by John Ringo
"Sir, you might want to take a look at this."
The duty officer for the Space Command Central Watch Post walked over to the long-range sensor controls and looked over the staff sergeant's shoulder.
"Is that the Blade?" the colonel asked. "About damned time. They're nearly thirty days beyond where anyone thought they could survive."
"I'm not sure, sir," the sergeant said. "Some of its emissions are the same as the Blade. Others aren't. More neutrino output, more meson. More output, period."
"Sir," the visuals tech said. "That is negative on the Blade, sir."
"What?" the colonel asked, striding over. "Sound alarm. Send a Flash message that we have an unknown—"
"Incoming message, sir," Communications interjected. "It has the Blade's coding on it." The printer started to clatter and the tech ripped it off, handing it to a signal runner.
"Belay that alarm," the colonel said. "But wake up Admiral Granger."
He took the message form and frowned.
"Yeah, definitely wake up Admiral Granger."
"No, seriously, sir, it's us," Spectre said patiently.
"That is not the ship you left in, Captain," the admiral said doggedly. "And if you get any closer to the planet you're going to get engaged."
"Yes, sir, I understand that protocol," Spectre replied as soon as he got the lagging reply. Per doctrine, the Blade II was standing off at lunar orbit to await clearance. "I'm sending my full mission report. Read it over and make your decision. But, be aware, you're going to have a hard time shooting the Blade Two out of the sky. Among other things, the antimissile systems on this baby are awesome. The bad news is we're going to need a lot more ships. A lot more ships."
"Welcome to the Oval Office, gentlemen and ma'am," the President said, shaking hands. "Sit, please. Glenda, coffee, please. Commander Weaver, my predecessor spoke highly of you. How do you like your new job?"
"I like it very well, Mr. President," Bill said, taking the proffered cup of coffee.
"I feel I ought to offer you all something stronger, but since you're officially on duty . . . But Miss Moon? You, as a civilian . . ."
"I'm allergic, Mr. President," the linguist said.
"Then that settles that," the President said. "Coffee all around. Captain Blankemeier, I was given an executive summary of your report. Then I asked for a more detailed summary. Then I made the mistake of taking your full report and logs with me for bedtime reading, for which I paid the next day."
"Sorry about that, Mr. President," Spectre replied.
"You have a gift for turn of phrase, Captain. You would make a good speech writer. But you've certainly dropped an enormous . . . something probably obscene in my lap."
"Sorry about that, also, Mr. President," the CO said. "But we were sent out to find out what happened to the colony and then it got a little complicated."
"Agreed," the President said, looking over at the secretary of defense and secretary of state. "Are we sure about the Dreen spread?"
"Yes, sir," the secretary of defense said. "I had analysts go over both the raw data that the Hexosehr had and the astronomical data recovered from the . . . Karchava, was it Staff Sergeant Bergstresser?"
"Yes, Mr. Secretary," Berg snapped. He was sitting rigidly at attention, coffee cup and saucer squared on his lap.
"The Karchava battleship," the secretary continued. "The analysis section agrees that the Dreen are spreading in this direction, as well as others. They put the maximum period before they reach Earth as twenty years. However, if they become aware of our location beforehand, and there are more outposts between us and them, that could be accelerated. I'd like to, again, commend Miss Moon on her linguistic ability. Starting from the point that the Marines reached she has cracked most of the Karchava script. With that, the analysis became solid. The Dreen are on their way. Worse, they overran the species that produced the most powerful ship we have encountered to date. No species has so much as slowed them. And they're headed for our region of space."
The President bowed his head for a moment then looked back up.
"Then we have to prepare for war," he said, looking over at the secretary of state again. "I'm now going to do something rather rare in this office. I'm going to ask you," he continued, looking at the assembled group from the Blade, "what your suggestions are in this regard. Among other things, you've had a month longer to assimilate the information."
Spectre looked at the President in surprise for a moment and then cleared his throat.
"You're serious, Mr. President?"
