Hangouts To Farmhouse
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GreeniesChapter 4A free porn video
The WSS Mermaid, an Owl-Class, stealth attack ship, cruised silently and unseen in an elongated polar orbit around Ganymede. Her twin fusion engines were both at idle, allowing the ship to drift along without emitting any heat. Her extensive array of passive sensors kept watch on the space around them for any sign of intruders, particularly EastHem stealth attack ships trying to gather intelligence. Mermaid was ninety meters in length with a beam of ten meters. She crewed sixty. Though she was not particularly impressive to look at and though she was downright uncomfortable to serve in, she and her sister ships were among the most sophisticated and expensive machines ever built by mankind. They and their EastHem counterparts, the Henry's, possessed an ability that no other spacecraft could; the ability to move and work in space undetected by the sensors of other spacecraft.
Large spacecraft such as the California Class super dreadnoughts, or the tankers that moved hydrogen from the Jupiter system about the solar system, or even the smaller naval support vessels that carried extra supplies and fuel, were impossible to conceal from an enemy. The problem was not the radar signatures of such monsters. Radar absorbent alloys were commonplace and easily manufactured and were in fact used to build most of the planetary military craft of WestHem, EastHem, and the MPG. But in large interplanetary spacecraft there was little point in using radar absorbent alloys since the ships in question could be detected at much greater range without the use of radar at all. Passive infrared sensors could pick up and identify a California class in its acceleration cycle from more than half a million kilometers away simply by reading the heat signature from the fusion engines. And when the California was not in its acceleration cycle, when it was simply barreling through empty space between planets awaiting turn-around and orbital deceleration, there were radio signals and forward looking radar beams (used to probe ahead for potentially lethal meteors or other space debris in their path) being constantly emitted, things that were quite easy to home in on with passive electromagnetic sensors. And even if a California were to shut all of its radar, navigation, and radio equipment off — something that never happened, but which theoretically could — they would still emit enough heat and radiation to be detected from one hundred thousand kilometers distance. A California crewed more than four thousand people, employed full inertial damping and artificial gravity, and required tremendous amounts of electrical power just to maintain basic functions. All of this added up to heat and electromagnetic radiation being produced. Large ships simply could not move stealthily through space, no matter what measures they took.
A stealth attack ship, on the other hand, was not a very large vessel and could move about without being noticed. This class of ships was constructed of radar absorbent material that was angled in various places to insure that even the miniscule amount of radar energy that did get reflected back was reflected in the wrong direction. On top of the layer of radar absorbent alloy was another specially made alloy, several inches thick, which inhibited the absorption of heat, both from inside of the ship itself and from external sources, such as solar radiation. The engine and waste heat generated by the people and the electronics inside of the vessel was radiated into a pressurized space between the inner and outer hulls and was then carefully dumped off in controlled bursts through a series of exhaust ports. When underway, a stealth ship used the minimum power possible for acceleration and deceleration and did not vent their plasma directly out of the exhaust ports as regular ships did, instead, sending it through a cooling cycle first. Since artificial gravity generators and the inertial dampers that were a byproduct of them created significant heat, they were not used or in fact even installed, forcing the crews to endure long voyages in minimal gravity (when under acceleration or deceleration) or no gravity at all. Active sensors, including meteor detecting radar sweeps, were not utilized on typical missions, making the possibility of running into an errant piece of space junk while at suicidal velocity a very real possibility. All of these measures, while making for cramped, uncomfortable, and often dangerous duty, made Owls and Henry's nearly invisible out in space. An Owl class, which was touted as being the best of the two superpowers' (of course the EastHem navy said that the Henry was really the best), could drift to within a few dozen kilometers of a London class super dreadnought or one of its fighters without being detected by either passive or active systems.
Mermaid had been on her patrol station for a month and was only awaiting the arrival of relief before setting course for her home base: Triad Naval Base in orbit around Mars. It had been an uneventful cruise, with only routine contacts of EastHem military and civilian vessels logged. The crew was getting quite antsy after two months away from their families (and in fact, any women at all) and the comforting standard gravity of Triad. Their hair was long and unkempt since there was no one onboard who knew how to cut it. Their faces were pale and slightly sunken from the lack of sunlight and gravity. Their clothing — shorts and T-shirts with their rank and last name printed upon them, were horribly faded and in most cases much looser in fit than they had been at the start of the voyage. Tempers had been rather heated lately with fights breaking out between enlisted men over such things as whose turn it was to use the bathing room or who had arrived at the relief tube first.
