by John Ringo
"It only turns off for about two weeks," Weaver reminded him. "I'm wondering about response. I don't think it's going to be quick."
"So how long do I do this, sir?" the commo tech asked. "I don't mean to whine, but my wrist is getting worn out. I don't do Morse much anymore."
"Well, it's long enough for them to see the greeting," Weaver replied. "Go on to the message . . ."
"U . . . S . . . A. U . . . S . . . A," the supervisor muttered. He could read that much Morse code. "There are survivors."
"Or Dreen trying to catch us out," the tech replied. "It's changing. What's that?"
"I think we're getting a full signal, but it's too fast for me to catch," the supervisor said. "You're recording?"
"Continuous," the tech said.
"Johannsen spent some time in signals," the supervisor said, straightening up. "I'll go get him and start trying to figure out how to reply."
"What do you make of it?"
"It's a hell of a long time since I did Morse, sir."
Eric Johannsen had started off as a nuke but experienced "confinement issues" during a deployment and had transferred to a land base, then out of the Navy. However, he'd spent his time on the land base in a commo position. Modern commo didn't involve much Morse code, it was all about switches, encryption and video compression. Now he was trying to dredge up three-year-old memories of one class and it wasn't coming fast.
"USA, USA, USA." He fast forwarded through the transmission and then paused, looking at the time counter. "That's continuous for the first fifteen minutes."
"They were saying hello," the supervisor said. "What's the rest of that mess?"
"It speeds up, too," Johannsen said. "There's somebody who really knows Morse on the other side. Let's see . . . Operational Immediate. Eyes Only Presidential. Codeword: Eagle Whisper. Verification Alpha Delta Niner. Eagle Whisper Mission has reached the attack site. No survivors found ATT. That would be 'At This Time.' Confirmed Dreen attack . . . Jesus Christ, sir. What the grapp is the Eagle Whisper Mission?!"
"Don't keep reading," the supervisor said, leaning over and shutting off the playback. "I have calls to make."
"I'm glad to know they made it," the President said. "How do we respond?"
"I'm loathe to drop the defenses, Mr. President," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs replied. "But the easiest thing to do would be to open the gate and go through. In a suit, admittedly. And there would be a heck of a drop on the other side. But we could handle all that."
"Set up an emitter on this side," the national security advisor suggested. "I think that the people down there could probably do that. We might even be able to set up direct communications from here."
"Open the gate for a moment and send through a note," the President replied. "Tell them that we're working on it from our end and we'll get back to them. Send that right now. And tell the people down there that they'd better keep their mouths shut."
"I'm running out of air," the commo tech said. At least he wasn't being forced to keep sending with nothing coming back.
"That's why we brought spare bottles," Chief Miller growled. He was lying on his back watching the take from the camera. He was used to sitting in one place and watching nothing for days on end. Sniper hides came to mind. "Crack one open."
"The ship isn't coming back until the Marines are done with their search," Weaver said. "Or we get some response telling the CO to land. So I'd suggest you get comfortable, PO."
"Yes, sir," the tech replied, picking up one of the O2 canisters. "I need some help."
"Got it," Bill said, trying not to sigh.
"And we have response," Miller said suddenly. "I thought for a second it was a nuke and I nearly wet myself. But something just shot through the door and landed on the edge of the crater. And it is not a nuke. Metal canister of some sort. Let me modify that. I don't think it's a nuke."
"They would have shot one long ago if they thought we were spoofing them or didn't get the message," Bill said, slotting the tech's replacement in. "Go get it, would you?"
"I hear and obey O swami," Miller said, rolling over and standing up. "Be right back."
"Huh," Bill said. The "message canister" was a Number Ten can, apparently formerly holding coffee. It had a screw lid and his claws just skittered across it. "Open that up, would you?" he asked, holding it out to the commo tech.
"That thing's hot as hell, sir," the tech said, backing up. "I respectfully decline."
"Gimme," Miller said with a sigh. He wrapped his claws around it and crushed, then ripped the top off. "Piece of paper inside." The paper fluttered to the ground as he tipped the can up.