"Don't tell me you haven't discussed it," the President said. "I've thought about it, discussed it with my senior advisers. But I'd like your input."
"Uh . . ." Spectre said.
"A coalition of the willing, Mr. President," Berg said, still sitting rigidly upright and looking past the President. "Led by the United States and including, at a minimum, Great Britain, China, India and Japan. It is preferred that Germany, some of the other Old Europe countries, the Eastern European block and the Seven Tigers are included as well as certain countries in South America. It should specifically exclude France."
"Exclude the French?" the secretary of state asked.
"Yes, sir," First Sergeant Powell replied. "Though diplomatically difficult, that's actually rather important."
"Explain," the President said, leaning back and putting his hand over his mouth.
"In the two hundred plus years of our country, we have been involved in wars with the French several times," Weaver said reluctantly. "All of them as allies and all but one to our net detriment. Basically, Mr. President, every time the French get involved in anything, they tend to do more damage to their allies than to their enemies. Examples redound but Vietnam, the War on Terror and World Wars One and Two all come to mind."
"In fact, Mr. President, there was significant discussion of what to do on the way back," Spectre finally admitted. "And the last time we can recall the U.S. benefiting from having the French involved with us was in the Revolution."
"Which, I'd like to add, was when they were under the Bourbons," First Sergeant Powell pointed out. "So, basically, if they're willing to bring back the aristos, we'll think about it. Otherwise, our recommendation is that they be excluded."
"Except for the Legion," Miller interjected.
"Yeah, we'll take the Legion," Spectre agreed.
"And we'll take some volunteers if there are any," Berg said, lightening up. "As soldiers, they're fine. It's their politicians and generals that suck. Oh, boy, do they suck." He suddenly whitened as he realized what he'd just said to the President of the United States.
But the President, far from offended, burst out into laughter and looked over at the secretary of state, who was nearly purple.
"Thank you, gentlemen," the President said, grinning, "for making my point for me. And, I'll add, with some additions I hadn't considered."
"What about the Louisiana Purchase?" the SecState asked, plaintively.
"That was bowing to reality, Mr. Secretary," Miriam said. "As well as sucking our treasury dry."
"Either we were going to take over that territory or the British were," First Sergeant Powell answered. "By selling it to us, Napoleon got money to support his wars and kept the British from taking it."
"And it was a causative factor of the War of 1812," Miller said.
"I disagree, Todd, I think that war was guaranteed no matter what happened," Powell argued. "England was already angry over us using neutrality to covertly supply Napoleon and we were, of course, wroth over the pressing of—"
"I've got the point," the President said. "Mr. Secretary, that has to be understood in the negotiations. The U.S. will retire from any planetary mutual defense treaty if the French are part of the pact. We'll go it alone before we'll take any cheese-eaters. And we're not starting from the point of departure of the UN. Coalition of the willing; we're the top-dog. Why? Because we're the only superpower on the planet and we're going to take the bru
nt no matter how many allies we have. Dress that up in pretty diplomatic language when you have the meetings."
"Yes, Mr. President," the secretary of state said with a sigh.
"And don't let your department try to weasel around it," the President said. "I'm serious."
"I won't, Mr. President."
"The Hexosehr, Captain," the President said.
"They're headed for Runner's World, Mr. President," the captain replied.
"And it will take them a minimum of two years to reach it with their warp technology," the President said. "Two years we don't have. How do we speed that up?"
"They'll reach Michelin's World in about six months, Mr. President," Weaver replied. "There's a gate there that opens up in Alabama. We can easily move it, though, to anywhere we want to establish a major base. Open a gate that leads to Runner's World. Perhaps another to the Cheerick. We can drop both off quickly enough. Bring what we can fit through a gate from their ships, their people in deep sleep especially, and move them to Runner's World. Most of them. Many will end up on Earth or Adar working on defense systems and bringing in their technology. They were able to build the Blade Two, while on the run and in deep space, in less than thirty days. Everything from soup to nuts. We're going to need them leading the drive on developing the new space navy we're going to require to defend Earth."
