Vorpal Blade votsb-2

by John Ringo

  “Ever have a completely efficient son of a bitch working for you?” Powell asked. “One that couldn’t get past the son of a bitch part?”

  “You had a problem with Driscoll,” Miller said, chuckling. “Yeah, had an assistant team leader one time like that. Guys hated him but he was so grapping efficient I hated to lose him.”

  “Solution?”

  “Canned his ass,” the SEAL said, not looking up from his flower arranging. “His personal efficiency was great but he was enough of a bastard it grapped with the team efficiency. Is Driscoll the type to backstab?”

  “In a heartbeat,” the first sergeant admitted. “And he’s got a real case of the ass at a Nugget, now. Entirely Driscoll’s fault. He stuck the kid in a Wyvern sim for six hours.”

  “Ouch,” Miller said. “Is the kid sane?”

  “Bitch is that he just went through pre-mission phys,” Powell said, finishing his fungal treatment and putting the bottle away. “Threw up all over himself for four hours.”

  “And he stayed in the can?” Miller said. “Good lad.”

  “Seems to be,” Powell said. “But is he worth losing the most efficient ops sergeant I’ve ever had? First, there’s not a damned thing to do with Driscoll on the cruise. Second, I need him where he is, at least until I can get a replacement. But figuring out who he is going to grapp, just to pass the time, is getting to be a full-time job. Looking for a job in Ops, Chief Warrant Officer Miller? Nothing but headaches and no extra pay, but you get petty power and the chance to grapp people on the side.”

  “Not on your life,” Miller said, chuckling.

  “I could ask the Old Man to draft you.”

  “We share a room and you have to sleep sometime.”

  “Point.”

  “Switch him out for one of your team leaders,” Miller said. “That puts him in the position to be grapped by Ops instead of doing the grapping.”

  “Point,” Powell said. “I wish he’d shown this proclivity before we left Terra, though. That way I could have done the switch with time to shake down. Doing it mid-cruise is going to suck. No, I’m not going to shake up the teams that badly. Putting Driscoll in a team leader slot would just destroy a team. But, yeah, Driscoll’s got to go. What’s the word from on-high?”

  “Runner found a world right off,” Miller said. “One that has air and water and all that. But we’re going to do a full system survey before we approach. I’d say three days, minimum.”

  “I’ll pass that on,” Powell said, grinning. “Otherwise I’m sure the scuttlebutt circuit will have it as we’re going to crash into the sun.”

  “Grapp…”

  Berg stuck his head out of his bunk at the sound of rapid and constant bitching from down the compartment. He was recovering from his third day of VR training in the Wyverns. After what had apparently been a serious drubbing from Top, Driscoll had, in very simple terms as if he was a slightly retarded child, explained that he was to take a break every fifty minutes. Hattelstad had been designated as his spotter, which had thrilled Hatt no end since it meant two days of, basically, looking at a grapping Wyvern that wasn’t doing anything.

  “What happened?” he asked PFC Walker who was at the back of the group.

  “Driscoll got pulled out of ops,” Walker said. “And Staff Sergeant Sutherland got pulled over to be the ops sergeant!”

  Sutherland was First Platoon’s Alpha Team leader and assistant platoon leader. The move had pulled a serious spoke out of First Platoon’s wheel.

  “Maulk,” Berg said, rolling back into his rack.

  “Don’t worry, man,” Sergeant Dunn said, walking by his rack. “It wasn’t just the maulk he did to you. He’s been grapping up royally ever since we left. I’m surprised Top kept him as long as he has.”

  “Force Recon staff sergeants are hard to find,” Sergeant “Onger” St. Onge said from across the compartment. “But, grapp, Sutherland. Why couldn’t Top have picked Summerlin or Rocco?”

  “Or a sergeant,” Jaen said. “I know the position calls for a staff, but a sergeant can do it, especially on a cruise. I mean, all it is is grapping writing training schedules.”

  “You hear?” Drago said, walking into the missile room. “They found a planet!”

