by John Ringo
"Love that show," Berg said. "But I can never find the chip for it."
"That's because it's got a bunch of legal stuff holding it up," Jaenisch said. There was a slight tympani coming from his direction and he'd raised his voice. "Grapping RIAA. I mean, nobody buys those albums anymore. Release the maulk and let Micro-Vam or Napple put it out for sale."
"No maulk," Berg muttered. "Shiny! They've got Firefly!"
"They've got what?" Jaenisch said loudly.
"Never mind," Berg said. "What in the hell are you listening to?"
"Within Temptation," Jaenisch said. "You ought to try it!"
"I already am," Berg replied. "Ah, Trash . . ."
* * *
"You listen to country?" Hattelstad said as they climbed the ladder up to the sub's surface deck.
"And the sergeant listens to death metal; what's your point?" Berg asked.
"Within Temptation is not death metal," Jaenisch pointed out. "It's Goth. Although I listen to death metal, too. But country?"
"I like ballads," Berg said.
"So why not Heather Alexander?" Hattelstad asked.
"Who?"
"Can it," Jaenisch said as they reached the deck.
Assembly on the top deck of an SSBN is normally an exercise in gymnastics. The majority of the deck is rounded. However, the area over the missiles, and in this case the mission specialist package, was more or less flat. Most of the eggheads were by the sail, nearest the distinguished visitor area on the dock. Then the officers and crew of the ship, then the "mission specialist" security force, who were senior NCOs from Army special forces, then the Marines, right down by the fantail.
The Marines were the first ones on deck and submitted to a third inspection, this time by the CO and Top. Given the conditions, they couldn't open ranks or the rear rank would have been in the water. So the first sergeant and the CO had to squeeze their way down the sections.
It was the first time Berg had seen the Marine CO, Captain Michael MacDonald. The commander of the security contingent was a tall, spare man with short-cropped, dark-brown hair. Technically, he was in charge of the SF guys as well. But Berg had picked up enough scuttlebutt that it was pretty apparent they ran their own show. Since they were all experienced NCOs, that probably worked just fine.
The CO found nothing at fault and the company was brought to the "rest" position, like parade rest but you could look around.
"And now, we wait," Hattelstad said. "You seriously have never heard of Heather Alexander?"
"Nobody in the company had heard of Heather Alexander before you showed up, Hatt," Crowley said. The "company" was arranged in three ranks of ten men each, the platoon sergeants at the head of each rank, with the platoon leaders and the company XO to the rear. When the CO took over from the first sergeant, Top took a position at the bottom of the officer's ranks.
Thus Crowley was right next to Sergeant Jaenisch with Hatt at the very end of the row.
"Everybody should listen to Heather Alexander," Crowley said. "Heather is the Goddess."
"I'll give you points for 'March of Cambreadth,' " Jaenisch said. "But I'll top that with 'Winterborn.' "
"DragonForce, man, DragonForce," Hattelstad argued. "That's the maulk."
"I'm a big Toby Keith fan, personally," Berg said. It was an apparent non sequitur since they all just looked at him. "Well, I am. I like Johnny Cash for that matter."
"Two-Gun, we might just have to rename you," Crowley said. "Two-Gun is much to hot a handle for somebody who listens to country. You'd better keep that maulk down in the bay. Grapp. Just when we got rid of Harson and his damned mood music . . ."
"I kinda liked some of that stuff," Hattelstad said. "Wyndham Hill and all that. It was soothing. You know, masturbation music."
"Rest does not mean laughing your ass off," Gunny Hocieniec snapped from the end of the rank.
"Sorry, Gunny," Jaenisch said, still snickering. "Harson was a good guy. Hell on wheels in a Wyvern. But, yeah, his taste in music sucked."
"Like that metal crap is worth maulk?" the sergeant in front of Jaenisch said, looking around. "You keep that maulk down, damnit."
"And don't go pounding the whole bay with that rap maulk, Onger," Jaenisch snapped. "In space, nobody can hear you scream."
Berg wasn't sure who "Onger" was, but based on the way they were lined up he was Gung-Din's boss.
