“Either keep him alive in a padded room,” Walker said, shrugging. “Which will be interesting. Or have a formal ceremony where he’s passed to the great beyond, preferably with a fast acting poison. Play “Taps.” Bury him with honors at sea. They took care of him until the decisions could be passed on to others. But it would have to be an honorable way to go out. Not you or I or Olga putting a bullet in his head and tossing him over the side. They would, I assure you, flip the fuck out if we did that.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you curse,” Sophia said.
“Right now, ma’am, I want to revel in the glory and honor of the words: Semper Fidelis,” the man said. “And burn the world down at the same time. I have seen a lot in my many years, ma’am, but this takes the cake. Truly wins the fucking lottery.”
“I think I’m gonna have to get a little drunk to sleep tonight,” Sophia said as the zombie Marine howled below.
“D…do…What?” Captain Smith snapped. “They kept him alive? How? Why?”
“The staff sergeant’s last orders from his gunny were ‘take care of the lieutenant,’” Isham said. “So they took care of him. Kept him alive. Kept him fed and watered, even at their own expense. Soph describes them as so tightly wound they could power a sub.”
“Bloody hell,” Steve said, picking up his phone. “Get me Gunny Sands. Now!”
“Lieutenant Klette, huh?” Gunnery Sergeant Sands said, shielding his face with his hand. “And Decker. That…I’d say it makes a certain amount of sense but it really doesn’t, sir, I’m aware of that. Lieutenant Klette was the armor platoon leader. Newly arrived. Gunnery Sergeant Haughton was kind of a stickler about obedience to orders.”
“Did I just hear a gunny say another gunny was a stickler?” Steve said. “This is hereby a Marine matter, Gunny. I’ve got enough on my plate. You and the captain have the authority and responsibility of figuring out what to do. I’ll back whatever decision you make as long as it doesn’t significantly affect overall operations. But that lieutenant needs to be off that boat. Fast. Take my boat, get out there. You at least, you and the captain if he has time. We’re done.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Sands said, standing up. “What’s that word your girls use, sir? A zammie? This is a zammie for sure, sir.”
Walker watched the radar screen, looking around occasionally on a visual sweep, then looked back at the screen. The Bella Senorita was cruising west under fair skies and a following sea, the most perfect conditions you can be in on a boat. And they were headed home, eventually. Back to the Land of the Big PX, sort of. It was one hell of a lot better than being in the compartment or, for that matter, any number of places he’d been in his life.
Even with the occasional howl from below. Besides, the zombie had mostly settled down after they put enough food in his stomach.
There was a blip on the radar screen and he noted it. Sometimes you got ghosts. But it was there again on the next sweep, and noticeably closer. Someone was in a hurry. And based on the next sweep, headed for the Bella.
“Bella Senorita, Bella Senorita, Achille Cono, over.”
“Achille Cono, Bella Senorita, over.”
“Approaching your position. Flag is not, repeat, not aboard. Here for pick-up on the Marines. Wake the semi-sane ones up if they’re not. Out.”
He went below and woke the skipper first. Knocking at her door.
“Enter,” the skipper said. She was sitting up in bed when he opened the door, pistol in hand. “I was awake, anyway. I didn’t think I wanted earplugs in with a live zombie on board.”
“Your dad’s fast boat is inbound,” Walker said. “He’s not aboard. They’re here to pick up the Marines.”
“Okay,” Sophia said, getting out of bed. She was wearing PT shorts and a T-shirt. “I’ll get my uniform on. How long?”
“Ten minutes or so,” Walker said.
“I’ll head up on deck in a minute,” she said. “Get the staff sergeant up. Carefully.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Walker said.
“You need backup?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” Walker said. “I can handle it.”
He knocked, hard, on the door of the cabin the Marines had been assigned.
“FIRST CALL, MARINES! ON YOUR FEET!”
“Status?” Decker said, yanking open the door.
“Inbound fast boat,” Walker snapped. “Sounds like Gunnery Sergeant Sands. Five minutes. Uniform is MarPat and boots. No LBE, no weapons, no K-pot.”
“Roger,” Decker said. “You heard the man, Private First Class. Inspection in two minutes!” He slammed the door shut.
“Wow,” Walker muttered, shaking his head. “Talk about wrapped like a string…”
He darted into his compartment and rummaged for a second, then came back out and stood by the door.
It snapped open and Decker nearly collided with him.
“Kiwi,” Walker said, holding up the can. He slammed it onto the bigger Marine’s chest.
“Roger,” Decker said, taking the can. “Thank you, Mr. Walker.”
“You are welcome, Staff Sergeant Decker.”
“Your coffee, ma’am,” Walker said, handing the ensign a cup. She was in uniform but still pretty bleary. “Status report, ma’am?”
“Please,” Sophia said, taking a sip.
“I rousted out Olga, she has the conn,” Walker said. “Fast boat is still few minutes out. The Marines are prepared for inspection. If I may make a recommendation. Have you ever performed an inspection, ma’am?”
“Of people in uniform?” Sophia said. “No.”
“The way it works is the junior, usually an NCO, goes first and performs a preinspection. Then the inspector performs the inspection. There should be someone following to accept notes from the inspector. I would recommend, ma’am, that I take the first position and perform a preinspection. Then you inspect. You just have to seem to be looking at stuff. I’ll make sure they’re as ready as they’re going to be.”
“Any idea who was on the boat?” Sophia asked.
“I’m pretty sure it was the gunny on the radio, ma’am,” Walker said. “Never met him but, met one gunny you’ve met them all. Marines are on the aft deck. If that idea meets with your approval, give me one minute and I’ll be prepared.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Sophia said.
“Be right back.”
Walker pulled out a piece of double-sided tape and taped down one corner of a pocket that was sticking out on PFC Condrey’s uniform.
“Staff Sergeant Decker, ensure that both these uniforms are turned in for direct exchange as soon as possible,” Walker said. “The LeafBrown pattern is sun-faded.”
“Aye, aye, Mr. Walker,” the staff sergeant said.
“Boots are clean and polished but unserviceable due to exigency of conditions,” Walker said. “Again, DX item. Otherwise, good turnout, Marine.”
“Thank you, sir,” the PFC said.
“The PFC is ready for your inspection, ma’am,” Walker said.
Sophia checked the PFC’s uniform as if she knew what she was doing, then the staff sergeant’s. She didn’t find any fault.
“The order is ‘Parade Rest’ then ‘Rest,’ ma’am,” Walker whispered in her ear.
“Marines. Parade rest. Rest,” Sophia said, then looked at Walker. The man nodded as the Marines assumed the position of Parade Rest.
“Ol— Seaman Apprentice Zelenova! Status on the inbound.”
“One mile out and still closing, ma’am.”
“Radio to have them come up on the port side.”