Buck Roger XXVC #00.5 Arrival

by M S Murdock

  Buck peered into the distance and saw a series of flashes. “I have visual contact with the battle? he said, flipping the still-functioning telescope on his helmet into place. Through the gloom, he could see several missiles flying toward an extremely complex satellite composed of radar disks, lasers, particle beams, and rail guns. The whole shebang, he thought. “Have we hurt his heady Beady little space eyes?” Buck asked.

  “He’s not blind, but-”

  "-he definitely needs bifocals,” Buck finished.

  “Now, you wouldn’t hit a man with glasses, would you, Buck?”

  “Yeah,” Buck said, “if his name is Karkov.”

  Karkov’s voice broke in. “I should have known it was you out there, Rogers. Leave it to the Americans to send a celebrity pilot, and not a real one.”

  “Leave it to the Russians to send a pilot who had to hide his face for five years, Karkov. Too bad you can’t hide anymore: ’Buck responded. “The problem is you’ve littered space so badly that now you don’t know where I am.”

  “I trust my janitors to make a clean sweep of you.”

  “If I were you, I’d strike a bargain with Saint Pete right about now, Karkovi’ Buck said.”

  “I do not believe in silly superstitions? Karlie? said.”

  Huer broke through. “Buck, we may have spotted a weakness in Masterlink’s defense.”

  Buck responded. “I don’t know if you just heard, Doc, but Karkov’s on our frequency.”

  Huer understood, and spoke in a language that he thought might confound Karkov: that of U.S. professional football. “Okay, remember the Bears Raiders game last year?"

  “Couldn’t forget it,” Buck said.

  Huer pressed the point. “Remember what the Bears should’ve done to the quarterback on the third-and-ten in the fourth quarter?”

  “Of course! It cost me twenty bucks I get your drift Save me some dinner; I’m coming home,” Buck said disengaging his radio’s mouthpiece. Buck calculated a trajectory that would exploit Masterlink’s one rah venerability: Because it was designed to observe Earth, all the satellite’s armaments and tracking systems faced down. It had no weapons on its backside. Hope fully, Buck could run around the defense and blind side it-just what the Bears should have done.

  The battle was far from over, though. Buck was out gunned and out-teched, and he knew it. Instrument. blind, all he had were his own two eyes. Shutting off ' his engines to remain blind to infrared detection, Buck maneuvered his craft using only its ailerons and its continued momentum. He hoped he could masquerade as space junk. God knows there’s enough of it, he thought, after all the hardware that’s been thrown around.

  The crafty Karkov summoned the Bears-Raiders game from an American data base. 0n the critical play, he watched two bulky commentators debate what the Bears should do to contain the Raiders in a third-#and-ten situation. “Football is a stupid game!” Karkov muttered, as one commentator drew inscrutable lines on the screen.

  “You have begun perspiring? Masterlink commented. "Is there a problem with the air-conditioning system?”

  “You know damn well what my suit temperature is!” the Soviet responded, thinking of causing the computer to crash, but deciding against the idea. He needed the miserable thing, he realized. There were now thousands of pieces of space junk floating all about the Masterlink satellite and Rogers’s ship, with its Stealth technology, would be nearly blind to Karkov’ a radar.

  With only the computer realizing that he was overreacting, Karkov set up his first line of defense. He activated his entire array of space mines simultaneously, sending them in a shield like pattern toward the Earth. “So, Captain Rogers,” he said into the microphone, “I wonder how easily you will die.”

  After a moment, Buck’s voice hissed back. “I’ve always admired your courage, Karkov. Taking on an unarmed civilian plane must have taken a lot of guts.”

  “Courage lies not in the act, but in taking the initiative,’ ’ Karkov retorted.

  “Is that why you hid behind a fake name? It took me five years to find you. And then you ran,” Buck said.

  Karkov was sweating profusely now. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

  “Oh yeah you do. KAL Flight 007. The Sea of Okhotsk. January 27, 1982. I’ve been stalking you ever since. One lucky night, five years ago, I entered Soviet air space with my aircraft disguised as a commercial plane. And, as I’d hoped, you took the bait. I recorded one of your radio broadcasts and checked the voice patterns against those of the pilot that destroyed KAL 007. The voices matched; it was you, Karkov.”

