John Ringo - Islands of Rage and Hope

“Another glorious day in the Corps, Sergeant!” Sergeant Andy Weisskopf replied.

“Any change in the infected status, Sergeant?” Hoag asked.

“Infected count for the night was sixty-seven, Sergeant,” Weisskopf said. “All but three were known infected. Al Hoodat managed to run down a previously unidentified and unknown female and have his way with her. He also killed her in the process and a great feast was had by all. Other than that, no major incidents.”

“Ah, zombie snuff porn,” Hoag said. “The highlight of any watch. I relieve you, Sergeant.”

“I stand relieved, Sergeant,” Sergeant Weisskopf said.

“Flag party coming through,” Staff Sergeant Cindy Barnard said, coming through the hatch. “You two yardbirds want to get out of the way?”

“Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant,” Hoag said, stepping aside as the flag party came up on the roof.

When General Zick had “turned,” overall command had devolved to Colonel Hamilton. As far as anyone could tell, the colonel was the commander of Gitmo. A such, the flag was raised on Building Fourteen instead of on Eighteen. Eighteen was in sight and still holding out as well. They were mounting their guards. Mostly Navy but they were there at least. When the radios ran out they’d resorted to flag signaling and writing reports or orders on a white board and holding it up to be read. The flag signaling was tough at first—they had to get the instructions via white board—but there was a signals ET over in Eighteen who knew it. They’d learned. They’d also learned international light signaling since using a mirror was generally quicker than flags and you could use lights at night. There was, in fact, a fairly regular conversation going on between the two buildings.

Eighteen had about the same losses as Fourteen and were in slightly worse shape water wise but maintaining rationing and catching what few rains came the way of Gitmo. They estimated based on water use they could hold out for two years. Six if there were some tropical storms. One of the petty officers was a logistics geek and had crunched the numbers.

What they didn’t have was a bugle. One of the Navy seaman had, in all seriousness, suggested he could make up a kazoo and do Reveille on the kazoo. That had been turned down after some discussion of the relative merits. It had become custom to hum the Marine Corps Hymn as the flag was raised on its unfortunately short pole.

Hoag dropped her salute as the flag reached the top of the pole and was tied off.

“Sergeant Hoag, have you accepted the watch?” Staff Sergeant Barnard asked her.

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!” Hoag replied.

“Then perhaps you or Private Capedon should turn around and check the entrance to the bay, Sergeant,” Barnard said. “And use your issued binoculars to check out the small, civilian yacht that has just entered the port…”

“Mr. Walker,” Sophia said, looking through her binoculars.

She knew that Da had used “special privilege” to let her boat be the first into Guantanamo Bay. She wasn’t going to complain. When she saw the American flag, and the Marine flag party, on the distant warehouse she was just trying not to cry.

“Yes, ma’am,” Walker said.

“Green flare, please,” she said, not looking away. “Then mount the flag on its staff.”

“Staff Sergeant, reply with green flare,” Hamilton snapped, looking through the binos. There was more than the one yacht at this point. The first yacht had been followed by two more, then two fishing trawlers that had apparently been converted to gunboats. All of them sported the American flag. But while he was willing to accept that sign of being friendlies, notionally, at face value, whether to trust the group would be a longer term decision.

“Yes, sir,” Barnard said. “Sergeant Hoag. The signal is green flare.”

“Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant,” Hoag said. They kept a ready box of pyro on the roof just for the occasion. She pulled out a green flare and uncapped it. “Fire in the hole. Flare, flare, flare.”

The group of boats spread out and slowed, two of them deploying RHIBs. The group started coursing back forth across the entrance to the bay.

“Sir?” Barnard said. “Question…”

“They’re checking the soundings for larger boats or ships, Staff Sergeant,” Hamilton said. “Probably looking for wrecks or obstructions. General order, personnel who want to make the climb can come up on the roof. Designate an area for viewing. Send the same order to Eighteen.”

“Don’t think we have to, sir,” Barnard said. “They’re all up.”

“Send the order nonetheless, Staff Sergeant,” Hamilton said.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Barnard said.

After about an hour of sounding the main channel, the first group headed farther into the anchorage. It was followed by a line of vessels, most of them yachts or the converted gunboats. There were sixty of those. Those were followed by larger vessels, two megayachts, supply ships, tankers and a small cruise liner. There were even some oceanic tugboats and trawlers that weren’t converted to gunboats.

“That is a sight for God-damned sore eyes, sir,” Staff Sergeant Barnard said.

“Yes, it is, Staff Sergeant,” Hamilton said. “Yes it is.”

The anchorages were sounded and apparently some of the upper ones were found lacking. All the ships anchored in the lower area, opposite Point Corinaso.

At the same time, the smaller yachts and gunboats were deploying all over the anchorage. It looked like chaos and some of it clearly was. There were a few near collisions. However, in another hour or so the gunboats were arrayed by points on the windward and leeward sides, their guns pointing landward.

“There’s a light, sir,” Barnard said, pointing to the liner.

There was, indeed, a signal light flashing on the liner. Just dots and dashes.

“Signal mirror, Staff Sergeant,” Hamilton said.

“Sergeant Hoag, signal readiness to accept communication,” Barnard said.

Sheila took the signaling mirror and signaled “GA” “Go ahead.”

“Captain Steven Smith, commander Wolf Squadron, Task Force One, USN, to senior survivor, Gitmo, over,” Sheila said as the signal came in.

“Signal Lieutenant Colonel Craig Hamilton, USMC, acting commander, Gitmo, over.”

“Wolf Squadron?” Lieutenant Harris asked.

“Send list of surviving personnel civilian and military. Include service and rank for military. Note any medical conditions including pregnancy with note on known complications. Stand by for assault and clearance at dawn. Have personnel prepared for evacuation not later than zero seven thirty. Do not repeat not attempt break-out until ordered. Semper Fi. Stay put. Wolf out.”

“Wolf Squadron?” Harris repeated.

“I have no more idea than you, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “But I am unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth. Even a colorfully named one.”

“These jokers can’t be Navy,” Hoag said, shielding her eyes. “Even Navy’s got better discipline than this.”

When her watch was relieved she’d gone down into the warehouse and dumped her battle rattle but went back up on the roof. After months of monotony and “zombie porn” being about the only entertainment, watching real live people doing stuff was a relief.

Once it was anchored, the squadron didn’t seem to be doing much. Most of the “on watch” if that was what they were, were catching a tan. Some were washing down the decks. People were up in the promenade of the liner and on the megayachts, looking back at the Marines and looking around the harbor like they’d never seen one. There were about a hundred ocean-capable Zodiacs zipping around, most of them driven by what looked like kids. There were even some people out just zipping around on wave-runners. There were only a few uniforms visible. Even the guys, and some women, working on the machine guns were in shorts and mostly shirtless. Most of the women were wearing bathing suits. People were fishing.