Citadel: Troy Rising II

by John Ringo

  "So it had nothing to do with ‘two Navy she-bitches and a platoon of Marines' invading Murphy's?" Erickson said.

  "Not a thing," Father said. "And, for the record, it was two Marines."

  "Sorry to mention this," Erickson said. "But I am a Marine. Former. And knowing the welders on this station, you don't look like you'd last long."

  "My first tour was in Recon," Father said. "My second tour, after my first divorce, was in Force Recon. My third was in the Fallujah after my second divorce. This is my . . . ​fifth?"

  "Ah," Erickson said. "One of those."

  "But I must admit that we would have had much trouble were it not for a certain Navy Chief, and local partisans, who assisted."

  "Assisted?" Barnett said from over his shoulder. "Assisted?!"

  Dana turned around then turned back quickly, covering her eyes.

  "Holy Gods, Chief!" Dana said, giggling. "I mean . . . ​really!"

  Barnett was wearing a purple bikini with hot pink polka dots. Dana didn't even know they made bikini tops in Troy size.

  "Just cause you want to wear a shirt," Barnett said. "Ah, speaking of local partisans."

  "Hey, hottie," BFM said, slipping his hand under the water to give the chief a squeeze. "You with anybody?"

  "Sure am, BF," Barnett purred.

  "Oh, this is just . . ." Dana said, shaking her head.

  "Wrong?" Father finished.

  "Get a room, Chief," Dana said, giggling again.

  "Oh, like you're one to talk," Barnett said, breast stroking over to the other side of the bar. BF could just walk. "Hey, gal, set me and my friend up some long necks, will ya?"

  "Esme, Bill, my Squadron Flight NCOIC, Chief Barnett," Dana said, waving at the Chief. "And her . . . ​friend . . . ?"

  "Ben Price," BFM said. "Price or BF. We didn't really get much of chance to chat the other night."

  "Call me Liz," Barnett said, picking up her beer and half draining it. "Ah, that hit the spot. If I never see another piece of Rangora scrap, it will be too soon."

  "Amen," Dana said. "At least we finally got all the prisoners picked up."

  "Picking up prisoners and scrap is better than the alternative," Erickson pointed out.

  "This is true," Barnett said. "And at least they targeted leadership. Now if the rest of the world's leaders would learn to stay out of cities we'd be cooking with fuel oil." She looked over at Esme and raised and eyebrow. "You find that . . . ​cynical?"

  "I've never really had much experience with the military," Esme said, frowning in thought. "I mean, the first guy I ever dated who's been in the military was Bill. So I'm sort of trying to . . ."

  "Adjust?" Barnett said.

  "I'm not against the military," Esme said. "But the last person in my family who was in the military was my grand dad in World War II. And now I'm spending half my time dealing with sailors and Marines or . . ." She looked at Bill and grinned. "Guys who can get out of the Marines but not get the Marine out if you know what I mean."

  "The job of the Marines is to protect civilians," Patricelli said. "And one of our special tasks is protecting the President. But there's not much we can do about KEWs. So I hope you understand that while we joke, we're not really happy about the situation."

  "I don't understand why we can't stop them," Esme said. "I mean, there's Troy and all the orbital defenses we've been spending money on. Why can't you stop them?"

  "Well, uhm," Dana said. "I drive a boat. So not only is it not my job . . ."

  "Think about an absolutely black room," the chief said. "You ever been in absolute darkness. No matter how close you get your hand to your face, you can't see it?"

  "When I can't find the light-switch here, yes," Esme said.

  "Now, in that room is a wasp that doesn't hum," Barnett said, taking a careful swig off her beer. "It can be anywhere in the room. And it's closing on you. And when it stings you, it's going to kill you."

  "I don't like the thought," Esme said. "But . . . ​okay."

  "Nobody likes the thought," Barnett said. "Just some people can think about it without their brains turning off. Some can't. You still with me?"

  "Yes," Esme said. "Dark room. Killer wasp."

  "You have in your hand a laser pointer," Barnett said. "The light doesn't scatter at all but if you hit the wasp, it kills it. How hard is it to hit the wasp."

  "Impossible," Esme said. "But is it really . . ."

  "Harder," Erickson said. "Much much harder."

