Sumair
The periscope feed shook again as two more medium-range missiles departed my boat, arcing for the coast line, “Missiles away, telemetry is active, guidance hand-off imminent,” the weapons officer reported. “Diving officer, make your depth 100 meters, resume patrol.” His orders were acknowledged and he felt the vessel shift beneath his feet. This was the fourth launch of the morning, but the pace had been slowing some since we had arrived on station a week ago.
Everything was slower by then. The tide had turned in Asia and the resistance was fleeing into the Eastern hills of Australia, hunted by aerial and land-based drones. Their overseers calling for and providing terminal guidance to sea-based missiles. It was an effective way to clean out the rest of the INSC without direct combat. Though it was ‘less than lively.’
The submarine leveled off and returned to her normal patrol speed, randomizing her course through multiple grids, but maintaining a general position in the local area. “Sir, positive terminal guidance hand-off confirmed, time to targets, plus 10, and plus 15 seconds.” By the time I had finished storing the periscope both targets were gone. Erased from this plane of existence. I never saw them, only passed the echoed ‘Good Effects’ over the very low frequency circuits.
With a truncated sigh I departed wordlessly for my cabin, leaving the conn in the capable hands of my over-enthusiastic executive officer. Eager to participate in the last months of a conflict that would end an age. When the door closed, I keyed the intercom to my XO’s earpiece, “Alert me, if we receive another fire mission.”
“I will immediately sir!” It made the corner of my mouth twitch in disgust. This wasn’t what I wanted anymore. Not this playful wading in permissive waters, lobbing arrows over the wall. There was no more hunting. All the sport was gone, and to the victors go the chores. I wasted away the minutes perusing the weekly forecasts on my terminal when there was a sharp knock on my door.
“Andrew, what brings you to me? Shouldn’t you be chasing comm-bursts?” My senior cryptologist and code-breaker did not hear the jab and was visibly distracted. “Sir, I received something for you. A piece of hardware. It was routed to our department in routine publication packaging resulting in this delayed delivery.”
He looked down at the deck plates, “I don’t have the clearance for it, and as far as I can tell its biometrically encrypted to you. Though I’m not sure how.” He handed me what looked like a disposable tablet computer with no keys and a single indentation for what looked like a thumbprint. Taking it, I dismissed the lieutenant and sat at my fold-down desk with the device. Truly puzzled for the first time in months.
I had submitted my refusal of higher command several weeks ago, and had already received acknowledgement from URE FLEETCOM, agreeing to leave me to my boat. What could this be? I made tea and let my mind work, gaze flitting back to the small black tablet sitting by itself. When no worthy ideas presented themselves, I sat down again, placing my thumb in the indentation. The device beeped, and a small sting ran through my hand. After taking my blood the screen came to life, text scrolling by as fast as I could read.
With each new piece of information consumed by my eyes, my mind and pulse increased speed. Some things now made sense, but other, larger questions loomed large. How is something like this begun? Who set this in motion? Why? The mere cost of a project of this scale before the war was over was…egregious. I wanted to know. I needed to know.
I read it through once more and sent my acquiescence. The tablet chortled, then promptly wiped itself completely. A small metallic crunching sound came from its interior. Leaning back, I thought of the endless sun-filled sky passing by above, and the new path before me.
My name is Raphael Sumair, and that’s when I knew the game had changed.
