Гарри Гаррисон - To The Stars

The Admiral read the report and grinned widely. “They’ve done it! Lundwall and his men have taken all three power satellites.” The grin faded. “They fought off the interceptors. We lost two ships.”

There was nothing to be said. Capture of these satellites, and the orbiting colonies, would be immensely important in ending the war quickly after Spaceconcent was taken. But right now both actions were basically diversions to split the enemy forces to enable the troop carrier to slip through. How successful these diversions would be would not be known until the Earth forces were established in their new courses.

“Preliminary estimation,” the computer said calmly. “Eighty percent probability that three ships will intercept force one alpha.”

“I was hoping for only one or two,” Skougaard said. “I don’t like the odds.” He spoke to the computer. “Give me identification on those three.”

They waited. Although the approaching spaceships could be clearly observed electronically, they appeared just as points in space. Until they could be seen as physical shapes the identification program had to look for other identifying signs. Degree of acceleration when changing course gave clues to their engines. When they communicated with each other their code identities might be discovered. This all took time — time during which the distance between the opposing forces closed rapidly.

“Identification,” the computer said. Skougaard spun to face the screens as the numbers appeared there far faster than they could be spoken aloud.

“Til helvede!” he said in cold anger. “Something is wrong, very wrong. They shouldn’t be there. Those are their heaviest attack vessels, armed to the teeth with every weapon that they possess. We can’t get through. We’re as good as dead now.”

There was never any uncertainty about the summer weather in the Mojave desert. During the winter months conditions varied; there could be clouds, occasionally even rain. The desert would be uncharacteristically green then, dusted with tiny flowers that faded and died in a few days. Beautiful. That could not be said about the summer time.

Before dawn the temperature might drop down to thirty-eight degrees, what the Americans, still valiantly resisting the onslaught of the metric system, insisted on calling ninety. It might even be a few degrees cooler, but no more. Then the sun came up.

It burned like the mouth of an open oven as it cleared the horizon. By noon, sixty degrees — one hundred and thirty — was not unusual.

The sky was light in the east, the temperature just bearable, when the planes came in to land. The tower at the Spaceconcent airfield had been in touch with the flight since they had begun to lose height over Arizona. The rising sun glowed warmly on their burnished skins as they dropped down toward the lights of the runway.

Lieutenant Packer yawned as he watched the first arrival taxi up to the disembarkation points. Big black crosses on their sides. Krauts. The Lieutenant did not like Krauts since they were one of the Enemies of Democracy in the paranoid history books that he had been raised on. Along with Commies, Russkies, Spics, Niggers and an awful lot of others. There were so many bad guys that they were sometimes hard to keep track of, but he still managed to feel a mild dislike for the Krauts, even though he had never met one before. Why weren’t there good American boys here, defending this strategic base? There were, his company among them, but Spaceconcent was international, so any UN troops might be assigned here. But, still, Krauts …

As the engines died the landing stairs slowly unfolded. A group of officers emerged from the first plane and came toward him. Soldiers clattered down behind them and began to form up in ranks. Packer had leafed through Uniforms of the World’s Armies briefly, but he could recognize a general’s stars without its help. He snapped to attention and saluted.

“Lieutenant Packer, Third Motorized Cavalry.” The officer returned the salute.

“General von Blonstein. Heeresleitung. Vere is our transportation.”

Even sounded like a Kraut from one of the old war movies. “Any second now, General. They’re on the way from the motor pool. We weren’t expecting your arrival until…”

“Tail vind,” the General said, then turned and snapped out commands in his own language.

Lieutenant Packer looked worried as the newly-formed up troops quick-stepped off toward the hangars. He moved in front of the General who ignored him until he worked up the nerve to speak.

“Excuse me, sir, but orders. Transportation is on the way — here are the first units now — to take your men to the barracks…”

“Goot,” the General said, turning away. Packer moved quickly to get in front of him again.

“Your people can’t go into those hangars. That is a security area.”

“It is too hot. They get in der shade.”

“No they can’t, really, I’ll have to report this.” He reached to turn on his radio and one of the officers rapped him hard on the hand with the butt of his gun. Then ground it into his ribs. Packer could only stare, speechless, and hold his bruised fingers.

“There is a silencer on that pistol,” the General said, all trace of an accent suddenly vanished. “Do as I say or you will be shot instantly. Now turn and walk to that plane with these men. One word, a wrong action, and you are dead. Now go.” Then he added in Hebrew, “Inject him and leave him there.”

When the last engine had been shut down the computer in the control tower disconnected the landing and taxiing program and shut it down as well, signaling that the operation was complete. One of the operators verified with a visual check using field glasses. All of the planes were wound down now. A lot of trucks and busses about; he wouldn’t start clearing the ramps until they had moved out of the area. The convoy officer was going into a plane with two of the newcomers. Probably had a bottle in there. German soldiers were probably just like their American counterparts. Brawling, boozing and banging. Good thing they locked them behind wire most of the time.

“In the back, not here,” the Corporal said as the soldier opened the cab of the truck and started to climb in.

“Ja, Ja, gut,” the soldier said, ignoring the command.

“C’mon, Christ, I don’t speak that stuff. In backski, fucking quickski…” He looked down in amazement as the newcomer leaned over and slapped him on the leg. Something stung. He opened his mouth to protest, then slumped forward over the wheel. The Israeli clicked the safety in place on the palm-hypo and put it into his pocket, then dragged the Corporal from behind the wheel as the door opened on the driver’s side. Another Israeli slipped in, taking off his helmet and laying it on the seat beside him, then putting on the corporal’s fatigue cap in its place.

General Blonstein looked at his watch. “How much longer to go?” be asked.

“Three, four minutes, no more,” his aide said. “Boarding the last coaches now.

“Good. Any trouble?”

“Nothing important. A few people asking questions have been put to sleep. But we haven’t bit any of the guarded gates or buildings yet.”

“And we’re not going to until everyone is in position. How much longer to jumpoff?”

“Sixty seconds.”

“Let’s go. These last people can catch us up. We’re not going to change the attack schedule for any reason.

Dvora sat next to Vasil who was driving the heavy lorry; her squad was jammed into the back. Her long hair bad been tied into a bun and hidden under her helmet, her face was bare of any cosmetics.

“How much longer?” Vasil asked, his foot tapping the accelerator, the motor rumbling in response. She glanced at her watch.