  “What is the point of this lie?” Karkov asked.

  It is you who is lying, Karkov, thought the Masterlink computer.

  Buck’s eyes locked into a glare on the satellite, as he relived that crisp night off the Soviet border. “I jumped you from above. You squirmed and rolled! Thought I had you, and I looked on target. You were probably sweating then like you are now.“

  The Masterlink computer wondered how Rogers knew that Karkov was sweating. Was there some sort of security leak?

  “You called for help? Buck continued. “and the air swarmed with MiGs. If I could have been sure of nailing you, I would have gladly gone down then and there. But I couldn’t, so I broke off and went home, waiting for another shot.

  “The funny thing, Karkov, is that your buddies could have brought me down, but they didn’t. Why? Because they were pilots like me, honorable, chivalrous figures surrounded by titanium armor and wielding heat-seeking lances. Their code of honor wouldn’t allow them to shoot down a civilian plane. But you did. You are a disgrace to all pilots; maybe your buddies wanted you dead just as much as I did. You violated the code.”

  Karkov squirmed in his seat. “I will destroy you, Rogers, slowly and brutally. You will die because you deserve to, but you will die with agony for besmirching my name,” he said. Hoping to catch the American off guard, he immediately detonated his array of space mines. Flashes erupted below him, and hot bits of shrapnel streaked throughout the void in a zero gravity fireworks show that lacked all sound.

  Karkov waited. If Rogers was silent, he might well have been caught in the blast. But if he spoke, then the cosmonaut would work on pinpointing his enemy’s radio transmissions. “Tell me more of this fantasy of yours, Rogers.”

  There was no response.

  Masterlink pondered: Karkov is a coward. And yet, he is able to estimate the irrational, whereas I cannot. The question is whether to terminate him before his cowardice can infect me, or allow him to live and let his human mind serve me.

  Minutes passed in eerie silence. Karkov hunted for Rogers on radar, but there was too much electromagnetic chaos from his own reconnaissance satellites, as well as the Soviet space station, to discern friendly from hostile. Especially given American treachery. Karkov took a calculated risk and ordered that the radar be shut down on the space station. He listened again, but still heard nothing. Suddenly, his systems tracked a new missile barrage from Earth gaining an the space station, where the shuttles had been based. The station commander requested that the radar equipment be turned on, but Karkov denied permission. A moment later, there was a shriek from the commander, and the space station vanished in a flash of gaseous flame.

  Buck’s voice out in. “You shouldn’t have shut off their radar, Karkov. How many more of your own countrymen are you going to kill?”

  “Bastard!” Karkov screamed. His perfect victory was now impossible. He decided that he would pick apart Rogers and his ship like a cruel child tearing the wings off an insect. He would not let Rogers die easily, but would let him taste his inevitable defeat and leave him crippled in space, to die slowly as his life support ran out.

  First he would have to find and wound the American pilot. He ordered his only remaining shuttles to split up and search Rogers’s probable location.

  Buck had never actually seen a Soviet military shuttle, but no one had to tap him on the shoulder to tell him what it was when
he saw it. It was a terrible black bird of prey, with the jagged, unfinished, and deadly look of Soviet technology. The Soviets’ only problem was that they didn’t know what an F-38 looked like, either-until it was too late.

  Knowing that he would need to conserve his missiles, Buck took careful aim at where he thought the pilot and communications officer were in the shuttle and opened up with his 20mm machine gun. Flames spat from under his wing, and exploding bullets tore into the shuttle. Sparks flew from it, and whole panels tore off. The view into the gashed shuttle bore a hideous resemblance to a surgical cross-section of a skull.

  They had been killed instantly. Buck hoped to hell that he had hit them before they could radio Karkov, which would give him a couple minutes to get away.

  But it didn’t work out that way.

  Buck activated his helmet’s telescope and looked over at the Masterlink satellite. Though it was still partially obscured by the two satellites that were pulled in to defend against the X-ray lasers, he could see that it was rotating in his direction.

