“What if they were not defective? What if we lost them because the humans isolated, deactivated, and then examined those sensors with the intent of learning how to electronically trick them. And they need not trick many sensors. Only those few monitoring the areas that they planned on using for submarine infiltration.”
First Voice waggled his neck. “The humans have not built any new submarines in almost thirty years. Most are old and hard to maintain. Had they been deemed a threat, we could have brought our own submarines as a counterforce.”
Darzhee looked away. Yes, you could have brought along a handful of your pitiable Hkh’Rkh submarines. And the humans would have cheerfully sunk them.
Urzueth Ragh was not done. “It is just as you say, First Voice, but this would be the logical time for human submarines to enter the battle. Our look-down sensors are overtaxed, the others are confused by false signals, and our local PDF capabilities are significantly degraded.”
“And so what would the submarines do?” First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam wondered mildly. “Torpedo the docks?”
“Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam, most of the submarines that the humans retained were what they call ‘boomers’: deep submersibles which carry nuclear missiles.”
Hu’urs Khraam settled back and his antenna switched in wry amusement. “Urzueth Ragh, is this Tuxae Skhaas’ worry? Has he forgotten that this is precisely why we occupy the largest cities on this island? What does he expect that the humans will do? Destroy millions of their own population? Even they are not so savage.”
Darzhee Kut glanced at Caine—who was already staring at him. The human did not look away, did not smile, did not blink. But surely, thought Darzhee Kut, Hu’urs Khraam is right. Surely the humans—who are now capable of extraordinary insight and compassion and sacrifice—are not still capable of such savagery…
Chapter Forty-Two
Over the Sunda Strait, approaching West Java, Earth
Only two VTOLs left, and not for long, conjectured Thandla. The lasers had picked off all but Dortmund’s craft and that of his right wingman, Michael Schrage.
“Fifteen more seconds,” Dortmund called out.
Which was probably not possible, Thandla realized, and in so realizing, discovered he was probably thinking his last mortal thoughts. The Arat Kur were poking huge holes in the overlapping image makers, rapidly discriminating between false signals and real returns, destroying the drones either by orbital interdict or now, long-range missiles from the enemy’s Java-based combat air patrols, which were waiting for them over the island’s western coastline.
But Thandla still had a few tricks left that might help them reach that crucial fifteen-second mark. And if he—
Praeger, the back-seat EW and countermeasures operator, spoke for the first time during the mission. “We are painted!” The VTOL’s own sensors had detected a low-power laser contact. It was an orbital targeting beam that also plasmated the atmosphere, clearing a path for the actual weapon-grade laser.
So, thought Thandla, as he played his last hand of trick electronic cards, we don’t have fifteen seconds left after all. But I shall not fear on the threshold of Nirvana. We do not sacrifice and live for ourselves alone. The final step is to renounce ego, self. He had often seen the faces of his family in the last twenty minutes. Now, unbidden, he saw the faces of the delegation he had accompanied to the Convocation: Riordan, the Corcorans, Ben Hwang, Opal Patrone, and Lemuel Wasserman. Lemuel, who had insulted him, snubbed him, argued with him, and loved him. And had not understood him and probably never would have. There were too many cultural divides for him to bridge before he could have understood the very different reality that Thandla inhabited.
Sanjay was watching for the flicker of a targeting lock that would signal the microsecond before his death, but was instead startled by Dortmund’s shout. “Schrage! Was machst—?”
The right wingman had pulled his VTOL up and over, angling into a position just above Dortmund’s craft. He had almost straightened out from his brief banking maneuver when Thandla blinked involuntarily against a single strobelike pulse. Schrage’s VTOL transformed into a spearhead of flame. Light debris spattered down and scored their own fuselage, put a hairline crack in the cockpit blister. But they were still alive and Thandla was still working—
Dortmund counted out the mounting seconds. “Twelve, thirteen—”
Thandla played his last card—which was a simple randomized shift between all the strategies he had employed to date. It would be penetrated in a second or two, at the most, but the Arat Kur machines, being driven by pattern-loving expert systems, would spend several precious seconds trying to reconcile this anomalous pattern with what had come before—
“Fourteen, fifteen—”
And it was done. Even now, secret orders were being transmitted to ears listening beneath the waves. The final part of the trap was closing upon the Arat Kur and their Hkh’Rkh allies.
