“So this is Anguilla,” Ensign Joseph Buckley said, conning his way into Road Salt Pond Bay. “Not much to look at.”
The island was low and sandy with a few small hills. The shore of the bay was a nearly perfect crescent-moon-shaped beach with bright white coral sand and waving palm trees while the waters of the bay were a gorgeous mixture of turquoise and cerulean. There were low, one-and two-story, block buildings scattered among the trees. There were two piers, one to the east and one to the west, located at about the one third position on the beach. The westerly pier was their primary target, a medium sized “cargo” pier which, unfortunately, did not have cargo cranes but appeared to be intact and unblocked. The easterly pier was a small pier for small boats. A large “deep water” outboard was still attached by one line but it was sunk to the gunnels.
The picturesque beach was littered with the debris of a destroyed civilization—trash, bits and pieces of clothing, grounded boats and picked clean skeletons, their bones as white as the sands. Many of the buildings had been scorched by fire as had many of the trees. In fact, it looked as if a fire had swept across the entire island. There was a small ship, an island support ship like the Erik Shivak, grounded at the tip of the eastern cape.
“Christ,” Ray Hoover said, shaking his head. “This place is a mess.”
The first mate of the Bad Juju was in his thirties and covered up male pattern baldness by shaving his head. A former “renta-slave” in the IT business, he’d volunteered for small boats after being stuck in a liner compartment for months. However, he’d long before regretted his actual posting. The name was bad enough but the captain…
“Yeah,” Buckley said, trying to figure out where to anchor. “Even the Canaries weren’t this…”
What, exactly, they weren’t would have to wait as the, fortunately slowly moving, boat ground to a halt with a rather nasty crunching sound from below.
“Aw, crap,” Buckley said, tossing his captain’s cap over the side.
“Hey, Skipper?” Kevin Schlossberg yelled from below. “We’re taking on water?”
“Not again!”
“All divisions,” Lieutenant Commander Chen radioed, shaking his head. “All divisions. Be on the lookout for submerged wrecks…” He set the microphone down and shook his head again. “Including the Bad Juju…In retrospect…”
“No gunboats on Forest Bay?” Colonel Hamilton asked, looking at the operations map. “It would seem closer to the anticipated high infected density around the Quarter than Sandy Hill.”
The final touches were being placed on the landing operation. The island was the first assault designated for “Operation Leeward Sweep” so they were trying to get each item as set as possible to develop SOPs. The entire command team was present but most of them were keeping their mouths shut.
“Overheads and charts indicate that Forest Bay has some significant reefs, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Chen replied. He was the senior Navy officer for the operation. “Sandy Hill is more safely approachable and the cape provides wind and wave protection, making for a more stable gun platform. We have no detailed information on how far our nightly…activities will bring the infected but indicators in the Canaries were from as much as five miles away. We believe that this lay-out will draw something like ninety percent of the infected. The question, of course, is if they can all make it to the target beaches before dawn.”
“Out of pure curiosity,” Colonel Hamilton said. “Who came up with this technique?”
“Captain Wol—Smith, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Chen said.
“Simple, brutal and effective seems to be his call sign,” Colonel Hamilton said. “Lieutenant, the scuttlebutt is that there tends to be a bit of a party when you’re drawing in the infected.”
“That has, occasionally, been an aspect of this procedure, sir,” Chen said carefully. “It is necessary to make noise and rather than, say, continuous air-horn blasts we generally play music. And…there is some drinking. And I will admit, sir, that that has occasionally, notably at Las Galletas, gotten out of hand. I’ve been dialing down on it, sir.”
“Pass the word,” Hamilton said. “Not this time. With a reason. In this case, we’re dealing with a very small island and we’re more or less surrounding it. Fifty-caliber rounds go quite a ways. To be exact, they are lethal at up to seven miles. If we get too free with fire, we’re going to end up shooting one of the other boats that’s not even in sight. We need to ensure that the gunners stay strictly within their fire limits. Alcohol and such assurances simply do not match. I’m aware that you should not give an order that won’t be obeyed and that keeping liquor off the boats is impossible. So pass the word the party is after we clear the damn island and all the guns are put away. Roger?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Chen said, making a note.
“Senior and experienced personnel, such as we have, are to ensure that each gun has traverse limiters in place,” Hamilton said. “And ensure that the gunners understand those fire limits and why we have them. I do not want to have fifty-cal rounds dropping around my ears. Are we clear?”
“Clear, sir,” Chen said. “With your approval, I’ll distribute my senior people to the outlying forces to ensure that. I’d appreciate some assistance from Ma Deuce-experienced Marines for the main landing force. That way I can distribute out the chief and the sergeant major.”
“Agreed,” Hamilton said. “And the plan is approved with one slight modification.”
“Sir?” Chen said.
“I’m picking the playlist,” Hamilton said.
“Staff Sergeant,” Faith stated, as they were leaving the final planning meeting. “Moment of your time in my office.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said.
Faith marched to her office, entered and sat down.
“The general plan, as briefed, is that the Marines, oorah, are to quarter here on the Grace Tan, oorah, until first call at 0400,” Faith said, her jaw clenched. “Thereafter we chow, assemble, final brief and perform landing after clearance by Navy heavy fire at dawn, oorah?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said, standing at parade rest.
“As you may have noticed there is a four-hour preinspection this afternoon on the prep schedule, oorah,” Faith said. “I inserted that preinspection in the op-plan. During that preinspection I will instruct you on my task, conditions and standards for combat preinspection. After that you and I will perform an after-inspection review and determine if this is a procedure, oorah, you find conforms to your views, oorah? Do you have any questions?”
“No, ma’am,” Barnard said.
“Inspection begins at fifteen hundred,” Faith said. “We will not form the personnel. We shall, oorah, take each Marine one by one into the gear locker. This technique, oorah, is currently…” Faith paused and frowned. “There is no SOP, oorah. There should be an SOP. We will establish that SOP, oorah?”
“Roger, ma’am,” Barnard said.
“Dismissed.”
“I’ve got a target,” Seaman Apprentice Rusty Bennett said nervously.
Rusty was used to shooting up zombies with the .50 caliber BMG affectionately referred to as the Ma Deuce. He’d even gotten pretty damned good, in his opinion, with the monstrous machine gun. He wasn’t worried about whether he could hit anything. What was making him nervous was all the Mickey Mouse. The new Marine colonel who was in charge was being a prick. He’d never even heard of a range limiter before and had to dig through all the parts and crap that had come with the gun to find it. And then he’d had to get the sergeant major, before he left, to show him how to hook it up.