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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 34
Chapter Title: The Little Prince of the Columbarium
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#Journal, page 55, Camp Roberts
"We are in control of the situation."
The broadcast began today with its usual optimistic tone.
"After the 'Grumble Shock' collapsed the defensive lines in Los Angeles and San Diego, we believed we had no choice but to abandon the last major cities west of the quarantine line. But that was premature despair. Brave American citizens armed themselves, fortifying streets and buildings. Surviving police and military joined them. As a result, astonishingly, 170,000 citizens who couldn't escape in time have secured safe strongholds."
One perk of the officers' quarters was the TV in every room. Only news and disaster broadcasts aired, but it was great for staying updated on the outside world in real time.
Mornings came early and leisurely. That was because I belonged to the federal army. There were no proper regulations yet on handling dispatched officers from refugee backgrounds. Until the volunteer platoons were fully formed, our assignments remained unclear.
"This is not all. Signals from survivors have been detected in San Francisco and San Jose—even in Sacramento, hit by a nuclear strike. How is this possible?"
An aerial view of Sacramento filled the screen. Expert analysis followed. It was possible because a low-yield tactical nuke had been used.
The nuclear blasts had hit east of the city center, along routes leading to the quarantine line. Survivor strongholds were over 15 km west of ground zero. Countless buildings in the city center likely shielded them from radiation. That said, fallout would still have rained down.
A delayed death.
"Look. American flags hang from buildings across the city. Can you see the people waving? They haven't given up hope yet. And we must not abandon them. Because we live in America!"
Stoking patriotism in a crisis was the same everywhere. The anchor's impassioned voice continued.
"An estimated 800,000 citizens await rescue from thousands of contaminated sites west of the quarantine line—sites we thought were death zones. The government is focusing air assets on supply drops while requisitioning passenger jets for conversion into transports. The Pentagon spokesperson announced they'll achieve 5,000 tons of daily deliveries before the Christmas holiday. Enough to sustain over 2 million people."
The screen filled with supply crates parachuting down.
"Even in this precarious moment for the world, the United States remains a mighty nation."
The camera angle captured the vast sky. The world on TV was always bright.
#Clown (1), Camp Roberts
The journal ended, but broadcasts played in the mess hall too. Since using the U.S. military mess, Winter had never seen the ceiling-mounted TVs off.
Breakfast. Lieutenant Robert Capston and Charlie Company's officers sat at the same table. They waited for Winter at every meal. They worried the baby lieutenant might feel left out. Even if he was close with the troops, he had to maintain officer dignity by sitting with the brass. It also shielded him from resentful glances from other officers. Such deep consideration.
Winter recalled what he'd seen in the journal broadcast and asked what they thought.
"Take broadcasts with a grain of salt. That patriotic reporting tradition..."
Lieutenant Capston was cautious. He didn't trust government statements or even reputable media outright. In national crises, U.S. media tended to avoid unfavorable coverage. Sergeant Pierce shrugged.
"It's been tradition since World War II. Back then, the enemy really were the bad guys, so I get it."
One of the platoon leaders, Lieutenant McCoy, chimed in.
"Helicopters would be more reliable for transport. Rescue too. But they're short on numbers. Maintenance issues, payload limits, noise drawing hordes to landing zones, and that damn fuel consumption. Problems everywhere."
Jeffrey nodded along.
"Yeah. But clinging only to airlifts isn't ideal either. Survivors are scattered across cities—how many supply drops will they even recover? If it lands in a hot zone, it's written off. That's why they're dumping 5,000 tons a day from above. Throwing money at it has always been this country's killer move."
True enough. Jeffrey grumbled.
"They've been short on supplies because of that crap. PX open just two days a week? Should be the opposite. Especially no booze—that's killer. Sells out the second it arrives..."
Lieutenant Capston frowned.
"Be grateful it's open at all. They're allocating sorties for non-essentials. Means higher-ups are desperate to keep frontline morale up. Don't complain in front of the troops."
"Sigh. Got it."
The young platoon leader, who looked almost boyish, swallowed his complaints with a grumble. Lieutenant Capston paused at the PX talk, then asked the boy.
"You're a proper officer now... How's your pay set up?"
Since commissioning, he'd called Winter "you" or "Lieutenant" casually.
Among what Winter received upon becoming a lieutenant were a forest-green active-duty ID, paybook, and card. Winter said he'd gotten a pay card.
"O-1 rate?"
"Not sure. My commissioning was special and rushed. I just heard it'd be a bit under $3,000 a month."
The lieutenant shook his head.
"That's just base pay. Should include hazard pay, clothing allowance, special duty pay... Guess with the situation, no detailed briefing. I'll look into it."
"Thanks for always watching out for me."
"No need to thank me. The debt I owe you is far greater."
Such a rigid guy.
"If you need cash, use the ATM in quarters, baby LT. No ATM at PX."
Sergeant Pierce advised.
"Any reason I'd need cash?"
The boy asked. The sergeant looked thoughtful.
