“And I suppose you’ll just stay on the boat, fat and happy?” Olga said.
“No,” Sophia said. “Tomorrow, at least, I’ll be leading the away team. Frankly, I’d rather do that than sit on the boats and watch my people go out. Lieutenant Chen wanted to lead it but I convince him not only do I have more ground combat experience, he needed to be on the boats. I want to make sure they’re here when we get back. And what I really want to do is go find some harbor that’s not teeming with sharks and catch a tan and drink some rum and maybe do a little diving. But that’s not what we get to do right now.
“What we get to do is go find people who are dying and hopeless. So that in a few weeks, some of them will be back, hopefully, helping do the same thing. And maybe, just maybe, if we get enough of them, one day we can go find that beach that’s not black fucking volcanic sand surrounded by friends-eating sharks and drink some rum and talk about Cody.
“But now, it’s Navy shit. Cold, hard, math. And tomorrow, you’re going to be getting in that dinghy, in a shark filled marina, and cutting out yachts. And if you really want to honor Cody, instead of shooting sharks, remember to keep your damned balance and don’t feed them. The correct response is ‘Aye, aye, Lieutenant.’ ”
“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” Olga said.
“Last thing,” Sophia said. “If it had been you in the water and Cody sitting here, what would he have done tomorrow?”
Olga thought about that for a while and shrugged.
“He’d have gotten in the dinghy,” Olga said.
“Because Cody was always about the God damned mission,” Sophia said, choking.
“Oh, don’t you cry, too,” Olga said. “We’re never going to get anything done if you start crying.”
“Like a river,” Sophia said. “And all we’ve got to do right now is play bait.”
“I should have screwed him,” Olga said. “I was going to. I was just playing hard to get.”
“Yeah, probably,” Sophia said, shrugging. “But that was yesterday. For tonight… Well, I’m going to have to clear with a hangover in the morning. Let’s have a wake… ”
* * *
“Bloody hell,” Sergeant Major Barney said as the military “fast-boat” inflatable finally slowed. It had been going balls to the wall most of the night, more or less bouncing from wave-top to wave top. And not regularly by any stretch of the imagination. Barney’s kidneys felt as if they were going to bleed for a week. But the “Flotilla” was finally in sight, the only electric lights they’d seen since leaving Tenerife. “I thought Ferrets beat you up. I hope to never have to repeat this experience.”
“Gotta love the ocean, Mick,” Chief Schmidt said. He’d slept like a baby most of the ride or at least seemed to have. “Think of her as a mother. An abusive one.”
“Ah, well, that makes so much more sense, Yank, thanks,” Barney said. “But how do you handle it? I had a mum and dad.”
“Flotilla, Fast Twenty-Nine.”
The kid driving the boat was, well, a kid. He couldn’t have been more than twelve. But he seemed to know what he was doing. He’d found the Flotilla at least.
“Oh, come on,” the kid said. “Somebody’s got to hear the radio, right?”
As they neared the Flotilla they could hear music playing. Loudly. And there were people on deck dancing to the music. It looked like a party, not a military operation.
Zombies apparently wanted to join in. The Flotilla was broken into two groups, one by a marina and one by some beaches to the north. Zombies were roaming both the marina and the beaches, obviously trying to join the party.
“Yeah, what’s up?” a slurred voice answered. “And what’s a fast twenty-nine? Sounds like a band… ”
“Fast boat coming up on your party, over,” the kid said. “Bringing some reinforcements from Squadron.”
“Yeah, I dunno nothin’ about that. Hang on …”
“S’up?”
The new voice was female and just as clearly drunk.
“This is Fast Boat Twenty-Nine?” the kid said. “From the Squadron? I’ve got two replacements for you.”
“A’ight. Hey, hey, Paula! Get the flare gun. Go to the boats by the marina. Go to the one that fires the flare. Just tie up alongside. We’re having a rockin’ wake for Anarchy.”
The voice was clearly, even deeply, Southern. Between the drawl and the slur it was hard to make out some of the words. “Git uh flar gone. Duh wun thet fars the flar.”
“Roger,” the kid said. “Uh… Fast Twenty-Nine, out. I guess we go to the flare, sirs.”
The chief just hung his head at the “sir.” There really wasn’t any point.
There were three yachts and two gunboats anchored by the marina, bouncing on the light waves. As they approached one of them fired off a red signal flare, then another. Then another. Then one at the zombies on the shore. That one landed in the midst of them, hitting one of them. The rest scattered from the flame then chased down the injured one and piled on to eat. The resulting feeding frenzy was a scene from Dante’s Inferno, complete with red lighting.
There were shouts and applause from the yachts. They were barely audible over “Welcome to the Jungle” cranked to nuclear level.
Then there was a burst of fire from one of the gunboats. It initially seemed aimed at the infected. Then it was turned on the water, then up as if trying to hit an invisible plane. Then back to the infected still clustered to feed. Tracers were bouncing of rocks and pinging into the air wildly. Lord only knew where the rest of the rounds were going. This produced still more shouts.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Barney said.
“Okay, a little loose around the edges I can handle,” Chief Schmidt said. “But are we US Navy or fucking hajis?”
“My thoughts exactly, Chief,” the sergeant major said. “Bloody fifty just keeps going.”
“Uh, do I tie up alongside?” the kid asked. “Are you gonna climb over?”
“Pull alongside the transom deck,” the Chief said. “That’s for boarding.”
“The what deck?”
“The trans… Oh, just let me do it!” Chief Schmidt unbuckled from his seat and took the wheel. “Just get ready to handle the lines.”
“Okay,” the kid said.
“The correct response is ‘aye, aye, Chief Petty Officer,’ ” Chief Schmidt snapped. “And I am not a ‘sir.’ I work for a living.”
“Yes, s … Ok …”
“Try ‘Yes, Chief Petty Officer,’ ” the Sergeant Major said.
“Okay.”
“I would weep, but the ocean is made of the tears of men,” the sergeant major said.
Some people at the party caught the tossed lines and tied up the boat.
“Permission to come aboard?” the Chief Petty Officer asked. There didn’t appear to be an Officer of the Deck. In fact, there was no way to tell who was who. Everyone was in civvies, mostly shorts and T-shirts or Hawaiian shirts. A couple of the chicks were in bikini tops.
“Sure,” the woman greeter said. “We figure if you can talk and you’re wearing clothes, you’re probably not a zombie. Come on over. What’s your tipple?”
“I don’t mind a drink,” the Chief said. “But it sort of looks like people have had enough.”
“Not even close,” the woman shouted. “We’re having a wake for Anarchy. Besides, it’s how we draw in the zombies. Who are you guys?”
“Chief Petty Officer Kent Schmidt,” Chief Schmidt said. “And Sergeant Major Raymond Barney. We’re coming aboard as Chief of the Squadron and Sergeant Major of the clearance forces.”