The petty officer who had looked up at him couldn’t have been more than twenty. His uniform insignia indicated that he was in sensors. Tall, lanky and bespectacled, he had certainly looked the part. He had looked alert but very nervous.
“Petty officer… Ramsden,” the commodore read his name off of his uniform. “Mind telling me what’s bothering you?”
“It’s not my place, sir.”
“I’m making it your place.” The young man was visibly nervous.
“They’re not going to Neptune, sir.”
“You’re telling me that all of the techs on Earth and Luna have got it wrong and you’ve got it right?”
“Yes sir. The orbit’s wrong, sir. They couldn’t have done it without a massive burn. Earth and Luna are assuming that their stealth system is hiding it. OK, fine… their stealth system is that good.” He’d said it like he didn’t truly believe it. “But where would they get the fuel? The numbers don’t add up, sir.”
MacGregor had frowned and noted it, but that was that. Tranquility Base had sent them to Neptune so that’s where they were headed. Besides, it was one kid against the entire analyst section at HQ. He couldn’t possibly have been right.
Except that now they were halfway to Neptune and the pirates had struck again—at Ceres, in the asteroid belt, completely in the other direction. The commodore had fumed. For a moment he’d even lost his cool and shouted at the bridge crew, before he withdrew to his office to calm down.
They’d been played. Even worse, for the time being he was out of the game. The pirates had hit Neptune before, one of their first targets, and command wanted to beef up the system there. The Fourth Fleet was to continue out to Neptune and reinforce the station there with a similar constellation of nav satellites and defense upgrades—but no new station modules. There was nowhere to stop to pick up another one, and the Roosevelt’s cargo bay wasn’t that big.
It was important—MacGregor could see that. But he didn’t have to like it.
It wasn’t very much fuel. The processing tanks themselves aren’t particularly big. They’re meant for short-term storage. And we had to redo the piping so that we could use some of the spare oxygen for breathing to oxidize the fuel. They’d taken most of our tools, too, so we had to get pretty creative. But at the end of the day we got thrust. The nav computer worked out a course to get us back and we prayed that we wouldn’t starve before we got there.
It was a close thing, too. I can’t speak for my brothers, but I know that they were starting to look mighty tasty to me. Two weeks on about a day’s worth of food is pretty brutal. We stretched those food bars about as far as you possibly can, you know? My brothers used to harass me about keeping so many around, but now all three of us stash them away everywhere we can hide them. Once you’ve known hunger like that, you never, ever want to do it again. Honestly, we didn’t think we’d make it.
In those days, Neptunian space was a real frontier, you know? Supply and fuel stations and a science station orbiting Triton and a dozen or so mining ships like ours. Back then they didn’t even have nav satellites yet. The fleet brought those in while they were hunting pirates. We were on the wrong side of the planet when the pirate caught us, and orbiting nearly in sync with Triton.
We knew right away that it wasn’t enough fuel to get there. So we tried another plan, and set course for another orbit. And then we waited. We sat there in the dim light telling each other stories, reading, watching the vids, whatever we could do to pass the time and keep our spirits up. We read the bible a lot. Alone and together. It became our fallback, when we couldn’t find anything else to do. And we prayed. Man oh man did we pray.
- Simon Holt, speaking to the US Space Navy Academy
Captain Nelson of the Pennsylvania stepped out of the airlock and boarded the Roosevelt. A small collection of officers stood at attention to greet him. He snapped a salute to Commodore MacGregor which was promptly returned. After a small boarding ceremony of the type that hadn’t changed all that much since the days when a distant family member had fought a famous battle at Trafalgar, the pair made for MacGregor’s office. Small talk filled their conversation during the walk but the topic turned deadly serious once they closed the door.
“What happened, Bill?” MacGregor asked the young captain.
