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More from fwbrown61
EEP!! What the hell is *that*? Gotta be the last thing
people want to see around here.
The last thing anybody wants to see anywhere. Got
it as a poster. I stare at it and think.
What if. . . people might have that under more control in
the future, in the bottle a bit better? What would it take?
And BTW, what if it's... Christmas?
(Look up. Look waaaay up...)
.
............................................................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................
Icon image is found Here, and is used in accordance with the Creative Commons license.
That's the Licorne 4 fusion device test, courtesy of the French military, carried out on
July 3, 1970 in French Polynesia. Yield was a shade under a megaton.
Guess they just weren't trying hard enough. :- /
Link to download story: fwbrown61-starry-messenger-v3.rtf
............................................................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................
❱❱❱❱ NOTA BENE: This copy is in a brighter, better-readable font, and can only be read on DARK screens.
The Enhanced text copy that's readable on cyan screens is here: THE STARRY MESSENGER -- Enhanced text
............................................................................................................................................
|
| Page Links: ▪1▪ ▪2▪ ▪3▪ ▪4▪ ▪5▪
|
=============================================================================
The muzzle of the huge ion cannon slewed violently towards Earth, a bevy of
attitude rockets frantically spluttering to try and acquire the constantly changing
vector ordered by the targeting computers. The cramped and armoured command
module rang with a cacaphony of urgent alarms as Allendale and Rashidkova
were tossed around in their crash couches.
His floppy hound ears got thrown over his eyes. Her fox tail was foofed to
double size. This was going to be a rough one and they knew it.
The key problem with space weapons is the same as any weapon: You can't
hit what you can't see (goddamn stealth technology). In orbit, the worse problem
is you can't hit what you're not pointing at. Especially when the bogeys are
coming up out of the atmosphere at Mach 25 and dodging and jinking wildly.
Under such circumstances as this, the ride has been known to get more than a
little bumpy.
"Eight birds, eight birds acquired!!" Rashidkova cried. "But comp projects
firing solutions on only seven!" Joystick in one paw, the claws on her other
danced over the gunnery controls. "No good! Can't compensate! Allendale, do a
redirect! Give Bird Six to Beta Station! Now!!"
There was no panic in her Russian-tinted voice--they were both too well
trained--but the urgency was enough.
"Well, don't that jest burn mah cracker ass!!" Allendale snarled, his fingers
flying even faster over the command console and touchscreens, his accent as
thick as kudzu. "They found our goddamn blind spot!!"
Rashidkova had control of the powerful weapon but Allendale was in charge
of the rest of the complex missile defense station. If all that didn't perform just as
flawlessly they might as well be shooting with a squirt gun. Which wouldn't have
stopped the burly Marine from trying but that's just Marines for you.
"Pencil-necked bastards knew our orbit and bet on our reaction time,"
Allendale growled, working fast through the command sequences that were
almost a reflex to him.
"You lose, suckers!! Channels open... Redirecting... Data links are synced
and Beta's locking on! Okay mah foxy darlin', let's do some good old-fashioned
Kentucky skeet shootin'!! Interlock sequence start... Confinement mags are all
green... We got fuel pod insertion in the firing chamber system, the gun is hot,
repeat, hot gun!"
"Solutions firming," Rashidkova said tensely. "Firming... Doppler radar
images are clean... They're in our aperture... Whup, Bird Four is maneuvering!!"
"Towards us!!" Allendale yelped, and slammed his fingers onto a different
section of his console. "Priority to countermeasures!! All ECM systems live!!
That's a carrier!! MLRS defense pods armed and on auto!! Brace for launch!!"
The warning was barely in time. On the outside of the station one of four
large canisters the size of a semi trailer rotated rapidly on its mountings. Then
the cover exploded off one end, and a swarm of hunter-killer interceptor missiles
began streaming out as fast as their tiny computers could be loaded with target
data, each one not much bigger than a traffic cone and looking similar.
