Strands of Sorrow Read Free Page B

It was the West Coast’s SEAL school normally based at Coronado on North Island.
    The good part about the introductions was that Carter recognized him. There were no questions raised as to why a former Army lieutenant general was now a commodore and CINCPAC. Nobody in Special Operations questioned his competence. Now if he could just figure out a way to take anything on the land side . . .
    “Holding Coronado was untenable, sir,” Carter said. “Freaking infected were coming over the fences. Most of the teams were out trying to control the infected. I obtained orders to move the dependents, instructors and students to San Clemente. Various others joined as they had transport. Pretty much the entire Special Operations boat contingent moved over when it all came apart, along with some civilians and Team survivors. We moved sufficient supplies for a long siege, especially given the loss rate due to infection. What we did not bring is enough ammunition to deal with all the infected. I’m not sure there’s enough in the world.”
    “And we, too, are about out,” Montana said, trying not to sigh. The Beast had shot through the last of its ball bearings and all the subs in the area were about shot out on machine-gun rounds. But they had a land base and an infusion of fighters. “Commander Halvorson.”
    “Sir.”
    “Have the Hampton and Topeka do a run back to Gitmo or Blount, whichever Captain Smith prefers. Pick up more ammo. See about ball bearings. They might have found some on Blount. Vaccine. Medical supplies if they have spare. General supply run.” For better or worse, most of the pregnant female dependents seemed to have already given birth so he wouldn’t have to repeat the nightmare that had been Gitmo when the baby wave hit.
    “Aye, aye, sir.”
    “Captain Carter,” Montana said, looking at the small beach by the NALF. Drawn up on the sand or anchored in the tiny cove was an amazing cluster of just about every type of small boat imaginable. There were Special Operations Boats, yachts, off-shore inflatables and “hard” hulls; there was even one ten-foot inflatable dinghy that must have been a real joy to maneuver across the strait.
    “Sir?”
    “Any of those SOCs still operational?”
    The eighty-one-foot “Special Operations Craft Mark V.1” were just the ticket to handle a zombilanche. They should even be robust enough to handle the impact.
    “Unsure, sir. They’ve been parked for the better part of a year.”
    “Well, time to get them operational,” Montana said, humming “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner.” “The FAST boat guys have a new mission . . .”
    * * *
    “Ball bearings?” Isham said, looking at the video transmission.
    Commander Halvorson gave a brief précis of The Beast.
    “That makes so much sense I don’t know why Steve didn’t think of it first,” Isham said. “Okay, I’ll put the word in to Survey and Salvage to keep an eye out. There might be a container or so at Blount Island. There might be a container of the Holy Grail for that matter. But I’ll add ball bearings to the list of critical items . . .”
    * * *
    There was more to do. Zombie bodies had to be dealt with since they needed the facilities. There were some backhoes. More boats were gotten operational and spread out to see about at-sea rescue. They’d used up most of their machine-gun ammo but husbanded their small-arms rounds. Clearance happened. The nice thing about finding a bunch of BUD/S instructors and students was the instructors were specialists at clearing boats and ships. All they needed was a bit of touch-up on the “Wolf-Way.” On the other hand, it wasn’t much different from normal SEAL clearance techniques. Although they occasionally trained to sneak aboard boats, once they were onboard they rarely bothered to keep quiet. It was all about fast and hard. The only thing they had to be retrained on was “bring the zombies into your killzone, don’t go into theirs.” And Lyons had