by John Ringo
Von Neumann’s War
John Ringo
Travis S. Taylor
New series. Mars is changing. Seemingly overnight the once “Red” planet is turning to gray. Something is happening, something unnatural. A team of, literally, rocket scientists figure out a way to send a probe, very fast, to Mars to determine how and why it is changing. However, when the probe is destroyed well short of the formerly red planet, it’s apparent that Mars is being used as a staging ground. The only viable target for that staging ground is Earth. Ranging from rocket design to brilliant paranoids to “in your face” fighting in Iraq, Von Neumann Wars is a fast paced look at what would happen if the earth was attacked by a robot race that, quite accidentally, was bent on destroying civilization.
Von Neumann’s War
by John Ringo and Travis S. Taylor
The Commando’s Prayer
Give me, my God, what you still have;
give me what no one asks for.
I do not ask for wealth, nor success,
nor even health.
People ask you so often, God, for all that,
that you cannot have any left.
Give me, my God, what you still have.
Give me what people refuse to accept from you.
I want insecurity and disquietude;
I want turmoil and brawl.
And if you should give them to me,
my God, once and for all,
let me be sure to have them always,
for I will not always
have the courage to ask for them.
Corporal Zirnheld
Special Air Service
1942
Dedications:
To the soldiers, contractors, analysts, scientists, and engineers who press daily to maintain our nation’s security
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET
SPECIAL ACCESS NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH
Neighborhood Watch
Final Report
Development and Results of the Mars Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance Probe “Percival”
Prepared by
Roger P. Reynolds, T. C. Powell, Alan J. Davis
Prepared for the National Reconnaissance Office
Contract # TNW1-01-2007
INTRODUCTION
This document contains all data developed under the Top Secret Special Access Program codenamed Neighborhood Watch. Neighborhood Watch was developed to investigate the albedo-changing phenomenon currently taking place on the planet Mars. Neighborhood Watch initial analysis suggested that a planet-changing phenomena of the magnitude which is occurring on Mars is of non-natural origin. It was also determined to be statistically improbable that all manmade probes that had previously been sent to the planet Mars have gone quiet in a short timespan, including those which had been functioning nominally on the surface.
The Mars Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance (ISR) Probe known as “Percival” was developed in a rapid design process and launched. Percival was successful in reaching the planet and returning valuable ISR. Unfortunately, once reaching the planet all contact was lost with the probe. Analysis of final mission transmissions indicate that the probe sustained progressive failure indicative of attack rather than systems failure.
This report was developed in order to maintain a complete record of the mission history, concept development, mission design components, mission implementation, data retrieved, and data analysis. The authors would like to emphasize here that extreme attention to detail is given where available so that as much data as possible is available if further analysis of the Neighborhood Watch project is made.
The report begins with initial findings that led to the creation of the Neighborhood Watch program. The findings began with analysis of data from ground and space telescopes by astronomers at the Space Telescope Science Institute (STScI). There were also reports from various amateur astronomers claiming that Mars was “changing colors”. It was at this point that sequential failures of Mars probes began to alert government officials to the possibility of non-natural actions or activities. A timeline will be given of the sequence of these events.
The next section of the report gives a detailed description of the Percival development effort. Space mission concept architecture, spacecraft design components, and all aspects of the development and implementation of the Mars ISR Probe, Percival, is discussed.
The third section gives the results of the Mars ISR mission. The data is somewhat alarming. The conclusion is undeniable: Mars has been dramatically altered by an unnatural phenomenon. Although Percival is believed to have been destroyed, not “lost,” destroyed, prior to mission completion, sufficient data was retrieved from the probe to determine that Mars is being altered by an alien entity or entities. No signs of organic life were detected. However, signs of an intelligence at work are evident since major portions of the planet’s surface have been converted to mechanical structures, some of them of super-human proportions.
The fourth section is a conclusions and discussions section. The results of the Neighborhood Watch program are summarized and a discussion on the possible outcome and impact of the phenomenon on Mars is discussed along with potential repercussions to Terra and the human race.
Chapter 1
Time: Present minus twenty years
The teachers looked up at the rocket towering over the exhibit and then at each other.
“Duct tape?” the female teacher asked. Usually she taught junior high school science classes, especially “female health” and “earth sciences.” It was the first time she’d ever seen a… what was it the boy called it… a “sounding rocket.”
“Only for support of the outer casing,” the young man said, smiling broadly and scratching at his nearly white hair. “The primary casing is cardboard. I wanted to make a rocket entirely from discarded and readily available materials. The term is ‘off-the-shelf.’ NASA hardly ever uses anything that anyone else uses and I think that’s a damn shame. There are so many things around that you can make rockets out of. The igniter is a spark plug from my daddy’s old Chevy. The energy components, the fuel, are made from common household materials. I made the fins in shop class when we were working with sheet metal; I brought in a hood off a car in my Uncle Bubba’s backyard and cut it up. You can see the original paint! And the payload is a sodium tracer round made out of an old Jack Daniels bottle I found under the porch.”