  “We’re in a star system,” Berg said, taking a sip of water. As predicted, he’d smoked through training in the suit, once he didn’t have to spend six continuous hours in it. He’d run through his mandated training items in two thirds the time considered “standard” and was now on his WCT testing. “Most star systems are probably going to have planets.”

  “It’s a moon,” Gunnery Sergeant Frandsen said. “One around a big Jupiter type planet. What he meant was that we’ve found a planet that might support life, so we’re going to do a ground survey.”

  For WCT a senior NCO, operations NCO or higher had to be present to prevent cheating. Frandsen was one of two obvious choices. Since some of the pass/fail points were subjective, Berg had been told he was grapped. Big-Foot was unrelenting. You did it perfectly by the book or Frandsen would screw your scores so hard it would look like you shouldn’t have passed Basic much less be in Recon. So far, however, Berg had smoked the tests to even Frandsen’s satisfaction.

  “Well, if I want in on that, I’d better get back to testing,” Berg said, draining the bottle of water. “Permission to resume testing, Gunnery Sergeant?”

  “If you think you’re up to it, PFC,” Gunny Frandsen said, shrugging. “But if you’re going to puke, you need to call the session.”

  “No problem, Gunnery Sergeant,” Berg said, sliding into the suit.

  “You sure about this?” the first sergeant said.

  “Is that my signature on the pad?” Gunnery Sergeant Frandsen said, warming up to full Frandsen-Rage.

  “Calm down, Big-Foot,” Top said, shaking his head. “I take your word for it. I’ve just never seen you give someone a one hundred percent score. Not even your own troops.”

  “I’ll take Two-Gun any time he wants to transfer,” Big-Foot said. “He’s got a much better handle on the physics maulk than I do. That’s where everybody falls down. I’ve been saying—”

  “If we’re going to throw these sensors at them we need more basic physics training,” Top said. “I even agree. If you can figure out how to get that done, send me a memo.”

  “Well, one thing that comes to mind is that we’ve got a team of top physicists, all of them former professors, sitting around with their thumbs up their butts.”

  “Point,” Powell said. “But that’s for later. Shiny. He’s passed on WCT. But we’re not posting the score. Just that he passed. And don’t put anything on the scuttlebutt circuit. He just passed. No big deal. Got it?”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “Kid’s got enough problems,” Top said. “He’s smart as hell and he passed the new FOT course. Face it, he’s better prepared for this than most of the old hands. That’s causing some resentment. This would cause more. Let him just glide in.”

  “Shiny,” Frandsen said. “If you say so.”

  “We’ve got a planet to survey,” Top said. “Make sure your teams are prepped. Let me worry about the rest of the company.”

  » » »

  “Are you sure about this?” Captain MacDonald asked. “The team hasn’t trained together, yet. And Two-Gun is brand new.”

  “That’s the team to use, sir,” First Sergeant Powell replied. “Because of Two-Gun. Probably there’s not going to be anything weird on this world. It’s pretty dead. But if there is, if there’s something weird, I think that Berg’s background would be useful. He’s shown a better ability than anyone in the company, excepting me, at reading the more complicated sensors. Charlie Second is my recommendation for first plant. But it is, of course, your decision, sir.”

  13

  Semper Fi Ad Astra

  “Second Platoon, report to the Missile Room. Uniform is blacksuit.”

  “What the grapp?” Hatt said, hopping to the deck.


  “Sounds like our platoon is security,” Jaen said as the door to the compartment opened.

  “Second, we’re on security,” Gunnery Sergeant Hocieniec said. “Get into your skins and get your asses down there.”

  “Gunny, does that include us?” Jaen asked.

  “Did I exclude you, Jaen?” the Gunny snapped. “You are, in fact, first plant. So get your game face on.”

  “Holy maulk,” Hatt said.

  “Congratulations, man,” Drago said, frowning. “Guess you drew the straw. First world, first plant. Ought to get a nice shiny medal out of that.”

  “If we don’t get boiled in acid or something,” Jaen pointed out. “Grapp it. Get your skins on, people.”

  “Move it, people,” Top bellowed. “We have a mission to perform!”

