by John Carr
A very nice, slender female body, if memory served him right...Stop that, you idiot! That’s what got you into this mess in the first place. Ingrid Cummings was not some serving wench from the White Tamerlame or kitchen maid he could use and then forget. She was the daughter of the most powerful man on the world. And his Grandfather’s best friend. If they found out, it could mean – marriage!
He’d leave his ancestral home first. Marriage was completely out of the question.
How had this happened? Memories of last night suddenly came flooding back: Kanter telling him about the Sauron invasion, the journey into the Tower, the bomb -
Sweet Lord, the Saurons were here.
Then Ingrid bursting into tears, worried sick about her mother and father. Him comforting her, kissing her, their bodies pressing against each other in a primal rhythm. A torturous trip in the dark, down the Tower stairs, with Ingrid in his arms. A mad dash across the courtyard and into her room...taking, no tearing off their clothes, then a wild coupling, meshing of two bodies. Later another, slower this time and more tender -
How could I have let this happen? I am almost forty T-years old, not some green kid. Right, but the world doesn’t get invaded by Saurons every day, old boy! Settle down, the question now isn’t what you’ve done. That’s a fait accompli. The question is what are you going to do about it? Who saw you carry Ingrid into her room?
He thought as hard as he ever had: No one, or everyone. I can’t remember running into or seeing anyone, but then I wasn’t paying attention to anyone but Ingrid at the time. What have I done?
That, he realized, was no longer important; what he had to do now was to get out of this room, preferably without waking - he hadn’t the faintest idea of how he could talk his way out of this mess! Ingrid? Maybe she’d be as ashamed as he was and forget the whole thing - wishful thinking! Well, he was pretty sure that she was no more anxious to marry him than he was to marry her. Hell, they’d never had a nice word for each other until last night. And there hadn’t been much talking then.
John glanced over at the blanket-covered, sleeping form and noticed the covers had shifted, exposing her slim, silky thigh -
Damn it, enough of that, fathead! He slowly pushed his way out of the covers and into the chilly night air. It was the best, came unbidden into his mind. Out, treacherous thoughts! I don’t even like the lady. Lady, that was the key. One did not ravish Ladies. God’s Teeth, was he in trouble!
He slowly rolled out of the bed, quickly pulled his clothes on and slipped out the door like a thief. Oh, I’m that and worse. It had been sheer good fortune that the Baron hadn’t been home.
As he made his way down the hall toward his room, John heard voices downstairs. One was the gruff tones of his Grandfather’s voice. I’d better get down there, I’m supposed to be in charge here!
The Baron and his closest advisors were in the study, crouched around a pile of maps on the table. As he came in, his Grandfather looked up at him, saying, “I hope we didn’t disturb your sleep,”
He knows, was John’s first thought. But when the Baron turned back to the map, he realized that the Old Man thought he’d spent the night with one of the serving maids. A wave of relief flooded through him.
“Almost all radio communications have been cut off,” the Baron said, “just a few ham operators, mostly those with vacuum tubes, are still on the air. Castell City, Falkenberg, Lermontovgrad, Redemption, half-a-dozen other cities nuked. Mostly tactical and neutron bombs, though. Killing people with minimal property damage, and to hell with any hope of bomb shelters saving anyone. Still, that’s not standard Sauron raiding tactics.
“And no confirmation concerning Saurons, except from Cummings. Everyone else is talking about pirates, but why would pirates bomb cities which hold potential wealth? Even clean nukes spoil loot.” He shook his head. “It has to be Saurons, nothing else makes any sense. And tactics that don’t fit Sauron raid profiles fit very well into descriptions of Sauron invasions.”
“Your, Lordship, what are the odds of them, Saurons I mean, coming here to Whitehall?” Master-at-Arms Jubal Leonard asked.
“As long as we keep radio silence and don’t do anything stupid to call attention to ourselves, I’d say quite slim at the moment. If there’s more than one ship, a major invasion, we’ll see them soon enough. If it’s only a single ship - and I’m not sure they’d waste more than one on a snowball like Haven - then we may never see them again.”
