by John Ringo
"Zero," the damage control technician said. "It was already in the automated cargo section. Bots were opening it up to begin transfer. We lost a bunch of bots, but that's it."
"Nature of explosion?" the Admiral asked.
"Unknown at this time," Helberger said. "Could have been nuclear or antimatter."
"Are they insane?" the Admiral snarled. "How much damage?"
"Contained to the cargo handling area," the damage control tech said. "I've got the readings. Nuclear. Clean induced fusion reaction. Thirty megatons. Appears to have been in one container. As to damage . . . there is no cargo handling section anymore, sir. But that's pretty much it, sir."
"Contained?" the Admiral said. "No venting? No . . . ? Contained?"
"Blast doors stopped it, sir," the damage control tech said. "Some venting through overpressure blow-offs but no damage other than the cargo area."
"Just when I think this thing can't surprise me," Admiral Kinyon said, patting a console. "Good girl. Good Troy . . ."
"Those Rangora bastards!" Tyler said, looking at the data. "They killed my cargo system!"
"More like my cargo system, sir," Paris said. "With the current personnel and equipment level of the Troy, building a new one is a priority. We are having to accept enormous amounts of cargo to maintain function. The good news is that the containment system held. And, of course, that they used clean bombs so there's no residual irradiation. Effectively, we can burn it out and build a bigger cargo area. We'll have to move the . . ."
"Paris," Tyler said. "Whoa. There's no such thing as a totally clean nuclear chain-reaction. We're going to have to cut out the irradiated portions . . ."
"Excuse me, sir," Paris said. "I beg to differ. But the system was a non-fissile pumped helium three-helium three fusion bomb. They release no ionizing radiation. Just neutrinos and plasma. There is no residual radiation to deal with. We can work with the expanded hole they created."
"Really?" Tyler said, dubiously. "We're not just talking about ‘clean' like a neutron bomb that's pretty clean but totally clean? Absolutely no ionizing radiation?"
"Sir . . ." Paris said. "You normally have a fairly encyclopedic knowledge of this sort of thing for a human. You were unaware this was possible? There was no ionizing radiation. The area is thermally hot but radioactively neutral."
"Huh," Tyler said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Can we make these?" he whispered.
"Yes, sir," Paris whispered back. "It was what Apollo used to move the Troy in the first place."
"How big?" Tyler whispered.
"Up to about two hundred megatons," Paris said. "Can we stop whispering now?"
"Yeah," Tyler said, leaning back and grimacing. "Uh! I'm an idiot!"
"Sir?"
"Something somebody was trying to tell me I can't remember who cause I dismissed 'em cause I'm an idiot!" Tyler said. "Because I'm a know-it-all idiot! I can't even remember who it was! It was just some guy! And I didn't listen! And they were right and I'm an idiot!"
"Yes, sir?" Paris said, dubiously. "Are you okay, sir?"
"Paris, we need to do a major rebuild of the Troy," Tyler said. "Get me Nathan on the double."
"Are you going to discuss this rebuild with Admiral Kinyon or, say, Space Command?" Paris asked.
"When have I ever discussed things, Paris?" Tyler said. "Oh, hell, no. They'd call me crazy."
"Does this rebuild mean what I think it means?"
"If you're thinking something that starts with an O and ends in an N and involves a lot of really big booms?" Tyler said. "Yes."
"With all due respect, Mr. Vernon, you're crazy."
"See? See?"
✺ ✺ ✺
"Good girl," Chief Barnett said. "Right on time."
Dana hadn't even realized the Chief had civilian clothes on the Troy. Parker had worn her uniform.
The Chief was in a slinky red cocktail dress that showed off more cleavage than any one woman should own.
"Uh . . . hi?" Dana said, sitting down at the table.
The bar was in what looked as if it was intended as a storage locker. Tables and chairs, some of them welded from scrap, and a bar made out of what looked like a section of hull metal from a Horvath ship, had been installed. Most of the people in the bar were civilian men, probably Apollo workers from the look, and they were considering the two women like wolves confused by a couple of sheep who had wandered into the pack.