"Paper does not retain radiation very well, PO," Bill said, gesturing.
"Your suits do, though, sir," the tech pointed out.
"Okay, Miller, back away slowly."
"It's a standard message form," the tech said once the suits had backed up far enough for him to approach the paper. "From: SpaceCom To: Commander Eagle Whisper. Stand by for communications gear to be set up. Estimate four hours."
"Hell, it only took us twenty minutes," Miller said. "Why four hours?"
"We're a carefully selected group of top-flight specialists," Bill pointed out. "Naturally it would take a group of regular techs longer. And the guys on the other end don't have Tchar's maze of junk."
"This place is a maze," Smith said. "Left or right?"
The streets of what had once been a major city now resembled canyons, many of them blind. Fallen rubble choked them and in many places it was unclimbable. Holes opened up without warning. Already two suits had been damaged from falls.
The map that the archaeologists had left behind wasn't much help. It had been scanned and Berg was looking at a blow-up on his internal monitors. But it didn't appear to be to scale and landmarks were denoted with cryptic terms that only made sense to a small group that discussed their work every day. But "Lag Pile" didn't mean anything to Berg. And it was a two-dimensional representation of an area that was, among other things, often three dimensional.
"Grapp if I know," Berg replied. "But any survivor, if there is one, can't be far from the base. He or she had to haul supplies. How far do you think they're going to go?"
"Well, we've searched most of what's on the map, right?" Himes said.
"Right," Berg replied. "And Bravo found the workings they were working on. Nobody there, signs of Dreen. But . . . Chither. Top said something about a doctoral candidate . . . exploring a new section. Which means it's not on the map."
"That's very helpful," Smith pointed out, looking at the Y intersection. "So left or right?"
Berg examined the map again. He was pretty sure they were by "Lag Pile." It was a massive mound that sort of looked like a skyscraper after twenty million years of wear. On the back side of it from their position was a circle and some dotted lines that stopped without being cut off. An unmapped tunnel.
"That way," Berg said, pointing up the mound to the left. "Watch your step. We're looking for a tunnel opening."
"I don't see a tunnel opening," Himes said, sliding down the hill on his butt and elbow wheels. "Just another damned canyon."
"This is relatively close to the main base," Berg pointed out. In fact it was in someone else's search sector. "And there ought to be a tunnel by where the slope increases."
"Great," Himes said, using the slope and the powerful arms of the suit to get himself upright. "What do we do now?"
"Sweep left and right," Berg said, looking up and down the lip of the canyon. "Look for anything out of the ordinary."
Smith headed to the left, then paused.
"I've got what might be a path," he said, swiveling his sensor pods, then activating the targeting laser. "Look at those rocks."
"Balanced," Berg said, walking over to the rock pile. Three large boulders had been stacked, but one of them clearly could be moved back and forth easily. He swiveled it up and to the side and found a narrow opening to a tunnel that was partially choked by rubble. "H
ello? Anyone home?" he boomed through the external speakers.
"We can't get down that," Himes said, looking at the opening.
"We can get down," Berg pointed out. "We just roll in on the belly wheels. Getting out would be the interesting part. Open up my back pack. I've got some rope in there."
"You carry rope?" Himes asked, surprised.
"Think Boy Scout," Berg replied.
Himes opened up the cargo box of the sergeant's suit and pulled out a long spool of what looked like twine. There was more than the spool of twine in there. There was a CamelBak of water, a small spare air bottle, three MRE packages, a first aid kit, a small repair kit and a thermal blanket. Then there was the pair of pistols—.577 magnums with worn grips—and a low-slung combat holster.
"Uh, Berg, that's not going to hold much," Himes said with a snort, pulling out the spool of twine.
"You'd be surprised," Berg replied, taking the spool. There was a clip on the end and he pulled out a length and handed it to Himes. "It's nanotube mono. You could lift the Blade with it. Clip that to the butt shackle. Smith, take the spool."
