This laissez faire approach to business had resulted in a booming economy during the late 1700s. Warehouses lined Oranjestad Bay, sugar and rum flowed like honey and the island was referred to as “The Golden Rock” for the immense wealth made from the trade transfers.
However, the support of the Colonial Rebellion resulted in a great deal of ire on the part of the British and it was it was subsequently conquered by the British and then the French after the revolution. The traders, mostly Jewish, were deported, the economy more or less collapsed and the island was at one point virtually depopulated. It was eventually returned to the Dutch and again, for a while, became a linchpin of trade in the Netherland Antilles. Eventually that faded to generalized farming and tourism. Just prior to the Apocalypse it had been selected as the perfect site for an oil transfer station. The deep waters and sharp shoaling in humorously named “Tumble-Down-Dick Bay” meant that tankers could, carefully, come close in shore to hook up to an off-shore oil-transfer pier that led to a series of large containers on the hills overlooking the bay. It was upgraded to provide refined products as well and smaller support tankers and even large freighters were stacked up nose to nose waiting to either off-load or onload various forms of liquid gold. So, once again, Sint Eustatius was in trade and the economy was booming…
And now it was depopulated again. There were all the signs of the Apocalypse—the burned houses, the infected picking the beach and fighting seagulls for scraps. But there were two good signs. The oil transfer point appeared to be intact. There were, or had been, two high volcanic hills with a narrow valley, more of a gorge, between. The northern hill had clearly been flattened and now held several dozen oil tanks ranging from multimillion gallon to a few tens of thousands of gallon. None of those appeared to be damaged nor had the area been swept by fire: the area had been thoroughly brushed to prevent just that. The oil pier appeared to be in good shape from the close pass they had made. Although they were going to have to raise a tug that was sunk nearby. There were some support buildings and large generators that were near the waterline which might have taken damage but even those seemed to have survived whatever tropical storms came through with minimal damage. The numerous tugs that supported the pier were, unfortunately, missing, other than the one upended by the pier. But the squadron had tugs. Now they might have fuel for them.
The second good sign was revealed as they came in sight of the town of Oranjestad. Fort Oranje, the antique defense of the town, was occupied. There was an untorn Flag of Orange flying from the mast, indicating it had been taken in in bad weather, and people were gathered on the ramparts watching the approaching Force.
“Cloggies?” Colonel Hamilton said.
“There appear to be persons in the uniform of the Dutch Marines on the ramparts, sir,” Barney replied. “We refer to them as cloggies, sir. Sorry.”
“I see,” Hamilton said. “I see who you’re talking about. Signaller, send a standard code signal and see what we get. In this case, we sort of need permission to perform an assault.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Petty Officer Simms said. He began flashing the Aldis lamp at the fort.
“Very good,” Sergeant Pier Niels Roosevelt said reading the transmission. Americans frequently asked Sergeant Roosevelt about his name, given that he was both black and Dutch. He would calmly tell them that Roosevelt was originally a Dutch name and that, in addition, his great-grandparents had changed their name to Roosevelt in honor of Theodore Roosevelt, whom they much admired.
One company of Netherland Marines was stationed on Curacao, which was where Sergeant Roosevelt was born. He’d joined the Marines when he was eighteen and managed to wangle a transfer from MARSOF, the Marine Commandoes, back to the “regular” Marines in Curacao just in time for a zombie apocalypse. As soon as the situation was clearly getting out of control, the company commander had dispatched one platoon to “maintain security” in Sint Eustatius. Given the strategically critical oil terminal, it was a no-brainer decision.
Unfortunately, what he hadn’t sent along was vaccine. Two-thirds of the platoon had succumbed to either the direct flu-based plague or bites from infected before the sergeant, a remnant equaling about a squad, and a handful of locals fell back on the fort.
They’d been holed up there ever since. Fortunately, his platoon leader had immediately recognized its utility and laid in food stores. Water had been a potential problem but simply fixing up the original cisterns, which had taken some work, and waiting for the inevitable rainfall in the summer had taken care of that problem. There were thirty-three survivors in the fort and he had calculated that they could hold out for another six months. After that, they’d starve.
“What are they saying?” Counselor Michel Roelof Van Der Beek asked.
“They are asking permission to perform a dawn assault,” Sergeant Roosevelt said.
“Why are they here?” Counselor Van Der Beek asked.
The relationship was touchy. Counselor Van Der Beek was, as far as anyone was aware, the senior remaining member of the Island Council, the local governing body. From his point of view, that put him in charge.
Martial law had been declared before everything fell completely apart. So that put the military in charge. And Sergeant Roosevelt only took orders from his chain of command. He’d accept orders from, say, a civilian member of the Ministry of Defense or the Prime Minister’s office. A local official could not give him orders, legally. And Counselor Van Der Beek could not seem to get his head around that fact.
“It really doesn’t matter,” Sergeant Roosevelt replied. The fort was in view of Saba and they had seen the dawn attack the previous day. They couldn’t make out much more than that but he was prepared to let them have the whole island if they wanted. “We can’t break out on our own and we have only three months’ supplies left. Would you prefer I told them to go away?”
“Are they here to take the oil is the question?” Counselor Van Der Beek asked.
“If they were simply here to take the oil, they would not have cleared Saba,” Sergeant Roosevelt replied. “None of which matters. This is clearly a military decision.”
“Concur ground assault. Thirty-three survivors this location. Ten Marine, rest civilian. Intentions?”
“Send this:” Colonel Hamilton said. “Aggressive day and night clearance purpose establish green zone Statia AO. Reestablish oil point to support ongoing military operations. Drop civilian refugees, Saba, St. Barts for recolonization. Link up by zero eight hundred hours tomorrow to discuss ongoing operations.”
“So they are really here for the oil,” Counselor Van Der Beek said triumphantly. “I told you.”
“Which they obviously need to continue their operations, Counselor,” Sergeant Roosevelt said. “I’ll remind you that both the Netherlands and the United States are members of NATO and required to give assistance in times of need. This, Counselor, is very much a time of need. Their assistance is obviously clearing the island. We will discuss it with them tomorrow. At least now we know there will be a tomorrow.” He began to signal the cluster of ships, wondering if they were really who they said they were.