Vorpal Blade (ARC)

by John Ringo

  Jaenisch had been firing at something as well and the two Marines went back to back as more of the bipedal monsters came through the jungle after them. Berg picked his shots more carefully since he only had thirty of the 7.62 mm rounds in a clip. He managed to drop three of the monsters before he ran out of ammo. The fourth and fifth, though, got him and the "jungle" vanished as the harness gave him a zap of electricity.

  "Grapp me," he said, shaking his head.

  "Not bad, actually," Jaenisch said, looking over at him. "I'm going to reset the system so we've also got .455s. You qualified on the .455?"

  "Yes," Berg said. The high velocity Colt magnum was rarely used by combat forces, but he'd qualified with one in Force Operators Training. He had wondered at the time why they were training on a civilian "gun nut" pistol that no other force considered worth its time. Now he had to wonder how much FOT was influenced by the Space Marines. A group that, officially, didn't exist.

  They returned to the prep room and added the big magnums to their kit. The gun's blue barrel was nearly a foot long and it was a heavy mother. But civilian hunters had used them to hunt both elephant and tiger at short ranges. It should stop even one of the bipedal monsters. He stopped before going back and readjusted the position of the ammo pouches on his armor. Every serious shooter had his own idea of where stuff should ride and Berg wasn't any different.

  "Same general scenario?" he asked as they reentered the "jungle."

  "It changes," Jaenisch said. "You never know what's going to come at you."

  Berg kept a watch out as they reentered the path and while it was a different beast, they attacked at the same point. This time they got low-slung bright-red centipedes, about the size of a leopard. And there were more of them than of the bipedal monsters. And, the 7.62 mm rounds just bounced off again.

  He let go of the M-10, which pulled back to his chest on its straps, and drew the .455 Colt. The magnum rounds did penetrate the centipedes' armor and, even better, he was a very good one-handed shooter. He fired all ten of the rounds in his magazine, getting six of the beasts, then did a rapid reload by just dropping his empty mag down the front of his armor and sliding another in. He got four more before they got him at last.

  "This seriously sucks," Berg said, holstering his smoking pistol.

  "Hell, you held out longer than I did," Jaenisch said, shaking his head. "I stayed on the M-10. Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

  "I just enjoy shooting," Berg said, carefully. The real answer was in Force Recon Operator's Training. Force Recon had always been a tough unit with a killer qualification phase. But its advanced training had mostly been ad hoc at the unit level. The new FOT included an Operator Combat Training program that far exceeded the normal Force Recon official training program. He was beginning to realize that the "regular" Force Recon guys might have much more experience than he did, but he was probably better trained. He was going to have to tread that path very carefully.

  "Can you two-gun mojo?" Jaenisch asked.

  "A bit," Berg said. "But I can't fire simultaneously. That's total bullmaulk. Usually what I do is empty one pistol then empty the other one. The problem is, it really slows down reload. So if you've got more targets than you've got bullets . . ."

  "Want to try it that way?" Jaenisch asked. "I'll stay one gun on pistol, you go for two-gun?"

  "I'll try it," Berg said. "But I'll stay on M-10 to start since we don't know what it's going to throw at us."

  "I'll set it up for the same scenario," Jaenisch said. "I'm really curious."

  The third time through, Berg carried two of the magnums and Jaenisch one. The centipedes attacked at the same time and in the same way, which was a bit of cheating, since it meant Berg didn't have to guess where they were coming from.

  But the two-gun mojo worked. This time, knowing where and how they were going to attack, he managed to start winnowing them down earlier. When his right pistol ran out of rounds he holstered it and pulled out a clip. When the left ran out he did a fast reload then switched hands and went to a two-handed fire position, backing away from the centipedes until he had the last one dead. The things thrashed as they died, splattering green blood over the mostly blue vegetation and opening out the underbrush as they crushed it in their death throes.

  "Damn," Jaenisch said, shaking his head. "Shiny. Now, let's see if we can make it to the far side of the room."

