by John Ringo
“Gung-ho, sir,” Eric replied. “I’ll try to make sure we play with the commandant’s balls.”
“Motorcycle defensive driving officer,” the XO continued, sliding over another file. “There are nine motorcyclists in the company. You are to ensure that each is up-to-date at all times in their insurance and training on motorcycle defensive driving courses. Two of them haven’t attended MDDC, yet, so you’re going to have to find them a slot in the next two weeks.”
“Sir, we’re leaving on a mission in less than two weeks,” Berg pointed out.
“That’s what makes your new job so fun,” Ross replied, coldheartedly. “Not to mention mine. You will fill out the appropriate forms to point out that, due to exigencies of service, they were unable to fulfill their mandatory training and request an extension upon return and sign swearing and affirming on your soul as an officer that it’s all true so help you God really. I will then review them, require you to fix any necessary corrections and the CO will then countersign them.”
“At the rate this company loses people, most of them aren’t going to,” Eric said, chuckling. “Complete the course at a later date that is. I suppose there’s another form we have to submit explaining that they’re not in violation, they’re dead?”
“Normally, if a young lieutenant said something like that I’d jump their ass,” the XO replied. “In your case, given that you were around for most of those losses, I’ll let it slide. But you might want to avoid saying that sort of thing around the troops.”
“Wasn’t planning on it, sir,” Eric said. “Sorry.”
“It is, however, true,” Ross admitted, sighing. “I had no grapping clue the casualty rate of this unit when I volunteered. As XO no less. Where was I? Ah! Unit inventory officer…”
“HD 242896.”
The briefing officer was a Navy commander, an old one. The ribbons on his uniform indicated that he had never been anywhere or done anything that involved hearing shots fired in anger. On the other hand, he had several ribbons that indicated people thought he walked on water, up to and including two Legions of Merit. So either he was an A Number One kiss-butt or he was one of the boffins services kept around for their intellectual prowess rather than warrior spirit.
“Which means exactly nothing to me,” Captain Prael said.
“Then try to keep up, Captain,” the commander said dryly. “HD 242896 is an F9V, that means hot-green star, located between the constellations of Sagittarius and Orion, more or less in Taurus, in the night sky. It is important solely because during their retreat from the Dreen, the Hexosehr found an interesting installation around one of its gas giants.”
“Define interesting,” Bill said.
“This interesting,” the commander replied, bringing up a slide.
Bill recognized the view as one that had been translated from Hexosehr sonar images. The Hexosehr used various sensors and then converted them to sonar terms, just as humans, for example, would convert the bounced radio signals of radar into blips on a screen.
Converting the result into visual images for humans was often a matter of art rather than science. And generally the art form was surrealist.
“What in the hell is that?” Captain Prael asked. It was a structure that looked a bit like an octopus mated with a walrus.
“That is the best image we’ve been able to create,” the commander said. “But this facility was in orbit around a giant the Hexosehr were refueling at. Whether it was a fueling station for a dead race or a living habitat, a space station… Perhaps all of the above. The purpose of the facility was unclear. It was heavily damaged and in retrograde orbit. However, their brief survey of it did find this.”
The commander reached into his briefcase and set a small black monolith on the table.
“Is that what I think it is?” Bill asked. “Because it looks a lot like the LBB that powers our ship. And if it is… make sure you’ve got a static protector or this entire city is going to be gutted.”
“If it is, it is broken,” the commander said. “The Hexosehr, knowing nothing about the technology, already applied electrical power to it. There was no result. Ditto various particle streams. However, the point is that the Adar found the LBB we now use on a star in the direction of Sagittarius. And now there is this facility. That indicates that the center of this predecessor race, the race that created the engine in the Blade, may be located near HD 242896. Given that they did not want the Dreen obtaining any technology from the race that built the facility, they attempted to destroy it. It was particularly adamant and resistant to even their chaos balls. They eventually increased its rate of descent and dropped it into the Jovian’s atmosphere. They are unsure if that truly destroyed it or not. For all we know, it’s simply sitting on the metal hydrogen center.”
“Now that would be something to see,” Bill commented.
“Indeed.”
“How far away is this place?” Captain Prael asked.
“Four hundred and twenty-six light years,” Lieutenant Fey interjected. He’d been tapping at his computer during the majority of the briefing. “I’d estimate twenty-three days transit. Fewer chill stops and better recyclers means we can make better time.”
“Get out there,” Admiral Townsend said. “Sailing orders are for nine days from now. Go to that star system first and check out the other planets. Then spread out. Standard orders. It’s a scouting mission, not a battle, but if you run into trouble or something that you think needs fixing, use your own judgment. With the increased storage space on the Blade II, not to mention the Hexosehr recyclers, you should be able to extend your away time over a hundred days. If you find anything that’s immediately useful, though, bring it back right away. By the same token, if you find anything that might be useful but you can’t bring it back, destroy it. We don’t want the Dreen using this race’s technology against us. And speaking of the Dreen. Commander?”
“Note that the Hexosehr were fleeing through this region,” the commander added. “The Dreen came from the general direction of the Triffid Nebula, which means towards Sagittarius as we see it. According to Hexosehr and our estimates, they probably have not started to colonize the region of HD 242896, but it is possible there are scouting forces in the area.”