  "The wasp makes a little bit of sound when it first enters the room," Barnett said. "And then when it gets about an inch from your skin. And you actually have a bunch of laser pointers, too many for a human to handle, and a whole bunch of wasp sensors that if the wasp nearly hits them can detect it. And the room is about the size of a football stadium."

  "The fact that we get any of them is the surprising part," Father said. "And by ‘we' I mean Athena and Paris."

  "Hey, we do some stuff!" a guy on the other side of the bar said. He was tall, black as the ace of spades and probably in his mid thirties. Also, Dana had to admit, pretty good looking. He was accompanied by a brunette who had to be at least five years younger.

  "Who are you?" Erickson asked.

  "Jim Sharp," the guy said. "I work in the command center. And, chief was it?"

  "Yes, sir," Chief Barnett said.

  "That was a pretty good analogy."

  "I've been working on it, sir," Barnett said, precisely.

  "What's with the Chief," Rammer whispered.

  "Dunno," Dana replied.

  "No rank in the mess, Chief," Sharp said, grinning. "Definitely no rank at the Acapulco."

  "Yes, sir," the Chief said.

  "I'm the chief tactical officer of the Troy," Sharp said. "Since the Chief clearly recognizes me, being incognito is out."

  "Wait," Dana said, blanching. "Captain James Sharp?"

  "The same," Jim said, shrugging. "Hey, I just came down for a beer and a swim. Like I said, no rank in the mess. Please. And you are the famous Comet Parker?"

  "Famous?" Esme said.

  "Uh, yes, sir," Dana replied.

  "That was an amazing display of boat handling, Comet," Sharp said. "Even the Admiral thought so. We weren't quite taking bets on whether you'd make it, but everybody was rooting for you."

  "Thank you, sir," Dana said.

  "So about the problem of the missiles," Sharp said. "The Chief's analogy is pretty good. The Rangora threw one hundred and thirty-eight missiles at Earth, more than any of the Horvath attacks. Ninety-three made it through Troy's pocket, the area around the gate. While, I might add, we were having to fight more throw-weight than anyone had ever seen in this system. We had to divert some of the SAPL to engage the missiles which slowed down stopping the Rangora who were still throwing missiles . . . ​ It's a tough call every time. But ninety-three made it through.

  "Athena stopped all but twenty-five of those in their coast phase, when they're nearly impossible to detect. Which was way over what we thought she could do. Our estimate was that sixty to seventy should have survived to secondary boost phase.

  "Sixteen initially targeted US leadership and went active. The orbital BDA clusters got seven. The other nine hit the top four leadership targets, three of our remaining cities and two bases. Of the remaining nine, three targeted the British PM who was on the ‘protected' list under the Alliance contract. Only one made it through but it unfortunately got the PM. No other damage in Britain.

  "Six targeted other world leaders. Three of those six were destroyed by the BDAs. Of the remaining three, one got the Premier of China, one the PM of Russia and one the PM of France. The targeted countries of those remaining six were China, Russia, India, France, Brazil and Australia, presumably all going for leadership targets. All the Allied country missiles got stopped."

  Dana thought about that for a bit and then frowned.

  "That sort of looks like we deliberately let non-Allied leadership get killed," Esme said, dubious
ly.

  "Just what I was thinking," Dana said.

  "When we lost our own President?" Erickson said, angrily.

  "The point is being made by the international media," Sharp said, shrugging. "And the response is what . . . ​ Sorry . . . ​you are?"

  "Bill Erickson, sir," Bill said. "I work for Apollo."

  "What Mister Erickson said," Sharp said. "We lost our entire upper leadership, more cities and two bases. We sure as hell were trying to stop the missiles. But the Alliance contract is precise. First defense goes to Alliance countries. Which is why when single missiles were targeted on Alliance leadership, we were able to stop them."

  "That should put some teeth in the choice to join the Alliance or not," Bill said.

  "It was not a deliberate choice," Sharp said. "The fortunes of war and what we'd said were the parameters of the Alliance, yes. So . . . ​yes, it puts some teeth into it. The fact is, though, that three of those last missiles were going to get through. And they got the President and the PM of Britain, both Alliance countries. Being part of the Alliance is no surety of survival for leadership."