  They were hit twice more but Berg's two-gun fire managed to stop both attacks cold and they eventually reached the "stream" that marked the far side of the room. He only had four rounds of magnum left, though.

  "Clear VR," Jaenisch said when they reached the limit. "Not bad, Nugget. Not bad at all."

  "Thanks," Berg said.

  "This scenario is set up for a two team maneuver," Jaenisch admitted. "Six guys, not two. I wanted to run you through something harder than I thought we could handle, just to knock the starch out. So much for that idea. As a matter of fact, I hereby designate you Two-Gun. You may now call me Jaen."

  "Thank you, Jaen," Berg said. "But I don't think it's a good way to do battle normally."

  "Agreed," Jaen said. "But it was grapping awesome. I can't wait to replay the clip."

  "This is recorded?" Berg said.

  "Two-Gun, every second of every day we do this maulk is recorded," Jaenisch said bitterly. "Why do you think there are grapping cameras everywhere? We're guinea pigs. I'll explain when we get back to the armory."

  3

  Old Friends, Same Problems

  All the Adar tech in the world hadn't helped the lunchtime traffic on Monticello. Bill weaved his Ford Electra into the left-hand lane, getting around a late model Chevy pickup that was carefully doing the speed limit, and floored it, trying to make it through the turn at VA 168. Once past 168 he'd be clear most of the way to base.

  Unfortunately, as he approached the light it turned yellow. He figured he had time so he floored it but the car instead decelerated, the electric motor dropping to idle as the brakes automatically slid him to a controlled stop.

  Oh, yeah, Adar tech was good for some things!

  The pickup blew past him, still doing a stately forty-five miles per hour. He hoped the old fart got a ticket.

  The bright purple Chevy Neon that had been on Bill's bumper suddenly pulled out, the light having changed to red, and sped through the intersection causing a flurry of honks but, fortunately, no accidents.

  Speaking of Adar. Worst drivers in the world.

  Christ. Could this day get any worse?

  * * *

  It wasn't really a florist's shop. It was a shop that supplied flowers for corporations and hotels. The company had no storefront, just a back door through the loading area. And the people who worked in the company were much more accustomed to the occasional street person wandering in and looking for a handout than fourteen-year-old girls with some alien pet.

  "Can I help you?" the young man with his arms full of arrangements asked curiously. He couldn't help but stare at the thing on her shoulder; as he watched it moved from one side to the other, its green eyes glittering in interest at the bustle in the room.

  "I'm looking for Mr. Miller," Mimi said politely.

  "He's over there," the man said, gesturing with his chin since his hands were full. "Go on in."

  The room was unadorned and looked more like a half-finished basement than a florist's. White wooden tables were heaped with flowers while several workers in eclectic attire assembled arrangements. About half were females but there was as much long hair amongst the men working on the flowers as there was with the women. Most of the men working in the shop were in shorts, as were a couple of the women; it was hot and the only breath of cold air came as a man exited a huge walk-in refrigeration room, his arms filled with colorful orchids.

  Miller had his back to the entrance and was peacefully snipping the bottom of some iris stems when Mimi cleared her throat.

  "Hello, Mr. Miller," Mimi said, wondering if the former SEAL woul
d recognize her.

  Miller clearly was puzzled by the young lady who had spoken to him, but after a moment he placed the thing on her shoulder.

  "Mimi," the SEAL said, grinning. "What a pleasant surprise. It's been, what? Five years? You've grown. And Tuffy's . . ."

  "Changed," Mimi said, grinning. "All the ET people got really excited when that happened. Only one of them got it right, though. I was talking to him one day in school and just sort of thought that I'd gotten over the whole stuffed animal thing. And he looked really . . . dumb that way. The next day . . . whole new Tuffy."

  "You're here on a trip?" Miller asked, puzzled. He was wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt, open most of the way down a chest covered in graying hair, and a pair of cut-off desert camo BDU shorts. "In town for school or something? Why San Diego of all places?"

  "I'm not here on a school trip," Mimi replied. "I came looking for you. We have to go to Newport News and see Dr. Weaver."

