Claws That Catch votsb-4

by John Ringo

  “By column of twos!” Lieutenant Bergstresser boomed, breaking the unit down until it was two abreast instead of four. The Marines, despite carrying a hundred and fifty pounds of gear apiece, having marched nearly a hundred miles grand total and with minimal sleep or food, did the maneuver flawlessly. Two by two they entered the Looking Glass to an unknown fate. For all they knew, it could have been pointed at another planet. But there wasn’t a flicker from any of them as they approached the gate.

  When Berg emerged, he had to chuckle. The other side emerged on the parade field in front of the company headquarters building in Newport News.

  “In the quiet misty morning when the moon has gone to bed,

  When the sparrows stop their singing,

  I’ll be homeward bound again…”

  “By column of fours… Companeeeee… halt.”

  “I’m glad to see everyone made it,” Captain Zanella said to the assembled Marines. “But it’s what I expect of Space Marines and you can recover on the ship. We have loading to do…”

  There were some groans to that and he grinned, thinking that maybe he should revise the schedule he and the first sergeant had worked out. But, no, it was one of those times the CO got to be the good guy.

  “I have convinced the first sergeant, however, that we do not have to start right away,” he continued.

  It was military leadership. Call it good cop/bad cop. The senior NCO in any unit was the bad cop. He was the one who assigned all the crappy details and meted out minor punishments. The officer, on the other hand, remained generally distant and only interacted when there were good things to be said and done. Except on the rare occasion where someone truly grapped up, in which case, like calling Dad in for punishment, you knew you were really grapped.

  The first sergeant had punished the company for their grandstanding. Now he got to pat them on the head.

  “You have the rest of the day off. Recall formation at 1700. We’ll then commence loading. The majority of materials have been pre-loaded for us this time, the remainder will be doled out at 1700. Following the formation, platoon sergeants and leaders in my office. First Sergeant!”

  “Okay, this has put a total crimp in my planning,” First Lieutenant Javier Mendel said. Despite his Hispanic name, the lieutenant looked more like a poster child for the Waffen SS, tall and slender with blue eyes and short-cropped blond hair. However, in keeping with his name, he was a second generation immigrant from Peru. If the hundred mile ruck march had bothered the officer it wasn’t apparent, he was still carrying his ruck on his back as he and Berg made their way into the heaquarters building. “I had maulk to do last night.”

  “You weren’t married less than a month ago,” Berg pointed out. “But when Top gets a bee in his bonnet, well…”

  “Good training, though,” Lieutenant Morris said. Morris was medium height with brown hair and eyes. He’d entered from one of the few Marine ROTC units and had never intended to be a Force Recon officer, it was just bad timing. Since he’d graduated in winter semester, his whole career had been out-of-schedule; newly minted officers were supposed to show up at the beginning of the summer. He’d completed his time as a platoon leader and was supposed to take over a company XO position in a different MEU. However, that unit was deployed when he became available. He had the choice of a make-work position until it came back or a course. The only course available was Force Recon. Once he joined the course, though, he’d just refused to quit and graduated as the Honor Graduate from Force Recon qual and FROT. Since he’d already had a platoon, he qualified as an FR platoon leader. And the FR platoon leader spot open had been in Bravo Company after its merciless first mission. At this point he had one mission under his belt in the Blade and was still refusing to quit. “Glad Top got it out of his system.”

  “OKAY, WHO IN THE HELL… ?”

  “Had,” Berg said, grinning. “Had it out of his system.”

  “TWO-GUN!”

  “That would be Sir Two-Gun, First Sergeant,” Eric said, as the three officers walked into the orderly room.

  To approach the CO’s office there were two choices. On one side, the side enlisted approached from, there was the gauntlet of the orderly room, held down by the company clerk and the operations sergeant. From there, if a person was worthy, they could enter Top’s office. On the other side was the XO’s office, the route normally taken by officers. In this case, since it was the shorter route and there was more room to dump their rucks in the orderly room, the officers had taken that route. Which was how they got to see the sign.