Because of the lack of gravity generators aboard, the Mermaid, like all Owls and Henry's, was oriented inside to up and down instead of to fore and aft like gravitated spacecraft. It was as if the entire ship was a small building, standing upright, with the torpedo storage and launching rooms making up the top deck and the engine rooms making up the bottom. Access between the decks was accomplished through small hatches. During periods of drifting, personnel simply floated from one level to the other, as if swimming underwater. During acceleration and deceleration however, up to a quarter of a G of gravity was imported to the ship, allowing people to stand solidly on the floor and forcing them to use small ladders to move between decks. The bridge was located just below the torpedo access rooms. It was a small, cramped area, only four meters by six, with five main stations in addition to the captain's and executive officer's chairs. Computer terminals were mounted into a semi-circular console with ergonomically designed seats before each. The captain and the executive officer sat just behind this console, just in front of the security hatch that led down to the next level. There were no windows on the bridge, or anywhere else on the ship for that matter. Cameras and sensors gave all of the input that was needed to run and navigate the ship.
Spacer first class Brett Ingram sat at the tracking and acquisition station on the bridge. Since the vessel was currently at drift and in zero G, he was strapped securely into his chair with a Velcro lap restraint. His coffee cup, which was sealed shut and imparted with a small amount of air pressure, had a magnet on the bottom to keep it in place. The display station before him was holographic, allowing a three dimensional map of the surrounding space to be generated, with the Mermaid's position as the exact center. The map showed dozens of small dots of varying color and size, most of them moving slowly in one direction or another. These dots represented the contacts that he was tracking with the passive sensors and the ship's computer system. All of the known contacts had a small designator superimposed next to them, identifying their status. One labeled S-7 for instance, was a Standard Fuel hydrogen tanker making its way from Standard City to Triad. It was coded dark green, as were all WestHem civilian contacts. About six thousand kilometers above and two thousand kilometers to the right of S-7 — about two centimeters on the map — was S-9, a California Class warship in a high equatorial orbit of Ganymede. It was coded blue, as were all WestHem military contacts. Light green meant EastHem civilian ships and there were four of those — all hydrogen tankers making their way to Earth from Callisto — near the far edge of the map. Red was the color that symbolized EastHem military contacts. There were two of those in Mermaid's field of detection, one, a London Class warship escorting the tankers and the other an anti-stealth ship escorting the London. Yellow represented contacts that had not been identified as of yet. There were none of those on his display at the moment but Ingram thought that maybe that would change in a moment. A flickering on his computer screen next to the display was starting to alert his senses.
"Con, detection," he said to Lieutenant Commander Braxton, the executive officer of the Mermaid. Braxton was sitting in the captain's chair at the moment since Commander Hoffman, the captain, was currently asleep in his quarters. "I'm picking up some errant readings on a bearing of 148 mark 70."
Braxton looked at the detection tech with an unmasked measure of annoyance. "Errant readings?" he asked. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Do you have a contact or don't you?"
"Unsure, sir," Ingram replied, his voice neutral. As a ten-year enlisted man with Martian ancestry, he knew not to allow emotion into his tone when addressing Earthling officers, especially pricks like Braxton, who thought Martians were good for cooking meals and scrubbing dishes but not much else. "I'm getting some flickers in the high infrared spectrum. They've been coming and going for about two minutes now. I can't seem to get a lock on it."
"Flickers?" Braxton said, using his hand to call up a duplicate of Ingram's screen on his own terminal. He stared at it for a moment. "I don't see anything."
"Wait for a minute, sir," Ingram said, staring intently at the spot. Finally the slight flare of white, less than a pinpoint, flashed for half of a second or so and then disappeared. "There," he said to Braxton. "Did you see it?"