“So keep on your toes,” Admiral Townsend said. “We want you back with your Blade, not on it.”
“Commander. Could I have a word with you?” Bill said pulling the Navy intelligence officer aside as the brass filed out of the secure room.
“How can I help you, sir?” The Navy commander raised an eyebrow at Weaver. Despite his being the blatant parody of a TV character, Bill liked him. Especially the way the junior officer had told Captain Prael to try to keep up. Bill had almost laughed out loud, but had thought better of it.
“What do y’all plan to do with that LBB in your briefcase?”
“It’s dead, Captain. The Hexosehr even think so. I guess it’ll get stored somewhere back at Area 51.”
“Maybe it’s dead, Commander. Maybe. But the Blade’s LBB wiped out an entire star system without any sign of damage. I doubt whoever made it normally leave them just lying around ready to go. We got lucky with the first one. What if this one is just turned off?”
“Off?” The commander rubbed his open palm against the leather of his briefcase almost affectionately. “Hmm. Interesting point sir. What would you suggest?”
“There’s a little girl about to turn sixteen and I’ve been trying to think of what to get her for her birthday.”
“Sir?” The Navy officer looked down at a note that Weaver was scribbling on a yellow Post-It. Bill could tell by the commander’s expression that he recognized the name and phone number. Probably from other intelligence briefings.
“Tell her I said that this was all I could think of as a gift for the girl who in essence has the entire universe on her shoulders.” Weaver smiled, handed the officer the note and walked off. “Happy sweet sixteen, Mimi,” he said under his breath.
&nb
sp; “Robin Zenikki.”
Zenikki had been covering the Pentagon and the military for over three decades, knew everyone and had a Rolodex to die for. The only thing that surprised Weaver was that it had taken him this long to piece things together.
“Bill Weaver,” Bill replied. “Long time. You never call, you never write, we never do lunch and then out of the blue…”
“Hey, Bill,” Zenikki said, obviously grinning. “Like your new job?”
“Better than being a civilian consultant,” Bill replied, leaning back in his chair and looking at the overhead. That he was a Naval officer was not classified information.
“I meant as the astrogator of a spaceship,” Zenikki said.
“Being in the Navy is fun,” Bill said. “Be aware that this conversation is being recorded. SOP in my new job.”
“So we’re going to play it that way?” the reporter replied with mock sadness. “I thought we were friends, Bill!”
“Like I said, you never call, you never write…”
“Well, you were kind of unavailable for comment when you went to that planet where all the Marines were killed,” Zenikki said. “You know, the ones that were supposedly killed in a helicopter crash in the Mojave?”
“And I’m still unavailable to comment, Robin,” Bill replied. “If that’s all you’ve got, I suggest you take it to the UFO society. Or maybe Weekly World News.”
“Are you denying that the U.S. has a spaceship that has been in at least one battle?” the reporter asked seriously. “Because I’ve got one confirmation already.”
“Your sources used to be better than that, Robin,” Bill said. “Slipping in your old age?”
“So that’s a confirmation?” Zenikki asked.
“Gimme a break,” Bill said. “No, it’s not a confirmation. Neither confirm nor deny. But if all you’ve got is some wild story about a spaceship and some dead Marines, I’d strongly urge you to refrain from making a joke of yourself.”
“So you’re denying that we have a spaceship capable of faster-than-light travel,” the reporter asked doggedly.
“And your hearing is going, too,” Bill said. “Neither confirm nor deny. Just suggesting you need to find the right market. Have you considered writing science fiction?”
“You’ve been a real buddy there, Bill,” Zenikki said. “Let’s do lunch. You buy.”
“If I’m in town,” Bill said then winced.
“So you’re doing a lot of traveling?” the reporter pounced. “Off-planet?”
“Robin, do you know how many gates there are on earth to other planets?” Bill said, deciding to lay a red-herring. It was dangerous, but potentially worth it if it threw Robin off for as much as a week. “Forty-seven. Do you know how many we have research colonies on? One less than we did six months ago. I’d suggest you look for some of your answers elsewhere.”
“You’re saying that you’re mixed up with that research station that disappeared?” Robin asked hurriedly.
“Who is the military’s number one expert on Looking Glass bosons, Robin?” Weaver said. “And that’s all I’m going to say. Good night, Robin.”
“Filling Two-Gun in on his Dog Duties, XO?” Captain Zanella said as he walked through the office.
Captain James Zanella was tall, lean and fit with a sharply pointed jaw, high cheekbones, green eyes, black hair and an olive complexion. Any casting director would throw him out as being far too heroic looking to be a real Marine CO. The fact that he was also a capable one was the amazing thing.
His good looks were slightly marred from a mottling on his face, the only remaining indications that he’d been partially freeze-dried when his space suit was holed during the battle at HD 37355. Only quick thinking on the part of his RTO and a handy roll of space tape had saved his life. In that case, space tape really had been a life-saver.
