Strands of Sorrow (38 page)
Authors: John Ringo
Tags: #Fiction, #science fiction, #General, #Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic, #Military
“Understood, ma’am,” Phillips said.
“Oorah, ma’am,” Staff Sergeant Cordova said, grinning.
* * *
It had been a week and a half with no sign of rescue. Daily they checked the infected density. If anything, it had gone up but that might just be because they were turning the light on every day. Which would make getting out trickier. The zombies were going to be waiting for them.
They’d decided on a plan of heavy firepower at the beginning. Blast through the ones nearest the bunker, then work their way to the stairs. Marines would lead the way with the detail and two of the biggest FEMA guys either interspersed or at the rear. The bunker contained some full-coverage “silver suits” that the fighters would wear to protect from bites. Rebecca had pointedly refused them even for her family. They went to the people most in harm’s way.
Quietly, they had discussed the likelihood of surviving the breakout and it didn’t look good. The infected showed no signs of leaving the underground areas and there were tunnels from FEMA to other basements. They would come flooding in at the first attempt to break out. And the people in the bunker didn’t have any really good melee weapons except one clearance tool.
But it was the only reasonable option. That or cannibalism, which had been discussed. In retrospect, they should have eaten the people who turned. They had microwaves.
They’d all decided trying to break out, even if the chances were low, was the better alternative. There were fewer infected. It might work. Might.
“Freeze,” Sherry said.
There had been a lot of cross-training in the bunker. The Marines had shared their experience and training. The FEMA guys and gals were managers but had all spent time in the field and had their own training and experience. Even the detail had opened up about personal protection. So everyone knew what “freeze” meant. And did.
“I hear something,” Sherry said. “Stethoscope?”
Phillips applied it to the wall and frowned.
“You try,” he said, offering it to the girl.
“Something,” she whispered. “Tracked vehicle I think. But . . . it stopped. It didn’t fade. Just stopped. Now all I can hear is something . . . odd and you guys. Wait . . . that’s . . . You?” she said, offering it to Jerry again.
Jerry listened carefully, then shook his head.
“I don’t know what that is,” he said. “Maybe . . . I think it might be lots of infected moving . . . could be massed running . . . Wait . . . There’s thumps . . .”
* * *
“More grenades, Staff Sergeant!” Faith shouted, pulling the pin on two M87s and tossing them through the crack on the hatch one after the other.
“Aye, aye, ma’am!” Decker said, pulling more out of her rucksack.
They’d managed to fight their way to the building security station and get the hatch jammed against the infected. There was a shit-pot of them, though. Not like London but they only had two people.
The security station had been a nice secure point. The hatch was sturdy and they had it nicely blocked. Gave them time to water up, get a map, find the location of the bunker and reammo. Now all they had to do was get
out
of the room.
She leaned back as fragments pinged into the room. Not many, though. They were being caught by the bodies of infected blocking the hatch.
“We
will
eventually kill enough we can get out,” Faith said.
“Oorah, ma’am,” Decker said, handing her two more grenades, one at a time. “Caution. Pins are pulled, ma’am.”
“Thanks for that helpful safety tip, Staff Sergeant . . .”
* * *
“Lots of grenades,” Staff Sergeant Cordova said. “Has to be. More . . . More . . . Jesus.
Somebody
believes in peace through superior firepower . . . It’s stopped.”
“I think we should be prepared to break out,” Staba said. “Fighters, rig up.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Cordova said. “Let’s get it on!”
* * *
“You ever see the movie
Predator
, Staff Sergeant?” Faith shouted over the fire.
They were getting hit from both directions. Wave after wave of infected. They barely had time to reload. And the basement of FEMA was flooded. Really rancid water, too.
The only thing that was allowing them to move forward was her Saiga. And she was running out of pre-loaded magazines. She’d also carefully avoided dropping her pistols. She wasn’t going to go fumbling for them in the water.
“Yes, ma’am!” Decker said, drawing his 1911 and firing carefully.