“So, when are you planning on putting the fuel in?” she asked.
“Well, it’s solid fuel,” Roger Reynolds replied, as if she were dense. “You can’t just pull it out and put it in.”
“So… it’s fueled?” the woman squeaked. She suddenly realized that all the, many, rocket scientists who were judging the Northern Alabama High School Science Fair had chosen to examine exhibits a long way away from this one.
“Well… duh.”
Roger went on to the International Science and Engineering Fair where he placed in the top five overall and first in his category. He also won a scholarship and a job at the NASA Marshall Space Flight Center. There he was described on his performance evaluation as “precocious.” In private he was described as “that young snot-nosed pain in the ass. And keep him away from the fuel…”
Time: Present minus one year — first Russian Mars probe failure
As the improvised explosive device turned his lead Humvee into expensive confetti, Captain Shane Gries, USA, took just one more moment to consider how very much he hated all academic eggheads.
Captain Gries was tall, 6’ 2’’, and slim, with a square cut jaw, mild blue eyes and light brown hair cut to stubble at the sides. Behind his back his men called him “The Greyhound” both for his looks and hi
s running speed on morning PT. He had been raised in the Iron Range of Michigan, one of the coldest, snowiest and hardest localities in the entire United States. As a teenager, he’d spent more time hunting the massive bucks to be found in the Iron Range than he had cracking books. Despite that fact, his grades were excellent. Between those, and a friendly congressman, he had gotten an appointment to the United States Military Academy in West Point,‹http://www.neighborhoodwatch.gov›New York. His ability at track and field hadn’t hurt.
At West Point he’d studied another type of hunting, the hunting of armed enemies of the United States. And he’d studied hard ever since. His first unit assignment as a brand new shavetail lieutenant had been to the First Infantry Division two days before it crossed the Line of Departure and entered Iraq in the first Gulf War. He’d been sent in to replace another lieutenant who had “cracked under pressure” at the thought of actually being in combat.
He’d been carefully instructed by his company commander on his duties the day he arrived. In a flash, as he always did when the shit hit the fan, he recalled the lecture as the first rounds from the ambush cracked across the road.
“You have no clue what your job is supposed to be,” Captain Brantley had said. To Shane, at the time, he had seemed immensely old and grizzled, probably, gasp, thirty or so. “You have no clue what you’re supposed to be doing and no clue how to function in combat. It’s my miserable job to teach you. But I don’t have time before we cross the LD. So you’re going to have to learn from your NCOs. The way you’re going to do that is to ask them what to do, listen carefully, then repeat what they say. Second lieutenants are the lowest of the low. First lieutenants think they have a clue. By the time you’re up to captain, if you survive that long, you’re going to realize you never will have a clue and all you can do is make it up as you go along. But by then, the ones that are the worst at making it up are gone. And you’ll have to make it up as you go along.”
The scene flashed as a gestalt while his mind simultaneously processed the nature of the current ambush. Within a second he’d assimilated the nature of the situation, enemy force, friendly force and secondary conditions. Of course, by then his troops were already returning fire.
The American Occupation Force, Iraq, had long experience of ambushes, especially in the Sunni Triangle. The Triangle consisted of the area surrounding Baghdad, situated more or less in the middle of the country, and delineated by the cities of Al-Najaf, Baghdad and Tikrit.
American forces had developed a standard initial response that came down to one phrase: “Overwhelming firepower.” As soon as they took direct fire, they returned it with everything the unit had to offer, from pistols to the Mk-19 automatic 20mm grenade launchers on the “gun” Humvees. And they’d been so tightly drilled, and experienced so many ambushes, that the response was automatic at a level that had them returning fire in less than a second. Even if they’d been napping at the moment of the ambush.
It was Shane’s job to determine, in brief seconds, what the response beyond “initial” would be. He had to determine from the volume and position of fire whether the best response was to sit it out and return fire or assault the ambush. And he had to do all of this while dealing with the “surprise” of the situation. Moments before he’d been cruising along minding his own business. Now he had to react, intelligently and thoughtfully, but in less time than most people took to decide between a mocha and a caramel latte. While bullets were bouncing off the armor on his Humvee and rocket propelled grenades, which would tear though the armor like paper, were flying past.
But Shane was very good at combat gestalt. Even back in the first Gulf War as a “clueless” shavetail he’d been good at it. He knew he was clueless, but you generally were in war, you never had all the information you’d like, and he was good at working with what he knew.
