John Ringo - Islands of Rage and Hope

“We find boats, we clear boats,” Sophia said, shrugging. “Same old same old. Occasional odd items. No biggie.”

“Having any problems with your skippers?” Steve asked.

“No,” Sophia said. “They’re good and they’re getting better. Teaching them to teach their crews is the tough part. They’re learning. Thomas has been a damned blessing, I’ll tell you that.”

“The ESL teacher?” Steve said, taking a bite of sushi.

“He’s more than an ESL teacher,” Sophia said. “I don’t know what, but he’s a damned good shot. He’s covered in scars. Not like Olga; I know combat scars at this point and he’s been blown up and shot so many times he must be held together with stitching like Frankenstein’s monster. And he’s like a walking dictionary, not to mention a walking translator bot. He says he’s a man of many parts. I’m wondering how many.”

“That sounds like an issue,” Steve said, frowning. “If he’s been less than forthcoming, that’s a trust issue.”

“He’s been less than forthcoming,” Sophia said. “But I trust him. Totally. I don’t know why I do. Yes, I do know. He’s former military. U.S. He feels like Fontana, you know? He says he was a truck driver but his records got lost. Bull. He was an NCO or something. A senior one. He sort of has that feel. Not like a gunny. Army. But he doesn’t, too. Like, he has a quote for everything, like you, Da. But, I dunno. There’s more. All I know is I trust him and he’s one hell of an asset.”

“Should I look into it?” Steve asked.

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” Sophia said. “You’re the boss and it’s up to you. I don’t know why he doesn’t come out and say what he really was, but I’d hate to lose him.”

“I ever talk about the French Foreign Legion?” Steve asked.

“Not really, no,” Sophia said. “I sort of know what it is.”

“More like was,” Steve said. “Formed by Louis the Fourteenth to build up his forces. It only takes non-French volunteers as enlisted men. All the officers are French. The ‘enlisted’ over the years have included generals from other armies, usually ones that were on the run for some reason. They’re given new names and new identities and as long as they do their full term of service, with honor, they can live under them for the rest of their lives as full French citizens. After World War Two it was filled with former SS, many of them under death sentences for their actions in World War Two. You practically had to speak German to be in a French unit.”

“That’s screwy,” Sophia said.

“It worked for centuries with one notable exception,” Steve said. “A mutiny in the 1960s that was an attempted coup. Point being, I’m sure there are all sorts of people in the squadron who have taken the opportunity to become someone else. To forget what they were. As long as they don’t screw up, badly, I’ll take that. The problem being, leopards don’t usually change their spots.”

“I’d say his spots are red, white and blue,” Sophia said.

“I’ll take that.”

“You missed me mum and da,” Sophia said as Walker came up from the cabins. He was showered, shaved and his iron gray hair neatly styled. Not bad for four hour’s sleep after a nearly twenty-four-hour run.

“Heard them, could tell they were friends, went back to sleep,” Walker said. “Any food left?”

“We made more,” Sophia said. “When I heard you getting up I made fish tacos.”

“You, Skipper, are a drunkard’s dream,” Walker said, uncovering the dish and spooning some of the meat onto a pita.

“Da was curious about you,” Sophia said. “And a touch paranoid.”

“Why?” Walker asked.

“Because I know a fraud when I see one,” Sophia said. “Which isn’t quite right. You’re not a fraud in the classic sense. You’re just not saying everything.”

“True,” Walker said, shrugging. “If that’s an issue I will, reluctantly, ask for a transfer.”

“I told him you were former military,” Sophia said. “Certainly more than four years. Probably a retired senior NCO although you’ve been an officer. Probably an instructor in something technical with combat experience. From the languages and combat experience, that says Special Forces. And you’re not really like a gunny or a sergeant major. And that I didn’t consider you a threat or I wouldn’t have given you a weapon. Also that I’d pitch a tantrum if he tried to pull you off my boat being a ‘good da.’”

“You, young lady, live up to your name,” Walker said, smiling. “Correct on virtually all particulars. Is it an issue?”

“Nope,” Sophia said. “As long as it’s not an issue. Da said most people who change their background can’t change their spots. I said yours were red, white and blue. If that’s not the case, then there’s probably an issue.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite so patriotically,” Walker said, shrugging. “I’ve never been one to wrap myself in the flag. Probably because many who do didn’t really accept all that it represented, good and bad, and others did so for personal gain rather than true patriotism. But what I do wrap myself in is what this squadron represents. Soldiers do not, by and large, create. They destroy. The question always is whether what they are destroying promotes the value of civilization and the advancement of man and specifically Western concepts and philosophies or degrades them. If it degrades them, valid target. If it promotes them, invalid target. Terrorists? Valid targets. Infected? Valid targets.”

“That makes sense,” Sophia said. “One question, pure curiosity between the skipper and her crewman. Senior NCO or senior officer?”

“If it’s truly between you and me,” Walker said. “Both. Serially. NCO then officer then senior officer. And this may be a trust issue for you. I’ve been in contact with General Brice. I knew her before the Plague. On a purely personal note, I was pleased to know Shelley survived.

“Shelley and Under Secretary Galloway are onboard with me just cruising for now. There are many reasons. Your father has things under control. As much as it is possible given the conditions. He has the, the term is ‘social capital,’ to pull this off. The majority of this squadron is not made up of professionals, and long-term social bonding items are in disarray. Your father and your family act as a social bond for this squadron, which is much more post-apocalyptic gypsy tribe than a professional military force.

“I could probably take more useful roles than being a deckhand on a boat. However, the addition of my expertise would be relatively minimal and I’m enjoying what we do. I also enjoy training bright young officers. A point of which General Brice is fully aware. So absent objections from yourself or Squadron, or your da, here I remain. Unless things change and my former position becomes necessary.”

“Now I’m going to have a hard time not calling you ‘sir,’” Sophia said, her brow furrowing.

“You’ve always been polite, Ensign,” Walker said. “Mr. Walker more than suffices. Tom is fine. Neither is my real name. Calling me ‘Walker’ works best. It was part of my handle.”

“What was your handle?” Sophia asked. “If I may ask.”

“Skaeling, actually,” Walker said. “It means Night Walker.”

“More like ‘Boogie man,’” Sophia said pointedly. “Those who walk in the dark. Things that go bump in the night. The Native American tribe that drove out the Vikings from Newfoundland.”

“And in Dari it turned out to translate as prostitute or street walker,” Walker said, grinning. “Caused a bit of an issue at one point.”

“Dari?” Sophia said.