“So everything will stay the same, Baron?” the Steward asked.
“Didn’t say that. There’ll be changes aplenty, whether they come to Whitehall or not. That’s why we’ve got to be careful.”
“I think we ought to help organize some kind of resistance,” John volunteered. “We have a secure position and lots of neighbors and allies. None of whom want to see Saurons on Haven.”
“John, you are talking as if the Saurons were just another band of brigands, better armed and organized than, say, the Flemming Gang. They’re not. I fought them on Tabletop. They’re a whole other order of bad news. Each Sauron Soldier is worth a score of real humans, or ‘cattle’, which is what they call us. If it truly is Saurons who have attacked Haven, this entire world will never be the same. The last thing we want to do is give them a reason to come here.”
“But, those bastards nuked Redemption and Castell and Hell’s-a-Comin’ - ”
“I know,” the Baron said, his voice growing in volume. “I don’t like it. I despise what they’ve done to our world. And there is much worse to come. However, if we draw attention to ourselves, how will that help Haven? It’s not as if we have the means to destroy a pinnace full of these Super Soldiers - much less a shipfull.
“If Cummings and his Militia can’t do the job - and there’s no reason to think that they can - we certainly can’t. The Haven Volunteers don’t have the ordinance or the facilities to successfully engage a man-of-war. I know, I spent ten years in the Imperial Navy aboard the Wellington. I’ve seen firsthand what a warship is capable of. General Cummings, God Bless his heart, doesn’t stand a chance.”
“So we pull the shades down and hide in the dark!” John couldn’t keep the scorn out of his voice.
“Exactly, and pray to God that the Saurons don’t decide that they want to settle in this part of the Shangri-La. This is a big valley; if we’re lucky we may live out our entire lives and never see a Sauron.”
“I don’t call that a life!”
The other advisors turned away, embarrassed by John’s outburst. He was too angry to care. This was a cause he could believe in, die for if necessary.
He could see his Grandfather visibly rein in his temper. In a cold, controlled tone of voice he said, ”In this small part of the Valley we are a big-sized fish, but compared to the Saurons we’re a minnow. In a world quickly sliding its way back to the Middle Ages, we were a military power. Now we’ll be lucky to maintain our local autonomy. The Saurons can rip through these walls like a drillbit through a cardboard outhouse.”
“But how can we just pretend that nothing is happening? There’s a war for the heart and soul of Haven being waged beyond these castle walls!”
“We can and we will. That’s an order!”
The other men looked down at the floor.
“This includes all of you. Understood?”
The Baron’s eyes bored straight into John. He nodded his head, but felt sick inside. He needed this, needed something to make up for the mess upstairs, the mess of his whole life. When will I ever learn?
Captain Aram Mazurin, John’s brother-in-law and local liaison with the Militia, broke into the room. John gave a guilty start.
He paused, his lungs laboring like bellows. “Sauron ship. Big mother! Just passed over the Miracles, must be coming from the Redfield Satrapy. It’s passing overhead with two-dozen fighters in tow! Better come out or you’ll miss it.”
“Is it firing?” the Steward asked. Obviously, he had never been in combat.
Captai
n Mazurin shook his head. “Not much to shoot at around here, just farms and this old castle - I don’t think we’re big enough to qualify as a military target to a warship. I pray we’re not. Otherwise, it’ll be the last thing we ever see.”
II
The Dol Guldur maintained its orbital strike on the surface of Haven for nine days, at intervals. During that time, it began sending down Commandos and assault teams to the surface to secure and inspect the areas Survey had reported as suitable for long-term occupation. When the fires below began to burn out, Diettinger ordered the area to be given another pass. If an area tried so much as a transmitted appeal for mercy, he ordered it atomized.
Tight-beam laser communications were the only form of contact between the ship and groundside Saurons. Not as much as a radio wave was to leave Havens surface. Every identifiable radio source was pinpointed for bombing or ground action.
