John Ringo - Islands of Rage and Hope

“Do you always talk this much?” M1C Adam Vogels asked.

“Got anything better to do?” Edwards said as the machine gun barked again.

“No, not really,” Vogels replied. They were spread out and keeping an eye on their sectors but nothing seemed to be moving in the brush. “What is the American expression? This is shooting fish in a barrel.”

“Better than clearing liners, that’s for sure… Speaking of which, you guys better get the skinny on Shewolf…”

“Attention on deck!” Sergeant Roosevelt boomed, snapping a parade ground salute as Faith dropped out of the five-ton. “Good morning, ma’am!”

It was just past dawn and the island was “as clear as it’s gonna fucking get for now.” The Marines had assembled in front of an old church near Fort Oranj. The cars they’d been using were lined up with military precision.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” Faith barked, returning the salute. “You guys all straight?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sergeant Roosevelt said.

“Listen up, Marines,” Faith said. “Refugees start landing at twelve hundred hours. Between now and then, I want you to do a rotating stand-down, thirty percent on security, thirty percent getting your shit cleaned and chow and thirty percent getting a doze. We’ve got to keep going all day. We’ll get refugees into secure points for overnight, then start training local militia tomorrow. Just hang in there and remember that sleep is for the weak. Oorah?”

“Oorah,” the U.S. Marines responded.

“Status, Lieutenant?” Hamilton said, returning her salute.

The Dutch Marines were tearing into the first hot meal they’d had in months. The rotation was by squads and Second Squad was cleaning weapons and gear, having taken a “whore’s bath” with baby wipes while First Squad had the unspeakably hard job of keeping awake while manning the walls of a fort.

“All good, sir,” Faith replied. “Island’s pretty clear. After we get through the training period, I’d like to do some foot patrolling of the outer areas, that volcano…” she said, pointing to the Quill, “and over past the oil point. Probably some betas hiding out, still, but getting all of those is pretty tough, sir. And they’re not an excessive threat, sir.”

“Sounds good,” Hamilton said. “Lieutenant, I got sleep last night. I want you to stand down until tomorrow morning. I’ve got this.”

“I can keep going, sir,” Faith protested. “I just told my Marines that sleep is for the weak, sir! Mission, men, me, sir!”

“This is physiology, Lieutenant,” Hamilton said. “A thirteen-year-old cannot keep going the way that someone nineteen can. And dealing with the refugees is going to require a certain amount of tact. When you are tired and frustrated, tact is not your strong suit. You’re off until tomorrow at zero five. The gunny and I can handle this. You’ve done your usual excellent job at killing infected and breaking things. Now go get some sleep.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Faith said.

“Oooh…” Master Sergeant John Doehler said, holding his head.

The senior imagery analyst in the Hole could blame many things. He could blame the fact that he only had one other analyst, and the kid, while pretty experienced at this point, was still a kid. He could blame the fact that there was an entire world to sweep and only two people to do it. He could blame the fact that, since the remaining birds were the only ones that would ever be up there in anyone’s lifetime they could no longer retarget for things they might be interested in. Once their onboard fuel was used up they’d eventually start to degrade orbits and then, well, he’d be out of a job. Most of the world was empty and only occasionally did the spysats on ball-of-twine orbits cross something that they were really interested in. He could blame generally crappy weather in the target area as well as frequent mass-fires that often obscured the rare city shots.

However, he knew that one reason was that nobody thought there would be any critical survivors in London. So he just basically hadn’t looked closely enough.

He really, really, should have spotted this months ago. Especially since the imagery had been sitting on the drive for, well, months. He’d just checked two previous passes and each clear pass had the same image.

He looked at the image again and checked it against the file photo. There was no real question. The facial recognition software was just a cross-check and it was saying eighty-seven percent accuracy. The low value was due to the angle and the weight loss, probably.

He looked at the images, especially the placards held overhead, one more time and picked up the phone.

“Sir…We may have a priority target for Wolf Squadron…”

“I shouldn’t state the obvious at this juncture, General,” Steve said, looking at the image. “But it would have been nice to have this a month ago. We couldn’t have extracted them a month ago but some planning time would have been nice.”

“Can you now?” Brice asked, seriously. There was no joking around about the general on this call.

“We have one CH-53 certified,” Steve said. “It has been test-flown and is good to go. We’ve got a Seahawk almost ready to go. I was going over what it would take to insert on USAMRIID yesterday with Captain Wilkes. We’re not finding what we need in the Caribbean so going for one of the major research centers that is coastal seems to be the only option.

“The problem is time of float and, well, details. Nobody is trained in air insertion being the top detail. Most of which can get worked out on the float. And the whole weather issue, North Atlantic in winter, but using solely the Grace Tan cuts down on that. Lots of dangers, of course. We’ll be putting our primary platform way out on the end of the line. There are wrecks everywhere and if it hits one… None of which matters. I’ll recall Kodiak Force immediately. They’ll train up on the way.”

“Understood, Captain,” Brice said. “Good luck.”

“We’ll need it, ma’am,” Steve said. “Good news. We needed another helo pilot and should get some first class soldiers out of it…”

“Oorah, Marines!” Faith said, setting her tray down at the table. “It’s a beautiful day to be in the United States Marine Corps!”

“You look better, ma’am,” Sergeant Weisskopf said. “You were looking pretty gray, yesterday.”

“I was feeling pretty gray,” Faith said. “I was upset with the colonel pulling me off duty. It felt and still feels wrong. But I’d have probably killed some stupid refugee the way I was feeling. How’d it go?”

“Easier than we expected, ma’am,” Weisskopf said. “Mr. Zumwald apparently got through to them. Some of ’em, anyway. Lot less ‘do you know who I am?’”

“Lot more ‘I’ve got a better plan, get out of the way…’ Sergeant,” Lance Corporal Saul said.

“There was that,” Weisskopf admitted. “But some of them had their act together. Some of it was actually helpful. A lot, really. Face it, a CEO is sort of a civilian general and sometimes you need that.”

“Some of them were just people who were rich,” Faith said, shrugging. “Some of them were people who got that way through being smart. Even retired CEOs tend to know how to get shit done. Probably a situation of too many cooks but that’s a problem for the Dutch authorities on the island.”