As nearly as he could judge, the gas drone was somewhere ahead only a few minutes now. Shortly he should have it on his screen.
He was a little bit disturbed about the girls and Thor. He had not seen them on his screens as he went by. Of course he was by then very high. The spot of light he saw might be their fire, but it also might be the planes still burning. He had wasted too much time already and help was on the way to them. He remembered their numb faces when they realized he was leaving them there. But they must be all right. Probably they were at the Academy or the compound by now. Maybe the parson had been driving very fast. A mine ground car could do over sixty on rough terrain.
He hoped the other planes had reached the minesites and done their jobs. There was still five hours of radio silence yet to go. He wished he could open up on this radio and yell to them, “Hey, anybody that's done in his minesite, get up here to such and such coordinates and help blast this confounded drone.” But he didn't dare. It might cost some of them their lives by alerting their targets. They all had extra fuel and then some. They all had spare ammunition. But if any had had to delay or were waiting for an optimal moment to pounce on a minesite and he opened up, it could throw their lives away. He wasn't about to kill any Scots to save his own hide. When radio silence opened and Robert didn't hear from him, Robert would converge them to handle the drone. Late, maybe, but a second chance. He hoped it wouldn't come to that for their friends in Scotland would be endangered.
Maybe he was searching for something that was wave cancelled. That escort ship was his hope. Maybe it had peeled off or gone somewhere else. It's blip should be visible!
Ah, now. What was that tiny spark of green on the viewscreen? Another iceberg? No, the height telltale read four thousand two hundred twenty-three feet. Speed? Speed?
Three hundred two miles per hour! He had the escort on the screen. His gloved hands danced on the console. He braked down from hypersonic, dropping abruptly to five thousand feet in a descent as fast as a firing rocket. He cushioned at the bottom, feeling a trifle squashed for a moment. Easy, take it easy. Size up this escort.
He got it bright and clear in infrared. There was the drone beside it. One thing at a time. This escort was first target.
What was that plane? He had never seen anything like it before. Lowslung, flat, minimum skids...it looked like it was mainly armor!
Suddenly he realized that his guns might not even dent it. He had seen a tank bazooka flash against its side without affecting it in the least. He had a sinking feeling. Not only was the drone renowned as impregnable, but here was an escort ship that-
His mind raced with possibilities. Robert the Fox sometimes said, “When you only have two inches of claymore use ten feet of guile.” What did that escort know about him?
He reached for the local command radio switch. The range was only about twenty miles.
A torrent of angry Psychlo words hit him: “It’s about time somebody showed up! I should have been relieved of this job hours ago! What kept you?” Angry. Very angry!
Jonnie opened his transmit switch. He lowered the pitch of his voice as much as possible. “How are things?”
“The drone's all right and why shouldn't it be? I’ve been escorting it, haven't I? You certainly run a messed-up planet here! It's not like this on Psychlo! I should hope not! You're late! What's your name?”
Jonnie hastily dredged up a name that was common to twenty percent of the Psychlos. "Snit. Could I ask who I’m talking to?”
"Nup, Executive Administrator Nup! Use 'Your Executiveship' when you address me! Crap planet.”
“Did you arrive recently, Your Executiveship?” asked Jonnie.
“Just today, Snit. And how am I greeted? With a crummy Bolbod attack anyone could handle! Wait,” suspiciously, “you have a very strange accent. Like...like...yes, like a Chinko instruction disc! That's what it is. You're not a Bolbod, are you?” The click of firing buttons pulled off safety to standby.
“I was born here,” said Jonnie truthfully.
A sharp nasty laugh. “Oh, a colonial!”
Silence for a moment. “Were you briefed on this mission?”
“A little bit, Your Executiveship. But orders have been changed. That's what I was sent to tell you.”
“You're not relieving me?” Very hostile.
“The destination has been changed!” said Jonnie. “There's radio silence. They had to send me with the word.”
“Radio silence?”
“Planetary wide, Your Executiveship."
“Ah, then it is a Bolbod attack! They operate everything on radio! I knew it.”
"I’m afraid so, Your Executiveship.”
“Well, if you're not going to relieve me, what am I expected to do? I am almost out of fuel! Where's the nearest minesite!" Jonnie thought very fast.
“Your Executiveship, the orders were that if you were almost out of fuel-' Good lord, where could he send him? That Mark 32 was the only thing that one could home in on in a search! "-l was to tell you to land with magnetic grapnels on top of the drone...right at the front end.”
“What?” incredulous.
“Then drop off when we come close to the next minesite. You've got a map there?”
“No. I haven't got a map. You run things very badly on this planet. Not like Psychlo. It should be reported.”
“There's an attack on.” “Nothing can dent this plane. It 's a ground strafer. I don't know why it's being sent on escort.”
“How much fuel do you have, Your Executiveship?"
A pause. Then, “Crap! It 's only ten minutes' worth! You almost killed me with your lateness.”
