John Ringo - Von Neumann’s War

“Hey!”

“I told you you should have got that Ph.D.”

“So anyway …” Roger said, stripping off a wing and stuffing it in his mouth. “Whu doh ou sta’t ah uh be’inin.” He swallowed and washed it down with some beer. “I mean, why don’t you start at the beginning and just tell us the story. What’s a better place for that than Hooters? And have a beer, for God’s sake! Who knows how long beer will be available. I mean, hell, we’ve already lost football! Hell, I’m so strung out I’d even watch a Canadian game, or arena, or Division II colleges, or high school, or shit, even NFL Europe at this point.”

“Yes, sir.” Bull laughed, taking a sip and looking at the far wall. A Hooters’ girl was just getting up on her tiptoes to shoot an order in and the thought that went through his mind was that she had very little metal on her body. If she got rid of the necklace she’d survive. At least the probes.

“It was a couple of months ago,” he temporized, picking up a wing. “My memory’s not as clear as it was. I was debriefed then—”

“It was a crappy debrief,” Tom interjected. “They didn’t know the questions to ask. And we’re not going to be saying: ‘Colonel, are you sure that your memory wasn’t affected by the high Gs that you sustained?’ ”

“You have read the report,” Rene said bitterly.

“Oh, yeah,” Alan said, taking a sip of beer and shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t ask the same questions now, but it was a crappy debrief. Tell us. Have some beer, tell the story, then we’ll toss it around.”

Bull nodded and took another sip.

The replay of the events took about an hour, he and Rene contributing about equally, their hands occasionally rising in the air to show the maneuvers. Through it all, Tom carried the majority of the questions. He’d clearly studied the original debrief. Roger, Alan and Traci just listened, nodding from time to time.

“Okay, let’s go back over that,” Tom said as Bull reached the point that he hit the ground. “You were closing at about—”

“Seven hundred knots,” Bull said, nodding. “We picked up a bit of speed in the dive, then bled off as we pulled up. Then we went to afterburners when I saw the attack plan was useless.”

“After,” Rene pointed out. “We’d cleared the cloud when we went to burners.”

“After,” Bull said, nodding.

“And they banked to follow,” Roger said.

“Yeah,” Bull replied, nodding again. “Definite bank. Tight , mind you. Motherfucking tight. I was in a good sixteen-G bank and they were turning tight inside of me, and I think they were at higher velocity. They had to be pulling twenty-five, thirty Gs.”

“Thirty Gs would be nothing to those things,” Tom said, frowning. “They should have been able to stop on what would look like a dime and then come after you so fast you could barely see them.”

“Why?” Rene asked. “You knew they could do this?”

“It’s based on their interplanetary movements,” Tom said. “We can, to a limited degree, trace their projected movement time from Mars to the Moon. And we can definitely trace their acceleration in and around the Moon and on their approach to Terra. They have an accel capability of at least one hundred Gs. There’s no reason to think they would be limited…” He trailed off in thought.

“Gravity interference?” Traci asked. “Does the reactionless drive react to gravity?”

“It’s what I’m thinking,” Tom admitted, coming partially out of his trance.

“Nah, I think it’s simpler than that,” Roger said, taking a sip of beer. “Atmospheric effects. At those speeds, the atmosphere is dense . There’s significant nonlinear compressible flow. At those speeds and short darting maneuvers the flow might even become unstable and nonlaminar. They just can’t move as fast in dense atmosphere. Or maneuver as fast. They’ve got loads of potential delta V, but that’s counteracted by the atmosphere so their attitude correction and control is limited.”

“Makes more sense than gravitational interference,” Tom admitted.

“Then the higher they get, the faster they’re going to be,” Rene pointed out. “Get above about forty kilometers and they’re going to be nearly as fast as in space.”

“Maybe,” Roger said doubtfully.

“Nah,” Alan said. “They’re not made out of superunobtainium.”

“Plasma,” Tom said, nodding.

“Say again?” Bull asked.

“They’re not going to be able to move at interplanetary velocities because of heating,” Roger translated. “Like the SR-71? It had to be designed to stretch in flight because of atmospheric heating. Until they’re completely out of the atmosphere, they’re going to be somewhat limited. And that explains why they had trouble with the missiles, too.”

“It does?” Bull said. “I’d been wondering about that. I guessed it was maneuvering, but I wasn’t sure why.”

“They’ve apparently got a limited range on this tractor field or whatever,” Roger said. He looked at his nearly empty glass, looked around covertly and then reached for the pitcher.

“I’ll tell Casey on you!” Traci said. “CASEY!”

“I’ve got it,” the waitress said, walking over to their table. She topped up everyone’s glass, looked at the depleted tray of wings, filled out a form and hooked it to the overhead wire. “ORDER IN!”

“So you guys going to save the world today?” Casey asked. She was a tall brunette with hazel eyes, pleasantly mammalian, with narrow hips.

“We’re sure working on it, sweetie,” Roger said.

“Hey, congratulations on your promotion,” Casey said, grinning. “This is the first time I’ve ever served a deputy secretary of defense!”

“He’s not letting it go to his head,” Bull said solemnly.

“Good thing,” Casey replied, winking. Then she looked at him seriously. “Any word on when they’re going to cross?”

“We’re looking at it,” Roger said. “But right now, we’re trying to figure out how to stop them when they do.” He turned his attention back to his colleagues. “Okay, they’re going to be maneuver-limited in atmosphere. That’s good news. Not great, but it’s something. And you said that when they were hit, the secondaries took out others.”

“When the Sparrow hit, it usually took out about three or four,” Rene said. “But all the Sparrows didn’t survive.”

“So far, they’ve apparently been ignoring carbon,” Tom said. “We can probably tweak the Sparrows so they’re less tasty. But it will be a major redesign.”

“Why not combine the mine concept with the Sparrows instead?” Traci said, frowning. “When they detect probes in the vicinity, they blow out mines.”

“Works,” Roger said, picking up a Hooters napkin.

“You’ve had a few, Mr. Deputy,” Casey, who was still listening to their conversation said, grinning, and pulling the napkin over. “Let me. Sparrow, mine. That work?”

“Works,” Roger said, nodding. “But you’ve got other tables.”

“Not tonight,” Casey replied.

“You’re packed,” Alan said, gesturing around.

“Not… tonight,” Casey repeated. “What’s next?”

“The guns definitely didn’t work,” Rene said.

“They’re depleted uranium,” Roger sighed. “Those things really like heavy metals.”

“Ceramic?” Cady asked. He’d been quietly sitting sipping his beer, waiting for the big brains to stumble.

“Way to go, Sergeant Major,” Roger said, nodding. “Casey.”

“Ceramic bullets, Falcons.”

“Another major redesign at the plant,” Alan pointed out.