by John Ringo
“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.”
“I don’t see why not,” Miriam argued. “If Mimi went around with some glowing guy with wings on her shoulder it would cause more problems than something that looks like a stuffed toy.”
“Good point,” Julia admitted.
“What do you do, Miss Julia?” Mimi asked.
“Biology,” Julia replied. “So till we get to a planet, if we find any rocky ones, I don’t have much of a job. You know what biology is, miss?”
“A science that studies living organisms,” Mimi recited. “I wrote a paper on punctuated evolution in the… second grade. I proposed that punctuated equilibrium only appears punctuated because of gaps in fossil data that are inherent in periods of rapid change.”
“Really?” Julia said, impressed. “I don’t suppose you’ve done any study since then?”
“Miss Julia,” Mimi said, carefully, “I think that at this point, if I went to a university, I could probably get a doctorate in about any hard science you’d care to mention. I will admit that part of that is with the help of Tuffy. But he tries to just make me think… better, harder. He doesn’t do it for me. You can feel free to quiz me on anything you’d like in regards to biology, geology, planetology, physics, astronomy or astrophysics.”
“Interesting,” Julia said. Her rather pronounced southern black accent had nearly disappeared. “What’s the definition of species?”
“Ask a dozen biologists and you get a dozen answers,” Mimi said. “According to Ernst Mayer, groups of actually or potentially interbreeding natural populations that are reproductively isolated from other such groups. I still say it doesn’t explain tigers and lions, though.”
“Damn, girl,” Julia said, whistling. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen,” Mimi replied. “But Tuffy says I have an old soul.”
“Just one of those definitions I really like,” Julia said, grinning. “I loved to trot it out for juniors that thought they knew it all about biology then point out ‘species’ that don’t meet the definition. And I don’t know what to expect on other worlds, just want to get there is all.”
“And who is this young lady?” a man said from the hatchway. He was tall and broad, with a thick, neatly trimmed beard.
“Everette Beach, this is Mimi Jones,” Miriam said. “Mimi, Everette. Everette is the mission specialist commander. I think that makes him your boss.”
“Hello, Mr. Beach,” Mimi said, standing up and shaking the man’s hand.
“You’re Mimi,” Beach replied. “I was briefed on your presence, but only today. And this would be Tuffy. You are both welcome. I’ve actually heard of you from sources besides the news. I think you supplied Professor Johnson at Caltech with the answer to his string node dilemma.”
“Yes, we did,” Mimi said shyly.
“I have to ask…” Everette said, his brow furrowing.
“I can’t tell you if it was me or Tuffy,” Mimi interjected. “Not will not, can not. I’m not sure myself. There are times when I don’t know if I’m really really smart naturally or if it’s Tuffy. Simple as that.”
“Does that bother you?” Miriam asked gently.
“No, it really doesn’t,” Mimi said. “Tuffy has told me that we’re going to be together until I die and I think we’re gonna be together after. So it’s not like I’m going to lose my smarts like Algernon. And being smart lets me help people. And make lots of money.”
“You won’t make lots of money working for the government,” Julia said. “Oh, it pays well enough, but…”
“I’m not, actually, getting paid for this,” Mimi said. “And while I know I fall in the mission specialist category, even if I don’t have a specialty, I’m going to be
staying close to Commander Weaver and Chief Miller.”
“Any particular reason?” Beach asked.
“ ’Cause Tuffy says they are the causality point,” Mimi replied. “And that’s about all I can get out of him. He’s shown me the math but string nodes is two plus two compared to that. Maybe one day I’ll figure it out.”
“Oh,” Beach said, glancing at the other two. Julia raised her eyebrows but Miriam just smiled.
“I think you’re going to fit right in here,” Miriam said, patting Mimi on the leg. “You know, I read your paper on Yang-Mills Theory. Did you take into account the Looking Glass bosons connection through a virtual dimension when you worked out the mass gap? I have a hard time understanding how the LGBs enable a quantum particle with positive mass to travel faster than the speed of light. I mean, haven’t we decided that the LGBs are not wormholes or even Higgs fields of the classical sense?”