"It's self serve," the Chief said. "I'll take a Budweiser long-neck. Get whatever you want. I've got a tab. Get two of each."
"Aye, aye, Chief," Dana said.
As she walked to the bar she sensed more than saw the hand headed for her butt. A forearm well trained in nullball smacked it away almost without thought. There was a chuckle from behind her which she ignored.
She made it back without being groped and set the drinks on the table.
"Why . . . here?" Dana asked.
"There's an old saying in the Navy," Barnett said, then took a long suck off the beer. "Keep your indiscretions a hundred miles from the flagpole. Technically, for just mentioning that you were on the edge of being a hazard, I'm required to pull you off status."
"Oh," Dana said.
"So here we can have a quiet conversation that if not a hundred miles from the flagpole is close as we can get," Barnett said. "At a certain point, I will call your boyfriend and his squad for extraction. There will, then, be a bar fight. I get to get my issues out kicking some civilian ass."
Dana leaned over and looked under the table. The Chief was wearing four inch pumps.
"What?" the Chief said then took another drink. That pretty much finished the bottle. "You think I can't kick ass in high heels? Twenty-three years. I've been in pretty much every minor dust-up the Navy's had since before 9/11. Was a Seaman on the Cole, which was no picnic. Small boat security operations in the Gulf during OIF. Fought some Somali pirates. And, girl, I've been in fights in every port the Navy used and some it didn't. And when the dust settles, I'll pick out the guy who seems to be the toughest and get some more issues out by dragging him back to my quarters by his hair."
"Good God, Chief," Dana said, giggling.
"I understand you have a friend amongst the Marines," Barnett said.
"Yes, Chief," Dana said. "Andrew Ramage. Just made corporal."
"Good girl," Barnett said, starting on her next beer. "There are two kinds of girls in the Navy who get a lot, MWR issue and warriors."
"MWR?" Dana said.
"Like checking out a nullball kit. Check 'em out of stores, use 'em, put 'em back."
"Oh."
"Then there are girls like us," Barnett said. "Army general back in the Civil War said a soldier who won't engage in sexual relations will not engage in combat relations if you get my drift. Shorter than that."
"Got it, Chief."
"There are some warriors who don't," Barnett said, shrugging. She took another long pull. "Mostly cause of moral issues. Lots of Christians in the Navy."
"Yep," Dana said.
"But most get some. Boys and girls. Most get a lot. But there's the other way around, too."
"I . . . what?"
"You said you were angry," Barnett said, gesturing around with her chin. "Here's a virgin playing field, pardon the pun."
"So . . . you're saying that your prescription for handling PTSD is a bar fight?" Dana asked.
"Bar fight," Barnett said. "Sex. Whatever it takes to set you right for the next day's mission, girl. Because that's the real job. Being right for the next day and completing the mission. This isn't a gay bar in San Francisco where you can ‘be yourself' whatever self that may be. This is the Navy. And it's all about being what you have to be to complete the mission. Doesn't matter what that is. Just so you complete the mission. So . . . what's it going to be?"
Dana looked at her rum and coke and drained it. Then she picked up the next one and drained that.
"I'm not going to hold out long at this rate," she
said.
"It's okay," Barnett said. "The Marines are already on their way."
"Hey, ladies." The guy was absolutely huge but that meant he could hold the six drinks he was carrying. "You looking for some company?"
"I t'ink I bro' my no'be," Dana said, drunkenly. It was certainly bleeding enough.
"Told you to keep your hands up," Chief Barnett said. If the dozen beers had affected her it wasn't apparent. The big dude she was dragging along was similarly unaffected. At least by the shots of tequila he'd been downing. "But that flying kick off the pole was a thing of beauty."
"I'm still trying to figure out if I'm pissed off or turned on by the dance," Rammer said. He was having to hold Dana up as she caromed down the corridor. "And I hope like hell this doesn't end up with us at Mast."
"Never make Gunny if you don't have at least one," Barnett said. "Well, children, it has been fun but BFM and me got a date. Marines, I take it this little incident is not going to be a thing of barrack's gossip."
