. “I can see that problem. I mean, I’ve been nervous about all the new people. Not you, Falcon, but… You know, who do you trust? I guess I’m wondering how a guy like Mickerberg could have picked somebody even I would know not to trust?”

“You’re thirteen but you’ve got the background,” Steve said. “Your mom and I gave it to you. I don’t know a lot about the guy, but I got the impression of intelligent liberal, one each. To them, everybody who knows how to use a gun looks the same. There’s no difference between Sergeant Fontana and Kony in Congo. He probably just told one of his staff to find a security company that could supply security and picked one of the lowest bidders.”

“We’re all babykillers after all,” Fontana said, banging on a hatch. “Hello! Any babies to kill in there?”

“If there were any survivors, that would not be very reassuring,” Steve pointed out.

“No, just zombies,” Fontana said, looking in. “Dead zombies.”

“Sure they were zombies?” Faith asked.

“They’re naked and some of them are chewed,” Fontana said, closing and marking the hatch. “I hope like hell they were.”

* * *

“Da, I’m starting to think that zombies aren’t the worst things in the world…”

The cabin on the top deck was nearly the size of the main saloon with a panoramic view of the surrounding ocean, a massive in deck hot-tub, a wet bar big enough for a public bar and a bed that could hold forty. At a guess, there had once been a good bit of gilding from the looks of where stuff had been ripped out. There was also a huge stack of Mountain House boxes and five gallon containers of water.

The solid steel door had been cut through by a welding torch. On the bed were ten women, naked, their hands bound behind their backs and shot in the head. At the head of the bed was a male corspe, unbound, also naked, with the top of his head blown off. All of the bodies had been gnawed by ferals but they hadn’t died from the zombies.

“Major Socorro,” Fontana said, smiling thinly. “We meet again.”

“How do you know it’s him?” Faith asked. The body’s face had been chewed off.

“Right height, right build and I know how he was about women,” Fontana said. “There’s rough and then there’s batshit.”

“Holed up to wait for the zombies to take over,” Steve said. “Probably with the pick of the prettier women. Then when the mutineers burned through the door he shot them and himself?”

“Looks that way,” Fontana said, wandering around the suite. “What’s missing is the weapons and ammo.”

“And the gilt,” Steve said, pointing to where something had been prised from the walls. “You know, modern sport fishers don’t sink very readily. They’ve got buoyant foam inserted everywhere…”

“Zombies are taking over, the mercs load up the one away-boat with all the gold and all the guns?” Fontana said. “Overload the boat?”

“Which explains why it went down like a stone,” Steve said, shaking his head.

“You know,” Fontana said, musingly. “Billionaire like this probably had real gold. I mean, bars, coin…”