John Ringo - Claws That Catch

“Each country will be expected to produce their own ships, fleets,” the national security advisor replied. “Higher command structure will be a matter of negotiations. But American fleets will never be under the command of others, not even the British. We’re more willing to consider higher command by Adar or Hexosehr. But only willing to consider it. The U.S. has a history of winning battles that cannot be matched by any country in this room.”

“And losing wars,” the Russian scoffed. “For that matter, who took Berlin?”

Just because Patton was ordered to remain in place , Weaver thought. But he managed to hold his tongue.

“It’s not a matter for argument,” the President said, clearly thinking much the same thing. “The American public is never going to accept a Chinese admiral over an American fleet. But that is for later. The completed documentaries and the reams and reams of video and sensor data they were derived from is assembled for each of you. As are the preliminary methods for getting in contact with the Hexosehr. We request that we be given one week before we release the information.”

“I am not in a position to promise that,” the Chinese general said. “This meeting was only to be on the subject of the spaceship you have, this Vorpal Blade . This new information will have to be considered by my government. We may request an extension of the information being released.”

“We have indications that it’s not going to be long before our news media gets to the bottom of what’s going on,” the President said. “Or at least some of it. So… consider fast.”

“I have no clue when I’ll be talking to you next,” Eric said, brushing Brooke’s cheek.

It was the time of day the military referred to as o dark thirty, before even Before Morning Nautical Twilight, black as pitch, a time when normal people might stir but then roll over in bed and go back to sleep. Brooke had actually gotten up and driven him to headquarters. Eric had checked in the night before, officially coming off of leave in time but long after anyone could put him to work. But this was the start of his new career as an officer, his first working day. Between in-processing and duties, he had no clue when he’d be home, but if the new CO wanted him to participate in PT he wanted to be in in plenty of time.

“You’ll be home when you are home,” Brooke replied, then kissed him. “I promised not to bind you to the pasture. And I keep my promises.”

It was a “thing” between them, a special code. During the last mission, Brooke had sent Eric a link to a flash animation done during the War On Terror. It was a series of pictures set to a song called “Homeward Bound,” done in homage to a soldier who died in Afghanistan.

“Just try to call me in time for me to have supper waiting,” Brooke said.

“I’ll do that,” Eric replied, trying not to grimace. He loved Brooke and she had some remarkable abilities for a girl fresh out of high school. But she’d apparently failed Home Ec.

“And I’ll try to get it right this time,” Brooke said, already learning to read subtle body-cues in her new husband.

“Your cooking is…”

“Awful,” Brooke said, grinning. “I have to eat it, too, you know.”

“I’m no better at it,” Eric admitted. “But if I have to stay late, I’ll probably eat in the mess hall. It’s not that expensive.”

“Shiny,” Brooke said. “When I get home, though, I’m going to sit down and start reading cookbooks. Winging it is clearly not the answer. Now kiss me and have a good day.”

Eric paused in front of the company headquarters building and shifted his jump bag on his shoulder. The company was housed in two “starbase” barracks, essentially multistory apartment buildings built in the 1980s, fronted by a two-story headquarters building. The headquarters was the only new construction, a rectangular windowless block with heavy security systems. Some of the stupider security measures, such as the timed doors, had finally been removed, but it was still a highly secure facility.

Eric knew the headquarters like the inside of his mouth, having spent more time there it seemed than in his enlisted quarters. The armory, the Wyvern room and all the briefing rooms as well as the company quarterdeck were all in that two-story structure. A Bravo Company soldier couldn’t, officially, discuss even their training schedule in the barracks. Due to the black nature of their missions, every briefing, every discussion, just about every bit of training had to take place in the HQ building.

But it was a different building, now. Eric no longer had any place in the enlisted barracks save for an occasional inspection. This was his home for the rest of his career in the company. People who used to casually order PFC or Sergeant Bergstresser off on details were still in the unit, but the vast majority of them were now required to salute Second Lieutenant Bergstresser. It was going to take some—

“Morning, sir,” First Sergeant Powell said, walking up behind him.

Eric turned and for just a moment froze at the salute.

“Morning, First Sergeant,” Berg replied, managing to return it crisply.

“Forget something at home?” Powell asked, grinning wisely.

The tall, lanky senior NCO had been the Top-Dog of Bravo Company since Eric joined as a PFC. Over the past two missions, he’d sent Eric into some situations that appeared suicidal and in one case very nearly was. By the same token, they’d stood side-by-side against monsters that ate Wyvern armor like candy, trained side-by-side and traded good-natured insults to the extent a sergeant and a first sergeant could. If Eric could point to one person as a mentor in his professional development as a Marine, it was First Sergeant Powell. And now the first sergeant was saluting him.

“Just thinking that sort of thing is going to take some getting used to, First Sergeant,” Eric replied. “The salute, that is.”

“We salute the rank, not the person wearing it,” Powell said. “But you wear it well. However, if you think you’re doing PT this morning, think again. You’re going to be doing paperwork all day long. And tomorrow and the next day ad infinitum. If you’d like one suggestion from an old soldier whose watched more than one LT grow or fail, it’s: Find the time. But today you won’t.”

“Top, I’m planning on going on listening to your advice as long as you’ll give it,” Eric replied.

“Well, sir, then my advice is to take one more deep breath and report in,” Powell said with a grin. “I mean, how hard could it be compared to, say, being crisped by plasma fire?”

“Yeah,” Eric said, grinning back. “The good thing about being an officer is that the next time you tell me to do that I can tell you to grapp off.”

“One thousand units of item 413 will be arriving later this afternoon, sir,” Weaver reported.

“And you nearly didn’t twitch when you said that,” Prael replied, grinning. “How bad was it?”

Prael’s office had an unlived-in look. He’d been the CO of the Blade for more than two months but the land-side office still only had a nameplate on the desk and a picture turned towards him. It showed a family group that Weaver presumed was Mrs. Prael and their two children. Unlike a lot of officers, he kept his domestic side completely separated from the military. And also unlike most officers, there was no “I-Love-Me” wall. Weaver had checked his service record and knew that he was a “plank owner” of the last Seawolf submarine constructed, but that plaque was also missing.