Гарри Гаррисон - To The Stars

“It appears that there is a secret weapon,” Onyegin said.

“What is it?”

A secret, Onyegin was tempted to say, but not tempted very much since he greatly valued his life. “Inert material of some kind that has been launched into orbit to meet us. What kind of material it is and how it is projected to reach us is still unknown.”

“Will there be more?”

“I would presume so, though of course we cannot know. They might have expended their effort in their single try…”

“More defense missiles. Launch them instantly!”

“They seemed to have no effect at all the first time, Admiral. If we expend them now we will not have them later when we need.”

He fell, struck to the floor by Kapustin’s open-handed blow. “Are you disobeying orders? Are you interfering with my command of this fleet?”

“Never! I apologize… just advice… never happen again.” Onyegin pulled himself to his feet; a runnel of blood twisted across his face. “Put out an umbrella of defense missiles…”

“All of them! This weapon must be stopped.”

Even as the command was uttered the missiles were launched. Onyegin wiped his sleeve across his mouth, smearing his uniform jacket with blood, unaware of it. What else could they do? There must be some action they could take, the fool of an Admiral was incompetent, the officers and men too much in fear of him to make any suggestions that might draw attention to them.

“Might I suggest evasive action as well, Admiral. It could be more effective than the missile defenses. Whatever the rebel’s weapon is, it is unpowered, there were no radiations of any kind detected before it hit. Therefore it must be launched into its trajectory, If we altered speed there is a good chance the weapons would miss.”

“What — slow down? Do you take me for a coward?”

“No, sir. Of course not. Speeding up would have the same effect. Hurrying forward into battle:’

“Perhaps. Issue the order in any case. It can do no harm.”

“Cease firing with the big cannons,” Admiral Skougaard ordered. “They’ve increased their speed so the last bombardment will miss, go behind them. But we made them suffer. Look at that screen. We seem to have hit a good quarter of them. The next barrage will finish them off. Are we in range of the small guns yet?”

“Coming up in thirty-two seconds, sir,” the ranging and aiming operator said.

“Commence firing then. I want a wall of iron out there for them to run into.”

The spiderweb turrets were in constant, minute and precise motion, pointing their tubular guns at the selected point in space. They were built of a simple array of girders upon which were mounted the launching tubes of the rocket guns. Flexible plastic tubes ran from the breech of each gun and back to the ship, carrying forward a continuous supply of the small steel rockets. It was a crude, fast — but deadly efficient weapon.

When the measured point in space was reached, the firing circuits were actuated. Electronic ignition set off the rocket shell lodged in every breech. When these had hurtled away the next shells were moved into position, then the next. Since there was no need to lock and unlock the open breech, no shell casings to eject, the rate of fire was incredible, limited only by the mechanical speed of the loading magazine. In each gun an average of 60 rockets were pushed forward and fired every second, 480 from every turret. A total of 197 turrets had been built and installed in a feverish rush before the fleet had left, the final connections on many of them actually being completed en route. The effort had been worth it.

Every second 94,560 rocket slugs flamed out from the guns. Two and one third tonnes of steel. When the firing stopped at the end of one minute, over 141 tonnes of flying metal had been launched toward the Earth fleet. Corrections had been constantly made in the aim during the firing, including a computation that would allow for a certain amount of evasion by the enemy if they should fire their jets.

Outward, further and further the invisible mass sped, a sparkling fog on the radar screens that quickly vanished. The same computer that had aimed the missiles now counted down toward their moment of arrival. First the minutes, then the seconds, hurrying steadily backward toward zero. Now!

“My God…” Jan gasped as the optical screen lit up with the multiple explosions. All of the defensive missiles had been activated at approximately the same moment by the mass of steel. Space was on fire with atomic and chemical blasts, clouds of flame that expanded and merged as though to screen the destruction and tragedy that was happening behind it.

As the attackers sped past the still growing cloud they could see the enemy fleet. Admiral Skougaard had his guns aimed and missiles ready. After one glance he ordered them to stand down. He turned in silence from the screen; he had known most of the men who had died; they had been his comrades.

Where once a fleet of spaceships had been there now existed only torn and jumbled metal debris. Mixed in with it was the exploded flesh of Admiral Kapustin along with that of every man who had sailed with him. The defensive fleet had ceased to exist, both squadrons destroyed in the same manner, within seconds of each other.

The two clouds of wreckage and fragments were quickly left behind.

Ahead lay Earth.

“I should be getting to my plane now,” Dvora said. “All of the others are aboard.”

She had grown tired of sitting in the car and had climbed out to lean against its side. The night was warm, the stars flickering brilliantly in the rising air currents. Although the airport was blacked out, the dark silhouettes of the big transports were visible where they were lined up along the runway, Her ammunition bag, machine pistol and helmet were at her side. Amri Ben-Haim stood next to her, the bowl of his pipe a glowing spark in the darkness.

“There is no rush, Dvora,” he said. “There are thirty minutes at least to takeoff. Your soldiers are grown men, no need to hold their hands.”

“Grown men!” she sniffed expressively, “Farmers and university professors. How well will they behave when there are real bullets coming their way?”

“Very well, I am sure. Their training has been the best. Like yours. You just have had some field experiences that they have not. Rely on them…

“Message coming through,” the driver said as his radio beeped for attention.

“Accept with my code identification,” Ben-Haim said.

There was a murmured interchange. The driver leaned out the window. “A two word message. Beth doar.”

“Post office!” Ben-Haim said. “They’ve done it. Taken out the Khartoum station. Tell Blonstein that the situation, to use his favorite expression, is go. Then get to your plane. You shouldn’t be hanging around out here.”

Dvora had her helmet on, her microphone activated, the message passed. “Yes… yes, General. I’ll do that.” She turned to Ben-Haim. “A communication for you from General Blonstein. He says to keep an eye on Israel for him. He’d like to find it here when he gets back.”

“So would I. When you talk to him next say I told you that was up to him, not me. I’ll be sitting on my porch waiting for results. That is just as long as I have a porch to sit on.” Dvora gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and was gone, the sound of her running feet vanishing in the darkness toward the planes.

Ben-Haim watched quietly as, one by one, the engines of the massive planes burst into rumbling life. Exhausts spat tongues of flame that quickly died away as their throttles were adjusted. The first craft was already moving, picking up speed, faster and faster until it hurled itself into the air. The others were just seconds behind. Both runways were in use; a steady flow of rushing dark shapes that suddenly ended. The thunder of their engines diminished, died, and silence returned. Ben-Haim’s pipe was dead; he tapped it against his heel to knock out the ashes. He felt neither sorrow nor elation, just a great weariness after the days of preparation and tension. It was done, the die cast, no changes were possible now. He turned to the car.