by John Ringo
The third hour was the scramble to head to the lost colony. The documentary caught, vividly, the boredom of the long transit. But the viewers quickly got caught up in the battles around the unnamed stars. Captain Blankemeier, one of the central characters, was given a short bit where he referenced “battling on the arms of Orion.” One of the internal cameras on the ship caught a blast of plasma ripping through the crew quarters, fortunately vacant. More caught lasers and mass drivers ripping the ship until she was virtually airless but still fought on. Wyvern video of Eric capturing the flagship was missing, so CGI and overlay techniques were used to simulate it. If anything, they looked better. The Mreee “sentient” controller of the task force brought a cry of surprise from the Russian, who bent forward to look closer.
The last hour closed with video of the shattered Blade I in space, then a discussion of the aid of the Hexosehr and finally a shot of the built-from-scratch Blade II setting down in Area 51, its alternate base.
“Admiral Blankemeier,” the Chinese general said when the videos were finished. “It is amazing you are alive.”
“It’s amazing any of us survived,” Blankemeier replied.
“Yes, but the one that I want to meet is, how is it? Two-Gun Berg,” the Indian said, grinning. “What a warrior! Especially for an enlisted man. I am glad to see that you made him an officer.”
And thus we uncover the weakness of the Indians, Weaver thought with a sigh. They just could not seem to get over the whole caste thing. And if you considered large portions of your population as sub-par, the intellectual value of that portion was lost. Who knew how many Einsteins and Booker T. Washingtons might exist among the Untouchables, who were still relegated to not much more than garbage collection.
“So what is next?” the Chinese delegate asked. “You say that we are going to get access to these Hexosehr? In two years? That is too much time. We need their technology immediately!”
“Actually, the Hexosehr are in the process of colonizing Runner’s World,” the President replied. “We established gates to get them there. Their ships won’t arrive for a bit under two years. But we were able to move some of their fabricators through and, of course, their expertise. We are liaising with them now about how to portion out their personnel. They’ve made a study of our various societies and countries and are making many of their own decisions. They are an independent group, allied but with their own… how was it you put it? Ah, their own ‘sovereignty.’ What technology goes to what groups is up to them. But, yes, you’re going to get access to it.”
“And the Blade?” the Russian asked.
“No,” the President replied. “We’ve considered the possibility of putting observers onboard or even a mixed crew. Subsequent to mutual defense treaties, we may consider it further. But it is an Alliance ship. The British have, thus far, declined to offer personnel but there is an Adar onboard and shortly Hexosehr. Until things change, politically, however, we’re not going to put in Russian, Chinese or Indian crewpeople or observers. As to studying the drive, it’s always been a toss-up between studying it and using it. For the time being, again, we’re going to use it and study it as we can. Even the Hexosehr, after examining it intensively during the rebuild, admitted that they could not understand it. It violated several of their theories of faster-than-light travel, which were rather mature and now have to be rethought. So if we cannot figure it out, meaning the U.S., and the British cannot figure it out and the Adar cannot figure it out and the Hexosehr cannot figure it out, I strongly doubt that the Chinese or Russians, the ability of their scientists being noted, can do any better. Honestly, do you?”
“We demand observers,” the Russian said. “The ship should be the property of all the world, not just one hegemonic government! It should be an international crew under a commander chosen by the United Nations!”
“Well, let’s see,” the President replied, grinning. “The Adar trusted us, being in contact with all of you, with the black box. We spent twenty billion dollars rebuilding a nuclear submarine and turning it into a spaceship. And we took all the casualties finding the Cheerick, the Hexosehr and the Dreen. So you’ll understand me if I try not to scoff at your demand. And, frankly, we’re going to completely ignore the UN in our preparations for the Dreen. I don’t see what use a bunch of kleptocrats and tyrants are going to be to us.”
“The Hexosehr will be sending a liaison and technical group to each of the countries joining the coalition,” the national security advisor said diplomatically. “They will require appropriate quarters, which means suited to their physiology especially since they use a slightly different atmosphere. They will also require logistical support including food. Some Adar foods are mutually compatible. Most major Earth governments will get a Hexosehr ambassador. Those that join the coalition are the only ones that will be getting technical support. That is the Hexosehr’s position, not ours.”
“And this coalition?” the Russian said furiously. “I suppose that the Americans they will be the top dog, yes?”
“Each country will be expected to produce their own ships, fleets,” the national security advisor replied. “Higher command structure will be a matter of negotiations. But American fleets will never be under the command of others, not even the British. We’re more willing to consider higher command by Adar or Hexosehr. But only willing to consider it. The U.S. has a history of winning battles that cannot be matched by any country in this room.”
“And losing wars,” the Russian scoffed. “For that matter, who took Berlin?”
Just because Patton was ordered to remain in place, Weaver thought. But he managed to hold his tongue.
“It’s not a matter for argument,” the President said, clearly thinking much the same thing. “The American public is never going to accept a Chinese admiral over an American fleet. But that is for later. The completed documentaries and the reams and reams of video and sensor data they were derived from is assembled for each of you. As are the preliminary methods for getting in contact with the Hexosehr. We request that we be given one week before we release the information.”