Excepting that traffic cones typically do not come tipped with 100-kiloton
miniaturized thermonuclear warheads, every one optimized to produce a massive
flux of energetic neutrons. If there are traffic cones like this out there, maybe it's
best not to know.
Bird Four, meanwhile, had disintegrated into its own larger fleet of missiles,
likewise armed, and all of them arrowing towards the station. Now it was up to
the countermeasures comps to decide when to trigger the defensive cloud. The
resulting 'sunwall' of nuclear flame either wiped out the incoming horde of
attackers or it didn't.
The whole station rocked and shuddered as missile after missile launched.
Allendale and Rashidkova took a further thumping. But none of this could break
the gunnery computers lock on the target ICBMs (which likely had been the
intention of the missile attack).
"I've got second-order solutions!" Rashidkova yelled over the din. "Kill
probabilities at 96 percent, with only 60 percent beam strength. Countdown to
third-order solutions is running! We've got 'em! Permish to start firing sequence!"
"Granted!! Let's give 'em 90 percent beam!! Ah love a good fireworks
show!!" Allendale shouted back, the command console unlocking the weapon
system at the same time as both his comps and Rashidkova's cooperated in the
finicky task of triggering the lethal machine.
All at speeds no one living could hope to cope with. Aside from Rashidkova's
final firing order, their fate was in the virtual paws of the electronics and the
software now.
What followed was complicated. In the extreme.
Finicky is perhaps the wrong word. Ultra finicky? The ion cannon was a
nuclear powered device, which stands to reason, but that only meant that
Allendale and Rashidkova were sitting approximately twenty meters away from a
controlled fission detonation good enough to undo all of Nagasaki's urban renewal
work from the last one.
It's easy to make ten kilograms of Plutonium-239 blow up. Take two five
kilogram bricks and whack them together. The stuff's the nuclear equivalent of
nitroglycerin. It won't be a very efficient kaboom but you won't be around to
complain.
It's also easy to come up with better techniques. The trigger devices in the
noses of fusion weapons, for example, are pure miracles of applied physics and
engineering. Save for the purpose of the whole rig: Kill several million people in a
flash bright enough to be seen from another star. Some 'miracle.' (And precisely
what Allendale and Rashidkova were trying to prevent.)
Power on that scale was not needed here. Fifteen grams of Plut would do if
it could be made to fission well enough. Fifteen grams of Plutonium is a lump of
metal about the size of a marble. This ain't your Grandpappy's atom bomb.
The technique in use here borrowed from the technology of the particle
physicists, not the weaponeers. The tiny nodule was first hit by a carefully-tuned
electron beam, instantly rendering it just about the most highly negatively
charged object in the solar system. That allowed the array of superconducting
magnets to slam it with titanic force. The pellet was compressed down to an
impossibly intense density; probably the most crucial aspect of the whole
process.
There were only a few trillion trillion Plutonium atoms in the fuel pellet.
Traditional methods called for introducing a few neutrons into the pellet
core--actually a lot of them--with the right energy to start the multiple chains of
fission reactions. Result: More neutrons and a torrent of energy that would
eventually blow the fuel mass apart, and anything within a kilometer's radius.
To heck with that idea; too slow. Surrounding the now-dense pellet were a
ring of neutron generators, sophisticated little particle accelerators in their own
right, that fired and just flooded the pellet with neutrons, far more than was
technically necessary, and intended to fission as many of the heavy nuclei as
possible and as fast as possible.
If something screwed up Allendale and Rashidkova would never feel it. The
old Manhattan Project scientists back at Los Alamos would have been astonished
at the fission efficiency. Close to fifty kilotons worth of nuclear energy were
liberated in a few shakes of a lamb's tail (sic), leaving only a bare wisp of
unfissioned Plutonium behind. The firing chamber was instantly filled with a
seething, expanding mass of atomic plasma that was hotter than the center of
the Sun.
Time to get to work and shoot down some ICBMs. But the plasma wasn't the
bullet per se. The tough chamber and the magnets shaped and reflected and
focused the plasma onto a forty-kilogram pencil of gold that sat in a frame about
three meters down a channel.