“That scene where Jesse Ventura fires up the trees with the minigun,” Faith said, drawing her chest pistol. “Zumwald told me that was live. They didn’t use ‘squibs,’ whatever those are; they just fired the minigun. I should have seen one of those Navy nukes about getting a shotgun minigun!”
“That would have been useful about now, ma’am,” Decker said.
“
After
we find the President,” Faith said, holstering the gun. “Assuming we don’t get court-martialed. Need to reload.”
“Roger, ma’am,” Decker said, stepping backwards carefully so they were beside each other.
Faith dipped into his pack and started pulling out magazines, sliding them into pouches and weapons. The bottom of the pack was filled with ammo but the top was filled with pre-loads. On the other hand . . . She ran out of Saiga pre-loads before she got all her magazines filled.
A couple of infected had trotted up while she’d been loading. She took them off-hand and kept on going. Decker was dipping into her backpack at the same time, switching empty M4 mags for full.
“We gotta move before they cluster again,” Faith said. “Right up ahead if I’m reading the map correctly.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Decker said, firing at an incoming infected.
“Let’s roll . . .”
* * *
“The man trap where the bodies are is going to be an almost zero oxygen environment by now,” FEMA Deputy Director John Rossman said. “If we aerate it, we’ll temporarily overload our own filters. We can do that but it cuts down on our air time. I know we’re breaking out but . . . air is air. You’ll need to use the air pak to move forward. If we open up both doors, we’ll get air from both directions and it will clear. But not until then.”
Staff Sergeant Cordova was moving forward to try to hear if there was any sign of movement in their direction and getting a safety brief from the director.
“Roger, sir,” Cordova said, his voice muffled by the air pack and silver suit.
“Good luck, Staff Sergeant,” Rebecca said as a phone rang.
“Or not,” Phillips said, picking up the red phone and keying on the external light and camera.
There were two people in what looked like fire-fighter bunker suits and just
covered
in weapons at the external phone. The one with the phone to his ear was firing a pistol off-camera one-handed.
“HELLO! HELLO! TELL ME SOMEBODY’S IN THERE!”
“This is Special Agent Jerome Phillips,” Phillips said. “Who is this?”
“Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith, United States Marine Corps!”
She momentarily dropped the phone, whipped out a kukri and chopped the neck of a zombie that was clawing at her companion.
“Open the damned hatch! We need to reammo! Stand by!”
The woman dropped the phone again, holstered faster than he’d ever seen a detail member manage, pulled out two grenades, one in either hand, pulled the pins, flipped off the spoons, waited a moment then flipped them up and out. Both of the figures scrunched into the water, up against the wall, holding their arms inward.
“Holy fuck no!” Cordova said. “Sorry for the language, ma’am.”
“I was thinking much the same thing, Staff Sergeant,” Staba said.
Both figures stood back up after a moment and the grenade thrower picked up the phone.
“You’ve got ten seconds and we’re leaving,”
the woman said, holding the phone with her head and reloading one of her pistols. It was apparent she’d taken some fragments in her arm.
“We cannot hold this position.”
“Unlock the exterior door,” Staba said.
“Ma’am,” Phillips replied.
“Not a request!” Staba said.
“Unlocking the door,” Phillips said.
“Vent the mantrap,” Staba added.
“Already done,” Kraznewski said. He was the official systems engineer for the bunker.
* * *
“Thanks
so
much.”
The woman on the pickup . . . might be young. Might. It was hard to tell even with the gas mask off. Scarred of face, lined and weary, she had flat, dead, eyes. If the smell in the mantrap bothered her, it wasn’t apparent. It had seeped into the bunker when they vented the environment and it was gagging. It had to be worse in there.
“I need to see ID,” Phillips said.
“You want my ID?” the woman said. “Staff Sergeant, turn around.” She reached into the man’s backpack and pulled out a box of military grade 5.56. “That’s my ID. You want to reammo or not?”
“I still need to see ID,” Phillips said.
“Staff Sergeant, did
you
bring your ID?” the woman asked. “I left mine in my other pants.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Show the jerk your ID.”
“This will take a moment, sir,” the man said, starting to loosen his gear.