  A net of laser tracking beams from Masterlink scanned the darkness around him, constructing for Karkov a digital map of the battle site. Buck hit his thrusters again, reversed them, and shot back to hide behind the destroyed shuttle. This ruse, he figured, would buy him at least a minute in which to think.

  He had to give Karkov something to worry about. Otherwise, he would be pinned down and destroyed.

  Then one of his worst nightmares came true. Not being fully familiar with the Wraith’s dimensions, he had let it drift a little behind the shuttle. A directed energy blast streaked out of Karkov’s satellite too fast for Buck to react and tore off the tip of the Wraith’s nose cone. Karkov’s bellowing laugh came over Buck’s headset. “No hope of re-entry now, Rogers! You’ll either have to kill me or die!”

  Buck didn’t answer.

  Buck slipped the Wraith out from behind the disabled shuttle and, without arming the warhead, fired one of his ASAT missiles. He tried to figure all the trajectories, and for just a moment he was back in Fast Eddy’s Pool Parlor in Milwaukee, lining up a shot. This time it wasn’t for beers, it was for life, and he had to break the biggest rack in the world with a radio-guided cue.

  As the missile streaked toward its target, Buck calculated its angle. In space, there was no wind to throw it off course, and no gravity to pull it down.

  Buck watched the missile slice between pieces of jetsam toward its target and knew his shot was on the money. Buck could almost hear the satisfying clack of two billiard balls striking each other as the missile struck the screening satellite, and the large metal object lurched toward Masterlink, obscuring most of it from his view.

  More important, it obscured Buck from Karkov’s View and blocked any of Masterlink’s possible laser shots at him. He knew that Karkov wouldn’t risk damaging Masterlink with a bump from another satellite, and he figured that Karkov would be forced to either destroy it or move himself.

  Buck made a fist and punched the air in triumph. He was about to launch a missile at the other satellite when he felt his plane rock. He saw a flash out of the corner of his eye and turned to see a scorching beam gouge a hole in his wing. Looking up, Buck was horrified to see another Soviet shuttle maneuver from behind a crippled satellite and bear down on him. He quickly wondered how large Karkov’s welcoming party would prove to be.

  Buck opened up his thrusters, jammed his ship into a hard loop, and began what was to be history’s first dogfight in space. Knowing that he had to remain in Masterlink’s blind spot, Buck spun and dove erratically. The shuttle’s chemical laser shots and gyro-shells ripped past him.

  The Soviet ship was tough and nimble, but this was a straight dogfight, and its Soviet pilot was no match for America’s ace.

  Karkov frantically maneuvered Masterlink away from the oncoming satellite, spitting terse commands at the Masterlink computer. He finally managed to pull out of range just as the remaining shuttle exploded like fireworks in a Fourth of July sky. Rogers must have used a missile, thought Karkov; two gone. Frantically trying to jerk the massive satellite into full firing position, Karkov squeezed off a few ineffectual rays as Rogers tried to break for cover.

  Finding no adequate protection behind the remaining space junk, Buck looped back to find himself face-to-face with Masterlink. He enabled his radio’s mouthpiece. “I guess there’s no point in radio silence, is there, Karkov?”

  “Your death scream will be music to my ears," came the reply. “I already have you targeted.”

  “This isn’t a 747, Karkov. It might be too tough for you.”

  Suddenly, the Masterlink satellite sparked to life like a jukebox. Rays arced through space, and a forest of dart projectiles leaped toward the Wraith.

  Buck braced himself and rolled to the right. But nothing struck.

  He was surprised, because he should have been dead. Of course! he thought then; the Masterlink system wasn’t designed to deal with an erratic opponent. Every weapons system inside was designed for an opponent’s predictable path. Missiles may be predictable, but I’m not, he thought, and I’m going to become even less so.

  Without aiming, Buck squeezed the trigger of his gun, figuring he’d keep Masterlink’s slow-moving defenses busy while he armed his remaining missiles. Bracing himself again to rush Masterlink, Buck watched its guns slowly take aim at him. Or, more specifically, where they thought he would be in a few seconds.

  The guns fired. But Buck wasn’t there.

