Гарри Гаррисон - To The Stars

Sarmiento blinked up at the officer and felt slightly grubby, The man’s black uniform was pressed and smooth, the buttons and gold braid gleaming in the light. A maltese cross hung about his neck, there were decorations on his breast, a glass lens covered one eye. Sarmiento climbed to his feet, impressed.

“Sprechen sie Deutsch?” the man said.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t understand what you are saying.” The officer scowled, then continued in thickly accented Portuguese.

“I am here to sign the receipted form,” he said.

“Yes, to be sure excellency,” Sarmiento waved in the direction of the computer bank. “But that will not be ready. until all of the refueling is complete.”

The officer nodded curtly, then strode up and down the office; Sarmiento found important work to do. They both turned when the bell rang and the completed form was ejected.

“Here, and here if you please,” Sarmiento said, pointing out the correct places, not even looking at the papers himself. “Thank you very much.” He tore off the bottom copy and passed it over, happy to see the man turn and stamp away toward his waiting aircraft. Only when he was safely aboard did Sarmiento pick up the forms to file them. Strange names these foreigners had. Hard to read the angular script. Looked like Schickelgruber… Adolph Schickelgruber.

Urgent hands pulled the officer through the door, closing it almost on his heels.

“How much time?” he asked, urgently,

“About twenty-eight minutes yet. We have to get airborne before they make radio contact.”

“They might be behind schedule…”

“They could be ahead of it if our imaginary tailwind is real. We can’t take any chances.”

The first planes were already off the runway, vanishing up into the night. The lead plane was the last one to go, following the others out into the darkness. But instead of reaching for altitude it made a long circle out over the ocean and returned to the airfield. Throttled back, flying low, making a pass down the runway.

“There’s the fire engine, back in the barn already,” someone said.

“And the rest of the men still in the building, no, there’s one at the door, waving,” General Blonstein said. “Let’s give him a blink of our lights to say farewell.” This time they continued out across the ocean to the west. Blonstein pressed the earphones to his head, listening, praying for time. Still all right, nothing, no other calls yet. “That’s enough,” he finally said, flipping up a red cover and thumbing the button beneath it.

Sarmiento heard the strange thud and looked up at the window just as the column of flame jutted high into the air. The aviation fuel burned brilliantly, Alarms sounded on all sides, the printers chattered, the radio burst to life with prerecorded emergency messages.

The German troop carriers had just cleared the African coast when the message came through.

“New course, the commander said, summoning up a map on the screen. “Some sort of accident, message didn’t go into details. Anyway, we’re cleared now for Madrid:’

The commander was concerned about the new vector and the status of fuel in his tanks. He never thought to call through to Cruz del Luz airport; that was no concern of his now. Therefore the worried, frightened and tremendously upset Captain Sarmiento was spared one other problem in addition to the ones that now tormented him. He would not have to worry about how two flights that night had been scheduled to arrive with the same flight numbers and identical descriptions.

“That is the first half of the job completed,” Admiral Skougaard said with satisfaction as the debris of the enemy fleet vanished behind them. “It went far better than I had hoped. Did as well as Nelson did at Cape Trafalgar, better if you consider the fact that I am still alive. And we suffered not a scratch, unless you count the man with a broken foot where one of our cannonballs dropped on it. Course corrections?”

“Computed, sir,” the operator said. “Engines will be firing in a little over four minutes.”

“Excellent. As soon as we are in our new orbits I want the watches below to stand down and eat.” He turned to Jan. “Privilege of rank; I’m having mine now. Join me?”

Food had been the farthest thing from Jan’s mind up to that moment. But as the tension of the past hours drained away he realized that it had been a long time between meals. “I’ll be happy to join you, Admiral.”

The table was already laid when they entered the Admiral’s private quarters, the chef himself putting the last of the food on the table. The Admiral and the chef exchanged some remarks in a guttural and incomprehensible tongue, laughing together at a throaty witticism.

“Smorgasbord,” Jan said, eyes widening. “I haven’t seen that since — why I don’t remember when.”

“Stor hold bord,” Admiral Skougaard corrected. “The Swedish term has taken over in the popular mind, but it is not the same thing at all. We Danes enjoy our food. I always ship out with my larder full. Growing empty now, he sighed. “We had better win this war quickly, Here’s to victory,”

They toasted each other with tiny glasses of frigid akvavit, downing them in a gulp. The chef instantly refilled them from the bottle — frozen into its own cake of ice on the table. Thickly buttered rye bread was heaped high with lashings of herring in endless variety. Cold beef with grated horseradish, caviar with raw egg, more and more and all washed down with bottles of cold Danish beer. Theirs was the appetite of victory — of survival as well. In defeating the enemy they had extended their own existences a bit more into the future. Eat and drink; the morrow would come soon enough.

Over coffee, with just enough room left to nibble a bit of cheese, their thoughts returned irresistibly to the final phase of the battle.

“Would you believe that I had the computer programmed for at least two dozen future plans, depending upon the outcome of the battle?” Skougaard said. “And of all of them I came up with the best. Number one. So my next problem is how to keep that plan a secret from the enemy’s reserves. Let me show you.”

He arranged the salt cellar, mustard pot, knives and forks upon the table top. “Here we are, our squadron is the knife. Next to us is the fork, the second squadron. Over here is Earth and that is the way they are headed. The remaining enemy ships are in loose groupings, here and here. They’ll be on interception orbits by now but they will be too late to interfere with what will happen next. Before they can reach this spot our ships will capture and occupy these spoons, the power satellites. As you know these big mirrors turn solar energy to electricity and radiate it to Earth as microwaves This energy feeds the electric grids of Europe and North America, which means that they will be very unhappy when we cut it off. All of the satellites, at exactly the same second. With a little luck we’ll start a blackout cascade. But all of this is really just nuisance value. Earth has enough other energy sources that they can cut in, so it won’t matter at all in the long run. But the present is what concerns us. Hopefully they will try and dislodge our men. This will have to be done hand to hand because they don’t dare fire missiles or they will destroy their own satellites. But we have no compunction about firing at their ships. It will be an interesting battle. And totally unimportant. A diversion, nothing more. Here,” he tapped the knife, “is where they should be looking.”

The knife moved out and around one plate and back toward another which had some small cream cakes upon it. “The Moon,” Skougaard said, touching the first plate. “The Earth,” pointing to the second plate, then taking one of the cakes. “Hopefully the diversion will pull off a lot of their defenses. The second part of the plan should make a big hole in what is left.”