"Space," Berg said. "I can't wait."
"Yeah, but we got to get there first," Hattelstad said balefully.
"How bad is that?" Berg asked.
"See the ship's CO?" Jaenisch replied, gesturing with his chin. "Former fighter pilot."
"Running a sub?" Berg said.
"Politics," Jaenisch said, shrugging. "Anyway, he drives the ship like a fighter."
Berg looked from one end of the massive sub to the other and shook his head.
"That's one big damned fighter."
"Sort of my point."
"Company!" the CO bellowed. "Atten-hut!"
* * *
"Ladies and Gentlemen, distinguished beings, thank you for being here today on this momentous occasion . . ."
Normally the main ceremony for a boat was at completion and launching. A crowd of well-wishers and officials gathered to send the boat off to sea. A bottle, traditionally one with waters of all the seven seas, was broken on the bow.
The problem with the 4144, besides the fact that the powers that be were still arguing over a name, was that it wasn't being launched. It was simply a converted SSBN, the former Nebraska, and had already had such a ceremony.
But the first deep space mission of the first warp ship, even if a totally covert and still unnamed one, was a matter of some ceremony. Even if it was a very late night, very covert, ceremony. So a crowd had gathered. Admittedly, it was smaller than normal, there were no family of the crew, no press, and everyone on the dock had the highest of high security clearances, but by the same token it was extremely select. Admiral Townsend was presiding but even the President had managed to attend. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was present as was the deputy defense secretary for interstellar warfare. Two senior members of the Senate, two equally senior members of the House, the secretary of state and a group of senior Adar. The ambassador for Britain was present as the representative of the only Earth government that had been informed the U.S. had a warp drive.
Although very few Earth governments were aware of the boat, support from the Adar government was a necessity on several levels. The boat had needed Adar technology and the Adar had, after all, been the suppliers of the drive. Just because Bill had figured out how to use it when they could not did not preclude their participation.
Besides the "distinguished visitors," the entire crew, military and scientific, was lined up on the deck of the sub. The Navy crew, who were going to be going back to work right after the ceremony, were in dungarees for the enlisted and khakis for the officers. The security contingent, Marines and Special Forces, were in Mar-Cam and digi-cam. The senior boat officers and NCOs were gathered to the front of the crew, with one SEAL warrant officer looking decidedly out of place. The majority of the scientific team, biologists, planetologists and astronomers, were in blue coveralls. The three exceptions were right on the end. Tchar, the Adar physicist who had been one of the first Adar ever to visit Earth and with whom Weaver had developed a close working relationship, was wearing fluorescent green pants, a Hawaiian shirt and mosh boots. Mimi and the linguist Miriam Moon were in jeans and T-shirts. He knew that Mimi had been issued coveralls so he had to assume someone had persuaded her to wear something else. One guess as to who. He hoped he wouldn't be forced to explain the presence of either one to the President or the Adar.
Weaver had recently heard a rumor that it was the Adar who had held up the naming of the boat. U.S. Naval naming nomenclature was straightforward. This boat should be named after either a state or a distinguished person. The first name proposed was the Harley Simpson, after a senior member of the House Armed Se
rvices committee who was recently deceased. That name quickly faded due to some background discussions that even Weaver had not been privy to.
The presence of K'Tar'Daoon, the Adar secretary of High Technology Defense and up until recently something on the order of prime minister of Adar, argued that the naming argument might have been settled.
"The President and the Honorable K'Tar'Daoon would like to say a few words . . ." Admiral Townsend said, winding down.
"I won't take much time," the President said. "I know that time and tide wait for no one. I'd just like to wish everyone luck and say that, after long discussions, the name of this fine ship has been finalized. I will let K'Tar'Daoon explain."
"While this ship is not Adar in truth, we have as high hopes for it as any human here," K'Tar'Daoon said. The Adar spoke excellent English but with a strong sibilant accent. "When the naming conventions of your ships were explained, we found them most excellent, for human beliefs and understanding. However, Adar, as is often noted, think differently from humans. And while this is not our ship, in truth, we wished to present our thoughts on how this ship should be named. In time, we were persuasive in our arguments.
