“Vessel continues to close our position, Staff Sergeant. Range approximately one mile. Vessel appears to be a motor yacht, Staff Sergeant. Personnel on the bridge are visible at this time, Staff Sergeant.”
“Acknowledged, Private First Class,” Decker said, turning around, still at attention. He shaded his eyes and nodded. “Vessel is confirmed. The private first class will assist the staff sergeant in dressing Lieutenant Klette.”
“Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant!”
“Bleeding arseholes,” Sophia said, looking through the binoculars. “That’s a fucking zombie! They’re dressing a fucking zombie.”
The survivors were Marines from their uniforms. And they still had combat gear. And a live zombie. She had no clue what had possessed them to keep a live zombie onboard a fucking life raft but she was going to have to think about how to handle it. She had the funny feeling that shooting it as soon as it was in range would not be the right move.
What got her was that they were also close shaven and had nearly bald heads. Their uniforms were not even that bad.
She made an instant decision and slowed the boat.
“Walker,” she said over the intercom. “Take the helm. I need to go below for a second.”
“Roger, ma’am,” Walker said, running up on the flying bridge. “Issues?”
“Those guys are… They’ve got a live zombie on a life raft. I’m going to go get into uniform.”
“Can I look, ma’am?” Walker asked, holding his hand out for the binos.
“Go ahead,” Sophia said. “Am I right that I’d better be in uniform, with all my doodads, when we pull these guys in?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Walker said, looking through the binos. “That would be for the best. And Olga as well. I don’t know how or why they did this, but we’re going to have to handle this very carefully, ma’am.”
“Agreed,” Sophia said, heading below. “Do not approach until I’m back up.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
“Good afternoon, Marines,” Sophia said, from the aft deck. She was in her best uniform with her new gold bars glittering in the sun.
“Good afternoon, ma’am!” the staff sergeant boomed, as close to attention as he could get in a rocking lifeboat and saluting with his M4. “Staff Sergeant Alfred Joseph Decker reporting with a party of one, Ensign. Our officer has suffered what appears to be heat stroke, ma’am. Permission to come aboard!”
“Permission granted, Staff Sergeant,” Sophia said, returning the salute. “Evolution is as follows. You will toss us your line. My crew will assist you in bringing the lieutenant aboard. The PFC will board followed by yourself. You and the PFC will lock and clear all weapons before boarding. We will then do what we can for your lieutenant and his…heat stroke.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Decker said, his composure starting to crack. “Ma’am, permission to speak, ma’am.”
“Granted,” Sophia said.
“Ma’am, my last orders from my gunnery sergeant were ‘Take care of the LT,’ ma’am,” Decker said. “I know the LT is…in bad shape, ma’am and I know you outrank a gunnery sergeant, ma’am. But I will remain in this lifeboat at my post before I will allow anyone to put my lieutenant down, ma’am.”
“One moment, Staff Sergeant,” Sophia said, turning around. She put her hands over her eyes and tried as hard as hell not to cry. She wiped away the slight moisture and turned around.
“Staff Sergeant, I am an officer of the United States Navy,” she said. “You have my statement that your officer can be boarded to this boat and absent orders to the contrary I will not terminate him for his current condition. However, Staff Sergeant Decker, you are now back in the United States Marine Corps. What orders are given by superior officers I cannot control and you cannot control. And I shall and you shall obey the orders of officers appointed over us. No matter how distasteful they may be. Nor may you disregard your oath to protect our nation and its Constitution to go floating around on a cruise on your lifeboat. Your life, your lieutenant’s life, my life, are forfeit by the oath we swear. Do you understand me, Staff Sergeant!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Decker said.
“For your information,” Sophia said. “I may only be an ensign but I’ve been with this squadron since before it was a squadron and my dad happens to be LantFleet. So what I will add to that earlier is…I’ll do what I can for your officer, Staff Sergeant. But that’s all I can promise. Now, lock and clear your weapons and prepare to board…”
The staff sergeant and his minion had been remarkably adept at feeding their lieutenant soup. They’d hardly spilled a drop as the zombie attempted to eat them. Afterwards the officer had been taken out to “relieve himself” off the aft deck, then secured below. She could hear him howling from the flybridge.
Then and only then had the two Marines accepted the offered tomato soup. They drank it at attention. They did everything at attention.
She made sure their guns were secured in the safe in her cabin. They were out of rounds, anyway. She wasn’t sure about their knives but they’d been persuaded to divest themselves of their combat gear.
“What happens in the compartment never stays in the compartment,” she muttered, rubbing her face. “Just when I thought I’d seen it all…”
She picked up the radio. She knew when she was out of her depth.
“Flotilla, Division Seven. I need Flotilla Actual, over.”
“I am aware of the SOP in this matter, Flotilla,” Sophia said. “Break. However, these guys are so tightly wound you could use them to power the Alex. Request that Marines handle this as it is basically a Marine matter. If the gunny and the captain put this poor bastard down, that’s one thing. I’m not sure what will happen if I try. Over.”
“Roger, Bella. Will pass this to Squadron. The one absolute condition is maintain the safety of your boat and your crew. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, Flotilla. Will ensure the safety of my boat and my crew, over.”
“Flotilla out.”
“Passing the buck are they?” Walker asked.
“Hell, I did,” Sophia said as the zombie in the cabin howled. “Jesus, how did they stand it?”
“The most important factor in maintaining one’s sanity, to an extent, in a survival situation is something to hold onto,” Walker said. “Something to do and take care of and cherish. I had a knot record.”
“Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?” Sophia asked.
“Knot,” Walker said. “K-N-O-T. It’s a way of keeping track of events, days, using simple string. It was the Incan’s only form of writing. Each type of string has a meaning, each type of knot. Very simple and infinitely complex. More complex than Chinese.”
“What happened to it?” Sophia asked.
“I left it in the compartment,” Walker said. “It was a way of surviving there. It was unnecessary in the outer world. But I have been found to be so aggressively sane it’s a form of insanity. These Marines survived, in part, by caring for their officer. Which is a devotion so doglike it is virtually unheard of in the modern world. And by grasping so hard to their duty that it is nearly broken. Marines tend to be fairly OCD, anyway. The question is whether they can recover from their current mental state. Right now, they’re having a hard time not following their ‘Watch Bill.’”
“Any suggestions?” Sophia asked. “About what to do about the lieutenant?”