“Well, just land on the extreme front end of the drone-'
“Why the front end? I should land in the middle. If I land on the front end it
will unbalance the weight distribution of the drone.”
“It’s the way it's loaded this trip. They omitted part of the load in the front. They said specifically the front end.”
“This is a pretty heavy plane!”
“Not for the drone. You better get moving, Your Executiveship. That water is cold down there. Ice, too! And you'll need fuel to off-load. It 's only a few hours to the next minesite."
Jonnie watched his screens. He couldn't see the plane in direct sight. With a bit of anxiety, he opened up the view to include the monstrous drone.
He felt faint with relief when the Mark 32 dove ahead, sat down on the top-front section of the drone, and put on its magnetic grips. They held!
The heat indicator of the viewscreen showed the Mark 32 had shut off its motors.
Jonnie watched. He expected the drone to nose down, possibly to crash. It did sag. Then its engines started to compensate and it rolled gently, thundering along, still going on its lethal way. Nup had landed off-center, inducing a continuous roll, right to left, left to right. It would roll to the right, and the balance motors would compensate and bring it back too far to the left and then overcompensate in the other direction. Only about ten degrees each way. But this did not at all change the steadfast course the drone was following. A very slow roll. Was it also crabbing slightly?
Chapter 6
With Nup out of the way, at least for now, Jonnie got down to the business of seeing what could be done to halt the drone.
He drew off a bit to give his screens better play on it. It looked like a derelict! Here was a mark where an atomic bomb had hit it, there was a scar where possibly a plane had crashed into it leaving the charred remnants of oil and fuel. There a row of minute dents where surface-to-air or air-to-air missiles had struck it. But such marks were notable only for their stains, not for any damage they had done.
He flew the battle plane down under it. He looked at the big skids used for parking and storing. No joy there.
He brought the battle plane alongside it again. He felt like a hummingbird flapping along with a buzzard.
Probably when the last mission of this thing was completed and it had crash
ed, demolishing the then-known city of “Colorado Springs,” the company had just let it lie there until it had built hangars and, as an afterthought, had probably flown water tanks over it and way above it and washed the radiation off of it and then stored it.
A chilling thought as to why they must have done that. Psychlos had no room for sentiment or art in any form. They would not have kept it for any other reason than that they couldn't dismantle it on this planet. Psychlo alone would have the massive shops to do that. They certainly didn't want it back. It had done its job. They wouldn't leave it out where it could be measured up by some enemy agent. They had kept it because the company couldn't destroy it on this planet. What it was built of, the devil only knew!
Well, he tried to cheer himself, Nup's plane skids had stuck to it. These magnetic so-called skids were actually whole-molecule reorientation fields. The molecules in the surface of one substance became, with the field, comingled with the molecules of the other substance like a temporary weld. So this thing was built of molecular metal, possibly some unknown– to this planet– metal, alloyed with some other strange metal. It even could be that the combination of such metals was, while molecular, irreversible and couldn't be melted or pounded apart once mixed. Maybe the Psychlos had something that, when certain elements were mixed together, could not then be "unmixed" by flame, electrical arcs, radiation, or anything. Maybe even laminated layers of such metals, each one protecting the one under it.
A very chilling thought. Jonnie did not consider himself even a kindergarten-level metallurgist, but he recalled the prohibition the Psychlos had of ever teaching an alien race anything about that subject. And here he was trying to solve it, flying along in the night, without texts, without a calculator, and without even the mathematics to use it if he had it.
What would destroy that drone? And before it reached even the coast of
Scotland.
He had thought a Psychlo was a monster when he first saw one. Now he was really looking at a monster. An ultimate in indestructibility.
Out of the tail of his eye he thought he saw something move on the viewscreen. He looked at it closely. There it was again. A rhythmic pulse under the bottom of the drone. He counted it out. Once every twenty seconds, regular as his watch. Suddenly he realized he had been studying just one side of the drone. He guessed he was feeling a bit overwhelmed. Well! Easily remedied. He hit his console with rapid fingers and flick, he was over on the other side of the drone.
This side had been away from him when he first saw the thing from the plains after it fired. Nup had been flying on the other side also.
He trimmed in his viewscreens.
What! The huge loading door was unlatched. And since Nup had landed on the nose, making the drone roll and crab periodically, the door was swinging open and closed.
A door.
Unlatched.
He televiewed it with quivering fingers. It had the broken stub of a key in it.
He viewed the whole mammoth door. It was open when the plane rolled down on that side, then was closed by the rushing air and gravity when the plane rolled back.
Every twenty seconds.
He suddenly regretted the tenderheartedness that had caused him to refuse a companion on this voyage. It would be dangerous, but hanging from a dangling wire ladder, it would be possible to drop down and into that door. No, it would require a pilot to run the plane and somebody going into that drone who knew enough to paralyze it if possible. And he had no pilots, and Glencannon couldn't be spared.
Open, closed, open, closed.
