There Will Be War Volume X

by Jerry Pournelle

  Jon Jr. smiled pityingly at his father. “I knew you’d say something like that.”

  Hazard put up a beefy hand. “I don’t want to argue with you, son. But I can’t go along with you.”

  “You’re going to force us to attack your station.”

  “I’ll fight back.”

  His son’s smile turned sardonic. “Like you did in Brussels?”

  Hazard felt it like a punch in his gut. He grunted with the pain of it. Wordlessly he reached out and clicked off the comm screen.

  Brussels.

  They had thought it was just another one of those endless Easter Sunday demonstrations. A peace march. The Greens, the Nuclear Winter freaks, the Neutralists, peaceniks of one stripe or another. Swarms of little old ladies in their Easter frocks, limping old war veterans, kids of all ages. Teenagers, lots of them. In blue jeans and denim jackets. Young women in shorts and tight T-shirts.

  The guards in front of NATO’s headquarters complex took no particular note of the older youths and women mixed in with the teens. They failed to detect the hard, calculating eyes and the snub-nosed guns and grenades hidden under jackets and sweaters.

  Suddenly the peaceful parade dissolved into a mass of screaming wild people. The guards were cut down mercilessly and the cadre of terrorists fought their way into the main building of NATO headquarters. They forced dozens of peaceful marchers to go in with them, as shields and hostages.

  Captain J. W. Hazard, USN, was not on duty that Sunday, but he was in his office nevertheless, attending to some paperwork that he wanted out of the way before the start of business on Monday morning.

  Unarmed, he was swiftly captured by the terrorists, beaten bloody for the fun of it, and then locked in a toilet. When the terrorists realized that he was the highest-ranking officer in the building, Hazard was dragged out and commanded to open the security vault where the most sensitive NATO documents were stored.

  Hazard refused. The terrorists began shooting hostages. After the second murder Hazard opened the vault for them. Top-secret battle plans, maps showing locations of nuclear weapons, and hundreds of other documents were taken by the terrorists and never found, even after an American-led strike force retook the building in a bloody battle that killed all but four of the hostages.

  Hazard stood before the blank comm screen for a moment, his softbooted feet not quite touching the deck, his mind racing.

  They’ve even figured that angle, he said to himself. They know I caved in at Brussels and they expect me to cave in here. Some sonofabitch has grabbed my psych records and come to the conclusion that I’ll react the same way now as I did then. Some sonofabitch. And they got my son to stick the knife in me.

  The sound of the hatch clattering open stirred Hazard. Feeney floated through the hatch and grabbed an overhead handgrip.

  “The crew’s at battle stations, sir,” he said, slightly breathless. “Standing by for further orders.”

  It struck Hazard that only a few minutes had passed since he himself had entered the CIC.

  “Very good. Mr. Feeney,” he said. “With the bridge out, we’re going to have to control the station from here. Feeney, take the con. Miss Stromsen, how much time before we can make direct contact with Geneva?”

  “Forty minutes, sir,” she sang out, then corrected, “Actually, thirty-nine fifty.”

  Feeney was worming his softboots against the Velcro strip in front of the propulsion-and-control console.

  “Take her down, Mr. Feeney.”

  The Irishman’s eyes widened with surprise. “Down, sir?”

  Hazard made himself smile. “Down. To the altitude of the ABM satellites. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Feeney began carefully pecking out commands on the keyboard before him.

  “I’m not just reacting like an old submariner,” Hazard reassured his young officers. “I want to get us to a lower altitude so we won’t be such a good target for so many of their lasers. Shrink our horizon. We’re a sitting duck up here.”

  Yang grinned back at him. “I didn’t think you expected to outmaneuver a laser beam, sir.”

  “No, but we can take ourselves out of range of most of their satellites.”

  Most, Hazard knew, but not all.

  “Miss Stromsen, will you set up a simulation for me? I want to know how many unfriendly satellites can attack us at various altitudes, and what their positions would be compared to our own. I want a solution that tells me where we’ll be safest.”