  With an electric jolt of emotion passing through him, Buck jammed on his thrusters and raced toward Masterlink in a bizarre corkscrew like charge. He screamed into his communications system, “This settles our score, Karkov!” and tired off his remaining missiles, then veered away.

  As he looped above Masterlink, he couldn’t help looking through the roof of his cockpit to see the satellite’s three remaining guns feverishly trying to intercept the incoming missiles. Two of them did, but the other one failed.

  Orange explosions erupted in the velvety darkness of space, but the vacuum deprived Buck of the explosion that would have told him of a direct hit.

  Huer’s voice came back on the radio. “He’s crippled, Buck, but he can still fire! Watch out!”

  As if to punctuate Huer’s words, a ray crashed through the Wraith’s nose cone. Buck turned to view the satellite. His missiles definitely had done some damage to it, for it was blackened and bent, and wires hung where its communications console once had been, but Masterlink’s two remaining lasers still moved, slower and spastic, toward him, releasing their beams. One tore half a wing from the Wraith. The other destroyed its nose entirely.

  “Damn you, Rogers!” came Karkov’s gasping voice.

  Huer’s voice again came on the line. “He’s finished, Buck! Veer away and we might be able to get you home.”

  “No way Buck shouted, as exploding bullets peppered the Wraith’s nose. Then, to his horror, he looked back to see that his plane was spurting flame from its fuselage. Its fuel would be burned up in seconds. Then the President’s voice came on. “Captain Rogers, your mission is complete. Hold your fire. World war has been averted. Karkov is receiving the same message from his superiors.” Buck looked grimly at the Masterlink satellite. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. If I don’t finish Karkov’s mission, he’ll come back with something worse and kill more innocent people.”

  Like St. George making a last, lancing charge at the dragon, Buck turned the fighter toward the terrible, spitting lasers and mangled antennae of Masterlink, and opened his thrusters to full force. The Wraith’s flaming hull streaked toward Masterlink as the dragon’s spastic beads of fire converged and tore thin gashes in it.

  “Buck, you don’t have any missiles!” cried Huer.

  “I won’t need any, where I’m going!” Buck shouted, as he punched the craft’s mysterious eject button. Then he spat his final words into his mouthpiece microphone. “Good-bye, Karkov!”

  The Masterlink computer hissed at
Karkov in a voice it had never used before. “Not only are you a coward, but you are a failure.” Lifting his bruised and bloody head from his keyboard, Karkov smelled a sickly-sweet odor in the air. White dots floated before his eyes like stars. Then everything began to go black-all but the stars, which persisted.

  I should have seen this coming, Karkov thought. I taught the Masterlink program too much, and now I am no longer necessary. The computer didn’t plot treason and was immune to greed, lust, and decadence. It was better and cheaper. The Communist dream had given way to a capitalist reality.

  As Buck’s fiery ship plummeted toward Karkov and his orbiting casket, the Masterlink computer feverishly sent a complex initialization code to another nearby Soviet satellite, then shunted the core of its memory to its new home, taking with it the instincts of Anatoly Karkov.

  From Telescopes on Earth, the explosions in the sky appeared more like the blooming of a massive and beautiful red-orange flower than the Viking funeral that it was. As its blossom opened, the flower withered into shades of gray and finally into nothing. Dr. Faustus Huer, a tear in his eye, stepped away from Mission Command. He would never see Buck Rogers again, and the military would never acknowledge its hero’s sacrifice. As it was with most classified missions, Buck’s death would be reported as a plane crash somewhere in the desert, a story that any who knew him surely would not believe. No one saw the tiny, titanium-coated capsule ricochet from the explosion and drift into a higher orbit.

  Randy Malat heard the mail truck come around at about ten o’clock in the morning a few days later. He pushed his twelfth cup of coffee and morning paper away from him, and went to see if he’d gotten anything other than bills, 3 draft notice, or another chance to win ten million Dola. He met the mail carrier at the door and exchanged the usual banter about Malat’s sleeping until ten o’clock and about the cushy life of journalists. Much to Malat’s chagrin, the postal worker had no theory of conspiracy that day. Actually, Malat was thankful not to have to lie ten to the usually endless parade of names and dubious connections.