Free To Sail a Darkling Sea - eARC by John Ringo

working. Not many, but they were there. And there had been a lot of boats. The waters between the US mainland and Bermuda were some of the most crowded in the world under normal circumstances. With anyone with an ocean capable boat fleeing the Plague, and the east coast of the US having a lot of such people, they were definitely crowded. There were days when they had twenty or more radar contacts or lifeboats and small boats in sight .
    The Great Equatorial Current… Not so much. Oh, there were boats down here. And life rafts. And freighters. And, somewhere, God help them, based on some of the lifeboats they’d been finding, some cruise ships including at least one “super-max.” But they were scattered. They were lucky if they found two or three vessels in a day instead of thirty.
    They were only there, really, to keep them out of the storm belt in the North Atlantic and tropical storms in the eastern zone, give them something to do and get some people rescued. Unfortunately, as usual, most of the boats they were finding were empty. Of live, sane, people, at least. Bodies they’d found aplenty. People… not so much. Not even live zombies. In the last two weeks the No Tan Lines had only found four survivors. But four was a number greater than zero.
    The only reason they were finding most of the life rafts was that they had some modern additions. Back in the 1980s, the USCG pointed out that the material life rafts were made of, plastic, was fairly stealthy. You could pimp them up in any color you’d like, they didn’t turn up on radar. So most modern life rafts and lifeboats included Mylar radar reflectors in their construction. And, fortunately, the No Tan Lines had radar. So Patrick was manning the radar and other gizmos while she scanned “visually.” And caught up on her tan.
    “Well, it’s a distress beacon,” Patrick said.
    “I probably would have led with that,” Sophia muttered.
    “But it’s well inside the range where we should have picked it up. It’s only about twenty miles out.”
    “Azimuth?” Sophia said.
    “No Tan Lines, Alexandria.”
    “Stand by, Patrick,” she said, then switched frequencies and straightened up to start the main engines. “No Tan Lines.”
    * * *
    “Holy, hell,” Commander Robert “Thunderbear” Vancel, skipper of the USS Alexandria said. Vancel was on his first tour as a sub skipper when the worst disaster in human history hit. It had not been a pleasure cruise. He’d been a bit heavy before this cruise. Now, not so much. “COB: Down periscope. Now ! And tell me that’s not being broadcast all over the ship.”
    “Looks like she’s just trying to live up to her boat’s name, sir,” the COB said.
    “Fifteen, COB,” the skipper snapped. “ Fifteen . And, for God’s sakes, a Lieutenant ? Remind me to talk to that young lady about the decorum expected of a Naval officer at the first opportunity after we meet.”
    “Duly noted, sir.”
    * * *
    “Alex, No Tan Lines ,” Sophia repeated. Usually the Navy was right up on calling back but there had been a distinct pause.
    “Lines, Alex. Be advised just picked up an intermittent distress beacon, your bearing, one one four, range: ten point three nautical miles. Be advised, beacon was not there four minutes ago. Signal is intermittent. Our evaluation, persons operating manual generator for intermittent signal. Probable survivors. Proceeding that location at this time.”
    “Roger, Alex , keep us advised.” She switched to intercom. “Going full,” she said and put the hammer down. No real reason for it, the Alex was going to be there long before they were…
    * * *
    “Okay, up periscope,” Commander Vancel said.
    “Isn’t that redundant, sir?” the COB asked.
    “Again, COB, fifteen ! And, sweet Lord Jesus I Can’t Believe They Did This, LANTFLEET’s daughter !”
    “As well hanged for a sheep, sir… ”
    * * *
    “Da, Da!” Julie yelled. “Look!”
    Lincoln Lawton stepped out onto the aft deck of