Vorpal Blade

by John Ringo

  "Two-Gun, don't you have somewhere else to be?" the first sergeant asked, one eyebrow raised.

  "Aye-aye, Top!" Berg bellowed, trotting up the stairs to the building.

  "How in the grapp does he always know what's going on?" Crowley said as the threesome bolted through the door.

  "He's the first sergeant," Drago said. "That's his job."

  "Can I ask a question?" Berg said. "Why do they call you Drago?"

  "Wait till you see him in the shower," Crowley said, grinning.

  "Grapp you, Crowie."

  "Two-Gun," Gunnery Sergeant Hocieniec said as the loading was completed. "Go jump in the back of the ten ton over on bay four. You're going to the ship to start loading."

  "Aye-aye, Gunny," Berg said.

  "You're not going to be by yourself," the gunny said, grinning. "Most of Third Herd is over there already and we're going to be following in a minute. And I'm sending Staff Sergeant Summerlin over on another truck. You're just advanced party."

  "Will do, Gunny," Berg said.

  "Holy cow," Berg muttered as he jumped off the back of the ten ton.

  He'd been told the ship was a converted sub, but for some reason nobody had mentioned that it wasn't extremely converted. And he'd never really thought where the Navy was hiding it. In a massive sub pen was a good choice, all things considered.

  The crew of the sub was busy loading stores, and a massive missile that sure looked like an ICBM was being lowered into one of the tubes as he just stood and stared.

  "It's a hell of a sight," Summerlin said, walking up behind him. "Note the big sword thingy sticking out the front. But we've got gear to store. Some of the stuff we loaded was Third's, but they've been down here all day getting it in the sub while we were loading the trucks. First is down in the sub packing it away."

  "And our job is . . . ?" Berg asked.

  "To make sure our stuff gets put in the right place," Summerlin replied, walking over to the line of Marines loading stores. "Two-Gun, Gunny Hedger, Third Platoon."

  "Hey, Summer," the gunnery sergeant said.

  "We were sent to determine how badly First was grapping up our maulk," Summerlin said.

  They crossed the gangplank, then entered a vertical hatch, sliding down the ladder between bags of gear. Thereafter followed a bewildering, to Berg, series of turns until they got to the ship's gear room.

  The gear room was a combination of battle-rattle storage and armory. Each person's gear and personal weapon was supposed to be stowed in their personal locker. The armory, in turn, held preloaded sets of rounds. Draw and don their gear, pick up their rounds and they were in business.

  The gear room, though, was a nightmare. With so little room on the ship, there wasn't enough space for the usual locker room setup with lockers lined up on either side of benches. Instead, the battle rattle and weapons were kept in sliding locker walls, that could be moved aside, so that the platoons could access their gear one at a time. The doors of the lockers folded downwards for a seat or table.

  The battle rattle and weapons had been sent down in, supposedly, the same order as the locker. But what people like Prabhu had been doing was picking up scattered equipment from their platoon and making sure it got on the trucks.

  So when the two members of Second Platoon entered the gear locker, they found a pile of mismatched gear tossed in every corner, a pile of matched gear that hadn't been loaded, yet, in the companionway and the beginnings of a raging argument.

  "God damnit, Staff Sergeant Summerlin," a gunnery sergeant swore as soon as they entered the compartment. The guy was short and looked about sixty, the type that ages from the outdoors. "Your maulk was totally grapped up. And Third's is worse!"

  "I'm sorry about that, Gunnery Sergeant Frandsen," Summerlin replied. "May we be of any assistance?"

  "You can start going through the pile that's portside aft is what you can do!" the gunnery sergeant snapped. "That's all your maulk. I'm going to send a runner up to Hedge to tell him his stuff is starboard side aft and that's about all the sorting we're doing. When we're done loading the maulk that ain't grapped up, y'all can fight it out to get the rest stored!"

  "Very well, Gunnery Sergeant," Summerlin said, evenly. "We'll get to it, then."

  "Staff Sergeant," Berg whispered as they got to the pile. "Our maulk was grapped up. I mean, most of the guys just tossed their stuff in any old way."

  "We've got time to sort it out," Summerlin said, turning to check that the gunny wasn't watching and then grinning. "And it was worth it to watch Big-Foot Frandsen nearly bust a blood vessel. Hell, Gunga-Din was intentionally mixing in First's with ours."

  "Oh," Berg said, trying not to grin. "So why'd we get detailed to do the dirty work?"

  "You kidding?" Summer asked, picking up a set of battle armor. "I practically had to kill to get this detail. Everybody wanted to see if Big-Foot would finally have a stroke!"

  "That's some tattoo," Berg said wonderingly.

  The mystery of Drago's nickname was revealed as he walked out of the team showers with a towel around his waist. Most of the corporal's back was taken up by an intricate dragon tattoo.

  Loading had continued until 2000, an hour behind schedule. It wasn't the snafu with the battle rattle that held things up, but getting the rest of the company's "common" equipment stored. When they were done, everything could be accessed, more or less, at least if you only wanted the stuff that was on the outside of the piles.