"When we first encountered humans, we were confused by the name the humans had given to the boson portals. Such simple things and yet such a strange name: Looking Glasses. You did not call them mirror portals. Such a name would be logical. But humans looked upon them and gave them a name of wonder and, indeed, they are wonders. They take us all to strange lands, bring wonders to both of our worlds.
"The Harley Simpson, the Margaret Thatcher, the George Washington, the Enterprise, each was debated in turn. But at each point we Adar argued that the name should be a name of wonder and power. For this ship is the hope of both our worlds, the sword that will carry our anger and righteous fury against the enemy that still plagues us.
"This is also an excellent time to make an announcement. Yesterday, a mutual defense treaty was signed by the Adar Unitary Council, the President of the United States and the prime minister of England. Once this treaty is ratified by the United States Senate and the Parliament of England, it will initiate the first Space Alliance in our two planets' history.
"In keeping with this, and the naming of the Glasses that you humans brought from your depths of understanding, this ship, this hope for all humans and Adar, is named:
"The Alliance Space Ship Vorpal Blade."
"Oh, Holy Maulk," Weaver muttered. From the science section came one loud braying laugh, quickly cut off. "Oh, grapp."
"Like an ASS, dude," Miller whispered. "Like an ASS."
7
Rule Thirty-Three:
Never Let a Fighter Pilot Drive
"They couldn't have named it the Alliance Warp Ship, could they?" Captain Steven "Spectre" Blankemeier said, shaking his head. "Oh, no . . . Cast off lines aft . . ." The short-coupled former carrier commander was clearly nonplussed over the chosen name for his boat.
"Could have been worse, sir," Commander Clay White said. The XO of the ASS Vorpal Blade was the senior submarine officer on the boat. There had been a real tussle over which portion of the service was going to control the probable future space navy. The submarine admirals had made the convincing point that spaceships would be more similar to subs than carriers. The carrier admirals, though, had a much better lobby. So Spectre had been put through an accelerated course in submarine warfare and management while White, who had been in line to command his own sub, was seconded as an "experienced XO." "At least we're so totally covert that hardly anyone will ever see our name. Cast off lines aft!"
Despite the political infighting above their heads, the two officers had meshed well. Spectre was the epitome of a fighter pilot and the crew loved him, but he hadn't studied ship handling skills until he'd assumed a carrier command and despite a tour as a sub officer, which had confused the hell out of his commander, he still wanted to fight the boat like a plane. White, on the other hand, had started as an engineer and really comprehended the details of the boat. He was methodical where Spectre was daring. It was a good combination if for no other reason than White could sometimes keep his headstrong commander from totally losing it.
"Cast off lines forward . . ." Spectre continued. "Sure as maulk it's going to get out. Guarantee it."
"Cast off forward!" White repeated. "We're so black you couldn't find us with a really good sonar system, sir. All lines cast off."
"We just motor straight out, right?" Spectre replied. "Seriously, it had to be the Adar springing that on the President. Surely he'd have caught it?"
"Probably," White said. "Yes, sir, no tug this time for security reasons. Suggest turns for three knots."
"Make it so," Spectre said. "I can't wait to get out of this damned gravity well."
"Soon," Clay replied. "Astro, what's our course on launch?"
"Two choices, sir," Weaver said. "We can head straight for the heliopause in the direction of Alpha Cent or we can do a fly-by of Saturn. It's only about two minutes out of our way and I think the planetology department would appreciate the readings. And on that course we can get a fly-by of the bow shock."
"Make it so, Astro," Spectre replied. "I'd like to see Saturn up close again. Spectacular. Plan on at least one orbit. Got to give Planetology plenty of time to survey, right?"
One reason that Captain Blankemeier had been chosen was that he was an amateur astronomer. There had not been a single submarine commander with that skill. A born tourist, he was always willing to do a quick check of a planet if it didn't interfere with the overall mission.
"Can not wait."