"No, Chief," Father said. "All clear, Chief."
"Toodles," she said, dragging the welder down a corridor.
"Christ," Father said. "I didn't know the Navy still made 'em like that. Wonder if she knows Gunny Brimage?"
"Pro'ly Bi'licly," Dana said. "Where are we?"
"Nearly home, Comet," Ramage said.
"Goo'. Hey, Fa'er? Hope you don't mind but . . ."
"Nope," Patricelli said, grinning. "I can see you two have some catching up to do. And, by the way, the next time you start a fight in a room full of welders, feel free to call. I haven't had so much fun since my first shore leave in Thailand. Later."
"Hey, Butch, you okay?" BFM asked.
"No," Butch said, rolling out of his bunk. He had a beauty of a shiner. "I got my ass kicked. And you got the girl. I am doubly not okay."
"Yeah, well, quit yer bitchin'," Price said, dragging him to his feet. "I need some coffee cause I got exactly no sleep last night and we're on shift in an hour."
"You are such a buddy," Butch said. "A real buddy would have at least brought Motrin."
"Got 'em right here," Price said, holding out a handful. "Now let's go get some breakfast."
"I've got three degrees in international relations," the newly sworn in President said, rubbing her forehead. "I've got twenty years of experience in foreign affairs. I've been an envoy to the Glatun. I've met with the Rangora on several occasions, prior to the war." She looked up at the War Cabinet in frustration. "Why can't I understand these people?"
The Constitution gave the Congress the job of determining succession of the Presidency in the event of death or "constitutional inability." In 1947 they established the first Succession Act laying out that the succession was to be Vice President, then Speaker of the House, then President Pro Tem of the Senate, the Majority Leader, then down through the cabinet in order of creation of the position.
With all of the top four taken out by the Rangora leadership strikes, the Secretary of State had been sworn in as President.
There was a secondary position, the National Constitutional Continuity Coordinator, which was established by Presidential Directive and generally classified. It designated a series of persons, in order, to assume, temporarily, the position of Commander-In-Chief to ensure the orderly transition of power.
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had, therefore, been acting president for about three hours until the Chief Justice could be hooked up with the SecState and swear her in. Nobody was really mentioning that much.
"According to the prisoners who have been questioned in regards to this attack," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said over the video link, "the Rangora High Command probably does not believe that we captured all the personnel we claim we've captured. Apparently, disinformation is a way of life in wars between these cultures."
"That's apparent from the news we've been getting from the Rangora," the National Security Advisor said.
The Rangora had continued to broadcast triumphant bulletins about their conquest of the Glatun. In all of them, the Glatun were shown as welcoming their Rangora "liberators" with open arms. Just the last week, there had been a huge victory celebration on Glatus, the Glatun home world, which had "not surrendered but freely welcomed their Rangora allies."
No mention of the attack on Earth, however, and several Glatun systems that were known to have heavy defenses were also, curiously, missing from the broadcasts.
"Ma'am," the Army Chief of Staff said. "Have you ever dealt with the North Koreans?"
"Never had the pleasure," the President said, dryly. Despite alien attacks and invasions, the Korean Peninsula was still split. And the North Koreans were making new noises about nuclear weapons and asking for food and energy systems. With most of America's ports rubble, they weren't getting as much attention as normal.
"There is a story I was told as a lieutenant," the general said. "Possibly apocryphal but with a core of truth. A North Korean general was visiting the south and as they were driving down the main boulevard in Seoul, he was looking around at the skyscrapers with some interest. They finally turned a corner and he sort of grunted in surprise. ‘Yes?' the South Korean general asked. ‘You go to much trouble,' the North Korean said. ‘We generally only build the facades on the front.' "
"He couldn't accept that the buildings were real and, furthermore, filled with working people," the President said. "Yes, you have a point. We're talking past each other due to lack of frame reference. I'm not sure how to correct that."
"I'm not sure we should, ma'am," the Director of National Intelligence said, slowly. "Currently, the Rangora underestimate us because they don't believe we have the capabilities we've suggested by capturing most of their task force instead of being forced to destroy it. Being underestimated is, in my opinion, better than being overestimated or properly estimated."