Result this time: Forty kilograms worth of gold plasma, also nearly as hot as
the core of the Sun, and almost as highly charged as the fuel pellet had been,
every electron in every gold atom completely torn away. And most important, the
whole mess moving at a good percent of lightspeed down the channel.
This was what the [atomic] doctor ordered. Now the ion cannon's main
superconducting magnets kicked in to massage and filter the plasma, a
maelstrom of electrons, protons, neutrons, naked gold atoms, radiation of all
types, and assorted exotic trash from the explosion. Very dirty stuff, and calling
for exactly the sort of clean-up job every particle accelerator lab has to figure out
how to do. But here it had to be done within the space of a few nanoseconds.
Particle physicists have gotten very good at their jobs. Boosted to even
greater speed by the middle linear accelerator segment of the cannon, the killing
stream of gold ions entered the beam direction control module at the muzzle of
the cannon, there to receive a final spray of electrons to replace the stripped-off
ones.
That converted it all to a neutral beam that couldn't be deflected or bent by
defensive magnetic fields. From there, finally, out into space and vectored onto
the targets like a rave club laser painting a pattern on the ceiling. Effectively, the
multi-ton machine very nearly was a laser, but spitting gold atoms instead of
coherent light. Better than light, really; the beam packed a tremendous wallop
that would have required a laser system ten times the size.
Forty kilos of gold doesn't sound like much. In fact it was more than enough.
Every atom in the beam carried enough energy to make it the subatomic
equivalent of a hand grenade. No amount of shielding could stop such a particle
from penetrating a missile warhead, or body, or guidance system, or engines,
there to deposit that energy with astonishingly destructive effect. As with all hand
grenades, a near miss is good enough.
Took longer to tell than to do it, and almost impossible to understand even
with the telling. But from Allendale and Rashidkova's point of view, these were
the satisfying results they were after: On their screens, six sleek, expensive
ICBMs were silently turning into six glowing fireballs of high-tech wreckage.
An instant later, a seventh flare, as Beta Station got off its shot. Further
below, the remnants of the two beam patterns hit the atmosphere and were
absorbed harmlessly. There would be two sharp, lance-like auroras in the sky for
at least half a day to mark the paths of the shots.
"BOO-Yah!!" Allendale howled, the traditional Marine victory call
well-deserved here, a fist pumping the air. Then a burst of overjoyed canine
yipping that he couldn't resist. Beside him, Rashidkova let loose a stereotyped
ululation of triumph that would have been recognized anywhere in downtown
Beirut. Her home, actually, even though she'd been born in Vladivostok.
"Eight up, eight down!!" Rashidkova snarled happily. "By the Prophet, we're
gooood!! Look at that aurora!! What a light show! How do you like them
fireworks, Southern Dawg?"
It must be noted that one thing was missing from the above scene. The
defensive thermonuclear sunwall had not appeared in the sky to fry the attacking
missile swarm. A chancy tactic, as hazardous to the defender as it was hopefully
lethal to the attackers. There was a reason for this.
"Wall, let's jest find out how good, shall we?" Allendale chuckled. He tapped
at a screen and opened a comm channel. "Howdy y'all, Beta, this is a happy
Gamma station heah. If you've got our report card ready we'll take it home to
Momma and get it signed."
It's supposed to be hard to tell the difference between a drill and the real
thing. Like all the rest Allendale and Rashidkova had done over the past eight
months in orbit, this one had sure as hell qualified in the real department.
Although they'd been expecting one for a while. The supply ship two weeks
ago had robotically loaded one of the MLRS packages with unarmed drones (a
clue to how the drill might go). They'd fall safely into the atmosphere and burn
up.
No soldier should ever ask, 'Is this a drill?' He or she must always ask, 'What
if this isn't a drill?' If you're capable of asking the first question the UN does not
want you on missile defense duty.
It wasn't a duty that anybody truly liked, a [very] necessary evil at best. UN
control of the only missile defense system, period, was a lousy solution to the
problem of nuclear weapons that pleased none of the great powers. Or anybody
else.