  “Right away, sir,” Stromsen said. “What minimum altitude shall I plug in?”

  “Go right down to the deck,” Hazard said. “Low enough to boil the paint off.”

  “The station isn’t built for reentry into the atmosphere, sir!”

  “I know. But see how low we can get.”

  The old submariner’s instinct: run silent, run deep. So the bastards think I’ll fold up, just like I did at Brussels, Hazard fumed inwardly. Two big differences, Cardillo and friends. Two very big differences. In Brussels the hostages were civilians, not military men and women. And in Brussels I didn’t have any weapons to fight back with.

  He knew the micropuffs of thrust from the maneuvering rockets were hardly strong enough to be felt, yet Hazard’s stomach lurched and heaved suddenly.

  “We have retro burn,” Feeney said. “Altitude decreasing.”

  My damned stomach’s more sensitive than his instruments, Hazard grumbled to himself.

  “Incoming message from Graham, sir,” said Yang.

  “Ignore it.”

  “Sir,” Yang said, turning slightly toward him, “I’ve been thinking about the minimum altitude we can achieve. Although the station is not equipped for atmospheric reentry, we do carry the four emergency evacuation spacecraft and they do have heat shields.”

  “Are you suggesting we abandon the station?”

  “Oh, no, sir! But perhaps we could move the spacecraft to a position where they would be between us and the atmosphere. Let their heat shields protect us — sort of like riding a surfboard.”

  Feeney laughed. “Trust a California girl to come up with a solution like that!”

  “It might be a workable idea,” Hazard said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “We’re being illuminated by a laser beam,” Stromsen said tensely. “Low power — so far.”

  “They’re tracking us.”

  Hazard ordered, “Yang, take over the simulation problem. Stromsen, give me a wide radar sweep. I want to see if they’re moving any of their ABM satellites to counter our maneuver.”

  “I have been sweeping, sir. No satellite activity yet.”

  Hazard grunted. Yet. She knows that all they have to do is maneuver a few of their satellites to higher orbits and they’ll have us in their sights.

  To Yang he called, “Any response from the commsats?”

  “No, sir,” she replied immediately. “Either their laser receptors are not functioning or the satellites themselves are inoperative.”

  They couldn’t have knocked out the commsats altogether, Hazard told himself. How would they communicate with one another? Cardillo claims the Wood and two of the Soviet stations are on their side. And the Europeans. He put a finger to his lips unconsciously, trying to remember Cardillo’s exact words. The Europeans are going along with us. That’s what he said. Maybe they’re not actively involved in this. Maybe they’re playing a wait-and-see game.

  Either way, we’re alone. They’ve got four, maybe five, out of the nine battle stations. We can’t contact the Chinese or Indians. We don’t know which Russian satellite hasn’t joined in with them. It’ll be more than a half hour before we can contact Geneva, and even then what the hell can they do?

  Alone. Well, it won’t be for the first time. Submariners are accustomed to being on their own.

  “Sir,” Yang reported, the Graham is still trying to reach us. Very urgent, they’re saying.

  “Tell them I’m not available but you will record their message and personally give it t
o me.” Turning to the Norwegian lieutenant, “Miss Stromsen, I want all crew members in their pressure suits. And levels one and two of the station are to be abandoned. No one above level three except the damage-control team. We’re going to take some hits and I want everyone protected as much as possible.”

  She nodded and glanced at the others. All three of them looked tense, but not afraid. The fear was there, of course, underneath. But they were in control of themselves. Their eyes were clear, their hands steady.

  “Should I have the air pumped out of levels one and two — after they’re cleared of personnel?”

  “No,” Hazard said. “Let them outgas when they’re hit. Might fool the bastards into thinking they’re doing more damage than they really are.”

  Feeney smiled weakly. “Sounds like the boxer who threatened to bleed all over his opponent.”

  Hazard glared at him. Stromsen took up the headset from her console and began issuing orders into the pin-sized microphone.