  “Charlie, suit up,” Hocieniec said. “Alpha, ammo draw, Bravo, weapons. First is getting up and they’ll handle weapons and ammo for Alpha and Bravo.”

  “Let’s get it on,” Jaen said, striding over to the suits and sliding his hand into the armpit. “Jaen.”

  “Hatt.”

  “Two-Gun,” Berg said with a sigh.

  He stepped into his suit, feeling as if he’d just left. In fact, he’d only finished his WCT on this system six hours ago. Four hours of sleep. Grapp.

  Wait…

  “Gunny,” he said before he sealed up. “Permission to speak.”

  “You’re not in Basic, Two-Gun,” the gunny said, shaking his head.

  “Agreed, Gunny,” Berg said, swallowing. “I was just wondering. I did pass WCT, right?”

  “Yes, Two-Gun, you passed WCT.”

  “Can I ask my score?” Berg said.

  “You can ask, but I can’t answer,” Hocieniec said, his face cracking in an unusual smile. “Top sealed the record. I don’t even know. I do know that Big-Foot asked me if I’d transfer you to his platoon. And I told him to grapp off. Good enough?”

  “Yes, Gunny,” Berg said. “Thank you, Gunny.”

  “Now close your grapping suit and get your game face on, Two-Gun.”

  Berg ran through the diagnostics on the suit carefully, exactly as if he hadn’t used it six hours before. But everything was in the green. It took about fifteen minutes, nonetheless, by which time Drago, Crow and Sergeant Lovelace were back with the team’s weapons.

  “I got it, Drago,” Berg said, opening up his suit and stepping out.

  “I know how to mount a grapping Gatling, Two-Gun,” Drago said.

  “I’m sure you do,” Berg responded. “But it’s my ass. Don’t you mount your own?”

  “Not if I’ve got somebody else to do it,” Drago said. “But I do watch real careful.”

  “I’ve got it,” Berg said, chuckling and hefting the sixty-pound gun into its slot. There were two mount latches and a traverse mechanism to attach and he slapped all of them into place rapidly.

  “You have used these,” Drago said, frowning.

  “The new Force Recon Operator’s Training is nine weeks long,” Berg said. “Three weeks is pure Wyvern. Mark Fours, though. I think they’re getting stuff from us and making it sort of Space Marine training. I wondered about the class on physics and astronomy. It was only an hour in the training schedule, but it seemed a little weird. By the way, does anyone know what star we’re at?”

  “Maybe we all should go through it,” Drago said sourly.

  “Let’s just see if we all get home,” Berg said, grinning.

  He had also loaded his ammo, with help from Lance Corporal Mackey “Candle-Man” Chandler from Alpha team. The Wyvern Mark V accepted over four thousand rounds of 7.62 mm in its cavernous ammo bin. On the other hand, he could run through that in one minute of continuous fire. Berg wasn’t sure the Gatlings were the best choice for their mission, but the things certainly had authority.

  “Attention on deck!” Top bellowed.

  “At ease,” the CO said, striding down the missile compartment. “Ready, Charlie?”

  “Ready, sir,” Jaen said, still at attention.

  “Glad to hear it,” the CO said. “Full sensor sweep. I’m not going to be the only person monitoring. You can bet the Skipper is going to be watching close. Make damned sure there are no threats before you give the all clear. I wanted to send Bravo through after you, but the science team is kicking up a fit so next out is going to be geo. Keep an eye on them but mostly keep your attention outwards. If there’s a threat, it’s our job to make sure the scientists get back to the ship. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir,” Jaen said.

  “Two-Gun, just use the Gatling.”

  “Aye-aye, sir!”

  “You guys, make us proud. Semper Fi.”

  “Oorah, sir!” the team chorused.

  “Suit up.”

  “Go live,” Jaen said as they approached the elevator. The CO and Top had followed them and now stood beside the aliglass compartment.

  “Hatt, online,” Hattelstad said, arming his cannon.

  “Two-Gun, online.”

  “Let’s go.”

  14

  Excursions and Alarums

  The designated landing area was a broad plain on the east side of one of the islands. The large volcano that had generated the island appeared to be dormant or dead, one of the criteria for landing.