But as the space-based technology emerged to maturity, it was either put it
in the hands (or paws) of a multinational peacekeeping battlegroup--certainly
peacekeeping was a traditional UN function--or kiss the planet good-bye.
Balancing on the tightrope of Armageddon during the Cold War had been risky
enough. Orbital anti-ballistic missile technology amounted to trying to juggle
elephants at the same time.
Highly explosive, very fissionable elephants. Sooner or later somebody would
fumble one. That would not end well. But at least it would not end today.
The comm system crackled, then bleebled as the encryption software
cleared: "Hello Gamma Station! Lieutenant Shadsworth here. Jolly good show
there; clean sweep. We have your drill analysis, downloading to you now. If we
had any up here I'd say you've earned your tot of rum, sailors. Or bourbon for
you, Captain Allendale, arak for you, Sergeant Rashidkova. Overall rating is 94
percent, which is up two points, logged as final result this day December 23,
2126. Wish we had you on board when we were potting at the Bismarck, wot?"
It wasn't hard to tell what country Shadsworth came from. Or which service
branch.
A female voice cut in, her nationality just as plain: "GruppeKaptain
Heinvoller here. Speak for yourself, swabbie. On the Bismarck shooting back
would have been my preference, nein? I'm entering commendation in the files,
Gamma. You've now held the squadron record for two months running. Orders
orders: Maneuver to stand-off location B7, coordinate with Delta Station, who will
move from stand-off to your sector. You've earned a 72 hour break. Alert level
three. Copy that."
To the aghast horror of every air force on the planet, only one specific
service branch had really proven to have the skills and the mentality necessary to
function well in space combat. You worked and fought in three dimensions. The
environment outside your hull was deadlier than the enemy. You carried your
own life support with you and under tremendously confined conditions. And you
were totally dependent on your technology, with no rescue possible.
So while Gamma Station might not look like any submarine that had ever
prowled the ocean depths, the parallels were unmistakable. Some gun crews got
whimsical and rigged up mock periscopes. To get up here both Allendale and
Rashidkova had had to qualify themselves on six month tours on board attack
subs.
With relentless Teutonic efficiency, GruppeKaptain Heinvoller ran the
squadron like a wolf pack, just like her great-great-grandfather had done in a
much earlier conflict. Although if they could ever meet he'd probably try to shoot
her for her pelt. Bad idea, in light of her fangs.
Considering the stakes in this effort to prevent a far bigger conflict, the wolf
pack metaphor was wholly appropriate and well appreciated by all the crews. Not
that wolves hunt birds but they did here.
"Copy that, Beta," Allendale drawled. "Coordinate with Delta, stand-off
location B7, and 72 hour furlough, alert three. Thank you, GruppeKaptain, and a
Merry Christmas to you and yours."
"Ja, everybody be careful for the next few days. We don't want to roast any
reindeer buttocks," the GruppeKaptain chuckled. "Not to mention what a beam
would do to a certain bushy white beard. Signing off."
=============================================================================
Page 1
Pg 2 NEXT >>>
people want to see around here.
The last thing anybody wants to see anywhere. Got
it as a poster. I stare at it and think.
What if. . . people might have that under more control in
the future, in the bottle a bit better? What would it take?
And BTW, what if it's... Christmas?
(Look up. Look waaaay up...)
.
............................................................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................
===== THE STARRY MESSENGER =====
By Fred Brown, Dec 8/2008 (rev. Feb 28/2012) 
fwbrown61
Copyright 2008 All rights reserved, all commercial
infringements prosecuted, website display permission
available upon request. Non-personal distro is infringement.
Disclaimer: No characters are intended to resemble real
people, living or dead, and any such similarities are pure
coincidence. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Icon image is found Here, and is used in accordance with the Creative Commons license.
That's the Licorne 4 fusion device test, courtesy of the French military, carried out on
July 3, 1970 in French Polynesia. Yield was a shade under a megaton.