  "What's Bill want?" Miller asked gruffly, turning back to his irises.

  "He didn't want anything, but there's something he needs," Mimi said. "You, me and Tuffy. Tuffy told me. And we're going."

  "Oh, we are, are we?" Miller asked, turning back around. "I'm out of that game. You get older, you get slower. There's a time to reap and a time to sow, all that stuff. In my case, there's a time to kill and a time to heal. So if you and Tuffy have to do something, you go, girl. I'm going to keep making floral arrangements."

  "If you don't go . . ." Mimi paused and looked around the crowded room. "Can you take a break or something, we have to talk."

  "Okay, okay," Miller sighed. "Bob! Going on break. I don't know how long I'll be. That okay?"

  "Sure, Chief," the younger man called back. "Try to get those arrangements done by four, though."

  * * *

  The coffee shop was considerably cooler than the floral factory. It was still early morning and the tall buildings on either side provided shade from the sun. For that matter, San Diego rarely got hot during the early fall. Only when the Santa Annas blew down from the mountains did the temperature get much above seventy-five.

  Miller set his mocha down and leaned back in the chair, considering the young lady who had dragged him away from work.

  "You came all the way out here on your own?" Miller asked, surprised.

  "It's not hard," Mimi said. "There's gates all the way to San Diego; then I took a taxi."

  "Most of our customers can't find the shop," Miller mused. "The boss prefers it that way."

  "Tuffy knew where to find you," Mimi said, shrugging. "He told me he'd been keeping track of you."

  "That's nice to know," Miller said dryly. "So, what's so important that you want me to go to Newport News."

  "They've finished the ship," Mimi said, carefully. "It's still covert and I'm not going to blow that for them. But Tuffy says that I have to be on it, with him, when it leaves. They've completed the . . . shakedown cruises. The next launch is going to be out . . . Tuffy says that we, you, me, him, have to be on the ship. I don't know why and I don't know if he's being cagey or he can't really explain why. I know that part of the reason has to do with . . . causality. That's about as much as I understood. Basically, he's saying that the ship is probably going to fail, and fail big, if we, we three, don't go along."

  "Look, you can't just walk up to something like that and say 'we're coming along, okay?' " Miller said, blowing out his cheeks. "The security's going to be . . . a mile deep. And the entire crew, and that includes the civilians, are already going to be chosen. That's even assuming that I'm willing to go."

  "You'll go," Mimi said. "You'll go because if you don't the mission's going to fail. And if the mission fails, it will probably mean the Dreen back. And this time we'll lose. Plus Dr. Weaver will die on the mission and he's your friend."

  "Friends die," Miller said, his jaw working. "One of the reason that I peacefully make flower arrangements these days is because I've seen lots of friends die. I don't particularly want to meet more people who are probably going to die. Which is what going on something like that would mean. Even if we could convince somebody that we had to go along, at which we have a chance in hell."

  "You need to call Admiral Townsend and get a meeting, today," Mimi said. "He's somebody you can just call, and he's briefed on the mission. He can get ahold of Dr. Weaver. And Dr. Weaver can get us on the mission."

  "You seem to know a hell of a lot for a fourteen-year-old," Miller said, blowing out again, this time angrily. "Greg Townsend . . . yeah, he'd take my call. But getting us on the mission . . . ?"

  "He can get us in touch with Dr. Weaver," Mimi said. "That's all we need."

  "Okay, okay," the former chief said, shaking his head. "I guess it's time to call in some favors. And Greg Townsend does owe me. Big time."

  * * *

  Bill parked the Electra in his designated slot and walked quickly towards the massive concrete building that guarded the upgraded sub-pens.

  Newport News had gotten out of the active sub business almost two decades before, when the full weight of the post-Cold War conditions had hit the Navy. Subsequent to that event, the base had mostly been used for "decomming" subs, turning them into razor blades in other words.