  Fortunately, Top seemed to have an uncanny ability to determine what was going to be required in order of need. The term was "combat loading." The idea was that the first things you needed would be the last things stored. And Top knew what was going to be needed and when. Or at least seemed to. The proof would be in the access as the mission progressed.

  But, finally, the ship was loaded and the Marines were given forty-five minutes to "maulk, shower, shave" and prepare for an inspection. There were high-ranked visitors coming to see the still unnamed ship head out to sea, and the Marines were, by God, going to look like Marines, not ragbag sailors!

  "Got it in Singapore," Drago said, going over to the sinks and pulling out shaving gear. "I wasn't even drunk, believe it or not. But it took, like, days to do. Blew all that month's pay and bonuses plus I had to hit my credit card. But worth it."

  "Hell of a tattoo," Berg admitted. His turn for the shower had come up and while he was in it he took a surreptitious glance around. Just about everyone in the unit had one tattoo or another, although Drago's was, by far, the most spectacular. He shaved in the shower. His beard hairs were as blond as his head, but came in dark for some reason. If he was going to be standing inspection at 2200, he had to shave or get gigged.

  By 2100 he was down on the quarterdeck, uniform squared away, maulk, showered and shaved.

  "Open ranks," First Sergeant Powell ordered, then walked the line.

  When he got to Berg he just looked him up and down and nodded. Nothing to disapprove of. On the other hand . . .

  "Crowley, who taught you to shave . . . ?"

  They were bussed to the sub, which was docked about two miles away. Berg spent the trip just looking out the windows. It wasn't that he was particularly tired, despite occasional nausea, having been up most of the night and one long damned day. It was just that . . . Once they entered the sub pen, that was the last time he might ever see Earth. There wasn't much to see; they spent the whole trip on the base. But it was something. They did manage to pass the base McDonald's, which caused a slight increase in his nausea.

  The Marines were allowed a designated cubage of "personal effects" to be stored in a bag about the size of a plastic grocery bag. That included their shaving gear, any medications they cared to bring along and whatever else they desired in the way of "personal effects." When they got to the ship, Berg followed Sergeant Jaenisch and Lance Corporal Hattelstad down into the bowels of the boat. He had the bottom bunk, naturally. Land-based groups, the seniors got the bottom bunks, but on ships, well,
you wanted to be above any splatter. But the bunks were surprisingly better than he expected.

  Instead of a curtain, the bunk sealed with a memory plastic door that could be set to be transparent or opaque. Hit a button it closed; hit another button it turned black. There was a private air supply that could be set to any temperature. There were several small bins, the largest being above where his feet would go. But he had a small shelf for personal items at the head of the bed as well. Best of all, the bunk could be slightly elevated and there was a keyboard and a flip-down plasma screen. He wasn't sure what was available on the terminal, but he could hope for the best.

  The bad part was that it looked like the entire "company," at least the junior NCOs and the privates, were in the same bay. With nearly thirty people in the narrow corridor, crowded didn't begin to describe it.

  He tossed his bag up on the bunk, then climbed in to get out of the way.

  "What now?"

  "Ten minutes we have to be in the missile compartment for final inspection," Jaenisch said, climbing in his own rack. "Then we hang out until it's time to form up on deck."

  "Nice racks," Berg said. "Better than on a transport, that's for sure."

  "You don't know the half of it," Hattelstad said. "You need to read the manual on them. They're spaceworthy so if we get decompressed we can just hunker in the bunks and . . . well, hope somebody comes to save us I guess. The whole package can be ripped out and pulled out of the compartment, though I wouldn't want to try in anything but zero gee. There's a water port and a piss tube, all the bells and whistles. Oh, and computerized training systems so we don't have to clog up another part of the ship when we're playing Dreen War."

  "What's on the terminal?" Berg asked, flipping down the screen. "Just Dreen War?"

  "Just about anything," Jaenisch said. "Movies, TV shows, music. Use the buds, though."

  "Got it," Berg said. Two ear buds were racked in holders on the side of the bunk. He pulled them out and inserted them, then used a laserpad to navigate to the shows menu. "Jesus, you weren't kidding. I think there's just about every TV show ever made."

  "Nah, there are a few missing," Jaenisch said. "Ever see reruns of WKRP in Cincinnati?"

  "Love that show," Berg said. "But I can never find the chip for it."

  "That's because it's got a bunch of legal stuff holding it up," Jaenisch said. There was a slight tympani coming from his direction and he'd raised his voice. "Grapping RIAA. I mean, nobody buys those albums anymore. Release the maulk and let Micro-Vam or Napple put it out for sale."

  "No maulk," Berg muttered. "Shiny! They've got Firefly!"

  "They've got what?" Jaenisch said loudly.

  "Never mind," Berg said. "What in the hell are you listening to?"

  "Within Temptation," Jaenisch said. "You ought to try it!"

  "I already am," Berg replied. "Ah, Trash . . ."

  "You listen to country?" Hattelstad said as they climbed the ladder up to the sub's surface deck.

  "And the sergeant listens to death metal; what's your point?" Berg asked.

  "Within Temptation is not death metal," Jaenisch pointed out. "It's Goth. Although I listen to death metal, too. But country?"