Guess they just weren't trying hard enough. :- /
Link to download story: fwbrown61-starry-messenger-v3.rtf
............................................................................................................................................
............................................................................................................................................
❱❱❱❱ NOTA BENE: This copy is in a brighter, better-readable font, and can only be read on DARK screens.
The Enhanced text copy that's readable on cyan screens is here: THE STARRY MESSENGER -- Enhanced text
............................................................................................................................................
|
| Page Links: ▪1▪ ▪2▪ ▪3▪ ▪4▪ ▪5▪
|
=============================================================================
The muzzle of the huge ion cannon slewed violently towards Earth, a bevy of
attitude rockets frantically spluttering to try and acquire the constantly changing
vector ordered by the targeting computers. The cramped and armoured command
module rang with a cacaphony of urgent alarms as Allendale and Rashidkova
were tossed around in their crash couches.
His floppy hound ears got thrown over his eyes. Her fox tail was foofed to
double size. This was going to be a rough one and they knew it.
The key problem with space weapons is the same as any weapon: You can't
hit what you can't see (goddamn stealth technology). In orbit, the worse problem
is you can't hit what you're not pointing at. Especially when the bogeys are
coming up out of the atmosphere at Mach 25 and dodging and jinking wildly.
Under such circumstances as this, the ride has been known to get more than a
little bumpy.
"Eight birds, eight birds acquired!!" Rashidkova cried. "But comp projects
firing solutions on only seven!" Joystick in one paw, the claws on her other
danced over the gunnery controls. "No good! Can't compensate! Allendale, do a
redirect! Give Bird Six to Beta Station! Now!!"
There was no panic in her Russian-tinted voice--they were both too well
trained--but the urgency was enough.
"Well, don't that jest burn mah cracker ass!!" Allendale snarled, his fingers
flying even faster over the command console and touchscreens, his accent as
thick as kudzu. "They found our goddamn blind spot!!"
Rashidkova had control of the powerful weapon but Allendale was in charge
of the rest of the complex missile defense station. If all that didn't perform just as
flawlessly they might as well be shooting with a squirt gun. Which wouldn't have
stopped the burly Marine from trying but that's just Marines for you.
"Pencil-necked bastards knew our orbit and bet on our reaction time,"
Allendale growled, working fast through the command sequences that were
almost a reflex to him.
"You lose, suckers!! Channels open... Redirecting... Data links are synced
and Beta's locking on! Okay mah foxy darlin', let's do some good old-fashioned
Kentucky skeet shootin'!! Interlock sequence start... Confinement mags are all
green... We got fuel pod insertion in the firing chamber system, the gun is hot,
repeat, hot gun!"
"Solutions firming," Rashidkova said tensely. "Firming... Doppler radar
images are clean... They're in our aperture... Whup, Bird Four is maneuvering!!"
"Towards us!!" Allendale yelped, and slammed his fingers onto a different
section of his console. "Priority to countermeasures!! All ECM systems live!!
That's a carrier!! MLRS defense pods armed and on auto!! Brace for launch!!"
The warning was barely in time. On the outside of the station one of four
large canisters the size of a semi trailer rotated rapidly on its mountings. Then
the cover exploded off one end, and a swarm of hunter-killer interceptor missiles
began streaming out as fast as their tiny computers could be loaded with target
data, each one not much bigger than a traffic cone and looking similar.
Excepting that traffic cones typically do not come tipped with 100-kiloton
miniaturized thermonuclear warheads, every one optimized to produce a massive
flux of energetic neutrons. If there are traffic cones like this out there, maybe it's
best not to know.
Bird Four, meanwhile, had disintegrated into its own larger fleet of missiles,
likewise armed, and all of them arrowing towards the station. Now it was up to
the countermeasures comps to decide when to trigger the defensive cloud. The
resulting 'sunwall' of nuclear flame either wiped out the incoming horde of
attackers or it didn't.
The whole station rocked and shuddered as missile after missile launched.
