Von Neumann’s War

Time: Present minus twenty years

The teachers looked up at the rocket towering over the exhibit and then at each other.

“Duct tape?” the female teacher asked. Usually she taught junior high school science classes, especially “female health” and “earth sciences.” It was the first time she’d ever seen a… what was it the boy called it… a “sounding rocket.”

“Only for support of the outer casing,” the young man said, smiling broadly and scratching at his nearly white hair. “The primary casing is cardboard. I wanted to make a rocket entirely from discarded and readily available materials. The term is ‘off-the-shelf.’ NASA hardly ever uses anything that anyone else uses and I think that’s a damn shame. There are so many things around that you can make rockets out of. The igniter is a spark plug from my daddy’s old Chevy. The energy components, the fuel, are made from common household materials. I made the fins in shop class when we were working with sheet metal; I brought in a hood off a car in my Uncle Bubba’s backyard and cut it up. You can see the original paint! And the payload is a sodium tracer round made out of an old Jack Daniels bottle I found under the porch.”

“So, when are you planning on putting the fuel in?” she asked.

“Well, it’s solid fuel,” Roger Reynolds replied, as if she were dense. “You can’t just pull it out and put it in.”

“So… it’s fueled?” the woman squeaked. She suddenly realized that all the, many, rocket scientists who were judging the Northern Alabama High School Science Fair had chosen to examine exhibits a long way away from this one.

“Well… duh.”

Roger went on to the International Science and Engineering Fair where he placed in the top five overall and first in his category. He also won a scholarship and a job at the NASA Marshall Space Flight Center. There he was described on his performance evaluation as “precocious.” In private he was described as “that young snot-nosed pain in the ass. And keep him away from the fuel…”

Time: Present minus one year — first Russian Mars probe failure

As the improvised explosive device turned his lead Humvee into expensive confetti, Captain Shane Gries, USA, took just one more moment to consider how very much he hated all academic eggheads.

Captain Gries was tall, 6’ 2’’, and slim, with a square cut jaw, mild blue eyes and light brown hair cut to stubble at the sides. Behind his back his men called him “The Greyhound” both for his looks and his running speed on morning PT. He had been raised in the Iron Range of Michigan, one of the coldest, snowiest and hardest localities in the entire United States. As a teenager, he’d spent more time hunting the massive bucks to be found in the Iron Range than he had cracking books. Despite that fact, his grades were excellent. Between those, and a friendly congressman, he had gotten an appointment to the United States Military Academy in West Point,‹http://www.neighborhoodwatch.gov›New York. His ability at track and field hadn’t hurt.

At West Point he’d studied another type of hunting, the hunting of armed enemies of the United States. And he’d studied hard ever since. His first unit assignment as a brand new shavetail lieutenant had been to the First Infantry Division two days before it crossed the Line of Departure and entered Iraq in the first Gulf War. He’d been sent in to replace another lieutenant who had “cracked under pressure” at the thought of actually being in combat.

He’d been carefully instructed by his company commander on his duties the day he arrived. In a flash, as he always did when the shit hit the fan, he recalled the lecture as the first rounds from the ambush cracked across the road.