  Someone had been busy while the company was gone. Before they left, the first sergeant’s door had only a simple plaque: “First Sergeant Jeffrey Powell.”

  Now, over the door there was a large wooden sign which read:

  We pray for one last landing

  On the globe that gave us birth;

  Let us rest our eyes on the fleecy skies

  And the cool, green hills of Earth.

  — Robert Anson Heinlein

  “You were addressing me, First Sergeant?” Two-Gun asked as he slipped his ruck to the floor. He had to admit he was grateful to finally have the thing off his back but he tried to keep the relief off his face.

  “No, sir,” the first sergeant said, grinding his teeth. “I would never address an officer in that manner. I believe I was addressing a smart-aleck sergeant I once knew.”

  “What’s that from?” Mendel asked, setting his own ruck down. “Although, I agree with the sentiment.”

  “It’s a long story, Lieutenant,” Top said, then gave a reluctant smile. “It’s a good sign, though, Lieutenant Bergstresser. I take it I do have you to thank.”

  “I was thinking about the sign the Legion has in its orderly room,” Berg admitted. “ ‘You are in the Legion to die and we will send you where you can die.’ I kinda felt this was more appropriate. Lord knows it’s true.”

  “That it is, sir,” Top said softly. “That it is. But we’ve got work to do, sirs.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Good to hear, Captain Weaver,” Captain Prael said, grinning at the XO’s tone. “Glad to hear you got it all back. You’re going to need to arrange transportation… Okay, glad we’re clear on that. And a working party to… I’ll make sure the COB’s aware of the importance. In case I wasn’t clear, good job on all of this from tracking down the problem to rectifying it… Yes, I’m fully cognizant of Miss Moon’s part in this and appreciate that as well. She may not be the problem-child she at first seemed.”

  “So I’ve been thinking,” Miriam said.

  “Oh, those are scary words,” Sub Dude replied.

  “My belly’s quaking for some strange reason,” Red agreed.

  The threesome were playing cards in the small space between the number fourteen and number sixteen chaos launcher. Technically a storage space for peripheral materials, it was strangely empty because the parts that should have filled it were sitting in a warehouse in Delaware.

  “The CO’s still not real happy with me helping you guys out,” Miriam continued, ignoring the jibes. “And I got really bored on the last cruise. Worse, I had nobody to snuggle.”

  “You’re not snuggling me or Red,” Gants said, sucking his teeth. “Married. Damnit.”

  “So I need something to snuggle,” Miriam continued, ignoring him again. “And the ship really needs a mascot.”

  “Oh, God,” Red said. “This is getting worse and worse!”

  “All I’m talking about is one little kitty,” Miriam said. “It will take up hardly any room. Nobody will notice. Probably.”

  “And just what is this kitty going to eat?” Red asked. “We don’t stock cat food.”

  “He eats raw meat just fine,” Miriam said. “Don’t worry, I got that covered. With my access, tweaking the supply orders was easy.”

  “Oh, God,” Red said. “You hacked the supply system?”

  “Duh.”

  “Okay, how are you going to get it on the ship
, Smart Lady?” Sub Dude asked.

  “All hands! All hands! Assemble by Hatch Three for working party!”

  “I dunno,” Miriam said. “Maybe in a Hexosehr cargo box I just happen to have and that looks just like the rest we’re getting ready to load.”

  “Damnit.”

  “PO, is it just me or are we loading a lot of provisions?” the mess specialist asked, heaving a leg of beef onto a large stack in the freezer.

  “Stuffing every nook and cranny,” the petty officer replied. “Going to be a long cruise.”

  “Yeah, but, this is one heck of a lot of meat,” the mess specialist said. “I mean, more than normal, right?”

  “Looks about right to me,” the PO replied. “This is the Blade…”

  “We don’t turn back until we’re out of food or Marines,” the mess specialist said, sighing. “I guess we’re going to be making a lot of chilimac.”