Dortmund was jubilant. “Mission plus two, three—!”
Four was an important number for Sanjay Thandla. He was four when he came to understand exponents by understanding that two was the square root of four. He had four children, had earned four degrees, and had slept with four women, including his wife. So when a brief flash of light coincided with Dortmund’s counting off of the number “four,” Thandla would not have thought it an odd coincidence, but a sign of order in the universe, that patterns repeated and life progressed in cycles, and that nothing was ever, ever lost, but came back again in all its quiet glory.
When hit, Dortmund’s VTOL had reached the edge of the tidal shelf off the northwest coast of Java, and so only went down in forty meters of water. There, years later, its remains were recovered, but without imparting any greater sense of the identity or sacrifice of its crew. The fish, as agents of Nirvana, had carried away and reintegrated every trace of Praeger, Dortmund, and Sanjay Thandla.
Who had, at last, reentered the great mandalla of creation, had become one with the entity that was Earth.
Again.
Mobile Command Center “Trojan Ghost One,” over the Indian Ocean, Earth
“Mr. Downing, we have achieved operational density of image makers, decoys, and chaff. We are good to go.”
Richard leaned back from the Dornaani holosphere, which dominated the passenger section of the high-speed armored VTOL that had been modified to accept the alien technology. “Very well, Mr. Rinehart. Send the word. All orbit-capable and long-range ground rockets are to launch immediately. Maritime launches are to commence two minutes later.”
Alnduul had come to stand beside Downing. “Do you need our assistance?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I offer our assistance in penetrating the Arat Kur signal jamming. If we do not help in that matter, how will your first two submarines know it is time to act?”
“Acoustic signaling.”
“Please explain.”
“You know how easily sound travels in water? How ocean sensors can hear whale songs around the world?”
Alnduul nodded.
“Well, it’s a lot easier to hear metal rods banging together. What we use is a lot more sophisticated, but it’s the same principle. The water itself is our communication medium. You might say we’re banging rods in code for all our submerged ears to hear. Particularly those two.”
“I see. And when will they receive the message?”
Downing checked his watch. “Right about now.”
SSBN Ohio, Java Sea, Earth
“Captain Tigner?”
“What is it Mr. Alvarez?”
“Acoustic signal, ma’am. Nothing fancy, in the clear: we are a go.”
Captain Mary Sue Tigner turned to her helmsman. “Mr. Vinh.”
“Ma’am?”
“Release magnetic grapples and give us five meters clearance from the wreck.”
“Grapples released, and that’s a half turn of the fans. Ready, ma’am.”
“Rise to maximum launch depth. E
TA?”
“Estimating nine minutes, Captain.”
“Very good. Mr. Alvarez.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Confirm that Minsk received signal that she is cleared to begin her ascent.”
“Captain Poliakhov has just contacted us to confirm our receipt of signal, and requests reconfirmation of his launch depth instructions, ma’am.”
As he should. “Tell Alexei he is to rise to fifty meters, as indicated in his sealed orders. And wish him good luck.” He’ll need it, playing canary in a coal mine. But how else are we going to learn how far down and how quickly the Arat Kur can see and hit us in the ocean?
The alert lights began flashing and the general quarters klaxon kicked into life. Tigner gave a quick pat to the side of the Ohio’s periscope as she folded out the handles. Here we go, old girl. It’s show time.
Wholenest flagship Greatvein, Earth orbit
Tuxae saw the thermal blooms first on his own system, then a moment later, the active sensor verifications started pouring in from the various hulls in orbit. He considered the data carefully, then studied H’toor Qooiiz’s console with equal care.
