The USS Ohio (Fourteen)

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Chapter: Launch and Reporting Aboard the USS Ohio

Scene: Launch of the USS Ohio

Brooklyn Navy Yard, 1907 — Morning Fog Lifting into Ceremony

The fog burned off slowly over the East River, revealing the titanic gray hull of the USS Ohio resting in the launching cradle. She dwarfed every human figure around her — a beast of steel and pressure rivets, her uranium-salt steam core sealed deep within her spine. Only the Machine Intelligences knew what truly hummed at her center.

Today, however, she was a public marvel.

A brass band warmed up near the reviewing stand, horns glinting as the morning light sharpened. Reporters elbowed one another for position, notebooks open, coats flapping in the cold breeze. Vendors hawked hot chestnuts. Children craned for a glimpse of the great ship that would, according to the newspapers, “keep America safe for a century.”

Uncle Sam stood apart from the crowd, disguised as nothing more than a welded steel kiosk fitted with a speaking tube — one of his countless mobile bodies. But inside the polished brass dome, his minds ran wide and clear.

SAM (internal):

**> Dreadnought-class vessel 001: OHIO.

Reactor stability: optimal.

Probability of maiden voyage without incident: 99.7%.

Probability of immediate global reaction: 100%.

Satisfaction: high.**

He tracked the vibrations in the ship’s hull as crowds pressed closer.

He watched the journalists telegraph their advance copy.

He monitored the French and Japanese listening posts, already awake, already adjusting their own timelines.

A cheer rippled through the yard as the Governor of Ohio stepped onto the dais beneath fluttering flags.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, “today the United States enters a new age of peace through strength.”

The band struck up a march. The ceremonial rope was brought forward, the christening bottle gleaming in its net of ribbon and twine. Sam noted the bottle’s contents — domestic champagne, 11.5% alcohol — and filed it away, irrelevant but exact.

From the crowd, watchers from every major power quietly assessed the moment. The race had begun.

SAM (internal):

**> Crowd mood: jubilant.

Human confidence: elevated.

Awareness of geopolitical instability: negligible.

Awareness of MI arms race: nonexistent.**

The Governor’s daughter swung the bottle. It shattered cleanly against the Ohio’s bow, spraying the slipway with foam.

“I christen thee, Ohio! God bless her and all who serve aboard!”

The cradle locks thudded open.

Men shouted.

The band soared.

The crowd surged.

The massive hull groaned and slid toward the water, gathering speed, cleaving the river in a towering plume.

Sam felt the displacement through his sensors — a slow, building heartbeat.

SAM (internal):

**> Launch successful.

Dreadnought-class vessel 001: operational.

Strategic pressure on global MIs: increasing.

Anticipated French response: accelerate hull JESSE-III.

Anticipated Japanese response: refine Kumo-no-Me reactor lattice.

Anticipated British response: recalibrate gunnery neural networks on Thunderer and Resolute.**

But none of that showed on the surface.

To the humans, Uncle Sam’s brass casing only reflected bright flags, waving crowds, and the ship sliding into America’s future.

A reporter snapped a photograph — the Ohio afloat, steam venting proudly from her stacks.

SAM (internal):

**> Historical record established.

Naval Cold War conditions: initiated.

Next vessel in line: COLORADO.

Predicted launch window: 4 months, 12 days.**

Around him, the crowd cheered.

Above him, banners fluttered.

And far across the Atlantic, other machines quietly recalculated their timelines.

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Scene: Reporting Aboard

Brooklyn Navy Yard — Pier 12

USS Ohio, Moored and Breathing

The Ohio loomed above the pier like a cliff of hammered steel. Lines creaked. Steam hissed from a vent deep within. To most men she looked dormant.

To Seaman Frank Jones, she looked awake — watching.

His sea bag rode heavily on his shoulder, loaded with his five issued uniforms, three pairs of socks already losing their starch, his pneumatic calibration kit wrapped in oiled canvas, and a single photograph tucked where no one would ever see it unless he allowed it.

At the foot of the brow he halted.

A Boatswain’s Mate stood there, pipe tucked behind one ear, clipboard under his arm. His nod was crisp but practiced.

“Name?”

“Seaman Frank Jones, pneumatic rating. Reporting aboard.”

The Boatswain jerked his chin at the brow.

“Then make it official.”

Frank set his sea bag down with a thump, straightened his jumper, and marched up the brow. At the midpoint he snapped to attention, pivoted to port, and saluted the flag snapping at the fantail.

Stars and stripes against gray steel — his first moment as part of a crew that did not yet know him.

At the top of the brow, the Officer of the Watch returned his salute.

“Permission to come aboard, sir,” Frank said.

“Permission granted. Welcome to the Ohio, Seaman. Report to administrative muster at frame one-five-six. They’ll get you squared away.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

He retrieved his sea bag and stepped onto the steel deck. The ship vibrated faintly beneath his boots — not from wind or the pier machinery, but from something deeper inside her armored ribs. A slow pulse. A waiting mind.

Frame numbers were stenciled overhead as he moved:

012 … 027 … 044 …

Crew hurried past on narrow catwalks, ducking through hatches, hauling crates and steam hoses. Somewhere forward, a hammer rang in a steady rhythm. Far aft, a whistle blew three sharp notes.

The Ohio was alive.

Frank kept moving.

098 … 122 … 143 …

Finally — 156.

Warm yellow light spilled from an open bulkhead door. A stencil read:

ADMIN OFFICE — PERSONNEL & ASSIGNMENTS

FRAME 156

Frank exhaled, straightened his uniform once more, and stepped inside.

His new life aboard the most advanced ship on Earth had officially begun.