  "Has . . ." Chief Barnett said, thoughtfully. "Has anyone analyzed the targeting parameters, sir?"

  "You hit the nose, Chief," Sharp said, grinning. "Squarely on the nose."

  "What do you mean?" Esme said.

  "The Rangora don't like the US and Britain," Father Patricelli said. "They want to get Terra to surrender by targeting our leadership overall. But they really hate the US and Britain."

  "Ta-da," Sharp said, nodding. "That took a team of analysts about a week to agree upon. And it's less hate than have a rational view, a surprisingly rational view, of the relative dangers to them of the different nations of Earth. China and Russia should have been equally valid targets. The Rangora, though, don't view them that way."

  "So by fighting them, we're making ourselves targets?" Esme said. "I'm not sure it's a good idea to fight, then."

  "Fight or be slaves," Patricelli said, shrugging. "Live free or die."

  "But people are doing both," Esme said. "And in case it's not apparent, nobody here is dying! People on earth are dying!"

  "We lost three boats in that last action, Miss," the Chief growled.

  "There has to be an answer," Esme said.

  "There is," Sharp said. "A really easy one except there's no way to do it."

  "Which is?" Dana asked. "Sorry, which is, sir?"

  "Load the Troy up with enough internal systems that she can fight without the SAPL and hold a system against a Rangora fleet of any conceivable size," Sharp said. "Then, somehow, move her through the gate into the E Eridani system and hold the gate from there."

  "So . . . ​ Why aren't we doing it?" Esme said.

  She looked sort of cross when all the military personnel started to giggle. Even the brunette with Captain Sharp was giggling. BFM, to his honor, was simply chuckling.

  "What's so funny?" the accountant asked, angrily.

  "Heh," Chief Barnett said, wiping her eyes. "You're an accountant, right?"

  "Yes," Esme said.

  "So you can do math," Barnett said. "You pretty good at doing it in your head or you need a calculator?"

  "I've got implants," Esme said, icily.

  "Is that what those are called?" Barnett said. "Okay, here's the numbers. The Troy weighs two point two trillion tons. That's two point two followed by . . ."

  "Nine zeroes," Esme said. "I know it's large . . ."

  "Wait, wait," Barnett said, holding up her hand. "You asked, I'm letting you figure it out. The SAPL, furthermore, is up to . . . ​ What? A hundred petawatts? Is it classified?"

  "It is not," Sharp said. "One twenty."

  "One hundred and twenty petawatts," Barnett said. "Now, a watt is one joule per second. A Joule is a Newton meter and a Newton is a kilogram meter per second squared."

  "What?" Esme said.

  "I need a white board," Barnett said.

  "You must have been an A school instructor," Dana said. "Esme, you know the Myrms we drive?"

  "Yes," Esme said.

  "And you probably know to a cent how much they cost," Dana said. "Chief, how many Myrms would it take to give the Troy one gravity of acceleration?"

  "Easy," Barnett said. "Eighty-four million and change."

  "Impossible," Esme snapped. "You made that up."

  "Okay, genius, you do the math," Barnett said. "Two point two trillion tons divided by the weight of a shuttle . . ."

  "Sixty tons," Dana said.

  "Divided by four hundred gravities of acceleration," Barnett finished.

  The accountant closed her eyes for a second then shook her head.

  "I still can't believe that," she said, her mouth tight.

  "It's fricking math!" Barnett said. "You're an accountant! Don't tell me you can't do the math!"

  "I'm leaving," Esme said. "I don't have to put up with this."

  "What?" Barnett shouted to her back. "Logic? Sorry, Bill."

  "It's okay," Bill said. "I was getting tired of her attitude anyway."

  "People like that just piss me off," Barnett said.

  "What, Democrats?" Rammer asked.

  "I usually vote Democrat, sonny," the Chief said. "And not liberals, neither. You find people who just will not follow the logic everywhere. They don't like the answer so they think wishing makes it so. Conservatives have got the same problem. Talk to one of them about prostitution, gambling or drugs."

  "Abortion," Dana said.

  "There you go," the Chief said. "My body, my choice. Cannot do the logic. It's not just a liberal thing. Moving the Troy? Cannot do the math cause their brains shut down."

  "I wasn't laughing because you can't get the Troy to move," the brunette said. "You can. You can even build a drive for it. One that would give it . . . ​oh, up to six gravities of acceleration."

