“I’m surprised the space drive couldn’t pull away,” Weaver said. “But when we stopped trying to fly, it stopped trying to kill us. I call that a tie if not a win.”
“Dr. Robertson has some poisons,” Dr. Beach said, his brow furrowing. “But I’m not sure which would work on this thing. And then there’s the matter of getting them… emplaced.”
“The thing ate Wyverns like they were candy,” Miller said, flexing his jaw. “And there ain’t but two Wyvern qualified people onboard anymore. I’ll go.”
“I don’t think poisons will work,” Weaver said. “But, yeah, it looks like a Wyvern job. We’re just going to have to be… sneaky.”
“What’s this ‘we’ maulk, White Man,” Miller said, shrugging. “If not poison, then we blow that sucker up. Maybe the minis weren’t doing much to it, but you put some octocellulite on that thing and it’s going to go up like a fish with an M-80 in its gut.”
The plastic explosive was an updated version of the venerable Composition Four. Named for the eight tightly packed chemical bonds that gave it its explosive “punch,” it was about twice as powerful as C-4 or Semtek.
“Oooo,” Miriam said. “That’s not nice!”
The linguist and Mimi had been called in as part of the “science” team. The CO was beginning to regret the decision.
“If you have any suggestions, Miss Moon,” Spectre said, controlling his temper. “We’d love to hear them. But we can’t implement the chief’s suggestion. There isn’t any octocellulite onboard.”
“What?” Miller said. “I mean, ‘What, sir?’ ”
“Chemical explosives were deemed too unstable,” Bill said dryly.
“Wait,” Miller said. “We’ve got quarkium on-board and a space drive that, if you hit it with a spark, can wipe out a solar system. But we don’t have octocellulite?”
“I was in the meeting,” Weaver said. “You should have heard me scream. It was the last meeting we told NASA about.”
“Holy crap,” Miller moaned. “Who is running this Navy?”
“Next time I’ll put up a stronger argument,” the CO said. “In the meantime… Yes, Miss Jones, you have a suggestion?”
“No,” Mimi said, nudging Miriam. “But Miss Moon does.”
“No…” Miriam said, ducking her head.
“Go ahead,” Mimi said. “You can do it.”
“Please, Miss,” the CO said, as politely and calmly as possible. “If it would help…”
“Tickle it,” Miriam said in a very small voice.
“Tickle it?” the XO said, laughing.
“There’s a patch on the underside,” Miriam said, looking up and going from half crying to furious at the laugh. “In experiments, applied gargalesthesia to a specified nerve point rendered the subject crabpus immobile for a measured period of four seconds. During that period its appendages became limp and flaccid, Commander White. It would allow the boat to escape, which is, as I understood it, the purpose of this meeting.”
“Gagala…” the CO said. “What?”
“The technical term for tickling,” Dr. Beach said. “Actually the sensation of tickling rather than the act. Interesting suggestion.”
“This was more like a stroke or a rub,” Miriam said. “Applying a strong stroking pressure to the area may cause the creature to release the boat. Crabs have the same reaction. It’s apparently something to do with reproduction. But it should go to sleep for a few seconds. And it won’t have to be blown up like a ‘fish with an M-80 in its guts.’ Oooo!”
“So, my mission,” Miller said, leaning forward, rubbing his forehead and looking at the conference table. “And let me get this straight. My mission is to get in my little Wyvern. Go out under pressure underwater, which I’m not sure the Wyvern’s been certified for. Try not to get eaten by a beast that’s already crunched at least three suits. And stroke that little crab in a sensitive spot related to reproduction?”
“Sounds like,” Weaver replied, clearing his throat.
“In my twenty-three years as a United States Navy SEAL, I never could have envisioned… But, hell, all the Marines are gone so I guess if somebody’s got to go stroke a crab’s…”
“And I think we need to do this,” Weaver said. “That’s a big crab. It’s gonna be a big spot. And, frankly, sir,” he continued, looking at the CO. “I think we’re gonna need some tools.”
“Right,” the CO said, his eyes wide. “A giant vibrator?”
“We are going to need something that we can… gargalize this thing’s… plate with, sir,” Weaver said.
The CO opened and shut his mouth for a moment, then looked at the chief of boat.
“Chief?”
“Yes, sir?” the chief asked stoically.
“Make it so.”
“Knew you were gonna say that, sir,” the COB said with a sigh.
“We need to gargalize this species’ pad so it will release the boat,” the chief of boat said, looking at the group gathered in the missile room.
The COB wasn’t a tech guy. He’d come up through, of all things, the supply department. But he knew the submarine service. And when you had a really knotty problem, the machinist mates were the guys to brainstorm with. Machinist mates hardly realized that there was a box.
But they had very small vocabularies.
“Gargalize?” Sub Dude asked. “You want us to make it gargle?”
“It means tickle it,” the COB said tightly. “More like rub its tummy. There’s a sensitive patch down there…”
The good thing about the machinist mates, the COB had to admit, was that they were perfectly fine with having a technical discussion of tickling a giant crab while standing around on a deck that was canted at a twenty-degree angle, deep under water, with leaks all over the ship, while said crab was trying to eat the boat.
“Like a crab?” Red asked. “Isn’t that related to breeding or something?”
“I don’t think anybody’s ever proven that,” Sub Dude argued, sucking his teeth. “I think that’s more like a hypothesis. The last time I read a study on it…”
The bad thing was that keeping them on topic was nearly impossible…
“It doesn’t matter!” the COB shouted. “We just need something to rub its damned tummy. Something big!”
“I’m sure we can blage something up,” Sub Dude said.
“God, I hate that term,” the COB moaned.
“How about a mop?” Red asked. “I know there’s a mop around here somewhere…”
“Wait!” Tchar said, waving his arms. “I have just the thing!”
The Adar darted to the end of the canted missile compartment and dove into his quarters. The Adar quarters took up about ten percent of the total mission specialist section and was on the lowest floor, opening on the missile compartment. It was the only way he could get to the engineering room.
He emerged a moment later with two large flat mops. The heads were about a meter across, bright orange and had the logo of a noted cleaner on the bottom. The handle was about a meter and a half long and clearly designed to extend.
“Vibro Mops!” Tchar said, proudly, holding them up. “Free with your order of the Mono Kitchen Knife Set! Only twenty-nine, ninety-five for seven monomolecular kitchen knives and a free Vibro Mop, guaranteed to clean even the messiest kitchen floor!”
“Why do you have two?” Red asked, scratching his head.
“The first set of knives did not cut through a diamond as they promised,” Tchar said. “So I ordered another set to try it again.”