  “The computer simulation is finished, sir,” said Yang.

  “Put it on my screen here.”

  He studied the graphics for a moment, sensing Feeney peering over his shoulder. Their safest altitude was the lowest, where only six ABM satellites could “see” them. The fifteen laser-armed satellites under their own control would surround them like a cavalry escort.

  “There it is, Mr. Feeney. Plug that into your navigation program. That’s where we want to be.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The CIC shuddered. The screens dimmed for a moment, then came back to their full brightness.

  “We’ve been hit!” Stromsen called out.

  “Where? How bad?”

  “Just aft of the main power generator. Outer hull ruptured. Storage area eight—medical, dental, and food-supplement supplies.”

  “So they got the Band-Aids and vitamin pills,” Yang joked shakily.

  “But they’re going after the power generator,” said Hazard. “Any casualties?”

  “No, sir,” reported Stromsen. “No personnel stationed there during general quarters.”

  He grasped Feeney’s thin shoulder. “Turn us over, man. Get that generator away from their beams!”

  Feeney nodded hurriedly and flicked his stubby fingers across his keyboard. Hazard knew it was all in his imagination, but his stomach rolled sickeningly as the station rotated.

  Hanging grimly to a handgrip, he said, “I want each of you to get into your pressure suits, starting with you, Miss Stromsen. Yang, take over her console until she…”

  The chamber shook again. Another hit.

  “Can’t we strike back at them?” Stromsen cried.

  Hazard asked, “How many satellites are firing at us?”

  She glanced at her display screens. “It seems to be only one — so far.”

  “Hit it.”

  Her lips curled slightly in a Valkyrie’s smile. She tapped out commands on her console and then leaned on the final button hard enough to lift her boots off the Velcro.

  “Got him!” Stromsen exulted. “That’s one laser that won’t bother us again.”

  Yang and Feeney were grinning. Hazard asked the communications officer, “Let me hear what the Graham has been saying.”

  It was Buckbee’s voice on the recording. “Hazard, you are not to attempt to change your orbital altitude. If you don’t return to your original altitude immediately, we will fire on you.”

  “Well, they know by now that we’re not paying attention to them,” Hazard said to his three young officers. “If I know them, they’re going to take a few minutes to think things over, especially now that we’ve shown them we’re ready to hit back. Stromsen, get into your suit. Feeney, you’re next, then Yang. Move!”

  It took fifteen minutes before the three of them were back in the CIC inside the bulky space suits, flexing gloved fingers, glancing about from inside the helmets. They all kept their visors up, and Hazard said nothing about it. Difficult enough to work inside the damned suits, he thought. They can snap the visors down fast enough if it comes to that.

  The compact CIC became even more crowded. Despite decades of research and development, the space suits still bulked nearly twice as large as an unsuited person.

  Suddenly Hazard felt an overpowering urge to get away from the CIC, away from the tension he saw in their young faces, away from the sweaty odor of fear, away from the responsibility for their lives.

  “I’m going for my suit,” he said, “and then a fast inspection tour of the station. Think you three can handle things on your own for a few minutes?”

  Three heads bobbed inside their helmets. Three voices chorused, “Yes, sir.”

  “Fire on any satellite that fires at us,” he commanded. “Tape all incoming messages. If there’s any change in their tune, call me on the intercom.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Feeney, how long until we reach our final altitude?”

  “More than an hour, sir.”

  “No way to move her faster?”

  “I could get outside and push, I suppose.”

  Hazard grinned at him. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Feeney.” Not yet, he added silently.

  Pushing through the hatch into the passageway, Hazard saw that there was one pressure suit hanging on its rack in the locker just outside the CIC hatch. He passed it and went to his personal locker and his own suit. It’s good to leave them on their own for a while, he told himself. Build up their confidence. But he knew that he had to get away from them, even if only for a few minutes.