By running the line around their suits and claws, the two could belay the team leader down into the hole. Getting him out would be a matter of pulling really hard.
"You sure about this?" Himes asked.
"Nope," Berg admitted, getting down on his elbow and knee wheels, then flattening onto his belly wheels. "But it's the best idea I've got."
He shimmied into the opening, half using his elbow wheels but mostly his belly, then started to slide down the rubble.
The tunnel opened out beyond the initial rubble wall, but not enough for a nine-foot-tall suit to stand up or turn around. He could, however, continue to slide.
"How's it going?" Himes asked.
"So far, so good," Berg replied. "I'm coming up to a bend. I'll lose commo there. If I need to be pulled out I'll give three tugs. If I need to be pulled out fast, they'll be fast."
"Got it," Himes replied.
As soon as he turned the corner he could see the survivor. Maybe survivor. A small nest had been created at the point where the tunnel was choked by a fall. Plastic had been set up to seal in a small area and there was a pile of ruined sleeping bags, a couple of ration cases, some water bottles and, yes, two large air canisters. Fortunately, the latter were on the far wall.
Berg used his wheels to slide to a stop before he hit the plastic and peered through it. He wasn't sure how to determine if the survivor was alive. All he could see was a face mask and he couldn't tell if he or she was breathing. But then he nearly kicked himself and switched to thermal. As soon as he did he could see that the person was still warm. He also could now tell sex: Female.
He slid forward a bit farther and got a look at the readouts on the air tanks. Both of the main tanks were expended. He couldn't see what hers looked like; it was covered by the ripped sleeping bags. Mostly ripped. He could see where some stitching had been done. Actually, he realized that he could probably just pull her out in the bag.
He breached the plastic, got a grip on the repaired sleeping bag, and pulled. The woman slid out of her cocoon without anything coming apart. He could tell, now, that she was still breathing but he still couldn't see the canister attached to her breath mask.
He pulled three times on the mono molecular rope and felt himself starting to slide back up the tunnel. The woman in the bag wriggled and moaned but otherwise didn't react.
"Himes," he said as soon as he passed the bend. "Get on the horn. I need a corpsman, right damned now. I got a survivor but she's unconscious and just about out of air. And I think she's hypothermic."
"Get her up here," Dr. Chet said, pulling out a pair of bandage scissors and gesturing to the surgery table. "Status?"
He was in a full quarantine suit. The secure surgery was in the isolation wing of the "research and survival pack" attached to the top of the ship. SOP was that anyone exposed to a potentially dangerous environment remained in the isolation wing for at least thirty days. The survivor was still stuffed in a quarantine stretcher, a closed system with waldoes and glove holes for any aid that needed to be given. Most of the systems, including IV inserters and defibrillator, were handled by a robotic autodoc.
"BP eighty over twenty," the corpsman replied, sliding the survivor out of the stretcher and onto the table expertly. "Respiration twenty. Temperature ninety-two. Heartbeat one forty and thready. Pupils have light response."
"Hypothermic," the massive doctor said musingly. "Not too low. Get me a warming bag. I don't understand the unconsciousness."
He used the scissors to remove the woman's filthy clothing and paused as her arm was exposed. It was covered by injection tracks.
"Smart lady," he muttered. "But getting you off that is not going to be pleasant."
"Sir?" the corpsman asked, pulling out a large paper-cloth bag. The survivor would be popped into the bag and then the bag filled with hot air from a simple blower. It was a quick and safe way to raise body temperature.
"She was injecting herself with morphine at a guess," Dr. Chet replied. "It kept her resource use minimal and if her air gave out while she was drugged, well, she would never know. But she's going to be severely addicted. With the minimal facilities I have here, it's going to be unpleasant coming off of it. Get her in the bag and warmed up . . ."
"How long will she be out?" the CO asked.
Dr. Chet didn't fit any better in the wardroom than he did in his surgery. But he didn't fit any worse.
