Гарри Гаррисон - To The Stars

“All right. We can go home now.

Out of sight in the sky above, the flight of planes circled out over the ocean as they gained height; the airspace over Israel was too small for such a maneuver. There was no concern about radar detection here, but there were settlements and towns in the adjoining countries where people might hear and wonder what all the planes were doing up there in the night sky. When they crossed Israel again they were over six miles high, their engines inaudible on the ground below. In a formation of two stepped vees they turned southeast, flying down the length of the Red Sea.

Grigor looked out of the window of the plane and made tsk-tsk sounds with his tongue.

“Dvora,” he said, “what I see is not strictly kosher.”

“A drove of pigs?”

“Not even with my eyesight from this altitude.”

Grigor was a mathematician, very absentminded, possibly the worst soldier in Dvora’s squad. But he was a sharpshooter who never missed his target no matter what the pressure; an asset to be relied upon. “It’s where we are going. We’re supposed to be attacking Spaceconcent in the western United States — I know, don’t get excited. A big secret with the name removed from all the maps. A child could tell. Anyway, the North Star was very clear back there when we turned. So now we are going south so I wondered, something not quite kosher. Or these planes maybe have big fuel tanks to get to America by flying over the South Pole?”

“We are not taking the most direct route.”

“You can say that again, Dvorkila,” Vasil, the heavy weapons gunner, said.

They were leaning toward her from the seats in front and in back, listening.

“No secrets now,” another soldier said. “Who can we talk to about it?”

“I can tell you about this part of our course,” she said. “But no more until after we refuel. We are going south now, staying over the sea, but we’ll be turning west very soon over the Nubian desert. There is — or rather there was — a radar station in Khartoum — but that has been taken care of. It was the only one we had to worry about since there is not another one all the way across Africa, not until we get to Morocco…” Her voice died away,

“And then?” Grigor urged. “Something maybe to do with the big black cross I found on the side of this plane when I helped to tear the paper off it earlier tonight. Sailing under false colors like pirates?”

“It’s top secret…”

“Dvora, please!”

“You’re right, of course. It can’t do any harm now. We have, what you might call, agents placed high up in the UN government.” Or maybe they have us, she thought to herself. No doubts now. Even if this was a trap they had to go ahead with it, right to the bloody end. “So we know that German troops are being sent to help hold the space center in Mojave. We have their identification and their markings on our planes. We intend to take their place.”

“Not so easily done,” Grigor said. “I assume that there are other things that you are not telling us…”

“Yes. But I can add just one thing more. We are flying just one. hour ahead of the German planes. That’s why the delay on the takeoff. Exact timing is very important, since once we’re airborne we’re out of touch with the ground. From now on everything happens by schedule. So take some rest while you can.”

The dark map of Africa moved past slowly and steadily beneath them. Most of the men slept in the blacked-out planes, only the pilots were alertly awake and watching their instruments, monitoring the operation of the automatic pilots. General Blonstein, a qualified flyer himself, was in the pilot’s seat of the lead plane. From this height he could make out clearly the darkness of the Atlantic Ocean, coming into view beyond the pale deserts of Morocco. The receiver rustled.

“Rabat tower to Air Force flight four seven five. Do you read me?”

“Air Force flight four seven five. I read you, Rabat tower.”

The radio contact was just a formality, The ground station had already activated the transponder in every craft, completely automatically, which had returned all the recorded data including identification, route and destination.

“We have you cleared for the Azores, Air Forceflight.” There was the sound of mumbled voices for a moment. “We have a flag on your flight plan that you seem to be running fifty-nine, that is five niner minutes ahead of your filed flight plan.”

“Strong tail winds,” Blonstein said calmly, “Understood, Air Force flight. Out.”

There were other ears listening in on the ground control frequency, A burnoosed man concealed from sight in a grove of trees close to the coast highway, Paralleling the highway were the columns of a high tension electricity line. The man had been following the conversation closely, frowning as he concentrated on making out the words through the crackle of static on his cheap radio. He waited a few moments to be absolutely sure that the transmission was over. Nothing else followed. He nodded and bent down to press the button on the box at his feet.

A bright white flame lit up the night; a few seconds later the sound of the explosion reached him. One of the pylons in the 20,000 volt line leaned over, faster and faster, until it struck the ground. There was a colorful display of large sparks that went out quickly.

So did half the lights in Rabat. It was not by accident that the radio beacon station was included in this circuit as well.

The duty staff at Cruz del Luz airport on the island of Santa Maria were all soundly asleep. Very few planes had been stopping recently for refueling in the Azores, so the night shift had quickly become used to staying awake during the daytime hours. Admittedly someone had set the alarm bleeper, but that wasn’t really needed. The radio would wake them up.

It did. Captain Sarmiento was pulled from a deep and dream-free sleep by the amplified voice from the wall speaker. He stumbled over from the couch and banged his shins ruthlessly on the control station before he found the light switch.

“Cruz del Luz here, come in.” His voice was rough with sleep and he coughed and spat into the wastebasket while he groped through the printouts on his desk.

“This is Air Force flight four seven five requesting clearance fir landing.”

Sarmiento’s scrabbling fingers found the printout even while the voice was speaking; yes, the right one. “You are cleared for approach on runway one. I have a reading you are locked in to landing control.” He blinked at a figure on the sheet, then looked up at the clock. “Your arrival approximately one hour ahead of schedule Air Force flight…”

“The winds,” was the laconic reply.

Sarmiento dropped wearily into his chair and looked with disdain at his sleepy, shambling crew just entering the office. His temper burned strongly,

“Sons of whores! A major refueling, the first in six months, a most important wartime occasion and you lie around like swine in a sty.”

Sarmiento continued enthusiastically in this manner while his staff hurried, hunch-shouldered, about their duties. This was good employment and they wanted to do nothing to jeopardize it.

The runway lights came on brightly as the fire engine raced along it to take position at the end of the runway, Out of the darkness the beams of landing lights speared in and the first of the arrivals thundered overhead to slap down to the runway’s surface. One after another they landed, and once on the ground were guided automatically to the refueling points. Every bit of the operation was computer-controlled. Engines were cut and brakes applied at the proper spot. A TV camera rose up from each refueling well and scanned the undersurface of the wing above, locating the fuel access port. Once identified and pinpointed the smoothly articulated arm could open the cover and insert the hose so that pumping could begin. Sensors in each tank assured that there would be no overflow or spillage. While this industrious robot activity was taking placc all of the big planes remained dark and quiet, sealed tight. Except for the command ship. The door on this one opened, the entrance stairs ground out and settled into place. A man in uniform came quickly down them and strode firmly down the length of the refueling stations. Something drew his attention to one of the pits, he bent over and looked close. His back was to the tower, the underpart of his body in shadow, the package that slipped from his jacket dropped into the well, unseen. He stood, brushed his clothing straight, then continued on toward the illuminated control tower.