“Thank you, Gunny,” Faith said, her chin working. “I’ll try to… I’ll try to be a good Marine.”
“Marine Officer, note,” the Gunny said. “The one thing I’ll ask you to do is tighten up, a bit, on the decorum. Only a bit, though, because there is, also, yes, the aspect of what you call ‘a mascot.’ ”
“If that is… ” Faith said, carefully.
“If I may, Miss,” Sands said. “What you call ‘a mascot’ is more what should be termed ‘an icon.’ A subject not just of morale but of veneration or even worship. These men are United States Marines, yes, and they will continue to do their duty. But they are Marines who have lost everything. Family, friends, buddies, country. We are one and all lost and adrift on a darkling sea. You, Miss Smith, have become not their pin-up girl but their heart and soul. They would follow me into hell. Charge any shore, face any fire. I am their Gunny. That’s what Marines do. If you hinted that Satan had a case of ammo you particularly liked, they would charge in without a bucket of water. As Staff Sergeant Januscheitis said when he, separately, brought the idea up: ‘The only thing we’ve got left, Gunny, is Faith.’ ”
CHAPTER 7
I, [name], do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.
“So, Captain, what now?” Galloway asked. The NCCC had his fingers steepled and was, in Steve’s opinion, looking just a bit too much like Doctor Evil.
The Iwo Jima was cleared. They’d found forty-three Naval personnel and sixteen Marines, with Gunny Sands and Lt. Volpe being the most senior. There were two navy Full Lieutenants, including Pellerin and “various other ranks.” No Chiefs. The senior were three PO1s. No pilots, some aviation crewmen, both Marine and Navy.
It was not a great number out of a complement of twelve hundred Navy and nearly two thousand Marines.
“There are several options, sir,” Steve said. “Do you want me to lay out my arguments for and against or just cut right to my preferred plan?”
“The main question is the vaccine,” Galloway said. “The subs are surviving… surprisingly well. But they cannot operate indefinitely.”
“I have the submarine crews very firmly in the forefront of my mind, sir,” Steve said. “There’s a whole list of materials we need for producing vaccine. We’ve been over that, I understand. Gitmo is my preferred target for that. The base hospital, as of just prior to the fall and according to anecdotal data should have the equipment and material. Hopefully with the gear at Gitmo we can make vaccine.”
“So you’re heading to Gitmo?” Commander Freeman said.
“I would prefer not to do so at this time, Commander,” Steve said. “The main reason is the continuing vulnerability of my forces to storm. My boats are mostly small, and while their crews have a lot of experience at sea at this point, I really don’t think they’re up to sailing through a hurricane. We can try to dodge them at sea but… ”
“I’m a Naval officer,” Freeman said, drily. “I’m aware of the power of the ocean, Captain, as well as the fickle nature of hurricanes. With due respect.”
The relationship between the two was tricky. Freeman had yet to be appointed a captaincy but was in some ways, technically, the Chief of Naval Operations and Steve’s boss.
“That is, in a nutshell, my argument against Road to Gitmo at this time, Mister Under Secretary,” Steve said. “Cognizant as I am that, pardon, now my submarine crews are slowly starving to death. On the other hand, they are also fishing quite successfully and have adequate vitamins to prevent nutrition deficiency for the time being. The main ones that I’m worried about are the ones that critical systems busted and are now ashore on desert islands. Especially those on ones who are also subject to tropical storms. I was planning on having a brain-storming session with the sub skippers and Commander Freeman on that subject at a later time. However, to the main point. I really would prefer not to subject the Squadron to a hurricane. The season ends at the end of November. At that time we can easily move to Gitmo and begin clearance operations. That is less than two months. I’m going to take a survey of which boats are unlikely to be able to hang on that long and determine other options. My current plan is a redeployment for aggressive at-sea search, clearance and rescue operations in low-storm zones as well as testing littoral clearance methods after some redistribution of personnel… ”
* * *
“Nice uniform, sis,” Sophia said.
Faith was wearing Marine Pattern Camouflage, colloquially called both MarPat and MarCam, and was carrying a cloth shopping bag.
The No Tan Lines had been “redeployed” back to the main squadron for “refit and resupply.” They were actually okay on the supply part. If anything, they were going to be off-loading. The flotilla had been stockpiling “excess supplies” on the supply ships. Not that Sophia gave up her good stash.
“Thanks,” Faith said, tossing Sophia the cloth shopping bag she was carrying. “There’s yours.”
“Mine?” Sophia said. The bag felt extremely full.
“We got an official suggestion from the CO of the Alex that we find you a uniform,” Faith said. “I got tasked to find your size in the uniform store on the Iwo. There’s tactical boots in it, too. Then I got an unofficial message that you might want to think about wearing something a little more often. Been doing what you can to raise the morale on the subs, sis?”
“Oh,” Sophia said, breathing through her nose. “Those glowing green bastards!”
“Never trust a submariner,” Faith said, giggling.
“How’ve you been?” Sophia said, waving her into the boat.
“Good,” Faith said. “Getting there, anyway. Kicking the ass of Marines is sort of fun.”
“Kicking Marine ass?” Paula said. “Do tell.”
“They’re good, don’t get me wrong,” Faith said. “But they’d trained for fighting hajis in the Sandbox. Fighting zombies in a ship is different. And they’re supposed to be trained for fighting shipboard but it’s not really something they’d concentrated on.”
“We found you a present as well,” Sophia said. “Paula, where’s that case of the good stuff?”
“Right under here,” Paula said, opening up the compartment under the bar.
“You know I don’t drink alcohol,” Faith said. “Much.”
“Tada!” Paula said, pulling out a case of Razzleberry Tea.
“Oh,” Faith said, panting. “This is nearly as great as when we found a stash of twelve-gauge on the Iwo!”
“You’re welcome,” Paula said, then opened up the fridge and pulled out a cold one.
“Found a boat that somebody was apparently an equal fan,” Sophia said, pouring herself a glass of brandy. “Cheers, sis.”
“Up your bottom!” Faith said, then took a sip. “Ah, nectar of the gods.”
“You’re really in the Marines?” Paula asked.
“I have been having an abbreviated class on military decorum,” Faith said, making a face. “I was going to get pinned right away but they decided to hold off until you rejoined the Squadron. Since you didn’t have a uniform or ‘accoutrements’ as I’ve learned they are called, we’ll both get pinned this afternoon. And that’s when I’ll get sworn in as a ‘probationary third lieutenant.’ ”