“That’s right,” Mimi said, smiling slightly despite the leg pat. “Dr. Weaver’s original assessment that the gauge bosons created were simply the Higgs field gauge particles was…”
» » »
“Congratulations, Lieutenant Commander Weaver,” Commander White said, grinning. “You have successfully navigated us out of Norfolk Harbor.”
The sub had reached the two-hundred fathom line, the traditional dive point for the subs coming out of Norfolk. From there to England, more or less, there wasn’t anything in the way of the sub. Oh, if they dove deep enough they could hit the bottom, but it would be tough. SSBNs were designed to be quiet swimmers, not deep ones.
Unfortunately, the newly named Vorpal Blade wasn’t even particularly quiet. Various concessions had had to be made for the sub to be spaceworthy, the most important of which was removing every scrap of acoustic tile from the surface of the boat. Without the acoustic tile, which muffled internal noise, it “radiated” like a rock band.
What the Vorpal Blade was, though, was fast.
“Sound dive warning,” the captain said.
“All hands!” Commander White said over the enunciator. “Dive, Dive, Dive!”
“The board is straight,” the chief of boat said, indicating that all the various hatches were shut.
“XO, dive the boat,” the captain said, hopping up on his chair. “Make your depth one hundred meters.”
“Ten percent blow,” the XO said. “Fifteen degrees down plane.”
“Fifteen degrees down, aye,” the plane controller said.
“Blow complete,” the COB said.
“Descending through fifty meters,” the plane said. “Seventy-five…”
“Level off on one hundred,” the XO ordered.
“Leveling,” the plane replied. “One hundred meters depth.”
“Astro?” the captain asked.
“Recommend course of one-five-seven,” Weaver replied.
“XO, come to course one-five-seven.”
“Right ten degrees rudder,” the XO said. “Make your course one-five-seven.”
“Ten degrees rudder, aye,” the helmsman said. “One-five-seven, aye.”
“Why one-five-seven?” the captain asked.
“Last report from SOSUS indicated the Akulas were waiting for us at nine-zero,” Weaver replied. “Of course, they’re probably picking us up all ready.”
“Point,” the captain said sourly.
While the Cold War was no longer going on, Russia still maintained an interest in the American fleet, and especially in its submarines. They still sent attack subs to stake out American harbors and try to get hull shots, sonar profiles or any data at all on the American subs. With the Ohios they were still mostly failing; the subs that the Blade had been made from were ghosts.
The Blade really had them puzzled, though. It appeared to be converted for inshore, the term of art was littoral, combat. But removing the acoustic tiles made no sense. Why make a ship designed to approach enemy coastlines noisy. So the Russians had been sending an increasing number of attack subs to try to figure out this new Ami sub. The one thing they’d discovered was that the Blade was very very fast.
“XO, disengage propeller drive and close prop cowling,” the captain ordered.
The two orders were nowhere in any other submarine’s lexicon and the latter was one of the reasons that the Blade wasn’t very quiet. For various reasons, not the least of which was that they tended to rotate fast enough to spin off when the Blade got up to full speed, the propellers of the Blade were housed in a sliding door cowling system that was similar to the cowling kept over the props while in wet dock with the exception of the fact that they opened and closed by pushing buttons on the bridge.
“Props disengaged and closed,” the XO said after a moment.
“Engage supercavitation field,” the captain said, satisfaction in his voice. “Make power for one-two-zero knots. Engage space drive.”
“One-two-zero knots, aye,” the XO said. “Engage supercavitation system. Pilot, engage space drive. Power to one-two-zero knots.”
“What the hell is that?” Miller asked as the strong flow noise started up and the sub began to shake. Being in a sub was always nervous making; hearing one apparently crashing was worse.
“They engaged the space drive,” Captain Michael “M.E.” MacDonald said. He was currently regarding the chief warrant officer with interest. “When we start to really speed up it gets noisy. I only know that because I’ve been on this boat for shakedown ops.”
“And I haven’t, sir,” Miller said, nodding.
