And the days narrowed their distance to destination. Old Admiral Barnell stayed cooped up in his cabin with mounds of space charts. All they saw of him was his aide, his yeoman, and his steward.
They came to quarters twice each day. They held battle practice. And worked out their various bills for fire and damage control. But no one even tried to figure out how one would go about abandoning ship. That would be something to think about when the time came.
They held target practice with their batteries and coordinated their fire so that by the time they had held five drills, they could pick off a meteor or bit of dust at six thousand miles with a considerable air of confidence. With all formulae relating to gravity not counting, with their missile projectors unimpeded by air, they were finding that their sea weapons had surprising potentialities. The proximity fuses they managed to stretch so that a mile miss was a clear hit. And well before the rendezvous was reached they had screens so rigged that a fifteen-thousand-mile salvo could be fired with an accuracy of three hits out of ten shots.
They reached Twain and had to wait two days for their supply vessels which, however tardily, finally came up. The assorted cargoes were insufficient in many instances and failed to fill up the lists which department officers had anxiously and hopefully made of things they could use. One set of drives had soured and they gutted a freighter to get another.
Admiral Barnell, in a fast gig he had made en route, went down to Johnsonville to see what they faced.
He came back grim and tired. They piped him in through the air lock and he stiffly returned the salutes of the side boys. To Captain Ten-Ike Mike he said:
“All officers in wardroom country, sir.”
When they were there he sat at the head of the green-covered board, head sunk on his chest, looking tired and old.
They waited quietly until he told them to sit down and then Ten-Ike said, “Things pretty tough down there, sir?”
Old Admiral Barnell raised hot eyes to the Constitution’s captain. “Sir, you are not old enough to recall the last atom war. I myself was a boy. But Johnsonville is old Chicago again. Dead.”
The officers waited. Barnell brushed the ugly scene from his eyes. “They were attacked without warning from outer space. The missiles were probably fired from six or eight hundred miles. Eighteen thousand men, women, and children are down there—cooked.”
Faces grew hard around the board and the younger officers fidgeted, anxious to slash out to a new destination and come to grips with an enemy.
Barnell looked at them. “I understand your feelings, gentlemen. Atomic war was theoretically banished forever from Earth. It was ‘banished forever’ five times. And now it’s out here in the stars. It means that every small community, every mine, and trading post among the planets is open to attack. Gold doesn’t burn. Radium and uranium aren’t affected. And while there is greed among men, these things will continue to happen—unless we are successful in this initial quest. I do not need to remind you, gentlemen, that the life term of our service is short. This will be the end of the road unless we succeed. Naval tradition has been fully ten thousand years in building. If we vanish as a service, there will be none to undertake this task of guarding space. There is more at stake here than Johnsonville, gentlemen, although heaven knows, that’s enough.
“Have any of you looked at space charts? Some of you are old hands in absolute zero. Most of you are not. But all of you realize, I think, the immensity of space. There are literally millions of stars within a few hundred light-years of this point and thousands upon thousands of habitable planets. We do not have much time for several reasons. Have any of you any suggestions as to how we should locate and destroy the perpetrators of this crime?”
They had several suggestions. And after listening to them a few minutes, the old admiral nodded.
“You are all too right in that we work under enormous difficulties,” he said. “We have invented insufficient technologies; we have a battleship that doesn’t dare touch ground anywhere, lacking chemical jets and proper stress analysis. We have no intelligence force in operation and we have no escorts. But we have some advantages, gentlemen. We are on the scene and we have good guns and brave men.
“Commander Thorpe, I am assigning you to the command of the freighter Gaston. Mount one of our spare missile racks in her bows and take her crew and twenty men from this vessel. I am commissioning the Gaston as a cruiser. You will proceed to Radioville on Canova Bear. On arrival you will ground and search all space vessels for any of the goods which might have come from here and for all suspicious characters. Act with a high hand even if the Army tries to stop you: there is no defined authority in space.
“Lieutenant Carter, I appoint you . . .”
He spoke for twenty minutes and at the end of that time the only experienced space officer he had left was Captain Ten-Ike. The others had been given the freighters, newly created “cruisers,” and various destinations in space.
“Gentlemen,” he told them as they stood up to leave, “you are a scout force. You are poorly manned, under gunned and may well be in dangerous situations. The merchant ships which you are using are badly fitted for their tasks. But those tasks are important. You must procure intelligence as to the whereabouts of a raider base and protect at all costs the planets and colonies to which you have been assigned. You are empowered to act with complete discretion to achieve these ends. And you are reminded that upon you and your judgment rests not only the future of our service but the safety of all commerce throughout space. That will be all.”
The designated ten officers took their caps and filed out. And then Barnell looked at Ten-Ike.
“Now whip the rest of these people into top deck watch officers, Captain. By trial of arms and the taking of prizes they may be commanding vessels of their own before this year is out.”
It was ambitious. But that it was nearly hopeless old Admiral Barnell dared not think. What he had seen on Johnsonville had told him that the enemy was powerful. Very powerful. Johnsonville had been heavily protected by a major action force screen, a thing he had not known, by six batteries of excellent area defense weapons and by adequate warning systems. Yet, even though she had been commanded by an Army colonel whom Barnell knew by repute to be astute and alert, Johnsonville had fallen like a card house before a hurricane.
