“I don’t do dark spaces that might have zombies in them.”
“I’ll check it,” Anarchy said. “You two, don’t fire unless a zombie swims aboard.”
“Sharks,” Olga said. “Don’t think they’ll make it.”
“Then don’t fire,” Anarchy said.
He swept the interior of the boat but it was clean. Probably nobody had been aboard since the Plague.
“All clear,” he said, stepping out of the saloon. “What’s next?”
“Get me the batteries out of the boat and I’ll see if it will crank,” he said. “I’m still gonna need somebody to keep an eye out. Not going to have time to be looking around for zombies.”
“Olga,” Anarchy said. “Rusty, get back in the boat and hand me up the batteries.”
* * *
“You got lights?” the mechanic said. “I got a headlamp but you’re gonna need lights.”
“I’ve got lights.” She turned on her rail light and pulled out a headlamp. She also had a hand taclight.
The mechanic checked the oil, humping in apparent satisfaction, then disconnected the batteries from the engine.
“How’s it going to run with no batteries?” Sophia asked.
“I’m going to install the ones I brought,” the mechanic said. “These have been sitting for so long, not only are they D-E-D, dead, they’re probably shot. I’ll check ’em back on the Debt. The way things are going, we’d better find a container of batteries soon. So, you’re the Ukrainian chick? Why no accent?”
“I was born in Ukraine,” Olga said. “I grew up in Chicago.”
“Enjoyed your little orgasm on the boat,” the guy said, grinning. He was missing his middle front teeth.
“I tell you what,” Olga said. “You concentrate on fixing the engine. I’ll concentrate on not wondering if you’re going zombie and I should shoot you.”
“Okay,” the guy said, holding up his hands. “Sorry.”
“There is a time for fun and a time to concentrate,” Olga said as Rusty came in hauling one of the big marine batteries. “Know the difference.”
“Where do you want it?” Rusty said.
“I could make some suggestions,” Olga said, leaving the compartment.
* * *
Cutting out the larger yacht was equally simple. The first time they had to fire was when they were securing the last of the offshore inflatables. The inflatable didn’t have an outboard and the deck was teak. It really didn’t look a bit like the others. But it did look fast.
They’d just boarded when an infected came stumbling up out of the previously unidentified cabin. It charged Mcgarity, screaming at the top of its lungs.
The former specialists reacted by grabbing it by the hair and tossing it over the side. Unfortuately, that sort of scream was zombie for “dinner time” and more heads started popping up all over.
“Let’s get this cut out,” Mcgarity said.
“I can just untie it,” Olga said, running forward. There was only one line securing it.
Infected were trotting down the wharf and Mcgarity pointed right.
“Rusty, starboard,” Anarchy said, keying his radio. “Division, fire support, over.”
“Roger.” Fifties started booming from the gunboat and the infected did their usual dance.
“Anarchy!” Paula yelled. “Little help?”
She’d tied the dinghy to the bigger inflatable, as they’d been doing, and when Olga got the lines free she’d started to pull out. Unfortunately, the infected had grabbed the tow line and was in the process of pulling himself aboard the dinghy.
Anarchy walked onto the transom deck of the inflatable and put three rounds into the infected, just as it got a hand onto the side of the dinghy. Just about that time the tension in the tow-line snapped. He lost his footing and went over the side into the water.
The weight of his gear sucked him down immediately and the sharks were already showing up for the shot infected.
“RUSTY, OLGA!” Paula screamed. “Anarchy’s in the water!”
The water was crystal clear. Olga looked over the side and could see the former specialist struggling to get out of his gear. But the sharks closed in. There was a gush of air and blood and the struggling stopped mercifully fast.
“What’da we do?” Rusty said, rubbing his rifle and pointing it then lowering it. It was clear the big guy had no clue what to do next.
“We go get a grapnel and try to get back as much as we can,” Olga said. “Hopefully, we’ll be allowed to give him a decent burial.”
* * *
“. . Understood, Squadron. LitDiv, out.”
Mcgarity’s loss had been a huge morale blow to the Division. That was bad enough. But in Chen’s eyes, professionally, the worse blow was the loss of experience. Mcgarity was the only person he had who was school trained on the MaDeuce and had extensive experience with it. Not to mention the only one with combat experience prior to the Plague. Or, for that matter, more than Navy boot camp. He had one, count ’em, one Navy seaman who had been a Seaman Apprentice prior to the Plague and was now a PO3. Midshipmen and Ensigns who had had “some prior civilian boating experience.” The DivTwo commander was a semi-professional, female, yachtsmen. And not much older than Sophia.
And now fucking Squadron wanted him to crew these new boats with the odds and sods they were carrying and “continue the mission”! “If any combat personnel become available, they will be moved to your location. Continue the mission.”
“Sir,” Seaman Recruit Erlfeldt said. “Seawolf just boarded. Requests a minute of your time.”
“Send her in,” Chen said. Just what he needed.
Sophia was carrying a bottle of booze. With a shot glass on top.
“Not what’s needed at this time, Lieutenant,” Chen said.
“Booze is officially forbidden on US Navy vessels, sir,” Sophia said, cracking the top and pouring a shot. “Except for two, count ’em, two shot bottles of medicinal bourbon per person aboard carried on all large vessels in the event of a significant trauma that requires broad tranquilization of the crews, sir.” She held out the shot. “And this was Anarchy’s favorite tipple.”
Chen took the shot, toasted and downed it.
“Specialist Cody Anarchy Mcgarity,” Chen said. “May he rest in peace.”
“Paula is taking the big yacht,” Sophia said. “Patrick is going aboard the smaller one as engineer. There is a guy with boating experience in the prize crews. He’ll take over as skipper. Ensign Bowman and I detailed off people to the boats and they’re being shuttled around. That should take about another thirty minutes. Then, we need to leave, sir.”
“Continue the mission,” Chen said, handing the shot glass back.
“Yes, sir,” Sophia said. “With due respect, recommend stopping offshore for burial at sea.”
“Concur,” Chen said. “Continue the mission.”
CHAPTER 23
When a soldier looks up on the battlefield he will not see his first sergeant, sergeant major, company commander, battalion commander … he won’t even see his platoon sergeant! He WILL see HIS sergeant … the squad leader, crew chief, team leader, tank commander … and this NCO will principally provide the leadership, advice, counsel, and firm and reassuring direction on that battlefield.
“Grab a seat, gentlemen,” Steve said, tapping at his computer. “Be with you in just a second… ”
He looked up after a moment and frowned.
“I used to get to kill zombies,” Steve said. “These days I spend most of my time reading spreadsheets and reports. Which one is retired Chief Petty Officer Roland Schmidt?”
Both of the men were probably pushing sixty. They weren’t alike, visually, but he had only been given the names.
“Here, sir,” Schmidt said in a gravelly voice. He was silver haired with dark brown eyes, nearly black, and a compact frame.
“And that would make you retired Sergeant Major Raymond Barney, her Majesty’s Royal Army,” Steve said, looking at the second man. He was had the look of being formerly heavyset with sagging jowels. He’d recently shaved his head but it was apparent he was mostly bald, anyway.