“I don’t know how they did it, Commodore. Even though Intel said they were headed to Saturn, we kept an eye out. But somehow they snuck in right underneath us. They hit a mining operation on Amalthea while we were on the other side of the planet—and in completely the wrong orbit. It took us eighteen hours to change orbit and get there, and by then they were already gone.”
“Eighteen hours isn’t a big head start. Why didn’t you follow?”
“There was nothing to follow, Commodore. They disappeared.”
“Where were they headed this time?”
“That’s just the thing. None of our observation stations caught their burn, and by the time we got to Amalthea they’d activated that damned stealth tech of theirs. We have no idea where they went.”
“Fleet couldn’t give you a heading?”
“Nobody saw the burn, sir. Fleet had nothing.”
“Nothing at all?” MacGregor was stunned.
“Not then, sir. I had all the techs comb through all of our data, down to the raw, unprocessed stuff. Looking for anything.”
“You found something?” MacGregor’s tone changed into excited anticipation.
“Well… we don’t know. Maybe. There are a couple of blips in the data that don’t make any sense. The software filtered it out as noise, but our techs don’t think so. They think maybe it’s some artifact caused by the pirates’ stealth tech, but they can’t make heads or tails out of it.”
“Forward the data to Tranquility Base. Make sure their people are on it.”
“Sent it months ago, sir, before the fleet started the trip back here. I talked to them this morning. They still have nothing—or at least that’s what they’re telling me.”
MacGregor frowned and pursed his lips in thought for a moment. Then he hit the intercom on his desk.
“Bradley!” he barked.
“Sir?” came the response.
“Get Ramsden in here, now.”
“Yes, s–” the Commodore released the button, cutting off his aide mid-word.
Nelson raised an eyebrow at him.
“I’ve got a real bright Petty Officer who’s been looking at a lot of the sensor data. He says something’s bugging him about it all, but he doesn’t know what. Made himself real obnoxious. But his lieutenant says he’s the brightest kid he’s ever seen, and the other techs all say the same. They’ve been giving him everything on this, and he’s got some giant simulation he’s cooked up.”
“Fleet has better people. And better computers and simulations.”
“Better computers, for sure. Better simulations… maybe, but I’m not so sure. Better people? You haven’t met this kid. Mark my words, as soon as they find out about him they’re going to snatch him away from us.”
“That sharp?”
He never got his answer. A rapping sound came from the door, followed momentarily by the creak of hinges as Lieutenant Bradley escorted Petty Officer Ramsden into the office. He stopped before the officers and snapped up a smart salute. They returned it.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“At ease, Mr. Ramsden.” The young man relaxed. “This is Captain Nelson, from the Pennsylvania. His men have some raw data recordings from the last pirate attack, and they noticed some anomalies. I’d like you to put another pair of eyes on it. See what you can make of it.”
“Aye aye, sir!” The response and the salute came out smart and quick as required, but the young Petty Officer couldn’t hide his excitement—or suppress his giant grin.
We used up most of our fuel in that first burn, and all of the rest in the second. We knew this was our only chance, and if we screwed it up we were toast. That was it, we had nothing left. An
d then, when we finally got there, the timing. Oh, the timing. We had about an hour and a half to do everything perfectly and that was it. After that our orbit would decay too much and we wouldn’t have the fuel to pull out of Neptune’s gravity again. And the pumps weren’t working at anything close to capacity after the stunt we’d pulled with them earlier, so we didn’t even know if we could do it.
But we’d rehearsed everything about three dozen times in the days it took us to get into place. We’d written everything down into a perfectly choreographed schedule. We figured that if we did it all right we’d have about ten minutes to spare. But not much more.
Because our orbit was total crap. We didn’t have enough fuel to set up for a proper mining orbit. Instead we were on a course that would take us far too deep into the atmosphere. The only way we were getting out of it was to get enough fuel processed before it was too late to fire off another burn and stabilize our orbit. But it was tight. Really, really tight.