  “We got it all back,” Bill chortled. “All of it. Every last item!”

  “That’s great, Bill,” Miriam said, looking around at the piles of boxes. “Now all we have to do is figure out where it all goes, again.”

  “No problem,” Bill said. “I just want to get it all back in the ship. Then we can figure out where it’s going. I can see you’re just as glad as I am, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Admit it.”

  “You’re right,” Miriam said, trying not to glance over at where Red and Sub Dude were joining the line of sailors loading the ship. “But I’ve got stuff I’ve got to do. See you later?”

  “Absolutely,” Bill replied. “And did I mention we got it all back?”

  “I thought you said this was a cat,” Sub Dude whispered as they broke away from the group and headed aft.

  “It’s sort of purring like one,” Red pointed out. “Sort of.”

  “It’s way too heavy to be a cat,” Gants said, sucking his teeth furiously. “Unless you brought a menagerie.”

  “Just one little kitty,” Miriam promised. “Is this far enough? I miss my Tiny.”

  “Over here,” Red whispered, opening up one of the between-launcher supply closets.

  The threesome entered the compartment, shut the hatch and then Gants hit the lock on the box.

  “What kind of a cat — ?” he started to say and then found himself flat on his back in the face of a joyous “MRAOWR!”

  The beast on his chest was the size of a medium dog and weighed about the same. But that was where the resemblance ended. Snow white with black spots and blue eyes, the thing looked like an albino jaguar. And it had the power of one, having knocked him off his feet before he could get a sentence out or even scream. If it was a house cat, it looked like it must have been crossed with a leopard. It began licking his face like a dog, but with a vocalization that could best be replicated as “YUM! YUM! YUM!” It was not a reassuring sound.

  “Can I push it off? Or is it going to rip my throat out?”

  “Oh, Tiny’s a big softie,” Miriam said, pushing the cat aside.

  “Is that some sort of bizarre genetic accident?” Red asked. He’d backed into the corner of the room since the cat was between him and the door. He was afraid to try to run in case it caused a chase reaction in the massive feline. “I saw this picture online one time…”

  “It’s a Savannah,” Miriam said. “A cross between a Bengal and a Cervil. And his name is Titanus, after the lord of the Titans. I like to call him Tiny.”

  “Look,” Gants said, scrambling to his feet and backing to the door. “I don’t know anything about any cat. We were not here. We disavow all knowledge of how a fricking monster catzilla got on the ship. My God, woman, where is he going to go to the bathroom? We don’t happen to have the Sahara onboard!”

  “Where does a sixty pound cross between a housecat and a mountain lion go?” Red mused. “Anywhere it wants. I’m thinking… Conn.”

  “He’s potty trained,” Miriam said with a moue. She knelt and grabbed the massive cat by the head, scratching it hard at the neckline. At which point, “Tiny” rolled onto the deck and onto his back to have his tummy rubbed. That required two hands for sure. “He goes in the potty. I wouldn’t want to change his catbox.”

  “Like, in the can?” Red asked, straightening out of his crouch. “Really?”

  “Oh, sure, that I’ve heard of,” Gants said, sucking his teeth nervously. “But is he trained on a potty for a prototype, Hexosehr-built, spaceship Miss Smartypants?”

  “Well, duh.”

  “So it just eats raw meat?” Red said, holding out a slice of beef. It turned out that Miriam had doubled the meat ration of the ship. Normally, that would be impossible, but for some reason the ship had about double the regular freezer space. He had to wonder, given that Miriam had been involved in the design, just how long the girl had been planning on bringing her “little kitty.”

  “And organ meat,” Miriam said.

  “Okay, who in the hell ordered two tons of calf liver… ?”

  “Oh, man, liver and onions, here we come…”

  “You’ve pretty much got it licked, don’t you?” Gants said, sighing.

  “Thought of everything,” Miriam said. “Trust me.”

