“Is the whole boat like that?” Miller finally moaned. He’d given up. He had to face it. He’d lost his hardcore doing flowers. He did not want to go fly around the universe in this…
“Yep, pretty much,” Weaver replied. “Utter blage.”
“Okay, you got me again. That’s twice you’ve used that word and I’ve no clue what it means,” Miller said.
“Adar word,” Bill replied, shrugging. “Sort of means everything from cannibalize to jury-rig. To blage, I blaged it, we can blage that, it’s a blage. Funny thing is, the Adar never had the concept of blaging before they ran into us; all their stuff is so carefully crafted and integrated it makes the Japanese look sloppy. So I don’t know where they got the word. But, yeah, it’s about as mil-spec as a fifth grade science fair project. An Adar corporation did the IT systems integration and they did a damned fine job. And Rath-Mirorc got the SM-9s right, I’ll give ’em that.”
The last hatch, as Miller recalled, would have led them to the missile compartment. The missile compartment was the one really open area on the whole boat. Three stories high, with separate decks on each story, it was lined with giant “tubes” that held the ballistic missiles with open areas down the middle and to either side. Bubbleheads called it “Sherwood Forest.” It was where SEALs traditionally did their running on-board. Instead of the cavernous area he’d expected, he was confronted by another hatch, a ladder to the side and narrow corridors leading port and starboard. There were two more hatches in the corridor and ladders at both ends.
“Now it gets complicated,” Weaver said. He turned right, to port, and went up the ladder. The hatch above opened on another corridor, this one with bunks along the inner bulkhead. Halfway down there was another hatch, just a simple door, with one more at the far end and another ladder going down.
“This is the security section,” Bill said. “We’ve got two security groups. One is Marines; they play outer security. Then each of the technical people is assigned a small security and support detachment. They’re drawn from Special Forces.”
“No SEALs?” Miller protested.
“No SEALs,” Weaver replied. “Wrong sort of mission. Anyway…”
He opened up a hatch and waved to the room. It was… small. And there were two bunks.
“You get to bunk with the Marine first sergeant,” Bill said. “He previously had the compartment all to himself.”
“He’s going to be pleased as maulk,” Miller said, tossing his seabag onto the upper bunk.
“He was indeed,” Weaver said.
He led Miller out of the room and down the corridor to the ladder. At the bottom there was a door but he turned to starboard and led Miller to a door in the center of the mission specialist section. This one had a card reader and a big sign “Authorized Crew Only.”
Weaver fished out his keycard and held it up, then opened the door. Beyond was the missile compartment. But it was much smaller than on a normal SSBN, with only four missile tubes.
“Those aren’t Tridents,” Bill said, gesturing at the missiles. “They’re 9As.”
“How many of them?”
“How many tubes?”
“Four.”
“See?” Weaver said, grinning. “It’s not true. SEALs can count to ten without taking off their shoes.”
“That’s it?” Miller asked. “The ship’s got four missiles to defend itself?”
“And a couple of lasers that probably won’t scrape the paint off of anything we find and some torpedoes that are the rough equivalent of a Saturday Night Special in space terms,” Weaver said. “But I think that the LBB is probably superior tech to most of what we’ll run into. If I’m right we’ll be able to run away from most ships.”
“Nice to hear,” the SEAL said dryly.
Down both sides of the missile compartment were new generation Wyvern Mark Vs.
The Wyvern had been in development since shortly before the Chen Event. The massive suits were “piloted” by a person sitting more or less in the abdomen. The pilot wore a harness that transferred their movements to the much larger arms, legs and “head” of the Wyvern. With wheels on the elbows, knees and belly, the Wyvern was capable of just about any movement an infantryman could make and was much better armed and armored.
The Mark V stood about three meters tall, the same height as an Adar male. They looked like a very fat man with thin arms and legs, a big butt and a low, rounded vaguely insectile head. The “butt” contained a well-shielded americium nuclear generator for power while the “head” of the suit contained most of the sensors of the suits. In the case of the Wyverns on this mission those included not only full EM sensors, capable of picking up “light” ranging from X-rays to deep infrared, but a variety of other particles and waves.
The Mark V used the newest digital active camouflage system that took a reading from surrounding coloration and pattern and transmitted it to the surface of the suit. Under certain conditions, it could make the suit virtually disappear. They were still damned big things to hide, as both Weaver and Miller knew from painful experience.
“Only twenty Wyverns?” Miller asked, taking a count.
“Three levels to the section,” Weaver replied. “Fifty in all. Thirty-eight Marines with armor, me, the three ground mission specialists, their security teams. And a few spares. I guess you’re going to be fitted to one of those.”
Each Wyvern had to be individually fitted to the user, a process that took about three hours.
“Now for the engineering section.”
“I get to see that?” Miller asked. He’d never been given access to engineering.
“You said full access,” Weaver replied, grinning.
“I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“Oh, sorry,” Mimi said, blinking her eyes.
The small compartment she’d been directed to already had a lady in it. She was sitting at a fold-down desk with a small extensible lamp over it, typing on a computer. And she wasn’t wearing a uniform like the rest of the people on the ship; she was wearing jeans, high-heels and a spaghetti-strap top. All three were black and the jeans had a dragon on the thigh.
“It’s okay,” the lady said, standing up and grinning. She had long red hair with the front dyed bright blue and blue and red streaks in it. She was also very pretty, arguably beautiful, with a small chin and nose and bright brown eyes. “Are you my roommate? Aren’t you a little young? What’s that on your shoulder?”
“I’m…” Mimi paused trying to figure out which question to answer. “I was told this was my room, so I guess I’m your roommate. I am young and it’s weird that I’m here but there’s a reason, and this is Tuffy,” she finished, fishing the creature off her shoulder and holding him out.
Tuffy extended one pseudopod towards the woman and then bowed. Mimi had never seen him do that before.
“Isn’t he cute?” the woman squealed, walking over and petting him gently. “Tuffy. You’re Mimi Jones. Sorry it took me so long. The last picture of him I saw he didn’t look so cool.”
“That’s okay,” Mimi said as Tuffy crawled up the woman’s arm. He’d never done that before, either.
“He’s tickly,” the lady said, plucking him off and handing him back. “I like you, Tuffy, but Mimi’s your special friend. So you’re on this boat, too? What’s your job?”
“Tuffy just told me we had to come,” Mimi said, shrugging. “I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do.”