“I am not in a position to promise that,” the Chinese general said. “This meeting was only to be on the subject of the spaceship you have, this Vorpal Blade. This new information will have to be considered by my government. We may request an extension of the information being released.”
“We have indications that it’s not going to be long before our news media gets to the bottom of what’s going on,” the President said. “Or at least some of it. So… consider fast.”
“I have no clue when I’ll be talking to you next,” Eric said, brushing Brooke’s cheek.
It was the time of day the military referred to as o dark thirty, before even Before Morning Nautical Twilight, black as pitch, a time when normal people might stir but then roll over in bed and go back to sleep. Brooke had actually gotten up and driven him to headquarters. Eric had checked in the night before, officially coming off of leave in time but long after anyone could put him to work. But this was the start of his new career as an officer, his first working day. Between in-processing and duties, he had no clue when he’d be home, but if the new CO wanted him to participate in PT he wanted to be in in plenty of time.
“You’ll be home when you are home,” Brooke replied, then kissed him. “I promised not to bind you to the pasture. And I keep my promises.”
It was a “thing” between them, a special code. During the last mission, Brooke had sent Eric a link to a flash animation done during the War On Terror. It was a series of pictures set to a song called “Homeward Bound,” done in homage to a soldier who died in Afghanistan.
Bind me not to the pasture, chain me not to the plow.
Set me free to find my calling and I’ll return to you somehow.
“Just try to call me in time for me to have supper waiting,” Brooke said.
“I’ll do that,” Eric replied, trying not to grimace. He loved Brooke and she had some remarkable
abilities for a girl fresh out of high school. But she’d apparently failed Home Ec.
“And I’ll try to get it right this time,” Brooke said, already learning to read subtle body-cues in her new husband.
“Your cooking is…”
“Awful,” Brooke said, grinning. “I have to eat it, too, you know.”
“I’m no better at it,” Eric admitted. “But if I have to stay late, I’ll probably eat in the mess hall. It’s not that expensive.”
“Shiny,” Brooke said. “When I get home, though, I’m going to sit down and start reading cookbooks. Winging it is clearly not the answer. Now kiss me and have a good day.”
Eric paused in front of the company headquarters building and shifted his jump bag on his shoulder. The company was housed in two “starbase” barracks, essentially multistory apartment buildings built in the 1980s, fronted by a two-story headquarters building. The headquarters was the only new construction, a rectangular windowless block with heavy security systems. Some of the stupider security measures, such as the timed doors, had finally been removed, but it was still a highly secure facility.
Eric knew the headquarters like the inside of his mouth, having spent more time there it seemed than in his enlisted quarters. The armory, the Wyvern room and all the briefing rooms as well as the company quarterdeck were all in that two-story structure. A Bravo Company soldier couldn’t, officially, discuss even their training schedule in the barracks. Due to the black nature of their missions, every briefing, every discussion, just about every bit of training had to take place in the HQ building.
But it was a different building, now. Eric no longer had any place in the enlisted barracks save for an occasional inspection. This was his home for the rest of his career in the company. People who used to casually order PFC or Sergeant Bergstresser off on details were still in the unit, but the vast majority of them were now required to salute Second Lieutenant Bergstresser. It was going to take some—
“Morning, sir,” First Sergeant Powell said, walking up behind him.
Eric turned and for just a moment froze at the salute.
“Morning, First Sergeant,” Berg replied, managing to return it crisply.
“Forget something at home?” Powell asked, grinning wisely.
The tall, lanky senior NCO had been the Top-Dog of Bravo Company since Eric joined as a PFC. Over the past two missions, he’d sent Eric into some situations that appeared suicidal and in one case very nearly was. By the same token, they’d stood side-by-side against monsters that ate Wyvern armor like candy, trained side-by-side and traded good-natured insults to the extent a sergeant and a first sergeant could. If Eric could point to one person as a mentor in his professional development as a Marine, it was First Sergeant Powell. And now the first sergeant was saluting him.
“Just thinking that sort of thing is going to take some getting used to, First Sergeant,” Eric replied. “The salute, that is.”
“We salute the rank, not the person wearing it,” Powell said. “But you wear it well. However, if you think you’re doing PT this morning, think again. You’re going to be doing paperwork all day long. And tomorrow and the next day ad infinitum. If you’d like one suggestion from an old soldier whose watched more than one LT grow or fail, it’s: Find the time. But today you won’t.”
“Top, I’m planning on going on listening to your advice as long as you’ll give it,” Eric replied.
“Well, sir, then my advice is to take one more deep breath and report in,” Powell said with a grin. “I mean, how hard could it be compared to, say, being crisped by plasma fire?”
“Yeah,” Eric said, grinning back. “The good thing about being an officer is that the next time you tell me to do that I can tell you to grapp off.”
“One thousand units of item 413 will be arriving later this afternoon, sir,” Weaver reported.
“And you nearly didn’t twitch when you said that,” Prael replied, grinning. “How bad was it?”