"If I may, Mr. President," Miriam interjected. "One of the problems is going to be the economic destabilization caused by their technology. Their technology is leaps ahead of the Adar which is, in turn, well ahead of our own. Their fabricators, alone, are going to impact manufacturing across the globe. The way they work with metals is going to stand the entire machine-shop industry on its head. Every precision manufacturer in the world could be put out of business overnight. Which means that their employees, who are some of the highest paid and most highly skilled workers in any industry, are going to be out of jobs. Preparing for that onslaught is going to be nearly as difficult as preparing for the war."
"On the other hand, Mr. President," First Sergeant Powell said, "when you have two problems . . ."
"Sometimes they cancel out," the President said, nodding. "Such workers would be highly useful, with some retraining, in a space navy. The Draft is on the way, big time."
"We're going to need schools," Weaver said. "We're going to need somebody besides me who can astrogate. We're going to need to send grad students to their schools to understand the theory behind their systems. They're going to need schools, and supplies and lots of food from the Adar for the time being . . ."
"And now we're getting into details," the President said. "For which I have a very able staff. But I wanted to hear what your thoughts were on the broader picture and I'm delighted that they match my own so well. There will be changes and I'm sure that we will weather them as America always has. But a few are more immediate. Captain Blankemeier."
"Mr. President?"
"I know that you love this new ship that the Hexosehr built much as you loved the one scrapped on the arms of Orion. However, you are leaving command."
"Yes, Mr. President," Spectre said, his face falling.
"You're no longer eligible to command it. I just sent your name to the Senate for confirmation of promotion to rear admiral. It was pointed out to me by some senior officers that there were boards and such for such things and that you are very junior to be a flag officer and I pointed out that not only did we need some admirals who had actually been in space combat, I was commander in chief so I trumped them."
"Thank you, Mr. President," Spectre said, nodding.
"I've been told that as a bipartisan show of support, you're assured confirmation. I was assured that shortly after I showed the Select Armed Forces Committee your mission report. Commander Weaver."
"Mr. President?"
"You've been what the Navy calls 'frocked' for some reason to captain," the President said. "Which means you've got the rank but not the pay. I'm told the pay will come along in time. The same people that mentioned boards were somewhat more vehement that you did not yet have sufficient experience as a naval officer to assume command of the Blade Two."
"Understood, Mr. President," Bill said. "And agreed."
"I wouldn't say that the Chief of Naval Operations pitched a fit in this very room, but that's because I'm polite," the President continued. "Persons who shall remain nameless, however, were more than willing to accept you taking the position of Executive Officer, despite the bump in rank which would technically disqualify you, after I again had to use the phrase 'commander in chief.' The Blade, until we have other deep space ships, will probably be undergoing a series of skippers. We need officers with experience in space, simple as that. To an extent, in your new position as XO, it will be your job to train them. They will, of course, be your superior officers. They will have time in grade on you, not to mention a superior position in the chain of command. But persons who shall remain nameless were in agreement that one captain can say something to another captain, even if that person is their commander, which a commander could not. If that sentence parses out. Are we on the same page?"
"Yes, sir," Bill replied.
"Very good. And we are left with the inimitable Staff Sergeant Bergstresser," the President said. "The Blade is about to undertake some tedious but necessary infrastructure missions for what I believe to be the next several months. In other words the necessity for derring-do is significantly reduced. Are you, once again, going to volunteer to go where no Marine has gone before, Staff Sergeant? Or has the long drawn strife quitted you of the desire for adventure?"
"I will admit, Mr. President, that being baked by a plasma ball and having to take off my suit before I ran out of air, on a Dreen ship, has cooled my ardor," Berg said. "But, no, sir. I'm not quitting if that is your question. I already told the first sergeant that I'm on-board for the next cruise. I was hoping for some personal time before we left, though. I've . . . got some things I need to take care of."
"I think that can be arranged," the President said. "Among other things, given the Blade's next few missions, I believe that the first sergeant can spare you, can you not, First Sergeant?"