Diettinger held no animosity for the Haveners; one did not hate cattle, after all. Nor was he by nature a cruel man. He had fought in many battles, and had always shown courtesy to his foes whenever possible. One such act had cost him his eye. But before you could show courtesy, both sides had to understand the rules of the game, and the only rule the Haveners needed to know right now was: Don’t Talk.
As of now, courtesy did not enter into his equations, or mercy. This battle was far more important than even the defense of Homeworld had been. For this battle could be won.
And would be.
III
By the end of the first day of the bombardment, Colonel Aden Kettler, late of the Redfield Satrapy Air Force, had used up every bit of pilot’s luck he felt he had. No matter. The airstrip at Fort Fornova had not been touched by the Sauron bombardment, and was lined up neatly below him. His landing was perfect. On solid ground again, he eagerly accepted the bolt of brandy offered him by one of the Militia watch commanders, a husky sergeant major in a gleaming breastplate.
Twenty-four hours, from bottle to throttle, he thought, remembering the ancient flyer’s admonition against mixing liquor with aviation fuel. ”The hell with that,” he muttered. If ever there were extenuating circumstances, these were it. He caught his reflection in the non-com’s flawless armor.
Until the Empire had abandoned Haven, along with most of its technical support, people would have laughed at the notion of using such archaic armor. The Redfield Satrapy and the Haven Volunteers had had their disagreements in the past, however. Kettler did not laugh.
“Right this way, Colonel,” the Sergeant Major said, gesturing toward a small jeep idling at the side of the runway. “The General’s expecting you.’’
The driver threw the car in gear the moment Kettler hit the seat. He had thought flying through turbulence and updrafts generated by the strikes were bad, but God, this road!
As he became accustomed to the jolting ride, he began to wonder about the fort. Why hadn’t Fornova taken any strikes from the invaders? It didn’t seem possible that Cummings could ever sellout to the Saurons, but it was strange. Maybe it was his own paranoia, from living in a police state ruled by a man who saw treachery behind every footstool. As far as he knew, Cummings had been awarded the Imperial Cross; Kettler would not believe such a man would ever work with the enemy.
But, they did live in strange and terrible times. The Empire had left Haven with too few guardians and way too many outlaws. After all, hadn’t Enoch Redfield been the leader of the Workers for Freedom opposition party that had finally swept into power right after the Imperials left? It was hard to reconcile the idealistic professor of political science whom he had followed with the stern, authoritarian dictator who now ruled his self-proclaimed state with an iron fist.
The jeep bounded through the gates of an abandoned manor, not Fort Fornova, and skidded to a halt in the middle of the courtyard. Kettler was out of the jeep and running for the main doors before it had stopped. He was immediately ushered into the great room.
At the end of the long walk was the table where Cummings’ aides received envoys. Kettler was suddenly all too aware of the rumpled uniform he wore; there had been no time to take a flight suit. Here, all the uniforms were old but they were well used, not worn. As he walked forward to meet the General, Kettler thought about his own comrades, fellow airmen in the Redfield Air Force. He feared the worst for them.
When that technician Delancey had told him what was going on, Kettler had simply commandeered an aircraft and left. He was sure Protector Redfield suspected the worst of him, but, in fact, he had not deserted his nation.
He had tried to explain his plan to Enoch Redfield personally by radio, but then an EMP blast had detonated over the Satrapy, and Kettler lost contact. He was now one hundred-percent on his own, more than five thousand kilometers from home, and it would take a miracle to get him back. Hell, it had taken him several to get here. Three unauthorized stops at airstrips, if you could call them that, at cities technically enemies of the Satrapy. But now, thanks to the Saurons, Haven was one world again and, unless everything had turned topsy-turvy, Cummings was the only man left on Haven who could successfully take the fight to the Saurons.
General Cummings looked at him impassively for a long moment, taking a deep pull on his pipe before he spoke. “Colonel Kettler,” the General said simply.