“Tuxae, why do you not act?”
“I will. Reopen a channel to Jakarta.”
“But it is insolence to bypass Fleetmaster R’sudkaat—”
“It is necessary that everyone who must hear this dirge hears it directly.”
H’toor Qooiiz looked at him, then complied.
The Fleetmaster was already on the way over. “You have seen it?”
“Yes.” Tuxae was very calm. “I offer my report and recommendation.”
“Very good.” But that response was not from the Fleetmaster. It was Hu’urs Khraam’s voice, emerging from H’toor Qooiiz’s communications console. Fleetmaster R’sudkaat’s mandibles crunched once and were then silent. Tuxae realized that his future was less promising after going above his direct superior in issuing the report, but then again, that presumed any of them were going to have a future—
“Report,” urged Hu’urs Khraam’s voice.
Tuxae took a deep breath. “Orbital sensors are reading multiple ballistic missile launches from around the globe. These are almost all ground sites: silos, in the case of the farther continents, or fixed ramp or mobile launches of smaller rocket and cruise missiles throughout the Pacific Rim.”
“How many targets do you count?”
“At least seven hundred and the number is climbing. But the margin of error is still unacceptably high. Our sensor reliability is not yet absolute. We are only now destroying the humans’ electronic warfare drones in appreciable numbers. Those which remain make it impossible to trust our active arrays. We are still compelled to rely upon imprecise thermal and optical detection.”
“Then you must quickly finish destroying the drones.”
Now came the hard part, the part that no one was going to enjoy hearing, and about which H’toor Qooiiz was likely to write a very sad song. “If we shift enough of our orbital intercept fire to swiftly eliminate the remaining drones, then we will not be able to intercept all of these new rockets. Some are moving very fast. And I must remind you that the general launch of manned air vehicles continues from Sumatra, Bali, Christmas Island and the near Celebes.”
“And all the new threats, the rockets, are converging on Java?”
“Most,” Tuxae corrected. “The rocket launches from North America and Europe are on—uncertain vectors.”
“Uncertain? In what way?”
“We cannot tell from their current trajectories whether they will ultimately insert to orbit or strike Indonesia.”
“To orbit?” R’sudkaat broke in. “Are they attacking my ships?”
“No, Esteemed Fleetmaster. That does not seem to be their intent, nor do the rockets being used have sufficient thrust or endurance to be intended as intercept vehicles.”
“Then what is their purpose?”
“The humans might be simply testing our continued ability to interdict ground targets in Europe and North America. Or they might be launching drones to hunt our ships here in orbit. Or they might be sending nuclear weapons over Java to detonate in a high airburst mode.”
“That would generate a far stronger EM pulse than any we have used thus far,” supplied Fleetmaster R’sudkaat.
“Just so. And if the statistics on these dated rockets and their warheads are correct, we will experience considerable degradation of our groundside electronics. Most notably, many more of our PDF arrays will be destroyed, unless they are powered down during the strikes.”
Hu’urs Khraam’s voice buzzed with anxiety. “But if we power down the PDFs—”
“Then our ground assets are completely undefended against any nuclear-armed rockets that might be targeting them.”
Hu’urs Khraam’s voice was firm. “We will power down the arrays. The humans would not attack their own cities with nuclear devices.”
“I must counsel caution regarding such swift assumptions, Esteemed Hu’urs Khraam. Today, the humans are showing a propensity for cunning and ruthlessness that matches the old stories.”
“I agree with Hu’urs Khraam,” argued Fleetmaster R’sudkaat. “The humans are simply trying to overwhelm us with many targets at the same time. There is less cunning in this than you perceive, Tuxae Skhaas.”
“With respect, Fleetmaster: do you remember their first general attack, the one made by their interceptors on the first day?”
“Yes, where they lost more than one hundred fifty aircraft? Pure folly.”
“It was not folly. It was not ignorance. It was to learn our capabilities.”