The enemy they faced was ruthless, well informed and greedy. And he had bigger and better guns.
During the next watches the old admiral paced the bridge, pausing from time to time to watch units of his newly commissioned flotilla, weirdly silver in the bright blaze of Mizar and backed by the absolute black of space, depart upon their missions. He had left one freighter and one passenger craft, the first to service him and the other to carry the marine expeditionary force of two companies which had tardily arrived. He didn’t like to think how undermanned was the Constitution now or how she would fare with inexperienced deck officers. Instead he indulged himself in hope that one of his scouts would bring him intelligence and that he could soon close for action.
With only his two remaining vessels beside his flag, he turned to his orderly.
“My compliments to the commanding officer and he will get underway immediately for Rangerton of Beta Centauri.”
There, he thought to himself, in that welter of outcast humanity and amid the pooled riches of six planets he could most likely find (1) vital information and (2) men to replenish his crews. And he would be in the hub of the wheel he was scouting, ready to strike in any direction.
The big craft began to shudder under the impetus of drives. They were getting underway.
But Admiral Barnell need not have been quite so impatient for news. Less than one week later the battle circuit opened up with a message from Lieutenant Carter commanding the Miami.
INTERCEPTED BY HOSTILE CRAFT AND FIRED UPON. AM REPLYING. EVIDENTLY OUTRANGED . . . ATTEMPTING TO CLOSE . . . SEE
M TO BE . . .
That was the end of the message. No further word of any kind ever came from the Miami.
Captain Alonzo Schmidt sprawled on a rug in the shade of a large rock and watched his ship fitters patch up the gap in the keel of the Guerra. To hand was a gallon of lemonade liberally spiked and served up by a girl scantily clothed.
“Ach, Emanuel! What nonsense, Emanuel,” said Schmidt. “Some expedition with naval men loaned. You haf heard of such. Ach, such worryings. No wonder you are anemic!”
Emanuel, a dandified little Argentinian, a full Spaniard, unlike Schmidt whose people had come to the country only a couple centuries before, dabbed daintily at his forehead. He found more than the rays of Aldebaran hot this day. He was a very brave man. But he was cautious.
“But they have never carried guns before,” he protested.
“Ach, popguns. Shooting corks! So they haf heard of trouble in space and they mount popguns. Darling, more lemonade.”
“They fired remarkably well,” said Emanuel. “And I myself saw the bodies in the debris. They were naval officers and men. United States.”
“What would they be doing in space, now? Eh? What? Just some private expedition that wanted to fight.”
“I didn’t see a single piece of expedition equipment,” said Emanuel.
“Ach, worrying. Always it gives worryings. Besides, we outranged him at least ten thousand miles. My little darlings. My own poppets. They shoot so sweet, ja?”
“Admitted your people have a flair for invention,” said Emanuel. “You’ve practically taken over our whole country with them. But . . .”
“Ja,” said Schmidt, suddenly dark, “and they kick the best of us out because we are too smart. But never mind, Emanuel. Someday we go home. We make a big colony, a big Navy, and we go home. And we take what we want, ja?”
“I think we ought to quit for a while,” said Emanuel. “Besides, we require people for our project and all I have seen so far is murder for baubles. We should stay right here and build up our ships with what we have already. It is risky. Our guns are good. Our technicians good. We will soon be able to return and do what we wish with Earth. But that ship last month, it worries me. Naval officers, naval crew. And no equipment.”
“Bah, my chicken-livered friend,” said Schmidt, “you get goose bumps in any zephyr, ja? Didn’t we shoot him to pieces? Was there enough left to bury? Could we even salvage that old tub? No. Well—”
“She had ‘Miami’ painted in red lead on her bow. I saw it. The United States Navy used to name ships after towns and Miami is a town.”
“Bah. She’s dead. They’re all dead. Forget it. Two, three days we get word from Don Alvaro about Rangerton and back to work we go again. I hear it is heavy with gold shipments. Nice, yellow gold.” And he chuckled in sheer good nature and reached toward the girl.
Admiral Barnell sat on a packing box in an office the Marines had tossed together for him on the outskirts of Rangerton. His five-star flag hung limply in the blazing breath of Beta Centauri. The khaki of the sentries outside was black with sweat.
The man between the two intelligence JGs was also sweating but it was not from heat. Water dripped from his palms and ran from his brow into his eyes. He had a frantic air about him and he kept twitching his head as though to get it out of a vise.
“Now let’s be calm about it,” said Barnell. “We do not intend to torture you—”
“I’ve had no food or water!” whimpered Don Alvaro Mendoza. “I’m dying of uncertainty. That’s torture enough!”
“Pirates,” said the old admiral, “I think we hang in chains to dry. That’s right, isn’t it, Colbright?”
Colbright, a clever young officer, nodded brightly. It was he who had spread the report of rich shipments while pretending drunkenness and had brought Don Alvaro prying down upon him.
“Of course we try them first,” he added. “Unless they tell what they know when it is some use to us.”