  Most of the subs that were going to be turned into razor blades had been turned when the Navy finally won the battle for the first warp ship. The battle had long-term consequences that were clear to the admirals. Weaver was pretty sure that with the data they'd gather from use it was possible to make another warp drive, albeit perhaps not as neat as the "little black box." Eventually, the Earth would need a star fleet, especially if the Dreen ever used warp space to attack. The service that got in on the ground floor was pretty certain to be the eventual "space service." Navy was navy, wet or in space. And that was one of the many arguments that the admirals, often disbelieving the words that came out of their mouths, made.

  However, the Navy was the right service for a space fleet. The Air Force, which had argued that it had much more experience with three dimensional combat than the Navy, was based around small systems with short mission times. There was a degree of complexity in creating, and especially running, a ship that was orders of magnitude away from being, say, a squadron or wing commander. There were human complexities that simply didn't occur in the Air Force when you packed a huge number of humans into a small space and then told them they had to get along or else.

  So the Navy had wholeheartedly offered Newport News when the new boat was under discussion. Out of their own pocket, drawing on funds detailed for other bases and ship maintenance, they had upgraded the facilities to be as "state-of-the-art" as they could, even before the decision was made. The Air Force had pointed out that, unlike Dreamland, there was no way that a ship taking off from Newport News, by day or night, could remain undetected. The Navy had pointed out that the boat was to be based on a submarine. All it had to do was submerge, get far enough offshore, make sure there wasn't anything in view via sonar, and then take off from there.

  In the final event, Newport News, a quiet little seaport on Chesapeake Bay, had become the world's first starport. Stranger things had happened, but not many.

  The outer door to the guard facility was easy enough to pass; all he had to do was wave his card at the reader and the door opened. Beyond he was in the "blast" room. Weaver had been consulted on the design. The room wouldn't quite stop a nuke, but it would stop anything else. There was a single door out of the room. It was designed around a bank vault, unmarked and with a keypad next to it.

  He swiped his security card past the reader and punched in his code, then went in as the powered door opened. This revealed another room. On the left-hand side was a window of aliglass.

  "Weaver," Bill said, holding up his ID to the guard. The guard's name was Johnson, Bill remembered. They'd chatted one time in the breakroom. If Johnson recognized him, it wasn't apparent.

  Johnson looked carefully at the ID, then consulted a list.

&nbs
p; "Please enter your keycode," the guard said in a monotone, still staring at Weaver as if he was a suspected terrorist.

  Bill swiped his card again and punched in a different code. That door led to a small room, windowless, with a video camera over the far door and a laser to the left. The laser swept over him, doing a retinal and surface temperature scan. The room was a "mantrap." The inner door was interlocked in such a way as it couldn't open until the outer door had closed.

  "Weaver, William, Lieutenant Commander, Astrogation," a robotic voice intoned. Then the inner door opened.

  Bill had once done a short stint as a consultant to the NSA. Getting into the National Security Agency involved showing your card to a guard and then walking in. He wasn't sure if this setup was overkill or if the NSA had lousy security. But, surely, there was somewhere in-between?

  As soon as he got through the final portal he turned left down the corridor and stopped to check a computer terminal. The meeting he was supposed to be at, in two minutes, was in Secure Four, a high-security auditorium. When they'd first started work on the 4144, meetings were getting so turned around that they'd installed this system to keep track. They still got shifted from time to time, so checking it had become habit.

  The system showed that the meeting was still on time and in the same place, but there was a peripheral note keyed to him saying that he had been cancelled as a briefer. He was supposed to report to call a secure extension instead.

  "What the . . . ?"

  * * *

  Bill flopped into his office chair and punched in the extension, wondering who would answer.

  "3326."

  "Weaver," he said, as calmly as he could.

  "Commander Weaver, this is Admiral Townsend," the voice said. "I'm the base commander at Norfolk. A blast from the past apparently needs to talk to you. Now." The admiral did not sound happy.

  "Sir . . ." Bill started to protest and then stopped. If Townsend was saying they needed to meet, now, it was something serious. "Where?"

  "My office, as soon as you can," the admiral said. "You know how to find it?"