Allendale and Rashidkova took a further thumping. But none of this could break
the gunnery computers lock on the target ICBMs (which likely had been the
intention of the missile attack).
"I've got second-order solutions!" Rashidkova yelled over the din. "Kill
probabilities at 96 percent, with only 60 percent beam strength. Countdown to
third-order solutions is running! We've got 'em! Permish to start firing sequence!"
"Granted!! Let's give 'em 90 percent beam!! Ah love a good fireworks
show!!" Allendale shouted back, the command console unlocking the weapon
system at the same time as both his comps and Rashidkova's cooperated in the
finicky task of triggering the lethal machine.
All at speeds no one living could hope to cope with. Aside from Rashidkova's
final firing order, their fate was in the virtual paws of the electronics and the
software now.
What followed was complicated. In the extreme.
Finicky is perhaps the wrong word. Ultra finicky? The ion cannon was a
nuclear powered device, which stands to reason, but that only meant that
Allendale and Rashidkova were sitting approximately twenty meters away from a
controlled fission detonation good enough to undo all of Nagasaki's urban renewal
work from the last one.
It's easy to make ten kilograms of Plutonium-239 blow up. Take two five
kilogram bricks and whack them together. The stuff's the nuclear equivalent of
nitroglycerin. It won't be a very efficient kaboom but you won't be around to
complain.
It's also easy to come up with better techniques. The trigger devices in the
noses of fusion weapons, for example, are pure miracles of applied physics and
engineering. Save for the purpose of the whole rig: Kill several million people in a
flash bright enough to be seen from another star. Some 'miracle.' (And precisely
what Allendale and Rashidkova were trying to prevent.)
Power on that scale was not needed here. Fifteen grams of Plut would do if
it could be made to fission well enough. Fifteen grams of Plutonium is a lump of
metal about the size of a marble. This ain't your Grandpappy's atom bomb.
The technique in use here borrowed from the technology of the particle
physicists, not the weaponeers. The tiny nodule was first hit by a carefully-tuned
electron beam, instantly rendering it just about the most highly negatively
charged object in the solar system. That allowed the array of superconducting
magnets to slam it with titanic force. The pellet was compressed down to an
impossibly intense density; probably the most crucial aspect of the whole
process.
There were only a few trillion trillion Plutonium atoms in the fuel pellet.
Traditional methods called for introducing a few neutrons into the pellet
core--actually a lot of them--with the right energy to start the multiple chains of
fission reactions. Result: More neutrons and a torrent of energy that would
eventually blow the fuel mass apart, and anything within a kilometer's radius.
To heck with that idea; too slow. Surrounding the now-dense pellet were a
ring of neutron generators, sophisticated little particle accelerators in their own
right, that fired and just flooded the pellet with neutrons, far more than was
technically necessary, and intended to fission as many of the heavy nuclei as
possible and as fast as possible.
If something screwed up Allendale and Rashidkova would never feel it. The
old Manhattan Project scientists back at Los Alamos would have been astonished
at the fission efficiency. Close to fifty kilotons worth of nuclear energy were
liberated in a few shakes of a lamb's tail (sic), leaving only a bare wisp of
unfissioned Plutonium behind. The firing chamber was instantly filled with a
seething, expanding mass of atomic plasma that was hotter than the center of
the Sun.
Time to get to work and shoot down some ICBMs. But the plasma wasn't the
bullet per se. The tough chamber and the magnets shaped and reflected and
focused the plasma onto a forty-kilogram pencil of gold that sat in a frame about
three meters down a channel.
Result this time: Forty kilograms worth of gold plasma, also nearly as hot as
the core of the Sun, and almost as highly charged as the fuel pellet had been,
every electron in every gold atom completely torn away. And most important, the
whole mess moving at a good percent of lightspeed down the channel.
This was what the [atomic] doctor ordered. Now the ion cannon's main
superconducting magnets kicked in to massage and filter the plasma, a
maelstrom of electrons, protons, neutrons, naked gold atoms, radiation of all
types, and assorted exotic trash from the explosion. Very dirty stuff, and calling
for exactly the sort of clean-up job every particle accelerator lab has to figure out
how to do. But here it had to be done within the space of a few nanoseconds.
