“Proceed to 23.274,-27.949. Rendezvous, USS Santa Fe for fishing ops.”
“What?” Sophia shouted. They were supposed to be the next on schedule to spend a night aboard the luxury yacht. She thought about it for a moment then keyed the radio. “Roger, Ops. Proceeding… ”
“You’re in the Navy, now,” Paula sang. “You’re in the Navy now… How do I get out?”
* * *
“USS Santa Fe, USS Santa Fe, No Tan Lines, over,” Sophia radioed. “Come on, be around here somewhere.” There was no sign of the sub but that was sort of the point. “I know you know where I am.”
“No Tan Lines, come to heading one-six-niner, range fourteen thousand yards, over.”
“Heading one-six-niner, fourteen klicks, aye,” Sophia said. It was back the way they’d came. “I know you had me on sonar. You could have told me to wait up there… ”
* * *
She could see the ECM mast about two klicks out.
“No Tan Lines, hold your position. We will intercept and engage the fish, gather ours, submerge, then you get yours.”
“That sounds vaguely wrong for some reason,” Anarchy said. “They get theirs first. And how are they going to ‘engage’ the fish?”
“Not sure,” Sophia said. “Usually when we run across a school we just, you know, fish for them… ”
The Yankee search was so powerful, reverberations of it could be felt through the hull, and her depth finder went nuts. As they watched, a school of yellowfin floated to the surface.
“What the hell was that?” Paula said, flying up to the flying bridge. “My teeth are rattling.”
“And so we have another zombie apocalypse moment,” Sophia said, shaking her head.
* * *
“Well that’s something you don’t see every day,” Gunny Sands said.
The USS Annapolis was towing behind it a small yacht that would, possibly, have made a decent dinghy for the football-field-length submarine.
There was already a medical and resupply team standing by in moonsuits to bring the family vaccine and supplies. The moonsuits weren’t to protect the greeting party but the family onboard the yacht. The MREs had even been decontaminated.
“Welcome a zombie apocalypse moment, Gunnery Sergeant Sands,” Faith said. “Defined as a ‘What the fuck’ moment that could only happen in a zombie apocalypse. We tend to call it a zam or a zammie.”
They were standing on the lead edge of the flight deck of the Iwo Jima after completing morning PT. They could use most of the ship for PT, now, running up and down companionways, climbing stairs, running the flight deck, jumping coamings, and generally having a oorah Marines afloat day, because the ship was just about completely clear of infecteds. They still had some areas to check for survivors but that was getting to the point of no returns.
The Iwo might even run again, someday-the infected had done a lot of damage, but most of it was repairable-given parts and trained personnel. They had gotten personnel from the boat but it was a grab bag and, for fairly obvious reasons, tended towards store keepers and cooks. They were in the areas which had stores when the abandon ship call went down. They’d found damned few engineering personnel. Alive and uninfected, at least.
“I’ll keep that in mind, young lady,” the gunny said. Two weeks “limited activities” and food and he was starting to look like a gunnery sergeant again. He still didn’t fill out his uniform but he was PTing. Not exactly running the young bucks into the ground but he was getting there. Faith had to admit that, no, she could not keep up with most of the Marines, especially since they PTd in gear. So she and the Gunny had been working out together. Turned out the Gunny was, unsurprisingly, an A-Number One coaming jumper, a skill she was still trying to master.
He was, also unsurprisingly, a master of Marine lore and trivia as well as an expert tactician and weapons expert. He’d started off sort of disgruntled at the suggestion that he PT with a guuurl but had taken the opportunity to increase her store of professional knowledge. And while in agreement on “The Wolf Squadron Way” of clearance had put his professional knowledge and acumen to the subject and suggested useful “tweaks” that had been tested then implemented.
“Thank you for increasing my understanding of this brave new world in which we reside and fight, ma’am.”
“That wasn’t meant as a… ” Faith said. She really liked and admired the Gunny and didn’t want to insult him.
“That was not intended ironically, Miss,” Gunny Sands said. “As I have been teaching you a bit about the hallowed lore of the U-S-M-C, the information transfer has not been all one way. That is an example thereof. Just as you previously pointed out that zombies do not retreat and, therefore, small teams can expect at some point to come to melee distance or, as you put it ‘get into the scrum.’ Which has now become Post-Plague Marine slang on the same level of commonality as ‘FUBAR’ and ‘BOHICA.’ And that, therefore, it is useful to keep multiple knives on your person when clearing in case you’re in a ‘scrum’ or even worse ‘in a dunny.’ Rather than it being purely an affectation.”
“Understood, Gunnery Sergeant,” Faith said.
“Miss Smith, your father, tentatively, brought up the subject of making you a Marine.”
“I don’t think I’ve got what it takes, Gunny,” Faith said, shrugging. “I can’t keep up with the guys now that they’re getting back in shape. Heck, I can only climb a hawser once in gear. The guys go up them over and over again.”
“You are female, Miss Smith,” Sands said. “Men and women do not directly compete in the Olympics for a reason. I would never expect you to compete head to head in PT with the troops. The question is not can you compete as a male in PT or even certain types of combat. Although you are one of the few women I could honestly see being qualified in all respects for infantry combat. You make the grade at the point of low-level male infantryman, which is all that’s required if you were to be a regular Marine rifleman.
“The questions are many others. Are you emotionally mature enough for the job? Are you physically fit enough as a female? Can you handle the physical and mental aspects of this type of combat? The only traditional ways of judging those thing is by putting you through some sort of introductory training and testing. Boot camp, for example. Are you, in fact, tough enough to be a Marine? Boot camp puts stresses on you that even this type of combat does not inflict. We stop clearance after a certain point each day. Can you continue for days with little rest or sleep?
“Then there are the technical legal aspects. You are performing, would be expected to continue to perform, front-line combat. You are, again obviously, thirteen. When he suggested it, I found it ludicrous on its face but I was… polite. I told him you’d probably make a great Marine in five years.”
“Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant,” Faith said. “I hope I can make the grade in five years.”
“He suggested that I spend some time examining the new reality and table the discussion,” Sands said. “I have since revisited the issue. With the approval of the L-T and Colonel Ellington, and if you agree, you are to be sworn in as a probationary third lieutenant, U-S-M-C at noon tomorrow.”
“I’m not sure that’s… wise, Gunny?” Faith said. “I mean, I know I’m sort of a mascot… ”
“Oh, you are far more than a mascot, Miss Smith,” the Gunny said. “The reality is that we have exactly thirty Marines in current manning. We are so very few. They can all serve as clearance specialists but most are not, in fact, infantry. Aircraft crewmen, tankers, mechanics. Cooks. We also have five oceans and seven seas worth of ships to clear. There are cruise liners still at sea. Entire Carrier Strike Groups. We need every single person who can make the grade and, Miss Smith, thirteen, chick and all, you make the grade in a leap.”