"That?" Braxton scoffed. "That's what you're calling an errant reading? That was probably nothing but a vapor formation from a urine dump that some ship performed twenty years ago." The other members of the bridge crew, every last one of them Earthlings, snickered at his comment.
"Maybe, sir," Ingram agreed dutifully, ignoring the snickers, "but it is in the same spectrum as a Henry's maneuvering thruster. I recommend that we swing around and try to get a fix on it, just to be sure."
"And risk being detected from our own thrusters?" Braxton asked sarcastically. "I don't think so."
Ingram looked at the XO, a man who was three years younger than him and had two years less time in Owl's, but who, because of institutional prejudice against those of extraterrestrial birth, had been able to attend the WestHem Naval Academy at Triad and would one day soon command one while Brett was stuck forever at spacer first. "Sir," he said, "I really think that this might be a legitimate contact."
"Do you now?" he asked, smiling the smile of condescension. "And what makes you think that?"
"I don't know exactly, sir," he said. "Mostly instinct I guess. And..."
"Instinct?" Braxton said, barking out a laugh, as if the thought that a Martian developing instinct was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard of. "You look at a floating pile of old piss vapor from the Jupiter War and you see a Henry in it? That's what you call instinct? Tell me something, Ingram. Do you see Henry's when you use the relief tube too? What do you see when you take a shit? London classes?"
"Sir," he tried again, "this flickering is right in the orbital plain that a Henry captain would use to observe our operations on Ganymede. It's basically the same inclination that we use when we spy on Callisto. When you couple that with the spectrum being the same as that of a Henry's maneuvering thrusters, the index of suspicion raises up. If I could get my array more focused in that direction I might be able to..."
"Your opinion has been noted, Ingram," he interrupted coldly. "And it's been filed for what its worth. Carry on."
"Yes sir," Ingram said, his voice still neutral. He went back to watching his screen.
"And why don't you pay more attention to the 0 mark 180 area?" Braxton suggested. "That's where the Dolphin is going to be coming from. If they detect us before we get them the captain's gonna have your ass." It was an age-old competition between Owl crews relieving each other on station to see who could detect whom first. The losing crew owed beers and bong hits to the winners the first time they found themselves in port together.
"I'm watching it, sir," Ingram told him. "No sign yet."
"If I have to buy that asshole Stinson on Dolphin a bong hit, I'm gonna take it out of your ass, greenie, you hear me?"
"I hear you, sir," he said, suppressing a sigh.
Dolphin did not show up over the next two hours, but several more times Ingram saw the flickering in the low infrared spectrum, each time from a slightly different bearing. He continued to watch that area closely, looking for anything else that might give a hint towards what was out there. Eventually, just as the captain came floating in from his quarters to take the con, he got it. The tiniest flash of blue, indicating a lower level in the spectrum, appeared just beside the white for a moment. It quickly faded away and did not reappear, but it had been there, he was sure of it. "Con, detection," he said again. "I'm getting more flickers in the lower spectrums from 151 mark 70."
"Another puddle of piss, Ingram?" Braxton said with a sigh. "I thought I told you to give that a rest. You're supposed to be looking for Dolphin."
"What's this?" said the captain, who was still hovering in the air next to the command chair. "Flickers in the lower spectrum?"
"Ingram is getting heat shine off of a damn urine dump or something and trying to convince us that he sees a Henry out there," Braxton explained.
"That bearing places it in the high orbital plain," the captain said. "Are you sure..."
"Stan, I looked at it when he first reported it," Braxton said. "It's nothing."
"Sir," Ingram said, looking directly at the captain, who, though he was as prejudiced against those of Martian birth as any other Earthling, could at least admit that they were occasionally useful for something, "I just got a reading in the lower spectrum. That's the same spectrum as a Henry venting waste heat. I really think we should maneuver to bring the sensors to bear."
The captain looked from his XO to his greenie detection tech for a moment. Finally he pushed off of the chair and floated gracefully across the bridge to hover just over Ingram's shoulder. "Show me what you got," he told him.
"Stan," Braxton said, rolling his eyes upward, "there aren't any Henry's out there. I told you, I looked at his contact when he first reported it. It's nothing. Dolphin is going to be here any minute now and I for one don't want to pay for any buds back at Triad."