  His personal space suit smelled of untainted plastic and fresh rubber, like a new car. As Hazard squirmed into it, its joints felt stiff — or maybe it’s me, he thought. The helmet slipped from his gloved hands and went spinning away from him, floating off like a severed head. Hazard retrieved it and pulled it on. Like the youngsters, he kept the visor open.

  His first stop was the bridge. Varshni was hovering in the companionway just outside the airtight hatch that sealed off the devastated area. Two other space-suited men were zippering an unrecognizably mangled body into a long black-plastic bag. Three other bags floated alongside them, already filled and sealed.

  Even inside a pressure suit, the Indian seemed small, frail, like a skinny child. He was huddled next to the body bags, bent over almost into a fetal position. There were tears in his eyes. “These are all we could find. The two others must have been blown out of the station completely.”

  Hazard put a gloved hand on the shoulder of his suit.

  “They were my friends,” Varshni said.

  “It must have been painless,” Hazard heard himself say. It sounded stupid.

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “There’s more damage to inspect, over by the power generator area. Is your team nearly finished here?”

  “Another few minutes, I think. We must make certain that all the wiring and air lines have been properly sealed off.”

  “They can handle that themselves. Come on, you and I will check it out together.”

  “Yes, sir,” Varshni spoke into his helmet microphone briefly, then straightened up and tried to smile. “I am ready, sir.”

  The two men glided up a passageway that led to the outermost level of the station, Hazard wondering what would happen if a laser attack hit the area while they were in it. Takes a second or two to slice the hull open, he thought. Enough time to flip your visor down and grab on to something before the air blowout sucks you out of the station.

  Still, he slid his visor down and ordered Varshni to do the same. He was only mildly surprised when the Indian replied that he already had.

  Wish the station were shielded. Wish they had designed it to withstand attack. Then he grumbled inwardly, wishes are for losers; winners use what they have. But the thought nagged at him. What genius put the power generator next to the unarmored hull? Damned politicians wouldn’t allow shielding; they wanted the stations to be vulnerable. A sign of goodwill, as far as they’re concerne
d. They thought nobody would attack an unshielded station because the attacker’s station is also unshielded. We’re all in this together, try to hurt me and I’ll hurt you. A hangover from the old mutual-destruction kind of dogma. Absolute bullshit.

  There ought to be some way to protect ourselves from lasers. They shouldn’t put people up here like sacrificial lambs.

  Hazard glanced at Varshni, whose face was hidden behind his helmet visor. He thought of his son. Sheila had ten years to poison his mind against me. Ten years. He wanted to hate her for that, but he found that he could not. He had been a poor husband and a worse father. Jon Jr. had every right to loathe his father. But dammit, this is more important than family arguments! Why can’t the boy see what’s at stake here? Just because he’s sore at his father doesn’t mean he has to take total leave of his senses.

  They approached a hatch where the red warning light was blinking balefully. They checked the hatch behind them, made certain it was airtight, then used the wall-mounted keyboard to start the pumps that would evacuate that section of the passageway, turning it into an elongated air lock.

  Finally they could open the farther hatch and glide into the wrecked storage magazine.

  Hazard grabbed a handhold. “Better use tethers here,” he said.

  Varshni had already unwound the tether from his waist and clipped it to a hold.

  It was a small magazine, little more than a closet. In the light from their helmet lamps, they saw cartons of pharmaceuticals securely anchored to the shelves with toothed plastic straps. A gash had been torn in the hull, and through it Hazard could see the darkness of space. The laser beam had penetrated into the cartons and shelving, slicing a neat burned-edge slash through everything it touched.

  Varshni floated upward toward the rent. It was as smooth as a surgeon’s incision, and curled back slightly where the air pressure had pushed the thin metal outward in its rush to escape to vacuum.

  “No wiring here,” Varshni’s voice said in Hazard’s helmet earphones. “No plumbing either. We were fortunate.”

  “They were aiming for the power generator.”

  The Indian pushed himself back down toward Hazard. His face was hidden behind the visor. “Ah, yes, that is an important target. We were very fortunate that they missed.”