"They'll keep trying to take us," the CJCS said. "If they knew what they were up against, we might be able to come to some sort of a truce."
"I would find that unlikely with the Rangora," the NSA said. "They're riding on a wave of euphoria from their conquests. Given their success to date, given any sort of reality to the broadcasts, they're not going to think twice about knocking off a minor planet like Earth."
"They had better think twice," the President said. "Gentlemen, I don't think there is any question that Troy has saved this system twice. We need to concentrate on reinforcing Troy and getting Thermopylae online. That should be absolute first priority."
"Ma'am," the CJCS said, uncomfortably. "We have a number of systems . . ."
"Absolute first priority," the President said. "The only thing that should affect that precedence is reinforcement of the orbital defenses. Are we clear, gentlemen?"
"Yes, ma'am," the Secretary of Defense said, looking at the officers. "We are clear."
"Status of shift to Alliance forces?" the President asked.
"We have some of the first groups completing training at the moment, ma'am," the SecDef said. "We are going to begin the integration process in the next month. We anticipate a smooth transition."
"Hah," the President said. "Who are you kidding?"
TWENTY-SEVEN
"Give the fat guy another of whatever he's drinking," Dana said, sliding into the seat left of Erickson. There was a lady sitting to his right.
"I am not fat," Erickson protested. "I'm big boned."
"Okay," Dana said, grinning at the new female bartender. That was a change. "Give the hairy guy another of whatever he's drinking. And I'll take a rum and coke."
"Guinness!" Rammer said, holding up a finger.
"Make that three," Patricelli said.
Getting time off wasn't easy on the Troy but when they had the time the same group tended to meet at the Acapulco. Erickson had managed to take Dana's preference for Rammer in stride. And since he had a lady with him this time . . .
"I'm Dana," Dana said, leaning over to look at the newcomer. "Since Wardog can't seem to remember my name. Thi
s is Rammer and Father."
"Esmeralda Steere, Coxswain Mate Third Class Dana Parker," Erickson said. "Comet, Esme. She introduced the Marines."
"Pleased to meet you," Esmeralda said, holding out her hand. She frowned after a moment, though. "Comet?"
"Long story," Dana said.
"And, by the way, Wardog," Rammer said. "That would be Coxswain's Mate Second Class."
"Spoken like a proud boyfriend," Erickson said, holding up his glass. "I raise a toast! To our newest E-5! May she occasionally manage to avoid the edges of space!"
"Hell, yeah," Rammer said.
"And to the Troy," Dana said. "May she continue to make messes even if we have to clean them up."
"I'll drink to that," Father said. "And, last, to the first President never to have run for office."
"The Commander-Pro-Tempore," Erickson said, raising his glass.
"Huh?" Rammer said.
"Temporary Commander-In-Chief," Dana said.
"Oh," Rammer said. "What the hell were the Rangora thinking? They dropped two KEWs on open farmland!"
"One of which hit uncomfortably close to my aunt and uncle's house," Dana said.
"Two on open farmland, one in the Irish Sea," Erickson pointed out. "Aliens. I guess they figured if they took out our leadership they'd destabilize us or something."
"And can we change the subject," Esme said. "I know that for the rest of you, war is a way of life. But I'm here to enjoy myself."
"So where'd you meet the hairy one?" Dana asked, leaning around Erickson.
"I just transferred up here," Esmeralda replied. Probably low forties but "well-preserved," she was honey-blonde. Almost certainly from a bottle but she had the basic coloring for it. "I'm with LFD which is the parent company of Apollo. I'm an accountant."
"Who is now nickel and diming my department to death!" Erickson said.
"Oh, hush," the woman replied.
"But, CM2 Parker," Erickson said. "I must ask a question. You are sporting two remarkable shiners."
"Slipped in the shower and banged my nobe," Dana said, by rote.
The corpsmen had managed to fix the nose, which was only slightly broken, right up. And there were new drug regimens that would have had the swelling gone in no time. But the PA had muttered something about "reminding her not to make me more work."
