John Birmingham: Weapons of choice

Duffy sucked at her pencil again, affecting a look of deep thought. "Really? That's not what I hear."

"Well, why don't you ask the project's venture partners for an interview? I believe they're headquartered in New York. Not too far from your paper, in fact. I'm sure their shareholders would love the coverage-if you could convince your editor to run a piece on seabed mapping. I'll ask Lieutenant Thieu to zap you their contact details."

Kolhammer watched her interest curl up and die.

"No, that's all right, but thanks anyway," she said.

His smile was lit with genuine warmth for the first time. "Then we're done here. Now if you'll excuse me, Ms. Duffy, I really do have a full schedule."

The reporter thanked him and walked with him to the cabin door, where Lieutenant Thieu was waiting to escort her back to the Media Center. Like many civilians, she was quietly entranced by the military's Old World manners. At the Media Center Kolhammer bid her good-bye and carried on up to the flag bridge, where the Clinton's executive officer, Commander Mike Judge, was waiting for him.

"How'd it go, sir?" asked the softly spoken Texan, after the formalities of the admiral's arrival were completed.

"I shall never ignore a suggestion from Lieutenant Thieu again," he said, grinning ruefully. "Thank God that's over with. Now, is Captain Chandler joining us?"

"Sir, the captain regrets that he'll be delayed somewhat, though he hopes to be along shortly. The number three catapult is acting up again. Chandler has gone down to the flight deck to personally kick its butt and curse up a storm."

Kolhammer smiled at the image. The Clinton's CO had a notoriously combustible temper. It was distinctly possible he was doing just what Judge had suggested. But Kolhammer wasn't about to second-guess the carrier's captain. He was already too deeply mired in the political swamp to which Duffy had alluded during their interview. Indeed, a good part of each day was eaten up balancing the competing interests and agendas of the disparate forces under his command.

The Australians and the French, for instance, maintained an icy reserve with each other at best. This was due to the decision of France's new National Front government to renew and expand their nuclear test program in the Pacific. The relationship between the two governments had deteriorated so far that ambassadors had been recalled and billions of dollars' worth of trade sanctions were being declared. As professional as both navies were under normal circumstances, such a climate wasn't conducive to joint operations.

Meanwhile the Malaysian government had flip-flopped on three separate occasions, first committing to the Multinational Force, then withdrawing, then recommitting, and so on. Kolhammer had twice personally flown to Kuala Lumpur to seek assurance from the country's defense minister that Malaysia would meet its treaty obligations, only to land back on the Clinton to the news that they would do nothing of the sort.

And of course, there were the Indonesians. If his feuding allies and the feckless Malays were a pain in the ass, the Indonesians were a situation screaming out for radical butt surgery. He had them out of sight and out of mind for the moment, running submarine drills to the north. But he was going to have to bring them back into the fold sometime soon. The State Department weenies were insistent.

Kolhammer actually envied Guy Chandler for having gremlins in the number three catapult. If only his problems could be that simple.

"Right then, Commander," he said. "What do you have for me today?"

Judge consulted his flexipad with an apologetic air. "How'd you feel about a quick trip to the exotic and mysterious city of Kuala Lumpur, Admiral?"

"Oh, jeez," Kolhammer sighed.

Rosanna Natoli's eyes lit up as her friend reappeared at the door of the Clinton's Media Center.

"How'd it go with the Hammer?" she asked, using their favorite name for the fleet commander. It was not entirely respectful.

The New York Times feature writer rolled her eyes and replied in her best Sergeant Schulz, "I know nuffink! Naaarrffink!"

Natoli snorted. "And the mystery ship?"

Duffy shrugged. "Some corporate gig gone wrong. 'Seabed mapping,' he said. It was strange, though. Even though he made it seem routine, there was something about it that had him more excited than he was letting on. I tell you, boys and their toys. Speaking of which, you wanna go watch the bomb loaders work out? The cute ones are usually down in the gym about now."

"You fucking nympho."

JRV NAGOYA, 1233 HOURS, ZONE TIME: JANUARY 15, 2021

As the two reporters settled themselves onto exercise bikes in the Clinton's main gym, six senior Project researchers parked themselves in front of LG flatscreens and engaged the preliminary sequences required for a full-spectrum run on the Nagoya's Quad System. Manning Pope stared into the soft glow of the superthin display panel that lay directly in front of him. The screen was only 4mm thick, and it seemed as though the data was floating in space. Pope's head tilted slightly to one side as he tried to come at the dense matrix of symbols and numbers from a variety of different angles. After a few minutes of wagging this way and that, he pushed out his lower lip and turned to Murayama.

"At point-zero-one, I'm sure we can do this," he said, almost to himself.

Professor Murayama grunted an affirmation, but he wore an expression of concern. Still, if he had any doubts, he didn't voice them.

The Project was a seventy-nine-billion-dollar effort to field-test a number of basic assumptions about the feasibility of combining a heavy-ion collider, a quark-gluon plasma imploder, and a rotating photon splitter in order to transfer a nanonic explosive package from an originating point to a target destination without having to travel through the space that lay in between. It was, in essence, a teleporter. Just like in Star Trek, except that rather than moving hopelessly complex human beings across thousands of miles of space, it was designed to move a very small, very simple warhead directly into the mass of a selected target-such as the brain stem of Mullah Ibn Abbas.

In Manning Pope, DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, had retained the world's foremost expert on the engineering of spacetime foam, and set him working hard at the second great militarization of Einstein's theory of relativity. They also had an overweening egotist whose only real interest was in the opportunity the Project provided to spend other people's money on his personal obsession-FTL, faster-than-light travel.

Pope's incipient mania and a couple of breathtaking developments in quantum computing had moved the entire schedule onto the fast track. The senators currently overseeing the mission were understandably pleased. Their Japanese, British, and Russian counterparts were all likewise thrilled at the prospect of having an exciting new way to kill Chinese infantry and Taliban jihadis. And Pope had never felt the need to burden any of them with details concerning his research.

Now on the verge of proving his FTL theories, Pope seemed to hesitate.

A quick, stealthy look passed between Morley and Dunne, but neither said anything. They'd never seen Pope or Murayama look anything other than painfully arrogant, so this sudden change in character set off alarms. But nobody really cared what they thought. And anyway, this might be an opportunity for them to watch Kolhammer beating on the boss again, which was such an appealing thought that Morley had arranged to trap any incoming communications for covert storage on his own flexipad. If they blew circuits all over the fleet, like last time, Kolhammer would go postal for sure, and that sort of footage could keep a guy entertained for months on a long voyage.