"Let me just take a look," the captain told him soothingly. "You're probably right but I'd like to just see what we're dealing with here. Ingram's not too bad at this technician shit." He considered for a moment. "For a greenie anyway."
Ingram let the insult slide off his back. It was something that he had a lot of experience with. He pointed to the screen where the tiny flicks of white were still occasionally showing themselves. He then had the computer replay the brief episode of blue. The captain watched all of this carefully, scowling as he absorbed it.
"Hmm," the captain said. "My green friend, it's probably nothing more than a few scraps of metal from an ancient booster or something, but it's definitely worth a closer look." He looked up at the other stations on the bridge. "Helm, roll us to 331 mark 70. Keep those thrusters at absolute minimum. Assume there's a Henry out there until we prove otherwise."
"Aye sir," the young helmsman responded, his fingers going to the controls.
While Braxton shook his head in disgust at the lack of attention being paid to the approach lane of the Dolphin, the maneuvering thrusters on the outside of the ship fired with minute blasts of burned hydrogen gas, slowly rolling the ship around on its axis so that the sensor arrays could point towards the contact.
"331mark 70, sir," the helmsman reported a minute later. "Holding steady."
"Thank you, helm," the captain said, still looking over Ingram's shoulder at the display. "Well, Ingram?" he asked. "Where's your contact now?"
"Focusing, sir," he replied, adjusting the gain on his terminal. After a moment, his efforts paid off. A few light blue lines appeared.
"Well look at that," the captain said wonderingly.
"What is it?" Braxton asked.
"Solid contact in the low infrared spectrum," Ingram reported. "Just a hint, but there."
Braxton switched his display over to get a duplicate view. He frowned at what he was seeing. "That's not very much of a hit," he said. "It could just be a sensor anomaly."
"It's the same spectrum as a Henry's hot spot near the plasma outlets," Ingram said.
"And it's definitely enough of a hit to investigate. Helm, get ready to move us a little. Let's see if we can get a range on this thing."
"Yes sir," the helmsman said.
"Ingram, designate a contact for that thing and put it on the big screen."
"Yes sir," he said, his fingers moving over his terminal. "We'll call it Sierra 21. It's now on the screen as an unknown, bearing only contact."
The captain pushed off of Ingram's chair and drifted back over to his own. "I've got the con," he told Braxton, hovering above him as the XO unstrapped himself and floated over to his own chair. Once he seated himself and strapped in he turned on the ship's intercom system. "All personnel," he said, his voice being amplified throughout the ship. "General quarters, prepare for acceleration and contact prosecution."
The general quarters alarm blared and on all decks men dropped what they were doing and stowed any loose items that were in their vicinity. Kitchen crews put away their knives and forks and pressure cookers. Cleaning crews (all of whom were Martians) stowed their rags and spray bottles. Everyone on board reached into small fanny packs that they wore around their waists and pulled out emergency decompression suits, which they unfolded and slipped on. In the event of a hull breach, these suits would automatically inflate and allow the person to survive for a short time in the vacuum that would result. Once in their suits, everyone propelled themselves as quickly as possible to their GQ station. The engine crewmen all assumed their stations in the reactor room. The torpedo room crews passed through a security access hatch and into the room where Mermaid's twelve thermonuclear torpedoes were stored. Two additional crewmen floated up to the bridge and assumed secondary terminals where they could control the four eighty millimeter anti-ship lasers and the two ten millimeter anti-torpedo/fighter lasers.
"All stations report manned and ready, captain," Braxton said three minutes after general quarters had been called.
"Very good," he replied, obviously a little perturbed about the slow response but keeping it to himself. "Helm," he said, "sound acceleration alarm and initiate a point one zero G burn. Heading 100 mark 50.
"Aye aye sir," the helmsman said, activated his maneuvering thrusters and sounding the acceleration alarm. Once the ship was pointed in the proper direction — a task that the computer oversaw rather than the human instructing it — the main engines began their burn. It was of course, not actually a burn since the method of propulsion was a fusion reaction acting against a propellant of liquid hydrogen, but the term, which was as old as space flight itself, remained in use.
Mila
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