Kettler saluted. “At your service, General Cummings.”
“You have a personal request for me, I believe?”
“Yes, but first, where’s Fort Fornova?”
The General’s eyes hardened. “We evacuated it four T-days ago. Yesterday it was occupied by a company of Sauron Soldiers and EVA Commandos. If we’d have stayed, you’d now be talking to my replacement.”
“Understood, sir. If I may speak bluntly, sir?”
“You may. Such times call for setting aside the polite forms of address. Please continue.”
“My interest, General, concerns Fort Fornova’s ‘secret’ stock of nuclear weapons.”
The General laughed, grinning broadly. But there was no amusement in his eyes. It was strict Imperial policy to never allow nuclear capability on any world not directly under Imperial rule. When the Empire left, all nuclear weapons left with them. To be allowed any nukes showed either just how much clout the General had with the Throne, or just how devious he really was. Kettler wasn’t sure which fact he preferred.
“I think I’d trade fifty gauss riflemen for one of Enoch Redfield’s Protectorate Ministry spies,” the General said. He gestured for Kettler to sit and pulled out a rolled map of the Shangri-La Valley. An aide spread it out on the table before him.
“Now,” the General said, “let’s see what we can do.”
Forty-Three
I
Pilot Rank Stahler tightly gripped the stick as another updraft swatted the small scout copter hard to the left. Deathmaster Quilland, in the observer’s seat, moved efficiently and safely with the yawing, pitching craft. Stahler compensated, trying to watch for evidence of the torturous winds before they reached them. He was an excellent pilot, his reflexes were beyond the imagination of any human norm, but here he felt his abilities tested nearly to their limits.
The Karakul Pass, as the cattle called it, was a small cleft between two major mountain ranges, the Atlas Mountains to the west and the Girdle of God - tip of the Miracle Mountains range - to the northeast. From the air it was obvious that the two ranges had been joined together at one time. That must have been the mother of all earthquakes, he thought, fighting a sudden downdraft.
The turbulence was brought about by the colder, dryer air of the higher northern steppes trying to descend through the Pass and into the warmer and wetter air mass of the Shangri-La Valley that stretched below for millions of square kilometers. Buffeted by massive air pressure systems, sometimes the air rushed through the Pass with all the force of a runaway locomotive. Flying a small helicopter in this kind of turbulence was like flying a supraorbital fighter through one of Cat’s Eye’s magnetic storms. And just as dangerous.
The tilt-rotor gunships following behind were having less difficulty with the turbulence because of their greater size and weight, but they were harder to correct once caught in an up or downdraft. A minor course miscalculation or over-correction could result in a sudden collision or being slammed into the eastern wall of the Pass. Stahler didn’t envy those pilots; on the other hand, they were used to piloting rotary craft. As a Fighter Rank, he wasn’t; it had been years since he’d last taken a helicopter up. But then, as a fighter pilot, he was expected to be able to fly anything, and usually could. What would it be like to take up one of those Havener kites? he wondered.
It had been his decision to volunteer to fly on this mission. He was well aware that his days as a Fighter Pilot Rank were quickly coming to an end. It was unlikely there would be more than half-a-dozen more flights before all the fighters were permanently grounded. There was nothing in their class left to fight, never had been on this dismal moon. The score of out-classed Invictas were either destroyed or in hiding - and they were Haven’s best. Most importantly, the Sauron fighters, even the atmospheric craft, used too much of their limited stocks of fuel. One thing they had quickly learned was the scarcity of liquid hydrogen or even petroleum on Haven; most motorized vehicles used alcohol instead of gasoline.
In the distance he could see the multi-layered compound called Fort Stony Point. This fort controlled access to the only viable northern pass into the Shangri-La Valley. A few antiquated anti-aircraft guns began to boom and he saw the sputtering smoke trail of a slug-throwing, multi-barreled mini-gun. Most of the walls and emplacements were empty of men or weapons. A score of men were running between the inner tower and the first walled emplacement,