“Can you give a brief on the exterior conditions?” Phillips asked.
“Fucked up and then some,” the woman said, pulling more ammo out of the sergeant’s ruck and beginning to reload. “Long damned story. Short version is we were clearing D.C., found the Secretary of Education and she called a halt to all clearance operations. We have to be ‘kinder and gentler to the afflicted’ or some shit. This is a totally illegal and unauthorized operation but the worst they can do is arrest me and my sister, who’s providing top-cover. Besides, my da is
already
under arrest. If the Prez isn’t in there, we’re fucked. Hell, we’re probably fucked anyway. Not a big fan. If he’s listening . . . still not a big fan. Don’t give a fuck. Whatever.”
Rebecca leaned forward and pressed the talk button.
“The President isn’t,” Staba said. “The Vice President is.”
“REALLY?” the, definitely young, woman said with a squeal. “I’m, like, your BIGGEST fan!”
“Open the door, Jerry,” Staba said. “I think we’ll be okay.”
* * *
“Holy shit, it really
is
you!” Faith said then threw a salute. “Madame Vice President! Lieutenant Faith Marie Smith with a party of one! Permit me to introduce Staff Sergeant Alfred J. Decker, U-S-M-C, who has previously been declared totally bughouse due to PTSD and therefore is
not
responsible for his actions in this matter, ma’am!”
“I take it the President is missing or dead?” Staba said, returning the salute.
“MIA, ma’am,” Faith said. “You’re the highest ranking official we’ve found, ma’am.”
“Then neither of you have a
thing
to worry about,” the Vice President said, grinning. “But whoever obeyed the order to stop clearance operations may have a thing or two to answer for.”
“Semper Fidelis, ma’am,” Faith said. “There were reasons. My da agreed to house arrest to keep her from charging everyone in the world with crimes against humanity, ma’am. Ma’am . . .” Faith frowned for a moment.
“Rather than pull your party out, I should probably fight my way back to commo. There’s a Gunhawk driven by my sister up top. She can commo to Colonel Ramos that you’re here. That will give him the cover to break out. It’s pretty nasty out there, zombies, rats and nasty, stinking water, and we’ll have to fight our way to the surface. The staff sergeant and I can make it back topside. I’ve done weirder shit.”
“Oh,
hell
no,” Staba said. “I barely got a chance to shoot zombies on the way in. But no throwing grenades like popcorn, Lieutenant. Got it?”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
* * *
There was, unsurprisingly, a helipad on the roof of the FEMA building. Sophia had set down on it gently. Just because it was a helipad didn’t mean it was rated for a Gunhawk. But the building didn’t collapse. And the hatch was, for a change, locked.
So she’d been sitting there for four hours, occasionally restarting the engine to keep it warm, hoping against hope for word from Faith. She intended to wait until someone flew in and told her to leave at gunpoint. So far, so good.
“G . . . k . . . G . . . hawk . . . Wolf . . .”
“This is Gunhawk Nine,” Sophia said. “Broken.”
“Gunhawk . . . Got the . . . V . . .”
“Faith, you’re broken and unreadable,” Sophia said, starting the engines. “Olga, Anna . . . I’ve got Faith.”
“Thank God,” Olga said, test-firing her weapon.
“Gunhawk, Shewolf, over.”
“Hear you, Faith, over,” Sophia said.
“Heading to roof with Vice President,”
Faith said. There was a background of fire but that was normal for Faith.
“You are going to fly her and her family out. Six packs. You got the lift, right?”
“
Vice
President?” Sophia said. “And yes I do, over.”
“Make that President,”
Faith replied.
“Already sworn in. Call ops. Order of the President, not, say again,
not
acting. Need extract for twenty-three, say again, two-three, packs. That is
after
you pick the President and her family up. Over.”
“Roger,” Sophia said, grinning and changing frequencies. “Combat Ops, Combat Ops, Navy One. Say again . . . Navy
One
. . . Over.”