Hell yeah, I was scared. I mean, no pressure, right? But here’s the thing. I was there with my brothers. And we all knew what we were about. And we’d been through about ten rehearsals now where we’d done everything flawlessly. We’d scripted the whole thing down to who is pushing what button when and for how long and in what order.
We were waiting at our positions as we coasted into range. And as soon as we crossed the line, we all started at once. I’d like to tell you that we made some great quips. That guy who played me in the vid had some wonderful ones that I really wish I’d said. But the truth is, we were pretty quiet. We were all too afraid of screwing it up.
- From “An Interview with John Holt” in Mars Today
“Petty Officer Ramsden is here to see you, Commodore.”
“After the briefing, Lieutenant Bradley.”
“He says it can’t wait, sir.”
Commodore McGregor scowled at the younger officer.
“Fine, send him in.” He waited impatiently at his desk as the sensor analyst marched in.
“What is this about, Ramsden? I have a conference with the fleet captains in ten minutes.” He read the name off of the young man’s chest.
“You’ll want to see this first, Commodore, I promise.” the petty officer assured him. “May I use your display, sir?” Ramsden carried a small computer in his hand. At McGregor’s nod he connected it to the holodisplay in the middle of the briefing room. He worked the controls to pull up a three-dimensional map of the solar system. As it loaded, he talked.
“Sir, I’ve been examining the reports from the pirate attacks. Looking for patterns, trying to figure out how they’re getting the drop on everybody.”
“The best analysts in the fleet have been over this, Ramsden. They can’t crack the stealth systems the pirates are using.” He didn’t even try to hide his annoyance.
“Exactly, sir. And they never will.” The younger man tried hard to contain his excitement. He didn’t quite succeed. Commodore McGregor frowned at him.
“Would you mind explaining to me why this is so exciting?” The young spaceman managed to calm down.
“Sorry, sir. Here, let me show you.” He worked the controls and a series of points glowed within the map.
“This is every known attack by the pirate fleet.” He worked the controls again and a series of lines connected them. “Here we have them all connected, in order, showing time between attacks.” His hands moved and the display shifted one more time. “And here, I’ve computed the orbital mechanics necessary to move their fleet from target to target in the time allotted.”
“Here.” The commodore pointed. “Why is there a break in the pattern?”
“Because at this point, sir, they either didn’t have enough fuel or didn’t have enough time. Here, let me show you.” His hands moved and the display refocused around the two points that didn’t connect. Here,” Ramsden pointed at the first point, “is where they attacked a mining vessel leaving Io. And here, this second point is where they attacked a convoy transferring orbits near Ceres, two hundred eleven days eight hours and seventeen minutes later. It’s where they screwed up, sir.”
“Screwed up? Screwed up how?” the Commodore was paying attention now.
“Yes, sir. They attacked thirty-four minutes early.” The Commodore’s brow furrowed as he brought his palms together and pressed his fingers to his lips.
“I don’t understand, petty officer. Tranquility Base processed these numbers and said that the fleet could have made the trip in two hundred eleven days.”
“Yes sir, I read the report. The original report. The official summary left off a detail. The quants who did the math came up with the same answer I did—two hundred eleven days, eight hours and forty-one minutes. But they assumed that their calculations were off, given such a small margin of error.”
“That sounds like a safe assumption to me, son. That’s off by… what? Zero point zero two percent?”
“Zero point one nine seven two percent, sir. And it would be a safe assumption on its own. They based their calculations off of the maximum fuel capacity of the ships in the pirate fleet, which at that point were all pretty standard models and well-known. But look at this.” He moved the controls and an image came up.
“This is a Lockheed-Boeing 6748 freighter. The pirates commandeered it in their first attack, near Iapetus. This image was taken from footage found on one of the recovered ships in the Io attack.” He moved again and a second, nearly identical image came up next to the first. “This is an image of the ship taken from the Ceres attack, two hundred eleven days later.”