Space tape, for the Vorpal Blade and the Marines that infested her, filled the venerable role of duct tape, hundred-mile-an-hour tape, rigger tape, what have you. The problem with using duct tape or its numerous brethren was that it simply did not work in space. The glue that worked so well in atmosphere just boiled away and in the incredible changes of temperature found in space the base material either froze and cracked or melted or sometimes both in quick succession.
Space tape, however, was the more wealthy and stylish child of the tape beloved of soldiers, sailors, Marines, airmen and anyone who has ever had to repair a ’67 Chevy without the aid of baling wire. Space tape, Item 117-398-7494560413 in the Uniform Federal Logistics Database, or Item 413 for short, worked perfectly well in any conditions including under water. The just-short-of-miraculous glue of the tape would stick to anything, left no residue no matter how long it had been applied, worked in vacuum and had a temperature range from just above one degree Kelvin to just short of that of the surface of the sun.
And it was expensive. Oh My God was it ever expensive. Nearly one hundred thousand dollars per roll expensive. And the Marines and sailors of the Vorpal Blade still tended to use it very much like duct tape, up to and including keeping partial rolls tucked away in odd places “just in case.”
When Captain Zanella had signed off on his first inventory in the unit and seen the prohibitive cost of the material, he nearly had a heart attack. For a few dozen rolls of space tape he could buy a Wyvern suit. He had blanched every time he saw the stuff and nearly screamed when he saw Marines using it to attach bits of equipment to their combat harness. He’d prohibited it from use under all but the most dire and fully official circumstances and ordered all rolls turned in on pain of pain.
Then his RTO had pulled out one of the many contraband rolls the Marines managed to retain and saved his life with it.
After that, he was a believer in space tape. If the Marines wanted to keep rolls, that was fine by him. As long as he had the budget, he’d buy all the space tape he could get his hands on. He still, however, prohibited using it to make hackysack balls.
“Just about done, sir,” Lieutenant Ross said, looking up from the paperwork he was explaining.
“You’re looking a bit fried, Two-Gun,” Captain Zanella said.
“Just trying to figure out when I can see my new bride, sir,” Eric replied, shaking his head. “There’s… a lot of paperwork here.”
“Every bit of which Lieutenant Ross has to review and I have to review and sign,” the CO said. “Paperwork is what officers were created for, Lieutenant Bergstresser. It is our lot in life. Get used to it.”
“I will, sir,” Berg said. “Not complaining, just contemplating.”
“Well, come on in and we’ll get this over with,” the CO continued, heading for the door of his office.
“Grab a seat, Eric,” the captain said, sitting down behind his desk and contemplating his Inbox. “See this?” he continued, gesturing at the overflowing pile. “That’s just what I haven’t caught up with, yet, today. Because I had to go over to Quantico. I’ll be here until at least nine catching up. Lieutenant Ross will be here nearly as long. For the first few days, you’re going to have much the same schedule and you’ll probably take what you can home. Not all of that stuff is classified, fortunately. Honestly, though, even as much as I like and respect you, I could wish that the President hadn’t stuck his nose in. If he hadn’t, or if he’d just said ‘Send him to OCS,’ then we’d have done this the normal way. You’d have spent at least a year in one of the MEUs getting used to being an officer, then come back here.”
“I think I’m going to be able to maintain a separation from my former teammates, sir,” Eric replied.
“I don’t,” Zanella said. “And it’s the least of my worries, frankly. Force Recon officers are generally closer to their troops than officers in regular units. We spend too much time separated from large groups of other officers. If your platoon is in Thailand, it’s hang out with the troops or be by yourself. And you never fly without a wingman in Thailand. That’s not the problem. Problems. Comments?”
“Still waitin
g to find out what I’m going to do wrong, sir,” Eric said.
“Good one, Two-Gun,” Zanella replied, grinning. “Okay, if you’d been in an MEU, the stuff that just got dumped on you would have been spread more. Some of that in an MEU is MEU specific. The motorcycle thing would have an officer, a JO admittedly, in charge of it for the whole MEU. Ditto the MWR inventory, but a different officer. So JOs would spread the load and have time to adjust to it. Then, when an officer got to Force Recon and got handed the same shit all over again, just more of it, he’d have already developed the habits that would help him shift the load faster. You don’t have that experience because you didn’t spend time in the MEU.”
“I guess I’ll just have to learn fast,” Eric said.
“And so many things,” the CO said. “Among other things, that Direction of the President missed sending you to Officer Basic Course and Force Recon Officer Training. In both of those you would have learned more details of how to handle your troops in a combat environment and in garrison. OCS, necessarily, covers the broad spectrum. You were supposed to really be taught how to be an infantry officer, and then a Force Recon Officer, in those two courses. You’ve had neither. I’ve been reviewing the lesson plans of both and realizing just how much you missed. Including introduction to the CMS. You also haven’t had any experience running troops. I know that you’ve had experience being a troop and think you know what it’s all about. But from this side of the desk, things are different. Priorities, especially. So you’re going to have to learn. Much of this I’m going to throw on Gunnery Sergeant Juda.”
“He’s back?” Eric interjected. The Gunny had been hit even worse than the CO during the battle. “Sorry, sir.”