EPILOGUE
“But, Madame President,” Steve protested. “I had this great little island in the Mediterranean all picked out! Ponza. Beautiful place. Charming ruins. Blue grottoes. Saltwater pools the sharks can’t get to . . .”
The White House was surprisingly clear—it had been evacuated and the gates locked during the Fall—but D.C. in general was horrible. So the President had repaired to the
Festival Dawn
. And for the foreseeable future, the capital was going to be Jacksonville. D.C. was still too rife with infected. Guards would be left at critical points, notably the White House, the Capitol and Arlington, but once their resumed clearance ops were done, they were pulling out.
“Too bad, Steve,” Rebecca said. “Duty calls. You’re probably right that Project Subedey is too large and complex for your skill sets. Certainly for your interest. So we’ll be handing it off to others. And we’re going to change some titles around. I’ve been reading all the histories as well as the documentaries and who has turned up. So these are my first executive orders.
“General Montana is coming back east. He will reactivate his lieutenant generalcy and become CINCONUS as well as Commander-in-Chief Joint Forces, none of this ‘chief of staff’ bullshit. We’ll be working closely with him. General Hammond will be CINCARMY, which will be a major general position. Since most of the mission for the Army will involve genocide rather than battle, I’m sure that the former commander of Army Materials Command can run it. If he can’t, I’ll find someone who can. Admiral Soames will take over as CINCPAC, Commodore. Admiral Hiscock will become CINCLANT and CINCNAVY, rear admiral. General Ramos will be Marine Commandant, brigadier.
“General Brice will take over managing the Subedey construction and management programs. And, yes, we will be proceeding with Subedey. Brilliant, by the way. Air Force will be stood down for the foreseeable future. Key West agreement is out the window. Navy will handle all cargo aircraft. All Naval Aviation continues to be Navy, for the time being at least. Army can have fixed wing if they have a justifiable use for them but transport aircraft are Navy.
“I’m going to partially forgive Colonel Downing, move him to Navy as a captain, give him a small but reasonably sized task force, about the size of what you had in the Canaries, and send him to the Indian Ocean. We have bases there that need clearing. He’ll be the IO Squadron commander. We have a lot of gear and people between Diego Garcia and all the bases in the Gulf. We need to see if we can get any of that back. Diego will be the permanent base for that.”
“If I may, ma’am,” Steve said. “Thank you. I know that Faith has felt bad about how that worked out, and Colonel Downing is not that bad an officer. It was just an unfortunate incident.”
“Which is why I’m doing it,” Staba said. “IO is not by any stretch a great posting but it’s an important one. If for no other reason, we need the pre-po site on Diego. Those are permanent positions. Even if other flag rank officers turn up, we’re not going to keep slotting them in higher. I’ll be appointing appropriate Secretaries who will be acting until we get advice and consent. I’m also going to unofficially go back to the old terms. Screw this ‘Department of Defense’ stuff. We’re back to the Departments of War, Navy and Army. I’ll include the commandant as one of my advisors.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said. “But I don’t see where I fit in there.”
“I considered reactivating Wolf Squadron as our goodwill ambassadors to the rest of the world,” Staba said. “Anyone with a radio apparently knows who you are. But right now we’re primarily going to be concentrating on the U.S. I’ll send forces and supplies to our allies, absolutely. But clearing the U.S. has priority. However, I was in a hole for a year and probably will never be caught up on details of who is what and what is important. And you did resign, right? So you’re a civilian, now. Who do you think I want for my Secretary of War, Steve?”
“Ick, yuck!” Steve said. “I was getting tired of sitting at a desk in
Gitmo
!
And
I thought the force size was getting beyond my reach! Now you want me to be in charge of
the whole damned thing
? What about Secretary Galloway?”
“Secretary of the Army,” Staba said. “And you’ll be working directly with General Montana. You can feel free to lean on him. It’s not the vast force we once were. You’ll do fine. I don’t have a person in mind for Secretary of the Navy. That is one place where I’ll need your advice.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said. “Anthony Connor, ma’am.”
“Who?” Staba said.