  "B . . . ​what?" Barnett said. "Impossible!"

  "Do the math, Chief," the girl said, grinning. "Or, rather, I can do the math. And, no, it's not impossible. Difficult? My dad would refer to it as ‘fiddly bits.' There's just one problem."

  "Which is?" Dana asked.

  "Hello!" the girl said, waving her hands around. "We're in a pool! In the middle of the vessel, for want of a better word. Can you say ‘Slosh,' Chief?"

  "How in the hell are you proposing to move the Troy, honey?" Barnett asked. "You sort of skipped that bit."

  "That's for me to know and you to figure out, Chief," the girl said, grinning. "And when you figure it out, try to figure out how to install inertics on the whole system. That is the biggest issue. All the rest is . . . ​fiddly bits."

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  "You're kidding," Nathan said.

  "No, I'm not," Tyler replied. "When have I ever kidded about something like this?"

  Tyler was not much of a draftsman but Nathan was by now used to working from his, very rough, ideas. And it wasn't like the former "Minor Planetary Objects" expert didn't know the idea.

  "Tyler," Nathan said, carefully. "The Troy is not designed to move."

  "It's got to be moved sooner or later," Tyler said. "It's already nearly completely out of position. And not just the Troy. I want the same system on Thermopylae."

  "Two Orion drives?" Nathan practically shrieked. "Okay, I give up. Everyone's right. You're not kidding, you're insane!"

  The idea was simple and went back to the early days of the space program, and the nuclear program, back when people were just fine with thinking big. And scary.

  Orion worked best large. Make a very big platform, which they already had with Troy. Put a scary large plate under it. Orion was originally conceived as a lift drive to get out of the atmosphere. Connect the plate to the platform with some very large, and robust, springs.

  Then set off a nuke on the plate.

  The plate, obviously, had to be large enough and robust enough to survive being hit by the blast front from a nuclear weapon. And the springs had to be . . . ​large. But it would recoil, p
ush the springs, the springs would push the platform and you had acceleration.

  Repeat, quickly, and the platform moved.

  "It's really simple," Tyler said, pointing to the diagram. "We cut off the inside of the door for the pusher plate. It's already curved. We'll have to install a chute for the nukes, but that's just fiddly bits. Install it on the outside of the door. It's big enough to take the little bit of accel we're going to get. We'll need to put in more locking bars to handle the pressure. The springs are going to be sort of challenging . . ."

  "Tyler . . ." Nathan said, gently.

  "I want it done in a month, so you'd better quit talking and get to work," Tyler said.

  "Now that's just silly," Nathan said. "I mean, I don't even know how we're going to make the springs. Steel, sure. Spring steel? Wound?"

  "Ah-hah!" Tyler said. "You're already starting to figure out how to do it! Knew it!"

  "That doesn't mean I think it's a good idea!" Nathan said. "The impact is . . ."

  "We're not going to use big nukes," Tyler said. "Not at first. Just a bit of a tap. Repeated. You know a good guy for pumped fusion bombs?"

  "Sure," Nathan said. "Dr. DeWolfe, same guy we used when we . . . ​ Hey!"

  "Seriously, Nathan," Tyler said, waving his hand at the door. "This is a big project. You're going to need to get going. Oh, and we're going to have to accelerate production on the large vessels bypass and the heavy laser program."

  "Oh, that's all," Nathan said. "Like two major projects aren't enough?"

  "Nathan," Tyler said, smiling thinly. "The Rangora have apparently conquered the Glatun. We wiped the floor with one of their task forces. They're not going to take that lying down. So the quicker you stop talking, the faster we can get this done."

  "It's going to cost a lot of money," Nathan said.

  "I'll get the money," Tyler said. "I want the drives, the lasers and the bypass done in no more than three months. I don't care what it takes. Just get it done."

  "Right," Nathan said, thoughtfully. "Right. Orion. From scratch. Rebuild the door system to take the delta. Springs the size of . . . ​ Bigger than anything I can think of off hand. Increase the rate of installation of the internal laser systems. Large vessel bypass. Yeah, that's going to be a necessity. We're going to have to remove all the power systems and grav plates we've already installed on the door . . ."