Disturb’s “Warrior” started as the voice-over was ending. The vocals came in as Faith went over the side. They’d cut the resulting scrum so it looked as if she was kicking ass not getting it kicked.
Videos of Da and Faith and Falcon and Hooch being washed down by the Coasties, the wash water red with blood. Shots taken from a gun camera of the scrums on the interior. It must have been from Fontana’s weapon, the tracking was too smooth for anybody else. The Charlotte towing in the Campbell, an attack sub being used as a towboat. Boats shuttling back and forth, some shots of her, Captain Sherill who was a flotilla commander now, Chris and Lloyd and Steven, Tina feeding an emaciated survivor soup. Sophia was pretty sure it was Rusty Bennett, now one of the gunners on a gunboat. She’d seen him when he was skinny, not the “robust” guy he was now, but she’d never realized he was that bad off. He looked dead.
Video of the interior of the Voyage with masses of infected bodies piled up by the foursome. Survivors having to pick their footing to get through the passages. All of it in the light of taclights and flashlights. Crews pulling cases of ammo and medicine off the Campbell and then loading the ammo onto the liner. Survivors going through decon showers.
The liner, black and dead as the squadron was sailing away.
Atreyu’s “Honor” as they approached the USS Iwo Jima interspersed with more shots of people coming off of life rafts and boats. The fight when the four boarders entered the cavernous interior of the assault carrier. Marines and sailors coming off the Iwo. A good shot of Staff Sergeant Januscheitis stumbling off the Iwo into a boat, then another, obviously right after, turning around and going back in again, just putting on his gas mask and this time rigged up for some serious zombie hunting. A video someone had gotten of a “scrum” with the infected in the interior and Faith doing her usual job of grandstanding with a Halligan tool. Pallets of ammo, medicine and supplies being lowered over the side into waiting boats. She was there, getting one loaded on the back deck. Wash-down again, with a dozen Marines standing under powerful water sprays, the blood pouring over the side. Faith was in there but she was hard to spot. Shots of the interior by taclight, showing the corridors choked with recent and old dead. A clear shot of a chewed corpse wearing MarPat with a clocked-out .45 by its side. Gunny Sands, thin as a rail, on the leading edge of the flight deck saluting Da as he walked up. The gunny carrying the flag off the ship in the closing and the hatches being welded shut. The Iwo was still there and still plenty full of ammo and supplies if they needed them.
The Canary Islands. Nightwish’s “Last of the Wilds.” Pure instrumental. The first use of gunboats. A shot of Anarchy laying waste to infected on a beach. She’d have to check her log to figure out where. The landings in small towns. Clearing the Boadicea. People stumbling onto boats in marinas. The crews enjoying a lunch and beverages in San Sebastian de la Gomera. The “Israeli Beach” scene, as she mentally tagged it, with everybody having guns leaning up against their chairs just in case some infected showed up. The whole group posing in front of “The Corner Cafe at the Marina” with their guns and bottles of wine. She hadn’t realized how many people were videotaping.
She hadn’t realized how often she was being videoed. Or how many group photos she’d been tagged in.
The manning numbers kept going up.
Faith’s premature landing on the cruise liner pier at Santa Cruz de Tenerife when the infected had poured out of the interior of the supermax liner and the four Marines had had to call for close fire support from the gunboats. Clearance in Santa Cruz harbor. More liners to clear and survivors in shorts and sunglasses fumbling their way onto boats. Climbing the cliffs at El Chorillo to pull the survivors out of condos. That had been a nightmare. Especially for Faith who hated heights. Clearing small towns and picking up refugees. A shot of her with her sniper rifle, picking off some infecteds. Sergeant Major Barney dressing down Seaman Recruit Steinholtz on a breakwater. Again. Shots of Anarchy. Lots of shots of Anarchy.
A short shot of Cody’s funeral at sea as the song died with the caption “Specialist Cody ‘Anarchy’ Smith, U.S. Army, KIA, Canary Islands Operating Area.”
She wasn’t sure if “eaten by sharks” was technically Killed in Action but she wasn’t going to bitch. She still missed him.
Then the song she’d been wondering if they’d use: Nightwish’s “Last Ride of the Day” as the “Manning number” kept clicking up and up.
Machine shops and unrepping and people cleaning out the Boadicea. Ripping up carpet, just like she and Da and Faith had done so many months ago. Clearing out the skeletons “Da’s Little Helpers” left of the bodies. Vacuuming those up. Scrubbing bulkheads and floors. Cleaner mattresses coming aboard from salvage. People working in galleys and engine rooms and the main saloon filled with people. People boarding the Social Alpha off a Zodiac. Squadron ops with civilians and military manning radios and computers. Tracers at night. Dinner in one of the mess halls. A swarm of Marines going up a boarding ladder into a ship. A shot of a full flotilla heading to sea, the boats nose up and crashing through the waves. Nurses helping survivors that were on death’s door. Loading the battle boxes on a gunboat, case after case of .50 caliber ammo coming out of the hold of the converted fishing boat. More chewed infected on a beach with the video focusing on the cloud of brass pouring out of the new water-cooled dual .50s. Coiling down ropes. Grapnels going over to a derelict boat. A group of Marines holding a line against a mass of infected somewhere in the Canaries. Faith was standing behind them apparently buffing her nails. A team working on a stripped-down engine in an engine room. A sewing shop she didn’t even know they had. More survivors over transoms. The market in “Downtown” on the Boadicea. A shot of her, Sophia, in the pass in review, saluting Da. A Zodiac sporting a tiny Irish flag crewed by what looked like a child outbound into the setting sun. Gunboats chewing up infected in a marina with Zodiacs inbound for the beach. Faith in combat rig, striding past a group of rigged up Marines, the girl’s face like an axe, returning their salutes as if she’d done it a thousand times. The pass in review, making it look much more professional than it had actually been. The full squadron heading out to sea with Mount Teide glowing red in the background.
Then back to the dark sky of a dead world. A satellite passing over India and North Africa. Shots of dead Mumbai, Cairo, Casablanca, scrolling fast…
Zooming in on a cluster of lights. The squadron center at sea. The only light in the blackness as the music crescendoed. Then a caption:
“Welcome to Wolf Squadron. The hell with the darkness. Light a Candle.”
At the bottom was “Manning: 3,201.”
Sophia realized she’d used up all the tissues. And all she wanted to do was go back to the boat and head back out to sea.
“Mr. Walker,” Steve said, gesturing to the chairs in his office. “Sophia.”
“Captain,” Sophia said, sitting down.
Sophia had gotten the word that she had to “meet with the squadron commander” before the division headed back out for operations.
“This is more of a ‘Sophia’ and ‘Da’ conversation,” Steve said.
“Have I done something wrong?” Sophia asked.
“If you had, it would be a captain and ensign conversation,” Steve said. “And, frankly, I think the real answer is that people will be…conflicted about that. It’s time we talked about vaccine production with the powers-that-be.”