H’toor Qooiiz forgot his place as Tuxae’s usually silent partner. “What?”
“Reason from the partially heard harmonies, rock-sibling. The humans had groundside active arrays, as well as visual observation capabilities. They knew how many hulls we had, in which orbits, and they watched how we responded to the futile threat they flung against us. They gathered this information not to aid their interceptors, but to determine each ship’s orbital interdiction capabilities. They no doubt identified each hull visually, and have since tracked where they are at all times, noted any changes, and have maintained a constantly evolving estimate of our maximum interdiction capability.”
Fleetmaster R’sudkaat sent the words out through grinding mandibles. “Then why did they not use this information before today?”
“Because until today, the humans did not have a war fleet approaching Earth. Had the humans used their knowledge before now, we would have understood that they had learned what it would take to overwhelm our systems. We would have increased our capabilities and would have realized how duplicitous, patient, and resourceful they are. Besides, what would they have gained by lofting a dozen drones, or a dozen rockets at Java, before this day? Maybe they would have managed to disable a ship or two, destroy a few hundred of our troops. But now—”
Hu’urs Khraam saw it clearly. “Now we must choose: do we allow the human missiles to attack our ground forces, or do we allow them to place a large force of drones in orbit? For we cannot prevent both.”
Tuxae hung his claws. “The humans have an expression: to be caught between a hammer”—he pointed to the red motes of the human fleet—“and an anvil.” He pointed to the white ballistic trajectories rising up from around the globe. “If they are launching drones into orbit, this is precisely the situation in which our counterattacking fleet will find itself. But if the drones turn instead to attack us here in orbit, and we remain committed to defending our ground forces instead of ourselves, we will surely lose many of our hulls, and with them, much of our orbital interdiction ability.”
Hu’urs Khraam finished outlining their Hobson’s choice. “Conversely, if we turn any significant portion of our orbital intercept capabilities to bear on the missiles that may be launching drones, several of the closer missiles will certainly get through to Java. And, if they are armed with nuclear warheads, we could lose most
of our ground forces.”
“And we will have lost you, Hu’urs Khraam, our leader and the voice of the Wholenest. Your orders?”
“We must destroy their nearest missiles and preserve our ground forces or this invasion was for naught.”
“But if the humans are launching new drones to assist their fleet, that combined force might prevail against our counterattacking flotilla.”
“This is true. In which event, we must await relief by the fleet returning from the asteroid belt.”
Tuxae fluttered his rear antenna. “If it comes to that, the humans will gain several days of orbital supremacy. They will swarm over you on the ground.”
The pause suggested Hu’urs Khraam’s careful consideration of what he said next. “Yes, that could occur. But if we allow even ten of their missiles to land in Indonesia, our destruction is assured, and our campaign is over. Lacking additional landing forces, we would then have only two choices: to annihilate the entire world from orbit, or to withdraw. Each is a politically unserviceable extreme. So, in order to maintain the delicate leverage necessary for a successful outcome to this conflict, we must preserve our ground forces.”
Although he was not in the presence of the First Delegate, Tuxae bobbed his respect. “I harmonize, Hu’urs Khraam.”
“Target the missiles with clear trajectories for Java.”
North-Central Jakarta, Earth
Winfield saw the fast, multiple flickers over his shoulder and went prone, covering his eyes and ears. Ayala, left arm still bleeding from a through-and-through hit inflicted by some kind of Hkh’Rkh scattergun, was down beside him in a moment. Seconds went by. Jakarta was only marginally more quiet than it had been before.
About fifteen seconds later, a dull rumble started, rising up through and ultimately washing over the incessant small arms fire and intermittent rockets that were still pelting in from the periphery of the city. Winfield stood, looked back out over the Thousand Islands. It appeared as though a tiny, dim afterimage of the sun blazed at the eleven o’clock position. However, the sun’s own cloud-smudged brightness was still visible at the two o’clock position. One sky, two suns—although the smaller one at eleven o’clock was fading fast.
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