  “Six hundred meters AGL,” the pilot said, coming to a hover.

  “Deploy landing jacks,” the CO ordered.

  “Deploy jacks, aye,” the chief of boat replied, pressing the control.

  Nuclear submarines are not designed to be supported on land. But there was sufficient structural rigidity to them that the Blade could land as long as enough surface area of the underside was supported.

  The landing jacks of the boat, therefore, were eight large self-leveling jacks spaced along the bottom of the sub where a long add-on pod had been installed. When retracted they fit flush into the pod mount. The mount had been extensively tested in both saltwater conditions and atmosphere but everyone assumed that at some point in the mission the combination of space conditions and saltwater was going to shut one or more down. The Blade could level with as few as six, but if she lost more than two, there was no way for her to land on a solid surface.

  “Jacks one through eight report down and ready,” the COB said.

  “Descend three meters per second to fifty meters, one meter per second thereafter,” the CO said.

  “Three meters per second to fifty meters, one meter per second to touchdown,” the pilot replied.

  The boat drifted downwards somewhat faster than a feather until there was a slight shudder and it settled at a slight tilt.

  “Jacks report contact,” the COB said. “Holding.”

  “Disengage drive,” the CO said.

  The boat settled slightly more as the full weight came on the jacks.

  “Jacks report full weight in local gravity,” COB replied.

  “Level.”

  The COB pressed the auto switch and the boat shifted back and forth, finally settling on an even keel.

  “Jacks leveled and locked.”

  “Touchdown complete,” the CO said. “Boo-yah, baby. Gentlemen, we are sitting on the surface of a different planet. XO: Planetary survey SOP.”

  Ground Lock Two was a converted Momsen lock. Momsens were escape hatches, designed for the crew to exit the submarine in the event of an underwater emergency. Called “Mom” hatches by the crew, none had ever been used successfully. But when families were given tours of the boat the crew could point to the hatch and say: “See, Mom, if anything goes wrong we can get out that way.”

  The lock, which was already oriented downwards, had been converted into an elevator capable of holding three Wyverns or five unsuited individuals. In this case it held Jaenisch, Bergstresser and Hattelstad. While Dr. Dean had argued strenuously that he should be the first person to set foot on “his” world, the SOP for planetary survey was fixed: Security went out first.

  On boarding, the first step ha
d been decontamination. Just as nobody wanted to bring some alien bug on the boat, the egghead and diplomat consensus was that the reverse was also the case. The elevator was first flushed with air, then pumped full of water with a caustic agent in it. Then the suits were dried. It took about five boring minutes to start descending.

  There wasn’t much conversation as the circular aliglass elevator exited the boat and lowered to the ground. The team had trained for this moment and each man knew his job. So they were just really hoping they didn’t grapp up.

  As soon as the elevator grounded, Jaenisch slid back the door and stepped out, striding ten meters forward in his Wyvern and taking a knee, the mounted 7.62mm Gatling gun tracking back and forth in search of threats.

  Hattelstad followed, moving to his right and turning right rear, with Bergstresser looking left rear.

  “Full scan,” Jaenisch ordered, changing the input parameters of the primary camera. First he scanned through the full electromagnetic spectrum, starting in deep infrared and scaling up all the way to X-rays. Then he switched to secondary particles and waves. Nothing. “Watch this light gravity. You can jump the Wyverns in this and lose control.

  “Anybody got anything on passive?” Jaenisch asked.

  “Nada,” Hattelstad said.

  “Got a bunch of stuff coming out of the boat,” Bergstresser said. “Grapping quarkium drive’s got me whited out that way. Other than that, nada.”

  “Go active,” Jaenisch said, switching on his radar and multifrequency lidar. A full sweep by the trio showed nothing but volcanic rock and some sort of red vegetation down by the seashore. If there was anything there, it was invisible to Earth and Adar tech sensors.

  “Blade, this is Alpha Team,” Jaenisch said. “We have zero signs of threat.”

  “Send out one more team of security,” the CO said. “Then the survey teams. Tell the eggheads they’re just going to have to wait. No offense, Commander Weaver.”