“But the Army post never bothered me! What are you doing here? This is a nightmare!” cried Don Alvaro. “What is the Navy doing here?”
“Protecting commerce, guaranteeing the freedom of space, and just now,” said Barnell, “questioning a renegade and a thief. You are an Argentinian. You admit you are descended from the Germans who migrated there. You admit you were thrown out of the country about ten years ago for plotting its overthrow. Now tell us where your friends keep their ships.”
Don Alvaro went white. He could see Schmidt smiling while he flogged a man to death. He could see Schmidt shooting a traitor, wounding him here and there. He could see Schmidt sticking a seaman’s hand out of the air lock into space and then bringing him in to knock the frozen member off like a piece of glass. He began to sweat harder.
“The difference is,” said Barnell acutely, “that you are in our hands. How far away is your leader?”
“Sir, I don’t think he’ll talk,” said Colbright. “I have his code. I’ll just send a message to space at large that he has told all. That will save a lot of trouble.”
With a thin scream Don Alvaro leaped back. “No!” he said, chattering with fear. “No! I’ll tell you. This is the next place of raid. They’ll be here in five days. Capitan Schmidt is the leader. We intended to build up a fleet and attack the Argentine, using Schmidt’s developments. Now the base . . .”
The Guerra sailed down toward Rangerton. It was a bright afternoon there, rewarding his calculations. It would make gunnery simple. Good Don Alvaro. Schmidt trusted his friend had wit enough to stay clear of the firing area. Rangerton would make a good haul in metal and perhaps there would be two or three ships at the spaceport.
The planet looked pretty, he thought, as his detectors sought the concentration of metal which would train him dead on the town. This was his fifth attack on such places and he felt very sure of himself. The Army had nothing which could worry him and these persistent rumors about naval vessels were so much beer froth. Nobody had guns which could touch him. Nobody. Hadn’t his own people shown him how to make guns? And did anyone else know? They’d brought all that from Germany a long time ago at the end of some lost and forgotten war. There. He was just about dead center. Now—
“Capitan!” said Emanuel. “There’s a ship!”
“Ah, more for the pot. Let him land and we’ll—”
“No, no,” said Emanuel, excitedly, staring into the screen. “It is coming toward us, about thirty thousand miles, closing fast. A small ship. A freighter. Very fast. Twenty-one thousand—nineteen thousand—sixteen thousand—”
The Guerra bucked under an impact and Schmidt reeled at his station. In a sudden fury he trained his guns and pressed all firing trips. The Guerra rolled as her course shifted and the planet was lost for an instant. Then there was a bright blaze in the sky off to port, a blaze which had bursts in it.
“Hit him!” said Emanuel. “He’s done for. But I don’t like it. He almost did for us. Our steering jets are ruined!”
“Ja, got him,” said Schmidt, all cheers again. “What a pretty lot of fire. Emanuel, I am a gunner. Now we change course with the main drives and get back to business.”
Admiral Barnell’s face was grim and hard as he stood, hands jammed angrily in his pockets, on his bridge, glaring at the sputtering fire which was all that remained of Commander Thorpe’s Gaston. But it had served. It had clearly served. And swooping up from the protection of a low moon, drives all out, the Constitution was cutting down the range. “Eighteen thousand miles, sir,” said the rangefinder.
“Captain,” said old Admiral Barnell, “you may fire when on target.”
A moment later the Constitution was shaken by a blast. A damage control circuit clanged shut, isolating the hit. A minute and a half later the Constitution shrilled with the whistle of launching missiles.
There was a sharp crash abaft the bridge and the emptiness around the sh
ip blazed furiously. She bucked again under a second salvo. Damage control circuits began to close swiftly. A strained voice somewhere said, “Number Four Engine Room gone.”
The shrill of a third salvo screamed through the ship. The starboard side dissolved in sparks and melting metal.
“Put on your space helmet, sir,” said Mandville. “Pressure’s dropping in here. We’re bad hit starboard.”
Barnell did not need a detector now to see the Guerra. The range was closed to forty miles. All drives were furiously backing and the quartermasters were trying to swing the Guerra alongside.
Point-blank the Constitution let go a salvo from her remaining guns. And then Barnell saw what was wrong. A force screen of an advanced design blocked most of the impact of their proximity shells.
“Stand by to ram!” he barked.
The quartermasters hesitated for a brief second, automatically waiting for their captain to relay. But Ten-Ike was dead on the cold steel deck and the after bulkhead was in flames.
The helm jets strained, turning into the Guerra’s force screen. The drives shuddered in their turrets. They were inside the Guerra’s shooting range, and now at three miles any salvo hitting them would also destroy the Guerra.
The quartermasters looked white-faced at the looming side of the Guerra. They were coming fast, too fast. The turrets bucked harder in an effort to hold down the impact.
Mandville snatched tight the old admiral’s helmet strap and then fell himself, choking with fumes of metal turning into gas.
They crashed. There was a fiery fanfare of sparks as metal sawed through metal. Plates buckled. The bridge glass curved, almost stood the strain, and then flicked into splinters.
Writers of the Future 32 Science Fiction & Fantasy Anthology (L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future) Page 8