Particle physicists have gotten very good at their jobs. Boosted to even
greater speed by the middle linear accelerator segment of the cannon, the killing
stream of gold ions entered the beam direction control module at the muzzle of
the cannon, there to receive a final spray of electrons to replace the stripped-off
ones.
That converted it all to a neutral beam that couldn't be deflected or bent by
defensive magnetic fields. From there, finally, out into space and vectored onto
the targets like a rave club laser painting a pattern on the ceiling. Effectively, the
multi-ton machine very nearly was a laser, but spitting gold atoms instead of
coherent light. Better than light, really; the beam packed a tremendous wallop
that would have required a laser system ten times the size.
Forty kilos of gold doesn't sound like much. In fact it was more than enough.
Every atom in the beam carried enough energy to make it the subatomic
equivalent of a hand grenade. No amount of shielding could stop such a particle
from penetrating a missile warhead, or body, or guidance system, or engines,
there to deposit that energy with astonishingly destructive effect. As with all hand
grenades, a near miss is good enough.
Took longer to tell than to do it, and almost impossible to understand even
with the telling. But from Allendale and Rashidkova's point of view, these were
the satisfying results they were after: On their screens, six sleek, expensive
ICBMs were silently turning into six glowing fireballs of high-tech wreckage.
An instant later, a seventh flare, as Beta Station got off its shot. Further
below, the remnants of the two beam patterns hit the atmosphere and were
absorbed harmlessly. There would be two sharp, lance-like auroras in the sky for
at least half a day to mark the paths of the shots.
"BOO-Yah!!" Allendale howled, the traditional Marine victory call
well-deserved here, a fist pumping the air. Then a burst of overjoyed canine
yipping that he couldn't resist. Beside him, Rashidkova let loose a stereotyped
ululation of triumph that would have been recognized anywhere in downtown
Beirut. Her home, actually, even though she'd been born in Vladivostok.
"Eight up, eight down!!" Rashidkova snarled happily. "By the Prophet, we're
gooood!! Look at that aurora!! What a light show! How do you like them
fireworks, Southern Dawg?"
It must be noted that one thing was missing from the above scene. The
defensive thermonuclear sunwall had not appeared in the sky to fry the attacking
missile swarm. A chancy tactic, as hazardous to the defender as it was hopefully
lethal to the attackers. There was a reason for this.
"Wall, let's jest find out how good, shall we?" Allendale chuckled. He tapped
at a screen and opened a comm channel. "Howdy y'all, Beta, this is a happy
Gamma station heah. If you've got our report card ready we'll take it home to
Momma and get it signed."
It's supposed to be hard to tell the difference between a drill and the real
thing. Like all the rest Allendale and Rashidkova had done over the past eight
months in orbit, this one had sure as hell qualified in the real department.
Although they'd been expecting one for a while. The supply ship two weeks
ago had robotically loaded one of the MLRS packages with unarmed drones (a
clue to how the drill might go). They'd fall safely into the atmosphere and burn
up.
No soldier should ever ask, 'Is this a drill?' He or she must always ask, 'What
if this isn't a drill?' If you're capable of asking the first question the UN does not
want you on missile defense duty.
It wasn't a duty that anybody truly liked, a [very] necessary evil at best. UN
control of the only missile defense system, period, was a lousy solution to the
problem of nuclear weapons that pleased none of the great powers. Or anybody
else.
But as the space-based technology emerged to maturity, it was either put it
in the hands (or paws) of a multinational peacekeeping battlegroup--certainly
peacekeeping was a traditional UN function--or kiss the planet good-bye.
Balancing on the tightrope of Armageddon during the Cold War had been risky
enough. Orbital anti-ballistic missile technology amounted to trying to juggle
elephants at the same time.
Highly explosive, very fissionable elephants. Sooner or later somebody would
fumble one. That would not end well. But at least it would not end today.