"Agree with you wholeheartedly, sir," Weaver said, trying to figure out the wet part of the navigation. Put him in space, he was fine. It was currents and shoals that gave him fits.
* * *
"Oh, holy grapp," Hattelstad muttered as they made their way down the ladder to the Marine bunks.
"You know, I love the Adar and I hate 'em," Jaenisch responded. "I can just start with the jokes now."
" 'I'm sorry, Gunny, I must have had my head in my ASS,' " Crowley said. " 'Let me stick my head in my ASS and see if I can think of anything.' 'Time to go back to the ASS.' It even makes my head hurt."
"Hey, Two-Gun, you play Dreen Strike?" Sergeant Lovelace said. Terry was the Bravo Team leader in the platoon, Crowley's direct boss.
"I've played it," Berg admitted. "But I prefer WoW or Orion."
"Figures," Crowley said. "We could use a fourth for Dreen. We keep getting creamed by Alpha First. They've got Gunga-Din as their heavy gunner and that Hindu is wicked."
"I've got some new WoW packs with me," Berg said. "I think I'll stay on those for a while. If the system will let me uplink."
"As long as they're valid copies," Jaenisch said, pausing at the corridor to their bunks. Everybody had followed courtesy protocol and was diving into their racks, but that didn't mean there wasn't a crowd. "There's a chip slit on the side of the screen."
"Thanks," Berg said. "You guys have been doing this for a while, haven't you?"
"We've only done two short cruises," Jaenisch said as they got to their bunks. He slid into his and then stuck his head out. "This is the first long cruise. Hopefully, nobody's gonna freak out. You might want to store all your stuff away by the time we dive."
"Because the CO drives this thing like a fighter?" Berg said.
"You have no idea."
* * *
"Good news," Julia Robertson said as she entered the mission specialist mess. "Fly-by of Saturn on the way out."
Robertson was a forty-seven-year-old skinny black woman. "People of color" were unusual enough in hard sciences but Julia was particularly unusual. A former waitress, she had gone back to school after her last child left the house. An undiagnosed sufferer from Attention Deficit Disorder, she'd found college a breeze with the right medication. Her social workers had expected her to return to the bosom of the government with a sociology degree. She'd shocked the hell out of everyone she knew
when she switched to biology. She'd shocked even more people when she got her doctorate and went back to school to pick up two more.
"That would be me," Dr. Paul Dean said. The planetologist was a tall man who fit into the bunks on the converted sub poorly. He had long brown hair, going gray and pulled into a ponytail, and a gray-shot beard that hung nearly to the middle of his chest. A former professor at the University of Colorado, he'd always resented the Top Secret clearance the military-industrial complex forced on him ten years before. That is, right up until the MIC offered the "hippie" with doctorates in planetology, astronomy, physics, geology and astrophysics, a chance to go into space.
The former professor picked up a half-filled two-liter bottle of soda, shook it vigorously, opened up the cap to listen for a hiss, squeezed the sides in, shook it again, then took a swig. "I need to find out if we can drop a probe."
He went through the ritual a second time, took another swig and then got up and headed out of the room.
"Julia," Miriam said, waving to Mimi. "This is Mimi Jones."
"And what is a young lady like you doing on a spaceship like this?" Julia said, her eyes narrowing. "Does your mother know where you are?"
"My mother is dead, Miss Julia," Mimi replied politely. "But my Aunt Vera knows that I'm doing something with the government. And I'm here cause Tuffy says I'm supposed to be here," she continued, lifting the arachnoid off her lap.
"What is that?" Julia asked, backing up.
"That's Tuffy!" Miriam said, chortling. "You never saw Tuffy on the news?"
"You're that girl survived the bomb," Julia said, much more gently. She sat down at the table and nodded. "I suppose there might be a reason you're here. But the Lord sure do work in mysterious ways."
"That he does, Miss Julia," Mimi replied. "Dr. Weaver thinks that Tuffy might just be an angel. Even though he doesn't look like one."
"Not sure just what an angel would look like," Robertson said, considering the arachnoid carefully. "But I wouldn't say he'd be a big ole terancheler."