John Ringo: Claws That Catch

Submariners, though, just kept going until they had to return to port. They’d keep the boat running with spit and duct tape if that was what was necessary.

Spectre, in many ways, had set the tone of the culture of the Space Navy, a combination of submariner and carrier. The mission came first, damn the platform, came from the carrier side. Sink the carrier if you have to to take out the enemy. Damn the damage or equipment failures, keep going until your cruise was done or you were actively sinking came from the submarine side. The chief of the boat had coined the new motto: “We don’t go home until we’re out of food or bodies.”

Prael wasn’t an entirely unknown item. He’d taken over the helm almost three months ago. But how he’d deal in deep space was going to be interesting to find out. In the meantime, though, Weaver was going to have to confess to failure.

“I can’t get supply to cough up any more 413, sir,” Bill admitted. “I tried but the clerk wants variances on budget and authorization to release her full supply. The latter is stupid, frankly, because we’re the only ship authorized to draw on that item.”

“Ran afoul of Clerk Click, did you, XO?” the skipper said, grinning. Prael was a large man with an easy manner that belied years spent on the nuke side. Nuke officers tended to be OCD to an annoying extent, but when you’re in charge of a nuclear reactor that is right on the edge of being a nuclear bomb, attention to detail is a survival trait. Prael had that in spades, but not the constant tension and didacticism that normally accompanied it.

“You know her, sir,” Bill said. It was not a question.

“Oh, yes,” Prael replied. “I can see you’re already developing the twitch. Captain, you may be a fine astrogator and experienced in space combat. But you have much to learn about how the Navy really operates. I will admit, though, that it is part of my duty to teach you. Very well, XO, as part of your professional development, I will instruct you in the proper method for wheedling Clerk Click. First, you compliment her on her hair — ”

“But her hair is thinning and that style is — ”

“God awful,” the skipper said, nodding. “Revolting, Disgusting. Compliment it. Then you ask how her dogs are getting on.”

“Dogs?”

“Pomeranians. Fat, hairy piranha with teeth. She had eight last time I dealt with her,” the CO replied. “Then you ask her if she’s lost weight. She will then fill you in on the details of her newest diet. You have to agree to try it since it’s amazing its effect.”

“She’s lost weight?”

“Never in my experience. Then and only then do you compliment her outfit. Since she appears to only have three such outfits, all equally revolting, in eye-searing colors that even the Adar would never wear, you have to lie through your teeth on that one. When you are done with complimenting her, listening to the latest medical horror story about her dogs or herself or both, when she is finished telling you to drink your own urine — ”

“Surely not!”

“Then and only then do you bring up the particular item that you need her to authorize,” the CO said.

“But… the…”

“Click. That God awful, revolting, disgusting… annoying doesn’t begin to cover it, click?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Captain,” Prael said sternly. “You are a United States Naval Officer. Did John Paul Jones flinch in the face of English gunnery? Did Spruance back off at Midway? Did Dewey flee from the Spanish? No. Nor shall you flee that God-awful click, Captain! If it makes you feel any better, we’re reasonably sure that the admirals, may their souls rot in hell, keep her in her position as a test of all XOs. To make CO, you have to be able to stand… The Click! If you can stand the Click, no lesser torture will do. But that is for tomorrow. Have you noticed the time?”

“Oh, Christ,” Bill replied, accessing his plant. “I must have muted the alarm!”

“Or never noticed it in the face of The Click,” Prael said, nodding. “It can do that. It’s a most amazing sound. But we have other places to be. Right. Now. Dress fast.”

“How’s it going, son?” Steve Bergstresser asked.

“I’m ready to go,” Eric replied, still fiddling with his collar button. It was that or stand around twitching.

“Come ’ere,” his dad said, turning him around. He touched his son’s cummerbund into place and pulled a probably imaginary bit of lint off the spotless uniform. “It’s going to be fine. Admittedly, the chapel is packed…”

“Oh God,” Eric groaned. “Dr. Pierson is going to have a heart attack! He can’t afford a wedding this big.”

“Dr. Pierson is a former submariner,” Mr. Bergstresser said. “He’s practically bubbling over. He’s got three admirals and the Ccommandant attending. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a father of the bride happy about paying for a wedding.”

“I just wish it was over,” Eric replied.

“A common problem,” Steve said. “Weddings are for brides.”

“And honeymoons are for grooms,” Josh added with a grin.

“Watch your tongue, young man,” Mr. Bergstresser snapped. “All that the groom is required to do is show up on time.”

“And reasonably sober,” Josh added, apparently unrepentant. “That’s your problem, Eric. You’re sober. I’ve got some moonshine…”

“Quit playing the West Virginia hick, Josh,” Eric said. “It doesn’t go with the earring and the Goth look.”

“It’s time,” Second Lieutenant Burt Tomlinson said, sticking his head in the room. The newly minted lieutenant was one of Eric’s fellow candidates, a group of whom were attending the wedding and acting as ushers.

“Don’t lock your knees,” Eric’s dad said as they headed for the door. “You’ll pass out.”

“They teach us that in Basic, Dad,” Eric replied. “And again in OCS.”

“Yeah, and this is one time you’ll forget. And try not to stand rigidly at attention. It makes you look nervous.”

“I’ve got two ways to stand when I’m wearing a uniform, Dad,” Eric said. “Attention or parade rest. Take your pick.”

“You know,” SEAL Chief Warrant Officer Third Miller whispered as Weaver slid in next to him, “arriving after the bride could have permanently killed your career.”

Miller had first met Dr. Weaver when the latter was sent to examine the then-new Chen Anomaly and figure out what was going on. He’d been caught in most of the resulting mess and suffered most of the resulting experiences. Along the way he’d developed a degree of admiration for the academic who was caught up in normal SEAL derring-do. Weaver hadn’t quit, hadn’t laid down, and just kept coming, no matter what the universe, gates and the Dreen threw at him. It also helped to have someone as smart as Dr. Weaver around when the problem wasn’t something you could shoot or blow up.

More or less shanghaied for the first mission of the Vorpal Blade , Miller had been less thrilled about Commander Weaver. Weaver’s commission and advancement didn’t just smell of special privilege, it absolutely reeked of it. But, again, Weaver had been a good choice for the position of astrogator. The Blade ran into a lot of strange stuff between the stars and Weaver, with some assistance, had managed to figure out a way through over and over again.

Captain Weaver was getting to be a bit much, though. Captains were supposed hoary old salts with eyes wrinkled from decades spent squinting into the sun. Admittedly, neither he nor Weaver was a spring-chicken, but Weaver had somehow managed to keep a boyish look, and boyishness, despite all the stuff they’d both seen and done. Looking at him in uniform, people sometimes wondered if he’d stolen his dad’s for dress-up.