  "I like ballads," Berg said.

  "So why not Heather Alexander?" Hattelstad asked.

  "Who?"

  "Can it," Jaenisch said as they reached the deck.

  Assembly on the top deck of an SSBN is normally an exercise in gymnastics. The majority of the deck is rounded. However, the area over the missiles, and in this case the mission specialist package, was more or less flat. Most of the eggheads were by the sail, nearest the distinguished visitor area on the dock. Then the officers and crew of the ship, then the "mission specialist" security force, who were senior NCOs from Army special forces, then the Marines, right down by the fantail.

  The Marines were the first ones on deck and submitted to a third inspection, this time by the CO and Top. Given the conditions, they couldn't open ranks or the rear rank would have been in the water. So the first sergeant and the CO had to squeeze their way down the sections.

  It was the first time Berg had seen the Marine CO, Captain Michael MacDonald. The commander of the security contingent was a tall, spare man with short-cropped, dark-brown hair. Technically, he was in charge of the SF guys as well. But Berg had picked up enough scuttlebutt that it was pretty apparent they ran their own show. Since they were all experienced NCOs, that probably worked just fine.

  The CO found nothing at fault and the company was brought to the "rest" position, like parade rest but you could look around.

  "And now, we wait," Hattelstad said. "You seriously have never heard of Heather Alexander?"

  "Nobody in the company had heard of Heather Alexander before you showed up, Hatt," Crowley said. The "company" was arranged in three ranks of ten men each, the platoon sergeants at the head of each rank, with the platoon leaders and the company XO to the rear. When the CO took over from the first sergeant, Top took a position at the bottom of the officer's ranks.

  Thus Crowley was right next to Sergeant Jaenisch with Hatt at the very end of the row.

  "Everybody should listen to Heather Alexander," Crowley said. "Heather is the Goddess."

  "I'll give you points for 'March of Cambreadth,' " Jaenisch said. "But I'll top that with 'Winterborn.' "

  "DragonForce, man, DragonForce," Hattelstad argued. "That's the maulk."

  "I'm a big Toby Keith fan, personally," Berg said. It was an apparent non sequitur since they all just looked at him. "Well, I am. I like Johnny Cash for that matter."

  "Two-Gun, we might just have to rename you," Crowley said. "Two-Gun is much too hot a handle for somebody who listens to country. You'd better keep that maulk down in the bay. Grapp. Just when we got rid of Harson and his damned mood music . . ."

  "I kinda liked some of that stuff," Hattelstad said. "Wyndham Hill and all that. It was soothing. You know, masturbation music."

  "Rest does not mean laughing your ass off," Gunny Hocieniec snapped from the end of the rank.

  "Sorry, Gunny," Jaenisch said, still snickering. "Harson was a good guy. Hell on wheels in a Wyvern. But, yeah, his taste in music sucked."

  "Like that metal crap is worth maulk?" the sergeant in front of Jaenisch said, looking around. "You keep that maulk down, damnit."

  "And don't go pounding the whole bay with that rap maulk, Onger," Jaenisch snapped. "In space, nobody can hear you scream."

  Berg wasn't sure who "Onger" was, but based on the way they were lined up he was Gung-Din's boss.

  "Space," Berg said. "I can't wait."

  "Yeah, but we got to get there first," Hattelstad said balefully.

  "How bad is that?" Berg asked.

  "See the ship's CO?" Jaenisch replied, gesturing with his chin. "Former fighter pilot."

  "Running a sub?" Berg said.

  "Politics," Jaenisch said, shrugging. "Anyway, he drives the ship like a fighter."

  Berg looked from one end of the massive sub to the other and shook his head.

  "That's one big damned fighter."

  "Sort of my point."

  "Company!" the CO bellowed. "Atten-hut!"

  "Ladies and Gentlemen, distinguished beings, thank you for being here today on this momentous occasion . . ."

  Normally the main ceremony for a boat was at completion and launching. A crowd of well-wishers and officials gathered to send the boat off to sea. A bottle, traditionally one with waters of all the seven seas, was broken on the bow.

  The problem with the 4144, besides the fact that the powers that be were still arguing over a name, was that it wasn't being launched. It was simply a converted SSBN, the former Nebraska, and had already had such a ceremony.

  But the first deep space mission of the first warp ship, even if a totally covert and still unnamed one, was a matter of some ceremony. Even if it was a very late night, very covert, ceremony. So a crowd had gathered. Admittedly, it was smaller than normal, there were no family o
f the crew, no press, and everyone on the dock had the highest of high security clearances, but by the same token it was extremely select. Admiral Townsend was presiding but even the President had managed to attend. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was present as was the deputy defense secretary for interstellar warfare. Two senior members of the Senate, two equally senior members of the House, the secretary of state and a group of senior Adar. The ambassador for Britain was present as the representative of the only Earth government that had been informed the U.S. had a warp drive.

  Although very few Earth governments were aware of the boat, support from the Adar government was a necessity on several levels. The boat had needed Adar technology and the Adar had, after all, been the suppliers of the drive. Just because Bill had figured out how to use it when they could not did not preclude their participation.