The Future War

In addition, Chu had monitored a civilian broadcast by a woman named Sarah Connor, who had described the situation with terrifying accuracy. Unbeknownst to the general public, every navy ship recently refitted with a complex new cyberbrain had found itself firing missiles with no executive orders to do so and wandering the sea- lanes helplessly as their crews starved.

His old lady had been at the bottom of the list to be refitted; she was an OWo-class missile sub originally equipped with Trident missiles, but converted to a commando carrier with a hundred SEALs aboard. They would have been in San Diego when the bombs dropped but for an accident that had required fairly extensive patching, delaying their departure from Okinawa for a critical two weeks.

Chu had been looking forward to having a better job done at the naval facility in California; now it looked like she'd bear those scars on her nose for the rest of her days. And yet he was grateful for that accident; though he pitied those who'd lost family in California, he was not sorry to be alive himself.

They were all but out of food now and other sundries. Most West Coast ports in the United States were so much rubble, and what research could be done from the ship indicated that the East Coast wasn't much better. Nor were the coasts in China, Japan, Russia, or Europe.

South America, however, had possibilities. Which was why they were here in Comodoro Rivadavia—major city, good port facilities, and a history of friendly relations with the United States. Not that that necessarily meant much in these post-nuclear-holocaust days.

Bob Vaughan, the XO, knocked and stuck his head through the door of Chu's ready room—which was about the size of a walk-in closet. A submarine was still a sub, even if it displaced as much as the HMS Dreadnought.

'There's a delegation from the city to see you, Captain.'

'Right there,' Chu said. He sat for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then picked up his hat and followed the executive officer up on deck. He'd decide about letting people through the hatchway later.

Waiting on the dock were a number of impatient-looking men in good suits and one guy in a military uniform with some very impressive medals on his chest. They looked up at Chu, obviously waiting for an invitation. The temperature was chilly enough to make you remember that the seasons were reversed in the southern hemisphere, not to mention the gunk still circulating in the upper atmosphere.

No honor guard or suchlike, Chu thought. He was surprised; they looked like the kind of men who enjoyed ceremony. He walked down to the end of the gangway—which did have armed guards, his own men—and nodded to the delegation.

'Gentlemen,' the captain prompted.

'We'd like a few words with you, Captain?' a particularly sleek specimen said in excellent English.

Chu wasn't sure if the question was a request for his name or confirmation of his rank. Both, probably. 'I'm Thaddeus Chu,'

he said. 'Captain, USS Roosevelt. And I'll be happy to speak to you gentlemen. You're welcome to board, but I must remind you that if you do come aboard you are entering United States territory.'

The delegation stared up at him for some time without moving or speaking. Then their spokesman, who had not deigned to identify himself, took a step forward.

'You must know, Mr. Chu,' he said, with a frown that probably hid some inward glee, 'that the United States has effectively ceased to exist.'

'It's Captain Chu, sir. And you may find that assessment to be premature.'

'Come, come, Captain. The U.S. is all but hammered flat, in all probability never to rise again. If you didn't think so yourself, you wouldn't have stopped here.' He gave the captain a smug smile. 'Would you?'

Chu looked down at him with a sinking heart and a poker face. He honestly hadn't expected it to be easy, but he'd hardly expected them to be so blatant. 'You are welcome to board, gentlemen, with the understanding that upon boarding you are in U.S. territory.'

The men on the dock looked at one another and conferred quietly. Then the spokesman stepped forward once more.

'Perhaps we should leave you to contemplate your options, Captain,' he said. He gestured toward the mouth of the harbor.

Chu's eyes widened as he watched a huge oil tanker slide into place behind the Roosevelt. He turned to stare at the grinning men on the dock.

'Just send us a message when you're prepared to be reasonable.' The man waved affably and the whole group turned and walked away.

The captain crossed his arms over his chest and watched them go in disbelief. When he'd pulled into this berth his biggest worry had been how he was going to pay for supplies. Now he was faced with capitulation to as- yet-unknown terms or doing something pretty vile. Though with a hundred SEALs aboard, he should be able to limit any necessary damage.

But damn! I don't want to go down in history as a pirate.

Nor did he want to be remembered for simply surrendering his ship. His father had arrived in the United States from South Vietnam via a rickety boat and a stiff brush with Thai pirates.

He didn't intend to start the family saga over again in Latin America.

Reasonable, my royal Asian-American ass! he thought, and turning went below. 'Get me Commander Smith,' he half snarled.

* * *

Sarah watched the show through binoculars; Comodoro fortunately had a nice selection of high places from which to view all the kingdoms of the earth—or at least of Patagonia. She didn't need to be a lip-reader to work out what had happened. As soon as she'd seen that tanker on the move, she'd guessed how this conference was going to end. The sub was neatly trapped and there wasn't a lot the captain could do about it. Nothing civilized anyway. Clearly they needed help.

Sarah turned and walked away. She had a number of arrangements to make, and information to acquire.

And I'm not all that civilized, either, she thought.

* * *

After a cheerless supper of steamed rice and water, Chu had retired to his cabin to 'consider his options.' Which prospect made him glad of his bland meal. He had decided not to allow shore leave as he'd originally planned in hopes of allowing the men to find their own more substantial dinners. It was a sure bet that any American leaving the Roosevelt would be immediately arrested.

Of course, then at least they'd get a square meal.

There was a tap on the door.

'Enter,' Chu called out.

'Sir,' his XO said, 'there's a message for you, but you'll have to take it at the decoder terminal.'

The captain raised his brows. It was a rare message that couldn't be patched through to his quarters. 'A message from command?'

'No, sir. It's being transmitted via the hydrophones—modulated sonic from outside the hull. Expertly blurred—the sonar watch can't give a location.'

'Who is it from?' he asked, with a spurt of well-concealed alarm. If the locals have frogmen outside the hull with limpet mines, we are fucked.

The younger man looked at Chu and swallowed, more emotion than he usually showed in a week; he was very black, and stress thickened the Mississippi gumbo of his accent. 'She says she's Sarah Connor, sir. The message could be coming from anywhere.'

Chu rose and followed his second-in-command down the narrow corridor. Avoiding the jagged bits that stuck out ready to tear your uniform or bang your elbow, and color-coded conduits, was second nature, but he did appreciate shoreside fresh air. The big boomers didn't develop a ripe stink like the old-time pigboats, but things did get sort of stale after a few weeks submerged.

And sailors get sort of thin without food, he thought grimly.

Let's hope this Sarah Connor can help.

* * *

Sarah floated beside the sub waiting to hear from the captain; it would have been dark fifteen feet down in