"Unknown," he replied, trying to get his legs into a reasonable position under the low table. "I don't know what dosage she used on herself last. No more than an hour, though. Her temperature is coming up nicely. Malnourished, dehydrated, filthy, but she's going to survive."
"The best guess is that she's Ms. Debra Cutler," the XO added. "A doctoral candidate. She was mentioned in the logs. No ID on her but she matches the picture we have from the personnel list."
"Have Weaver send the information to Earth," the CO said. "Tentative ID, more when she wakes up."
"She's liable to be extremely disoriented," Dr. Chet pointed out. "And all my personnel are male. I'm going to ask Miss Moon to sit in on this one."
"Agreed," the CO said, frowning. "I guess there's no way to pretend she's not in a spaceship."
"No," Dr. Chet said, shaking his head. "Not unless Earth will open the gate and allow us to shove her through before she wakes. She really should be in a proper hospital."
"Unlikely," the CO said. "Not with a potential Dreen presence on this side. And on that note, Tactical?"
"Not a peep, sir," the TACO replied. "No indications of anything unusual in the system. And we're keeping a very close eye on the instruments."
"So the Dreen came in here, dropped a rock on the facility, picked up one survivor then came back a couple of hours later and snatched most of the rest," the CO said, his brow furrowing. "And then they just left? To where? Why? With an open gate to Earth, why just leave?"
"Bigger fish to fry?" the XO asked. "A higher priority mission? For all we know, that war that was such a big thing to us might not have meant much to them. We might not even be on their radar. There could be a massive battle going on in the next system and we wouldn't even know it. . . ."
"Here they come again," Senior Tactical Specialist Favarduro shouted. "Forty Blin Kar fighters at one-one-seven mark sixteen."
"The Klingoddar has stopped responding to hails," Commo Specialist Faul interjected. "Its emergency beacon has stopped broadcasting."
"Uanarmm bless and keep them," Ship Master Kond replied softly. "Chaos ball generator?"
"At least another forty kleg," Engineering Specialist Rorot replied.
"Engage with masers," Kond said calmly, shifting his weight slightly in his combat couch. The air around him was a rich tapestry of information, sonar pulses filling the air with data from all the ship's sensors. The fleet was once again escaping the hated Blin, but at great cost. The Caurorgorngoth was t
he last of the Chaos Ships. If they were destroyed, the Blin dreadnought would be able to gather up the fleet like so many vaila. "Keep them off of us until the chaos generator is back on line. Patch me through to Fleet Master Lurca."
"Lurca."
"Higher One, we are under attack from Kar fighters. There will be a dreadnought somewhere out there. Be careful."
"We are reaching jump point now," the fleet master replied. "Hurry to follow us. How are your supplies?"
"We managed to fully fuel before the last battle," Kond replied. "We are good for two jumps. We got ninety percent of our magazine load from the factory ship. That was all they'd produced. We also need some parts, but we'll need more after this so we might as well wait."
"Meet us at the rendezvous," the fleet master said. "Lurca, out."
"And again we are on our own," Favarduro quipped. "No freighters or fuelers or cruisers to slow us down. What luxury. What grandeur."
"What doog," Engineer Rorot said unhappily. "Without a chaos generator. With fusion bottles down. With our reality shifter becoming unreal."
"Nobody ever said it would be easy," Favarduro said, pinging a burst of laughter around the compartment. "Oh, and here come Kar fighters to make our day oh so much better. Recommend evasion pattern Mindrg in three kleg."
"Very well," Kond said, pinging the information to the battlecomp. "Let us take some of these foul beasts with us if we are to fall."
"Some more, Ship Master," Favarduro said, pinging laughter again. "Some more."
"Group of experts," Miller muttered. "So with a group of world-class experts we're sitting out here freezing our butts off to send Morse and a bunch of nobodies back on Earth—"
"Oh, shut up," Weaver whispered back. "It took them four hours."
"And the survivor is . . ." Admiral Townsend asked over the video link. The image suddenly distorted as did the voice but it was still as clear as a low bandwidth streaming video.