"You don't know yet, but troops are trading with refugees. Buy at PX, sell at markup. Turns out refugees have more cash than you'd think... Ugh, pathetic soldiers who can't even follow basics. Hoarding money in this mess..."
He clicked his tongue and asked the lieutenant.
"Higher-ups know and are okay with it, right?"
"Not certain... but seems like it. Limits per rank for refugee officers, special discounts for decorated ones."
Winter nodded in understanding.
"Empowering refugee officers like me. Motivation boost."
"Exactly."
The lieutenant looked displeased. But Winter welcomed it. Good intel. Whoever the point man was, they had a sharp mind.
[Boom! Rat-tat-tat-tat!]
An explosion and gunfire burst from the TV. The screen must have changed while they ignored it. Subtitles scrolled below.
"San Diego?"
Jeffrey muttered. It was fierce combat. White beaches with resorts in the distance. A single road ahead. Narrow path flanked by water. Marines held a thin sandbar. Hordes of infected variants surged along the road piercing the sandbar and the crashing surf. Plenty of grumbles mixed in.
But they couldn't breach the narrow choke point under massive firepower.
The blast cloaked a cluster in smoke, the anchor's voice overlaying.
"What you're seeing is yesterday afternoon's North Island defense by the 1st Marine Expeditionary Force. By successfully concluding this over-two-hour battle, they secured the San Diego naval supply depot and Halsey Field airfield."
"How long can they hold?"
McCoy wondered. The lieutenant was optimistic.
"A while. Just one road, one bridge in—easy to defend. Higher-ups will support desperately. Lose that, no place to receive Pacific reinforcements. Need it as a hub to rescue San Diego citizens too. Refugees who escaped by sea can resupply there."
Sergeant Pierce sighed.
"Still, the numbers on those half-dead freaks are insane. No end in sight."
"They say the mutated population is huge. Kill enough, you'll see the bottom eventually."
Even so, the sergeant remained uneasy.
"Look, Lieutenant. That's not what I mean. Infected variants need to eat for energy, right? So many still jumping around full of vigor—it's weird."
McCoy chuckled.
"Never seen a horror flick? Zombies don't starve."
As they finished their silly banter, the camp PA called for Winter.
"Lieutenant Han Gyeowol, report to operations by 0900 sharp. Repeat. Han Gyeowol..."
"Weird hearing my name like that."
Chuckles from the table. The battalion commander calling wasn't odd. He held command authority over dispatched officers.
Winter stood with his tray.
"I'll head out."
"Hope it's nothing serious."
Lieutenant Capston worried to the end.
Three officers awaited in operations. The haggard battalion commander, the S-3, and an unfamiliar captain. The captain looked sour. Winter saluted the commander. The half-bald man eyed him through bleary slits.
"You're here."
Liquor stench. A half-empty bottle of strong stuff on the table. He'd drunk a lot for morning. His eyes wouldn't focus; he shook his head, grimaced. The unfamiliar captain's face darkened further. The commander gave a low laugh. Like, what're you gonna do?
The world was crumbling. A mere battalion commander doubling as refugee camp commandant—plenty of stress. Not an excuse, though.
"At ease, Lieutenant."
Winter shifted to parade rest. The commander introduced the stranger.
"Greetings first. This is Captain Nils McGuire from public affairs. Captain, that's the Han... whatever Lieutenant you've been waiting for."
The boy and captain exchanged nods.
"Good. Now, Lieutenant, the reason I called you."
He explained the special mission from the Pentagon.
"They need promo and training footage. Nothing big. Head to Santa Maria, take down a few monster sightings there stylishly. No flubs, and it's over quick."
Santa Maria lay about 100 km south of Camp Roberts. Considering even nearer Paso Robles barely fell under their ops zone, transport wouldn't be vehicles.
Helicopter support, as expected. The annoying commander deferred to the S-3, who unrolled a map.
"Ops kick off at 0600 tomorrow. Be at central parade ground by 0550, solo combat load. Can't fly noisy helos into the city, so LZ here: farmland northeast of Santa Maria. Touchdown 0630. Rangers from one company will have secured it—no risk to that point. Link with support there, foot march 7 km to objective. Hold position. Bait team lures targets; you hunt. Ops end. Questions?"
It had all been one-way briefing so far.
That's the job. Winter nodded.
"You said bait team lures them—how? Too risky for people."
"Noise-making drones."
"Will it work?"
"Verified in multiple tests. Infected variants aren't that smart."
That intelligence was rising, though.
Not yet. Later, "Morgellons" would exploit hosts in more ways.
The public affairs officer, observing the boy, tossed in a line.
"Heard testimony from troops you fought with, but you really don't fear it."
"I can handle it."
"Hmm."
He shut his mouth with an inscrutable look.
"Any chance I can bring someone I want?"
Winter asked. The S-3 cut him off firmly.
"Negative."
They wanted only Winter.
Winter felt regret. In a mostly secured area, it could've been good experience for allied reserve platoon members.
Detailed briefings followed. Nothing major.
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