John Ringo - Von Neumann’s War

Roger held up his glass in salute to the major.

“Shane, I never once meant to imply that we didn’t need you. In fact, the reason I got into this business was to do everything I could — the chicken shit that I am — to protect and help the guys like you and Thomas here.”

Thomas and Shane held up their glasses in response. All followed.

“Here, here!”

“Well, we’re going to start seeing tomorrow,” Shane said, grinning. “Alan’s armaments team has some ideas it wants to trot by me.”

“We’re going to knock your socks off!” Alan promised.

“We’ll see,” Shane replied, shrugging. “I’ve rarely seen a first generation idea out of you eggheads that worked.”

“I aren’t no egghead,” Alan protested, waving at the others at the table. “That’s them thar. I’s just a high-tech redneck!”

“That’s even scarier,” Alice said, shaking her head. “I can just see your idea of a presentation. ‘Hey, y’all, watch this!’ ” She paused for a moment and frowned.

“I’ve been thinking about the Asymmetric Soldier concept, too. I’ve got a few ideas, now that we know they’re likely to be cyber systems, that might come in handy.” The stereotypical soccer mom paused and picked up a wing. She stripped the meat off expertly and dipped it in hot sauce.

“Hey!”

“I said I don’t care for Hooters,” Alice said, primly. “I didn’t say I’ve never been in one.”

“Nice test range here,” Shane commented about the missile and munitions firing range on the southwest end of the Arsenal. “So what are we going to see, Alan?”

Alan led Gries and Cady to an M240B set up on a tripod that was hard-mounted to a concrete slab. The range was set up in a valley behind two small hills on the Arsenal and was surrounded by a pasture and a pine grove.

“The range-to-target there is about four kilometers.” Alan pointed down range. “I assume y’all are familiar with the M240B machine gun?”

“Top?” Gries said, bowing to the NCO theatrically.

“Yes, sir,” the master sergeant said, clearing his throat and taking a position of parade rest. “Listen up, you yard birds! The M240 B is the primary platoon fire support weapon of the United States Army Infantry Units of Action, Special Operations and other units required from time to time to bring direct lethal fire upon the enemies of Good ! This ultimate killing machine is a belt -fed, air -cooled, gas -operated, fully automatic chooser of the slain that fires from the open bolt position. This weapon of precision dee -struction spits out ammo like hail , spell that as you wish , with an adjustable cyclic rate of fire six hundred and fifty to nine hundred and fifty rounds per minute ! It has a sustained rate of fire of one hundred rounds per minute given four to five round bursts and one barrel change every ten minutes. This harbinger of the apocalypse…” He paused and looked at Alan sharply. “What is the name of this weapon, yard bird?”

“The M240B, si — sergeant!” Alan said, grinning.

“This harbinger of the apocalypse.” Cady continued, nodding at Alan as if he was a not-particularly-bright but well-favored pupil, “weighs twenty-seven point two pounds, unloaded. One one-hundred round ammunition box weighs seven point two pounds for a fully loaded weight of thirty-four point eight pounds. The barrel of the M240B killing machine, thanks to the fine designers at FN Manufacturing Incorporated and your good Uncle Samuel, is provided with four grooves with a uniform right -hand twist, one turn in twelve inches giving its seven point six two caliber bullets a buh-listering velocity of twenty-eight hundred FEET per second and a stabilizing spin enabling you , the operator, to precisely target the enemy at up to eight hundred meters and engage groups of the enemy at up to eighteen hundred meters! You may consult FM three dash two two point six eight for further information on this master weapon of all master weapons, this Valkyrie in human form, this brutal engine of total annihilation the… M!… Two!… Four! ZEEEEEEEROOOOOO … B !”

“Damn, that was something,” Alan said, his eyes wide. “Can you do that with any weapon?”

“Yes, sir!” the master sergeant barked. “Any weapon in the infantry inventory to include specialties in Eleven Mike and Eleven Charlie as well as Eleven Bravo, sir !”

“What the hell are those?” Alan asked.

“Bradley, mortars and general gun bunnies,” Shane said, grinning. “We’ve won a lot of money off that memory and knack for weapons statistics, haven’t we, Top?”

“Damn straight, sir,” the NCO confirmed, his dark face splitting in a broad grin as he dropped out of the tight position of parade rest.

“Well, so you said that the point target effective range was about eight hundred meters, right?” Alan asked, a tad maliciously.

“That’s right,” Cady affirmed.

“Care to be proven wrong?” Alan added.

“How?” Shane asked, frowning.

“This is a standard M240B,” Alan replied, waving at the weapon. “And that target down there is at approximatedly three thousand meters. It’s locked in, don’t fiddle with the aiming. Just fire off a few bursts. The major and I will watch here on this monitor at how well you do.”

“I can tell you what’s going to happen,” Cady said, kneeling to look through the sight. “They’re going to impact about halfway between us and the target, based on this aiming and the lay of the land.”

Alan smiled and pointed Shane to the monitor in a weapons van parked behind the firing pad. He thumbed the walkie-talkie that had been snapped to his belt.

“Range clear? Range clear?” Alan asked. When no one replied he keyed back in, “Range clear, we’re firing, firing, firing!”

Cady shrugged, then made himself cozy with the weapon. BBBBRRRRRRRR BBBBRRRRRRR! The weapon ripped out a series of bursts, all but one exactly five rounds. When he stopped he still had plenty of belt.

“Wheew!” Gries whistled. “Top, come look at this,” he added, shouting out the back door of the van.

Alan stood back for the two men to get a good view of the monitor displaying the target. The target was a half-meter square metal plate hung from a metal rack in front of a dirt backstop. The square metal plate was full of holes, all within the central third of the half-meter square. More than fifty holes were in the plate and all could be covered with a sheet of notebook paper. There was more hole than metal left in the center of the plate.

“You said that was three clicks?” Sergeant Cady asked in awe.

“That’s right,” Alan grinned like an opossum.

“How the hell?” Major Gries stepped back over to the weapon and began examining it closer. “It looks the same to me. What gives?”

“Well, sir, look at the belt. The rounds look funny. I didn’t want to say anything before; I figured it was part of the show,” Cady replied.

“They look like hollow-points or something,” Gries said.

“Close,” Alan answered. “They’re miniature jet engines.”

“Like Gyro-jets?” Cady asked. “Those things were inaccurate as hell.”

“No, not like Gyro-jets,” Alan said exasperatedly. “Hell, everybody always asks that!”

“What are Gyro-jets?” Gries asked. “And whatever they are, how the hell does this work? And why didn’t I know about it with what I was doing?”

“Here, look at this.” Alan reached in the van and pulled out a cut-away version of the round mounted on a board. “The round has an intake vent in the nose that forces the air through the vent down to the throat of the engine here, then the tail is a diverging rocket, er, jet nozzle. The flow of air is accelerated out the back, giving the round a maintained velocity of about Mach three point four. Since the round is spun, it’s therefore stabilized and the acceleration thrust vector cancels out lateral motion so it forces the round to stay on a straight-line path. There’s a crosswind effect, but even that’s muted.”