The comm system crackled, then bleebled as the encryption software
cleared: "Hello Gamma Station! Lieutenant Shadsworth here. Jolly good show
there; clean sweep. We have your drill analysis, downloading to you now. If we
had any up here I'd say you've earned your tot of rum, sailors. Or bourbon for
you, Captain Allendale, arak for you, Sergeant Rashidkova. Overall rating is 94
percent, which is up two points, logged as final result this day December 23,
2126. Wish we had you on board when we were potting at the Bismarck, wot?"
It wasn't hard to tell what country Shadsworth came from. Or which service
branch.
A female voice cut in, her nationality just as plain: "GruppeKaptain
Heinvoller here. Speak for yourself, swabbie. On the Bismarck shooting back
would have been my preference, nein? I'm entering commendation in the files,
Gamma. You've now held the squadron record for two months running. Orders
orders: Maneuver to stand-off location B7, coordinate with Delta Station, who will
move from stand-off to your sector. You've earned a 72 hour break. Alert level
three. Copy that."
To the aghast horror of every air force on the planet, only one specific
service branch had really proven to have the skills and the mentality necessary to
function well in space combat. You worked and fought in three dimensions. The
environment outside your hull was deadlier than the enemy. You carried your
own life support with you and under tremendously confined conditions. And you
were totally dependent on your technology, with no rescue possible.
So while Gamma Station might not look like any submarine that had ever
prowled the ocean depths, the parallels were unmistakable. Some gun crews got
whimsical and rigged up mock periscopes. To get up here both Allendale and
Rashidkova had had to qualify themselves on six month tours on board attack
subs.
With relentless Teutonic efficiency, GruppeKaptain Heinvoller ran the
squadron like a wolf pack, just like her great-great-grandfather had done in a
much earlier conflict. Although if they could ever meet he'd probably try to shoot
her for her pelt. Bad idea, in light of her fangs.
Considering the stakes in this effort to prevent a far bigger conflict, the wolf
pack metaphor was wholly appropriate and well appreciated by all the crews. Not
that wolves hunt birds but they did here.
"Copy that, Beta," Allendale drawled. "Coordinate with Delta, stand-off
location B7, and 72 hour furlough, alert three. Thank you, GruppeKaptain, and a
Merry Christmas to you and yours."
"Ja, everybody be careful for the next few days. We don't want to roast any
reindeer buttocks," the GruppeKaptain chuckled. "Not to mention what a beam
would do to a certain bushy white beard. Signing off."
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Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Dog (Other)
Size 240 x 240px
File Size 40.1 kB
Then I won't blab the ending, TY tha extraordinary. Means something.
Prouder of some stories than others. This one cooks on a number of levels,
I think. Why yes, I've read a helluva lot of hard SF (and a lot of physics). What
was your first clue? :- )
And love the two characters. Better story, for being furs; first rev wasn't.
Part of the Fur World 'future history' that's building up. There will be more
furs in orbit. mark my words.
Gotta figure out a technical problem very few hard SF writers have ever had
to deal with in a space story:
Shedding. (Think about it :- ) )
fwbrown61
I'm toying with a plot device: Artificial mouse-like critters that eat shed fur, wherever they
find it. This takes the place of insects and other tiny animals that would do that in any
Terran ecosystem.
But on a ship? Or an orbital habitat? We need something else or the joint'll be up to the
ceiling with shed fur in no time flat. What to do about sensitive machinery? The inside of
spacesuits? Good question.
I like the idea of bio-bots, that mix robotics and custom-tailored biological systems. A tiny
little robot that goes out after shed fur is just going to collect it. We want it taken care
of. (See Clarke's Rendezvous With Rama for the patent on bio-bots.)
Of course, this sets us up for some comedy. Could be a little natural selection at work with
these things, and a particularly hungry sub-species arises.
Meaning I get to have a character fall asleep in the wrong place. Then wakes up bald. Oh yah,
I can work with dat. :- )
fwbrown61
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