He knew his primary mission was securing the group of International Atomic Energy Agency scientists that had been “inspecting” a possible covert nuclear site. The group of fifteen international eggheads had been a pain in the ass all day. His job was simply to get them to the site and back, intact. But they assumed that “escort” meant that he was supposed to supply them with food, by which they meant something better than Meals-Ready-To-Eat, water, bottled, not from the five-gallon water cans on the Humvees, snacks, pop, caviar, champagne, candy or whatever they’d thought of that moment. And to carefully lead them around by the hand, bowing and scraping as a good little grunt should.
He figured there’d be a bit of a reprimand in the future for not supplying their every need, want and desire. But not nearly as large of one as he’d get for letting the group get wiped out. And as he considered the situation, he could see the egghead idiots popping out of the Canadian light armored vehicles that were their protection.
He knew that the narrow road they had been forced to use in this section was blocked by the shredded Humvee. Even if the Humvees could creep past — or fly past, the way most of the drivers would handle it — the first vehicle had slewed sideways from the explosion, creating a narrow gap that the LAVs couldn’t negotiate. And they probably couldn’t push it aside, either. LAVs didn’t have the gription. Therefore, they couldn’t simply drive out of the ambush.
He knew he had all three platoons of his company that were on the jaunt mounted in Humvees, some armored and some unarmored, with second platoon, that had just lost its lead Humvee, on point, then first, then the LAVs, then his command group, then third as ass-end-charley. Third was short a squad, which was back in Fort Samson pulling guard detail. First and second, except for the usual sick, lame, lazy and wounded, were up to strength. Of course, second had just lost half a squad in a Humvee.
The ambush seemed to be about fifteen to twenty shooters, at least five RPG grenadiers with the rest firing light weapons, AK variants. There did not appear to be any automatic weapons, either light, medium or heavy. The ambush did not appear to have indirect fire support; usually by now there would be mortars crumping down. They were firing from the ground and second level of a three-story building on the right-hand side of the street. The building, based upon usual construction, would have walls made of unbaked brick faced with, in this case, fake marble. Those could be penetrated even by light arms, and the Mk-19s had blown several holes in the walls already. There would be rear entrances and probably windows on the side.
All of this, and the lecture from his first company commander, flashed through his mind in the first moment of the ambush in one continuous gestalt. Surprise occurs in the mind of the commander. Shane had learned, long before, to never be surprised. He hadn’t managed the Zen trick of constant wonder, to be in each moment, treating each new moment as a constant surprise, but he was darned close.
So. And so. He had been carrying his mike in his hand, standard procedure in Ambush Alley, and he picked it up and keyed it exactly two and one-half seconds after the detonation of the IED. One second to assess, one second to plan. Two and a half seconds were a long time in combat, but he’d needed at least that much time to ensure he had all his facts in order. And, hell, the half second was lifting the mike. He’d give himself that as a Mulligan.
“Second platoon, lay down base of fire on ambush. First platoon, deploy and secure the science detail. Ensure the safety of mobile personnel…” As he was speaking an RPG penetrated the side armor on one of the LAVs which began to belch diesel smoke and spill scientists out the back like suit-covered maggots, “And recover wounded from damaged vehicles. LAVs, lay down base of fire. Third platoon, set one squad as security. Remainder dismount and assault ambush from right to left, clearing the building.”
* * *
“Top! What are you doing?” Specialist Fort yelled as First Sergeant Thomas Cady bailed out the side of the Humvee into the buzzing fire of the AKs.
“My job,” the first sergeant replied.
Thomas Cady was in many ways the antithesis of his commander. He’d been raised in government housing in Decatur, Georgia, where
the choice was working in the 7/ll or being a crack dealer. His mother had managed to raise five kids, all from different fathers, on the basis of welfare and occasional child support payments. Thomas was pretty sure “his” father wasn’t even his genetic dad; they didn’t look a bit alike. But the man, who was white whereas Thomas was as black as the ace of spades, had been the only one of the five to make regular support payments. And he’d even visited his “son” and made sure he had regular presents for Christmas and his birthday.
Maybe it was the example of somebody with some honor and class or maybe Arthur really was his dad. But whatever the reason, Thomas had managed to keep his nose clean. His grades in school weren’t the greatest, but they were good enough that the Army would accept him. And one of the services seemed to be the only way out of the rat hole that was life in Decatur. He didn’t want to chip paint in the Navy, his AGT scores weren’t high enough for the Air Force, and the Marines were full up when he tried to join.
So two months after graduating from Columbia High School in Decatur, Georgia, he’d raised his right hand and never looked, or been, back.
Over the succeeding fourteen years, he’d gotten married, twice, divorced, twice, had two kids, both by the first wife after which he got a vasectomy, and made sure he not only kept up with the payments and gifts but that he visited his kids as often as his career made possible. He’d also dialed in on his career and his neglected education, picking up an associate degree when he was still a buck sergeant, then his bachelors a few years later. He was currently working on a masters in history when he wasn’t doing his primary job.