“Son of a bitch.” McGregor shook his head and lifted the comm device from his desk. “Bradley, get Tranquility Base on the horn. Maximum encryption, level A priority.” He put the phone down and turned back to Petty Officer Ramsden.
“Command is going to want more to go on than this. Do you have it?”
“Yes sir.”
The Good Lord was with us that day, I have no question about that. My brothers and I have always been good at what we do. That’s why we wanted to go out together in the first place. We trusted each other. But I’d never seen them move like that before. I’d never seen myself move like that before. It was like the most beautiful dance you’d ever seen. Or maybe it just felt that way because my life was on the line and everything was going perfectly. Whatever, I don’t care. We pulled that maneuver off flawlessly and it was awesome. That part of the vid they nailed perfectly.
- From “Stranded in Space” by Matthew Holt
“You have more than just the one image, don’t you?” Admiral Barnes was polite but pointed.
The video screens around the walls of his office showed several men, all clean-cut and wearing crisp uniforms. To civilians they might have all just looked like high-ranking naval officers. A trained eye, however, could easily pick out the seven captains of the Fourth Fleet from the Admiral back on Luna. The deference of the fleet captains was one clue. The way their uniforms hung—or rather, failed to hang—in microgravity was a bigger one.
“Yes sir. I’ve crossed-checked every image available from every attack.” Petty Officer Ramsden keyed in a command and a series of images flashed up on the screen. “As best as I can tell, they started off with two groups. But they’ve been expanding as they captured ships on each run, and it looks like they’re up to four individual fleets now.”
“Damn. And the cloaking device?” asked Captain Morelli from the Arizona.
“Doesn’t exist, sir. Never did. It was sleight of hand all along. One group attacks, conquers its target, squawks off a challenge loud and clear, and then maneuvers itself into one of the fleet’s blind zones, and then disappears. Later on—barely enough time for their fleet to have maneuvered itself there—a second group attacks somewhere else.”
“You’d need a lot of coordination to pull this off,” chimed Captain Schafer from the Farragut.
“And patience,” added Captain Clark from the Dallas.
“Not to mention money,”
Morelli finished. “Just getting the initial two fleets going would cost a fortune. Then you’d have to fuel it and prep it and ensure they had some kind of home base—two of them, actually. Somebody with considerable resources at their disposal set this up. It would take some serious doing for the USSF to pull this off, much less anybody else.”
“You’d better believe we’ll be chasing that down on our end,” Barnes replied.
“What about our end, Admiral?” MacGregor cut to the point.
“I’m glad you asked, Commodore,” a new voice cut in. MacGregor watched the general confusion on his screens, but he and Barnes, at least, recognized the voice and snapped to attention. A new vid feed joined the others on his screens and confirmed the identification.
President Harrison Trajan Covington no longer wore the uniform but he still carried himself like the general and war hero that he’d been. His dark hair was longer than typical military fashion, more in the style of the special operations forces he’d been a part of. But he was still in fighting shape, still stood ramrod-straight, and still possessed a stare that could make a drill sergeant cry. Rumor was that it had, and more than once.
“I’ve been monitoring this conversation. Good work, Petty Officer. Very good work indeed. If you’re interested in a new challenge, I have another interesting problem you might be able to help me with.”
“I’m always interested in a challenge, Mr. President.”
President Covington nodded curtly.
“You’ll be receiving your new orders shortly, then. My apologies, Commodore, for stealing one of your finest. I assure you he’ll be well used.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
“Now, about those pirates…”
Once we’d gotten our orbit straightened out, we had the time to mine as much fuel as our hearts desired. Well, all the time our stomachs desired. We were all pretty damn hungry at that point. But with a stable orbit and fuel coming on board, we had plenty of power. And although we were hungry, we didn’t want to get stranded on Triton Station, either. So we brought on enough fuel to get us there, enough to get us back, and enough to sell for food and other supplies when we got there.
There Will Be War Volume X Page 25