  “Is this one of those times that as a good Marine wife I trust you that you were not carousing all night?” Brooke asked as Eric opened the door to the apartment. She was folding laundry in the living room with the TV set to Fox News.

  “Yes,” Eric said. “The first sergeant and the CO decided that everybody was getting too into their new roles as TV stars. So we had a ruck march.”

  “All night?” Brooke asked, alarmed.

  “Yep,” Berg said. “I caught breakfast at the mess hall and that was the first solid food I’ve had since yesterday sometime. The good news is that I’ve got the whole day off. I need to be back at 1700.”

  “That’s… five o’clock, right?” Brooke asked. “Do you want me to get you something to eat? I would have fixed breakfast. I’m sorry I snapped.”

  “That was not a snap,” Eric corrected. “A snap would have been ‘where the hell were you last night?’ And I’m fine. I need a shower. After that I’m sure we’ll find some way to pass the time. Especially since lift-off is about this time tomorrow morning.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Power for five knots,” the CO said as the tugs released the lines on the ship.

  Since its existence was supposed to be a huge secret, the Blade II had been docked in a standard subpen. Which meant a massive concrete box with overhead cover. Just flying out was out of the question. Arguably, she could have driven herself out, as she had done on previous occasions. But the tugs were standard and with the secrecy off, no longer an issue.

  What was an issue was their sailing orders.

  “Twenty degrees starboard,” Prael said, gritting his teeth. The deep water where subs hid was to port. The main basin for Newport News was to starboard, the basin where the thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of watchers had gathered to watch the world’s first starship take off. “Let’s kick it up a bit.”

  “Twenty degrees starboard,” Weaver repeated. “Engage drive to one percent. Maintain water contact.”

  There was already a supplemental provision bill before Congress for a new spaceport, a real one that didn’t involve water. But it was still based at Newport News. The Navy had slid the entire plan across the table and, as far as anyone could tell, they were for once getting everything they asked for. Riding a tide of public opinion was a wonderful feeling.

  “Why do I get the feeling that everybody wants us to burst out of the water?” the CO said. “Input, XO?”

  “One option, sir,” Bill replied. “Alternatively, rising ominously into the air, passing slowly over News and Norfolk then out to sea. Then kick it in to get out of the grav well faster. I really don’t think we want to go supersonic at low altitude near a city. There are regs against it for that matter. And we can only go so far nose up without everyone falling sideways. We’ll have the depth in the
turning basin for a slight dip.”

  “I think we should go for the splashy exit,” Prael replied. “People have gotten used to seeing it on TV, haven’t they? Once we reach the turning basin, go to twenty meters, then we’ll bounce out at about forty knots and accelerate to just under Mach One. Not as flashy as Spectre’s runs, I’ll admit, but we don’t have Akulas to avoid.”

  Brooke watched as the ship carrying her husband first dipped into the harbor then splashed out, heading upwards and outwards towards the stars. Her eyes were filled with tears, but she wasn’t the only teary-eyedone in the crowd by far.

  “Calm down, Tiny,” Miriam said, rubbing the cat’s sides. “It’s shiny. It’s better than with Spectre.”

  It was a note of pure cat distress as the massive feline squatted on his haunches and howled at the overhead. But deeper and richer than any housecat. When it passed through a thick hatch and echoed through the ship…

  “Captain Weaver?” Prael asked.

  “Not… sure, sir,” Bill replied, listening to the sound of bending metal that resounded through the hull. “But it sounded expensive.”

  “We need to know if we’re spaceworthy, XO,” the CO snapped. “Pilot, level off and drop the accel.” As the ship leveled out the sound subsided. “Damage report.”

  “Pressure is holding at two percent over standard atmosphere,” Bill replied. “No reports of structural damage. Sir, we’ve never heard that particular sound from the ship. Yes, it sounded bad. But it might have just been things settling. The inertial compensators don’t kick in until we’re out of the grav well and coming back we didn’t maneuver very hard. My gut is saying bad things. Every sensor we have, every person we have on watch, is saying everything’s shiny.”