Prael’s office had an unlived-in look. He’d been the CO of the Blade for more than two months but the land-side office still only had a nameplate on the desk and a picture turned towards him. It showed a family group that Weaver presumed was Mrs. Prael and their two children. Unlike a lot of officers, he kept his domestic side completely separated from the military. And also unlike most officers, there was no “I-Love-Me” wall. Weaver had checked his service record and knew that he was a “plank owner” of the last Seawolf submarine constructed, but that plaque was also missing.
“The diet details are too gross to convey, sir,” Weaver said. “But I’m glad to report that all of her dogs are in good health. Her mom’s not doing so good, though. Care for the details?”
“No, but have the clerk write me a letter to the effect for my signature,” the CO said. “It never hurts to keep on Clerk Click’s good side. Maybe a box of chocolates.”
“Seems like an awful lot to go through for a thousand rolls of space tape, though.”
“Based on your last mission report, space tape is what keeps the Blade functioning,” Prael pointed out. “And on the matter, sort of, of your last mission, you had an interesting phone call while you were gone.”
“I cannot wait to hear what you define as interesting, sir,” Bill replied.
“A call from Robin Zenikki,” Prael said, in a much darker tone. “You recognize the name.”
“Washington Times,” Bill replied. “I haven’t talked to him in years, not since shortly after the Dreen War. And never on secure subjects, even to confirm or deny. It was always under orders to detail things that had already been authorized for disclosure. And all the conversations were prior to becoming an officer.”
“Well, he apparently wants to talk to you,” the CO said. “He said he’d call back but he also left a number. I’m hereby authorizing you and requiring you to contact him and see what he has to say. Don’t let anything go in the opposite direction, understood?”
“Clear, sir,” Bill replied. “I’ve done this before, sir.”
“I suppose there’s that,” Prael admitted. “Call him. I want to know what he knows or suspects. But later this afternoon. We’re headed to HQ.”
“For?”
“Mission brief,” the CO replied. “Finally.”
“That was a quick in-process,” Lieutenant Ross said.
Roger Ross was the executive officer of Bravo Company. XO is one of the more thankless positions in the military. The XO ensures that the unit is functioning, simple as that. It’s the XO’s job to make sure that the vehicles and other systems are working, that training schedules meet the myriad and often baroque requirements of higher, that the company has sufficient logistics to function, be that in garrison or in the field, that the unit is fed and resupplied in battle and that, in general, the unit works as a well-oiled machine. It’s petty, detail work, often frustrating, generally without great reward and often with huge penalties for failure. But XO is also a necessary step at each level on the way to command duties. Without being in the position, it’s impossible to truly understand the way that a unit functions, where the weak points are, what the probable problems are that will arise and how to fix them.
“Slow day, sir,” Eric replied.
It was nearly the end of duty hours and Eric had been in-processing all day, a procedure that could have been done in a maximum of two hours. He’d gone to the medics and ensured that his shots were up-to-date, got a stamp. Went to payroll and ensured that his pay records were up-to-date, got a stamp. Legal and his will, got a stamp. Field equipment, got a stamp. At each of the stops, incredibly bored clerks, most of whom had little or nothing to do, spent about four times the necessary time to do each job.
“Call me Rog,” the XO said. He was newer to the unit than Eric in some ways. The Marines on-board the Blade during the battle worked in damage control and most of them had died in those positions including the then-XO, Lieutenant Kolb. “Grab a chair. But now that you’re back, I don’t really have anyth
ing for you, yet. You still need to see the CO and get his in-process speech and he’s on his way back from a meeting with General Zanuck.
“I can tell you about your duties,” Lieutenant Ross continued, grinning evilly. “Now that you are here, and assuredly the most junior lieutenant seeing as the other two platoon leaders are first lieutenants, you get to take over the Dog Duties.”
“Here it comes,” Eric said, sitting down.
“Here are the unit VD reports,” Rog said, sliding over a thick file folder. “Not much in the way of positives, but you’re also required to do the mandatory training classes on prophylaxis and the paperwork showing that the classes have been successfully completed by all junior enlisted members of the company. Officers and senior NCOs are not required to attend but are encouraged.”
“Yeah, like Top’s going to take a VD course,” Eric said, picking up the file.
“I would find it unlikely,” Ross said, grinning. “Note that most of this stuff is database based. In addition to my other duties, I’ll need to familiarize you with the company management system. I could wish you’d spent time as an operations sergeant or even a company clerk; that would have sped the transition to your new lofty status. As it is, I’ll just hope that you learn quickly.”
“I’m generally a quick study, sir,” Eric replied.
“One can only hope,” the XO said, sliding over another file. “Unit morale and welfare officer. You are in charge of the MWR inventory and will need to do a full inventory of same for turnover. You are also responsible for a monthly report on MWR issues with the company, including an itemization of MWR inventory usage and explanation of non-usage if it falls below a certain time matrix. Sports, especially, are highly encouraged by the Marine Corps so if the Marines of Bravo Company don’t use their baseball bats and footballs, the commandant wants to know why!”