“Three Wise Men! Okay, two wise men and a wise guy…”
Zero Three Hundred local. The definition of Oh Dark Thirty. Everyone should be asleep. And the Hole should be up.
Walker opened up the cabinet that contained one of the Navy handhelds. They were generally kept off unless there was an away team. None of the boats in the division had away teams operating at the moment.
He turned it to a random frequency and keyed it.
“Alexandria, Alexandria, Marigold, over.”
He waited.
“Calling station unidentified. Identify for verification, over.”
“Verification is call sign. Following eyes only, FDOSAC. Code is Marigold, repeat, Marigold. Verification: Four-One-Three-Six. Will contact same time, same frequency, tomorrow. End message. Repeat: Eyes only, FDO. Do not, repeat, not contact Squadron. Over.”
“If you are screwing around on this frequency, we will find you and have your ass.”
“Contact only the FDO,” Walker said. “Or I shall have yours. Marigold, out.”
“Skipper, sorry,” the duty officer said. “We just got a weird, really weird, call. Voice only.”
“Go ahead,” Commander Vancel said, rubbing his eyes. He wasn’t getting out of the rack unless it was important.
“Where’d it come from?” Vancel asked, replaying the recording on the handheld.
“Somewhere in Division Seven,” the OOD said. “I can’t tell if this guy is fucking around or…Well…”
“It’s for General Brice,” Vancel said, rolling out of his rack. “She was the flag duty officer at SAC when it went down. I’ll send it on as a personal e-mail attachment. Log it, though.”
“Marigold?” Brice said, looking at the e-mail. She really wasn’t terribly busy most of the time and today was one of those days. She was good at her job, which involved getting other people to do theirs and then just keeping that going. Unfortunately, since most of the people she had working for her were uber-competent, that meant she had lots of time on her hands. In the middle of an apocalypse. Not a good thing.
So her curiosity was piqued.
She typed in the word as a search in the intelligence database. It wasn’t by any means a complete database. The “complete” database had been the whole of SIPRNET, the DoD’s secure version of the internet. But The Hole was designed as a backup in the event of, well, an apocalypse, and it had at least extracts of a lot of stuff.
There were various references. Several operations had included “Marigold” in their operations name. Most of them were black ops but not all.
However, there was also a flag officer code name listed.
Upon retirement, all flag officers as well as “select” others were given a code name and a contact method. The reason was that flag officers held a lot of secrets in their heads. Even after retirement, they were potential targets for espionage or terrorist assassination. If they happened to be travelling in a country where a revolution kicked off, they could call a number and response would materialize. Even if the USA had to send Rangers in quietly—as it had on numerous occasions.
She clicked the link and blanched.
“Oh…” she said, panting. She felt slightly faint. “Ooof-dah. Oh, it can’t be…”
She listened to the voice recording again and compared the information. The four digit code was the last four of the Social. The voice even sounded the same.
Then she pulled up the manifest for the squadron and started hunting, checking names against the file. The basic name wasn’t anywhere on there but she knew it wouldn’t be. But the handle…
“Thomas Walker,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth and trying not to cry. “Son of a bitch. Night Walker. He’s alive. There is a God in heaven.”
“Bella Senorita, Alexandria, over.”
“Bella here,” Sophia said, wondering if she should put up the bimini top. The tan was getting pretty deep.
The guys on Columbus’s ships had probably been about ready to mutiny at this point. But that was because they didn’t know where they were going, where they were or when they were going to get there. If you did, the South Atlantic Equatorial Current cruise was a real beauty. Not much to see but ocean, but in winter it was just lovely rolling combers heading in your general direction, clear skies, seabirds, whales, flying fish and the occasional bit of debris from the death of human civilization.
“Bella, Alex. Prosecuting sierra. Geared freighter. Approx six hundred feet length. Approx twenty-eight kay gross tons. Containerized and noncontainerized deck cargo. Visible infected. Zulu count five visible. Over.”
“Roger, Alex. Send coordinates, over.”
She thought about it for a second, then picked up the other radio.
“Flotilla, Division Seven, over.”
“Division Seven, Flotilla, over.”
“Got a geared handysize with some infected,” Sophia said. “What’s the status on Marines, over?”
“Sort of tapped out working a liner, Division. Recommend give it a pass, over.”
“Flotilla, be advised. Geared and has noncontainerized deck cargo, break. Looks like really nice salvage. Break. Without getting off the boat myself I am confident my people can handle this without Marine assistance. We’re talking walk in the park here. Over.”
“Is she really that laid-back about taking on a freighter with zombies on it?” Petty Officer Third Class Kevin Drum said. “I mean, she sounds bored.”
“The last time Seawolf took a walk in a park it was Washington Square when the zombies overran the last concert in New York,” Lieutenant Gregory Spears said. The flotilla commander was a former stock broker and weekend yachtsman. He hadn’t realized the difference between telling people how to do their jobs and potentially sending them to their deaths until he’d taken the job. He wasn’t enjoying that part of it. “Her definition of walk in the park is not a normal definition.” He thought about it and keyed the radio.
“Washington Square walk in the park or a walk in the park walk in the park, over.”
Sophia giggled and keyed the radio.
“The ‘we’ve got this’ kind, Flotilla. Take your pick.”
“Do not endanger your vessel. Minimize risk to your personnel. Do not go directly alongside.”
“Do not endanger vessel, aye,” Sophia said. “Minimize personnel risk, aye. Do not go directly alongside, aye.”
“Seriously, don’t get yourselves in a scrum. That’s what Marines are for.”
“Will not get in a scrum, Flotilla. Over.”
“Approved. Flotilla out.”
“Hoist the black flag,” Sophia said over the intercom. “Man the grapnels. We have a ship to take me hearties! Arrrh!”
“So, Thomas,” Sophia said. “As an English as a Second Language teacher with ‘some civilian shooting experience,’ how good a shot are you?”
The freighter was pretty big compared to the Bella Senorita but ships like the Iwo Jima and liners like the Voyage had given Sophia a new appreciation for the word “big.” And if any of the gear was running, it was a real catch. The noncontainerized deck cargo wasn’t much—some boat hulls, mostly—but one of the containers had been opened and apparently contained food, based on the well-fed zombies on the deck and the seabirds flying in and out. Probably fresh water as well. Zombies could occasionally figure out how to tear into cases of bottled water.