The Calgary arrives with no ceremony.
After COVID screening tests a couple days ago, an hour-long drive down to the base, and multiple security checks, we disembark, waiting inside one of the many structures overlooking the docks. The ship appears as a speck on the horizon, then gradually grows. Gerard plays with his model ships, flying them around in the air like the Space Battleship Yamato for a while. I decide to read, quite literally the last books I'll ever read on known land.
It's boring, honestly.
The navy is ninety-nine percent sheer driveling boredom, and one percent sheer unadulterated TERROR. The ninety-nine percent is the months-long cruises, the hours-long wait between seeing the dock on the horizon and actually docking, the near-constant grueling maintenance of every bit of the ship to make sure it doesn't break down when you need it most. That one percent is when the missiles start flying, everything's broken nine ways to hell in spite of all the boredom, the carrier you're tasked to protect is sinking, half the task force is straight-up sunk, everyone's screaming every curse word in every language they can think of, and the sonar is picking up a force of five submarines right on top of you that came out of nowhere. Oh, and skimping on the maintenance during the boredom means you're in the half of the task force that's sunk.
I look up every fifteen minutes.
The Calgary seems to sit there like a monolith on the horizon.
I half suspect that every time I look at her, she just seems bigger because I'm focusing more on her, and she isn't really moving at all.
Only when her superstructure and lower bows clear my thumb at arm's reach do I finally realize that Calgary is close by. With modern naval weapons ranges, though, "close" and "docked" are two very fundamentally different things.
I'm through my third book - Seveneves, by Neal Stephenson, which I find mirrors my current situation oddly well - when the guide taps my shoulder solemnly. "It's time," he intones, and I step up.
He won't be coming with us.
We exit into a gusting wind, clouds gathering above the dock and painting everything a dreary grey. Gerry is too preoccupied with blowing up his model of the Russian battlecruiser Kirov to notice the wake crashing against Calgary's harsh steel bows. The guide turns to go, and I give him a knowing slap on the back.
We can both feel it. His time is coming. Mine isn't. He smiles the smile of a doomed man, just barely visible behind the mask. He hesitates momentarily, then he turns back to his march.
I square my shoulders stoically.
Finally, Gerry takes note, his jaw hitting the floor in perfect sync with his model of the Kirov as he spots the hulking edifice of the Calgary. Her blocky frame juts from the water, exhaust stack sloping back at a coldly efficient angle, trusses and antennae cluttering the top of her stout bridge structure and the flat scoop of her aft. I don't doubt that Gerry can spot the subtle differences which signify a Halifax-class frigate and not an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer; he has no trouble differentiating the Ticonderoga-class cruisers from good ol' Ignatius just off the shape of the bridge and the angle of the bows alone.
Calgary slows down. She gradually eases into the dock, slowing to a crawl.
I try desperately not to think about everyone we'll be leaving behind. At least my crew - and Calgary's - will be in the bunker when - no, sorry, if - the shit hits the fan. Nobody can help but think "when," and if the aliens spare us it'll be a miracle.
Calgary's bow passes the point at which it's starting to move away. Her smooth flank slides past us, borne on a mixture of the elegant dance of the flowing water beneath her and the raw, brutal power of her two General Electric LM2500 gas turbine engines.
She begins to slow.
The dam within me strains. All of Gerry's friends, doomed... and we can't tell him.
Beatrice seems to be holding well. She has to contemplate people she knew; lives, stories, hopes, dreams... all gone in one swift stroke, leaves on the winds of death and change.
The Calgary stops.
The ramp drops.
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The Nature of Change
कल्पित विज्ञानAndy Voitenko notices things that others don't. Nothing paranormal, he just sees the laws of physics in action. He's always been socially awkward. And that makes him a target for a group of scientists who want the smart ones. He never expected wings...
