Гарри Гаррисон - To The Stars

“The groups attacking the front of the target have been held up,” she said. “They must be meeting strong resistance. So we’re going to have to do the job. The building across the road should not be as well defended. We hope. The plan is to get in there, get to the rear where it backs onto the target. We go through that wall…”

She broke off as they heard a siren in the street outside, growing louder. She pointed to Grigor who ran forward and dropped flat, then opened the door slightly. “Car coming,” be said. “It may be stopping at the doorway there — someone has come out and is waving to it.”

“We go,” Dvora said, making an instant decision. “Bazooka. Take it out as soon as it stops. Then put one through the doorway. We’ll follow right behind.”

After that it was a matter of training. Vasil rolled aside and the bazooka gunner dropped down in his spot, eyes to the sight, his weapon trained. His loader was beside him, pushing the rocket missile into the rear of the tube, slapping his shoulder to let him know it was ready. The rest of the squad moved to the sides, clear of the backlash of flame when it was fired. In the street the siren wailed down to silence as the car braked to stop.

A tongue of fire shot back from the bazooka and an explosion rocked the street outside. The loader was jamming in another rocket even as the glass from broken windows was crashing to the ground.

“Smoke, target obscured,” the bazooka gunner muttered, waiting — then the flame lanced out again. The explosion, inside the building this time, was muffled. Dvora threw the door wide and led the squad in a rush.

A smoking wreck of a car, bodies burning in the crackling interior. Up the steps and through the ruined doorway, jumping over the huddle of still more bodies here. One of them alive, raising his gun, soaked in blood. Two shots cracked out and he fell with the others. They were jammed in the entrance, fighting to get in. A long hallway, running, shouting soldiers coming toward them.

“Down!” Vasil shouted, standing spread-legged while they dropped, spraying death like water from a hose from the muzzle of his machine gun. Sheets of flame blasted from the recoilless ports behind his arm, empty casings bounced clattering from the wall. The big 50-calibre slugs tore the running men apart, spun them about, hurled them down, killed them all.

There was little mopping up to do. The speed and shock of their attack had carried the defenders before it. But time was running out; they were falling behind. They moved faster now, following Dvora’s direction as she consulted the detailed floor plan she had been given.

Thurgood-Smythe had supplied it of course. Along with all of the other information needed to launch the attack. She had forgotten the man, and her doubts, in the cold frenzy of the fighting. Nor could she afford to think about him now.

“This is the place,” she said, when they entered the large room, one end filled with packing cases. “That wall, where the notices are posted. Six meters in from the left-hand edge.”

And they had even remembered to bring the measuring rules. Three of them had been issued so at least one would get this far. Dvora got her breath back while they made the wall.

“Take cover,” she said. “In the hall, behind those crates. When the charges go, we go. We should be in a wide corridor leading to the entrance that has to be unblocked. This is the big one.”

Dvora checked the fuses herself; all secure. Then ran back to the hall, the wire hissing from the roller in her hand. Dropped through and hit the firing button at the same time.

For one instant as the charge blew she thought of Thurgood-Smythe, and if he had told the truth about what awaited them on the other side of the wall.

After that there was no time for thought. Coughing in the cloud of dust and smoke, scrambling. through the ragged opening. Running. The surprise of the defenders as they were taken from their rear, heads turning, mouths opening even as they fell.

It was butchery. The heavy bunkers outside were open from the rear, had no defenses from that flank. Grenades and gunfire cleaned them out.

“Come on now… black cat… the door is open…” she gasped into her radio. Troops appeared through the thick smoke. General Blonstein was first.

“Final goal. Missile control room,” he said. “Follow me.”

They stopped outside the entrance to the complex, still out of breath from rushing up the three floors.

“Keep your weapons lowered when we go in there,” Blonstein said. “We don’t want any sabotage. I’ll talk to them, explain, give them a story, while the rest of you filter through the control consoles. Remember, we want to capture this place, not destroy…”

His words were interrupted by the thud of a small explosion, apparently from a room across the hall from them; a dozen gun muzzles were trained on it as the knob slowly turned. It opened even more slowly and a man appeared, leaning back against the doorjamb for support; his clothing drenched in blood.

“Thurgood-Smythe!” Dvora said.

“There has been treachery in high places,” Thurgood-Smythe whispered as he slowly slumped down to the floor.

“They knew,” Admiral Skougaard said, staring fixedly at the identification of the enemy ships. “They had to know. There is no other explanation for the presence of that force to be there at this time.”

“Thurgood-Smythe?” Jan said.

“You tell me.” There was no warmth or humanity left in Skougaard’s voice now. “You brought me the plan.”

“I also said that I wasn’t sure if it could be trusted or not.”

“And so you did. We’ll all pay with our lives for that mistake. At least we can see what is happening. I’m sorrier for the troops jammed into that transport.”

“We can still fight, can’t we? We’re not giving in?”

Cold anger was replaced by a wintery smile on the Admiral’s face. “We’ll not give in. But I’m afraid we have no chance at all of winning. We are up against three times as many missiles as we can launch, probably more. They’ll just overload our defenses then come through. About all we can do is separate from the transport, fight a holding action for as long as we can in the hopes that they will survive.”

“Won’t that work?”

“No. But we do it anyway. Orbital mechanics is too rigid a discipline for there to be any doubts. They will meet us, we will fight. We might injure them, probably not. They’ll take us out. Then follow the transport and pick it off at their ease.”

“We can change course.”

“So can they. We cannot get away, only prolong the end. If you have any personal messages put them through to the radio room for transmission for the second squadron to pass on…“It seems so unfair! After coming this far, after the battles for the planets, everything!”

“Since when has fairness had anything to do with winning battles? Armies and navies used to travel with priests — on both sides — each assuring the fighting men that God was on their particular side. One general said that God was on the side of the biggest battalions, which is nearer to the truth.”

There was little to add to that. Three fighting ships against one. The outcome of this encounter could not be in doubt. Under the Admiral’s direction their orbits were altered slightly and the two spacers began to drift apart; there was no change in the enemy’s orbit. Skougaard pointed to one of the screens.

“They are risking nothing — and leaving nothing to chance. If we hit the atmosphere at this speed we will burn up. They know we must brake, and just how much, and they will be there to meet us just when we are most vulnerable, when our speed is lowest, just outside the atmosphere.”