“One of the gentlemen we picked up in St. Barts, ma’am,” Steve said. “Like Zumwald and Isham, he was a bit of an arse at first. Former CEO of a large defense contractor after a twenty-year career as a surface warfare officer. He had retired to St. Barts. He’s been running most of the civilian side of the ship refurbishment programs. And doing so
extremely
well. The only reason the
Bataan
got up and going as fast as it did was his work. He’s the right guy for the job, in my opinion, ma’am.”
“I’ll need to meet with him,” Staba said.
“He’s at Mayport, ma’am,” Steve said. “I’m sure you’ll get along. He’s not the arse that most defense contractors tended to be. Sharp as a whip and very dedicated to the nation, ma’am.”
“Sounds good,” the President said. “Again, need to meet him, first. Then there’s the really important appointment of Vice President.”
“I don’t have the requirements, ma’am,” Steve said. “And I hope you’re not thinking your husband, Madame President. That would be . . . an awful precedent.”
“Not Dave,” Staba said, grinning. “I agree it’s a bad precedent, and he wouldn’t want the job. And you don’t have the qualifications. But
Stacey
does. I don’t intend to die but if I do, your wife takes over. We cannot, again, get advice and consent. But I will have each of the upper echelon swear to follow her lead until a regular election. Even if Secretary Sovrain or any other potential ‘acting President’ we may find throws a hissy fit.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Steve said.
“You wanted a stout ship and a star to sail her by, Mister Secretary,” the President said. “That’s going to have to wait.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said.
“And it will allow you some family time,” the President said. “Since you took all the aviators away from the Marines, I’ll have to be flown by the Navy. Guess who one of my pilots is going to be?”
“She really is not . . . tremendously experienced, ma’am,” Steve said.
“She’s experienced enough to have pulled me off a roof when everyone else was dutifully following orders,” Staba said. “She’ll do. As a copilot at least. And I need a platoon leader for my Marine Guards. I think Faith needs a little dialing in on certain aspects of being an officer, and that will give her a chance. The Marine dress blues are quite pretty, even the officer ones. They’re even flattering on women.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Steve said, wincing. “Her deportment and tact are not . . . Faith
has
no tact, ma’am.”
“That is what I’m
looking
for
, Steve,” Rebecca said. “This is a world of pain. I’m not even going to vaguely sugar-coat that. This is blood, toil, tears and sweat time. Tomorrow we relight the flame of the Unknown Soldier. We will be burying next to the others a body identified as a Marine from the Pentagon to represent all the servicemen and women we lost to the Plague and the battles with infected. She’s only recognizable as a probable Marine by her tattoos. And she
was
an infected. We may need to kill them off to save our nation, but they were our people, too.”
“Absolutely agree, ma’am,” Steve said.
“There will be an armed guard, Marine for now, marching twenty-one beats at post. The first such being Staff Sergeant Decker who will be the NCOIC for the guards. We will rotate in Marine platoons from combat duties to guard the Flame until we can stand up the Old Guard again.
“But Decker will
only
be able to march, unhindered by zombies, due to
more
guards, not in pretty dress blues but full battle rattle, surrounding him and piling up the infected attracted to The Flame. That
has
to end. It will take people like yourself and your children to do that. I don’t intend to be stuck in Mayport the whole time. I
shall
go and visit the other states, no matter
how much
force that takes. The only way to visit my constituents in Texas will be to roll hot onto an infected held beachhead. And I
will
be going forward with the Marines whether it is by helo or amphibian. If it is by helo, Seawolf will be a pilot and if it is by amphib Shewolf will be in charge of the Marines. I don’t need the perfectly polished Annapolis grad for that. I need Faith and Sophia. Like Grant, they
fight
. And so do you and Stacey. Which is why I need you, this nation that you chose over the nation of your birth needs you, still. All of you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said.
“We are going to retake our nation,” the President said, looking out the window of the cabin. “We are going to save whoever is left. We are going to bring
everyone
we can
find
. . . home.”
The fires were burning again on the Mall. They would burn for years. Incendiary piles of the infected, a light in the darkness, beacons of smoke and flame showing the way back home.
THE END