“I understand why you are here,” MacDonald said. “What I’m not sure about is what to do with you.”
“Not sure myself, sir,” Miller admitted. “I know as much as you do. Tuffy wants me here. The only suggestion I have is that I think I should stay close to Commander Weaver.”
“Any reason why?” the captain asked. “Besides being old buddies.”
“Not sure how to explain, sir,” Miller admitted, frowning. “Commander Weaver, well, I’m pretty sure he’s going to play out more of a role than just navigating us around. I think we both know he’s going to be consulted on just about anything that we encounter. I know that there are probably astronomers and astrophysicists on this boat with better credentials than his. But Weaver gets things right. You know what I mean on a military level, sir. There are guys who get things right in combat. Well, Weaver gets them right when it’s… weird stuff.”
“Like ship-eating monsters?” MacDonald asked.
“Like I have no idea, sir,” the warrant said. “But I’m pretty sure that when it happens, we’re all going to be pucker factoring. And if anybody’s going to figure out how to save our ass, sir, it’s going to be Weaver. And, with all due respect, sir, when he thinks something needs to be shot or blown up, he’s going to scream ‘Miller!’ not ‘MacDonald!’ He thinks he’s a naval officer but I guarantee he hasn’t got chain of command in his bones. My suggestion, sir, is that you just tell me to tag along with Weaver. That way he’s got a guy who does have a clue about ground combat to… suggest alternate methods.”
“Gotcha, Chief,” the captain said, grinning. “Okay, that’s how we’ll work it. I’m appointing you the chief of security detail for Commander Weaver, especially in the event of his leaving the boat. I’ll speak to the captain about how to integrate your position while on-board, but if Weaver leaves, you’re his bodyguard. Work?”
“Works, sir,” Miller said.
“All hands, prepare for water exit,” the 1-MC said.
“Hang on,” MacDonald said, grabbing at the arms of his station-chair as music started booming over the 1-MC.
“Who in the hell is playing music?” Miller asked, grabbing at his own chair’s arms. He’d noticed that the chair was bolted to the deck. He suspected he was about to find out why.
“Who could order music?” the Marine CO said. “Like I said, hang on.”
“There it is.”
Captain Zabukov looked over at his sonar technician as the senior petty officer
held up a hand.
“I’m surprised you can’t hear it through the hull,” the CPO said bitterly. Shadowing the American boomer, even as noisy as it was, was not easy. But now, as it had the last three times they shadowed it, it had begun to play that rock and roll crap. And everyone in the crew knew what that meant.
“Position?” Captain Zabukov asked.
“Two-One-Four, Control,” the CPO said, still bitterly. “Depth one hundred meters, more or less. You sure you cannot hear it through the hull? I am having to crank down my gain.”
“Periscope depth!”
“Periscope depth, aye,” the XO, Senior Lieutenant Ivanakov, said. “Five degree rise on bow planes.”
The Russian Akula was still the most advanced attack sub, outside of the Americans’, in the world. And there were arguments on both sides. The Akula depended upon depth and speed to survive; it could dive deeper and drive faster than just about any other submarine on Earth. The trade-off, however, was noise. While the Akula was not noisy by any normal average, it was much noisier than an American 688, much less the Seawolf or Ohio series.
That was until the Americans came up with this new bastard Ohio. The damned thing was, if anything, noisier than an Akula. It had… bits protruding. Following it was like following a blind man in an autumn forest. But then, that skipper would play his damned music and…
“Get me on the surface,” the captain snarled. “Sonar, what is its heading?”
“Zero, one eight,” Sonar called back. “It’s headed towards the Zama.”
The latter Akula was one of three that Northern Fleet had sent to pinpoint the new American sub and determine how it was disappearing.
“Captain, what are you doing?” Ivanakov asked, worried. He had heard the captain’s theory on the new American boomer and he hoped that he was one of the few. If higher command ever heard it they would laugh the captain out of the service.
“I’m going to get a hull shot,” the captain said, hitting the control to raise the periscope. “A very special one. Come to course zero, one, eight, periscope depth. Max power. Now!”