"Yes, Mr. President," First Sergeant Powell replied stoically. It wasn't like the Prez had just cut off his right arm or anything. Left, yes.
"Very good," the President said. "I'd hate to have to use the dread phrase upon you, First Sergeant. In that case, Staff Sergeant, you're going to school."
"Excuse me, Mr. President?" Berg asked.
"I'm told that if one is intelligent, perceptive, in good physical condition and doesn't break a leg or something, that a young Marine can complete officer's candidate school in a bare four months. Don't break your leg and the next time you run into First Sergeant Powell he'll be required to salute you."
"Yes, Mr. President," Berg said, stunned.
"When I discussed this choice with persons who shall remain nameless, after a long tirade about something called 'mustangs' which I had previously associated with horses, the salient point of sending you to OCS instead of my initial choice, direct commission by order of the dread phrase, was that you'd receive training in your new duties which have something to do with venereal disease and inventories. Since I'm sure you have no experience of the former and minimal experience of the latter, I acquiesced. Have fun in OCS. Oh, I was also told that Force Recon Platoon leaders had to have at least a year 'with troops' in regular units. The dread phrase was repeated at that point. Upon graduation you will become Third Platoon leader of Bravo Company, First Space Marines. If you don't graduate, you will become something called 'a goat' and be sent to durance vile probably somewhere nearby as an instructor in Marine Space Combat, which was the initial suggestion of persons who shall remain nameless. I assure you that would be a tedious assignment. Graduate. Preferably with honors and on time. Barring another emergency, the ship will not leave for its next serious mission until you show up. I didn't have to use the dread phrase that time but I was definite."
"Yes, Mr. President," Berg said, starting to grin.
"And I'm throwing in another medal for capturing a Dreen battleship. Something tasteful, Silver Star or suchlike. First Sergeant Powell? Promoting you to sergeant major would remove you from your present position. Want the pay or the position?"
"The position, Mr. President," the first sergeant answered.
"Eventually we'll be able to put a battalion on a spaceship at which time, if I'm in office, dread phrase or no dread phrase you'll get a battalion. In the meantime, you remain. Want a medal?"
"Got plenty, Mr. President."
"You sure? Legion of Merit? Silver Star? That's always bright and cheery on a uniform. Or a flag for that matter. Something to clutter the wall in your old age and dust? I'd be hard pressed to swing a Medal of Honor but I could try."
"Got plenty of dust catchers, Mr. President."
"Very well. Chief Warrant Officer Second Miller?"
"Mr. President?"
"You just got a jump in pay, Chief Warrant Officer Third Miller. Again, it was suggested that you become an instructor along with a suggestion that maybe a SEAL team would be better off on the Blade. At that point, a pointed discussion ensued between two persons who shall remain nameless, both of equal rank but one the other's technical superior because of something called a 'junior service,' which phrase caused the larger and stronger to nearly strike his technical superior. After tempers had cooled, it was agreed that the Blade would continue to host Marines. And one SEAL if he's still interested. If not, Coronado or Little Creek, take your pick."
"Blade, Mr. President. I hate instructor positions."
"What is it with all you suicidal people?" the President asked. "Never mind. And we are left with Miss Moon. People who shall, et cetera, also discussed the fact that there was a civilian running around on 'their' ship. After pointing out that it was my ship, thank you very much, you work for me not the other way around, I also pointed to certain details of the captain's most thorough and well-written report. Well-written enough that I suspect he had some help. But the hidden details caused what could best be termed a 'harumph' and a suggestion that certain persons could best be used in any number of training or technical capacities right here on Earth. About which I agree, most wholeheartedly. Or not on Earth. I'm in need of ambassadors to both the Cheerick and the Hexosehr. I could even switch out the one to the Adar although Peter is doing very well. Or, via use of the dread phrase and magic signature powers accorded me by fifty point zero two percent of the American people, you can remain as linguistic officer of the Blade Two. Frankly, I think that's a step down, but I leave it up to you."