Size? He looked at the door. He compared his own ship's span and depth. This ship could fly into that door! Top and bottom a very narrow squeeze. Plenty to spare on the sides.
Yikes! Fly this ship sideways at three hundred two miles per hour? And then in?
Well, it was standard battle tactics to fly sideways with these teleportation motor drives. There was no wing support area needed such as birds used. When you shut off these motors, the ship didn't glide anywhere. It just dropped like a stone. It was leveled with small teleportation balance motors, not fins.
Yes, in theory one could fly sideways and then dart forward and in.
But the timing! Ouch. That rolling drone was moving the opening up and down about thirty feet each roll.
He'd try it.
But that slamming door had to be taken off first. The way it swung, it barred the available opening.
Jonnie decided he would first try to shoot the hinges off. He dropped the battle plane back, setting the firing controls to “Needle Width,” “Flame,” and “Single Shot.”
He lined up the plane and sights, fingers dancing on the console, one foot extended to the floor firing button– always hard to reach in a plane built for nine– or ten-foot-tall Psychlos. Even Ker had trouble with floor controls.
Line up, door open, hinge exposed.
Stamp!
A needle of hot flame hit the hinge. It didn't sever. The door began to swing shut again.
His local command channel burst into life. “What the crap are you doing?” cried Nup, alarmed.
“I don't have a copilot, Your Executiveship. I have to shoot the door open to change the controls and destination.”
“Oh.” Then, as Jonnie was lining up for the next try, “You be careful of company property, Snit! Willful damage is a vaporizing offense.”
“Yes, Your Executiveship." Jonnie fired the next try.
The hinge glowed briefly. The door hid it from view again. The door didn't sag. Maybe the hinge was binding. Jonnie looked at the infrared target scope. Yes, there were two hinges, one up, one lower.
He lined up on the lower hinge. Door open, hinge in scope. Stamp! Flash!
The door still didn't fall off.
Maybe if he alternated his shots, upper hinge, lower hinge, one then the other.
He drew off a bit to flex his fingers. The other scopes showed ice and sea endlessly below him. Nothing else in the sky.
Back to it. Upper. Stamp! Flash! Lower. Stamp! Flash! Over and over. But a shot possible only every forty seconds.
This was time-consuming! Well, he wasn't too pressed for time. Not yet anyway. Stamp! Flash! Wait. Stamp! Flash! Wait.
Those hinges would get cherry red but they didn't sever.
Getting nowhere, Jonnie drew off. Then, with a bright inspiration, he took a position above the drone and slightly to the other side so he could fire into the back of the door as it rolled open. He changed his gun setting to “Broad,” “No Flame,” and “Continuous.”
He sighted carefully. The next time the door swung open he stamped on the firing button and sent a string of flashes against the inside of the door. It swung open. He shifted his plane over to the side gradually as he fired.
Despite reverse roll the door was forced open and then, despite a three-hundred-two-mile-an-hour rush of air, suddenly sprang back under the hammering and lay against the hull. Wide open!
Jonnie stopped firing.
The door stayed open. Wide open, pinned back to the hull.
He examined the hinges by throwing the sight to tele. They were a bit twisted, probably from the shots. It was the hinges that precariously held the door open. Would it close again? Maybe. It was vibrating from wind force.
Watchfully, Jonnie drew off. His fingers raced on the console as he sought to correct for flying sideways. He got the sequence of combinations that did it. He inched the plane exactly opposite the yawning doorway.
Up went the doorway, down went the doorway. Yikes, this had to be timed!
He thought he had better just sit there and study it for a bit. He turned on the plane's lights to get direct visual. You couldn't do this on instruments alone.
The black pit lit up. He could see inside.
Yes, there was an area just inside the door. A flat platform. Probably needed for loading canisters. Ow! Canisters were stacked just in front of that platform. Would they explode if hit in an overshoot?
H
e calculated the distance and combination on the console. Then, with a sudden inspiration, he braced his foot against the magnetic grip setting lever. The jar of any impact would cause his foot, jolted, to set the magnetic skids.
He took a deep breath. He looked around him to be sure there were no loose objects. He moved the belted revolver they had issued him so its holster wouldn't punch him in the stomach if he jackknifed forward. The lanyard from the revolver was around his neck. He pulled it a bit to the side so it wouldn't catch on the control console if he pitched forward, for if it did, it could choke him. He laid a soft map case on the upper part of the console in case his head hit with the sudden stop.
Jonnie took another deep breath. He adjusted his air mask.
He watched the door. His fingers dancing on the console to get in the exact position, he zeroed in on the doorway. Count, count, count. How far would the doorway move up after he started forward?
He spread four fingers of his right hand across the huge keyboard to the four buttons that would start him. He spread four fingers of his left hand across the buttons that would stop him.
Up, up, up. Right hand ready. Punch!
The battle plane stabbed into the open door.
Crunch, down with the fingers of his left hand. Stop.
Crash!
He had not quite cleared the top of the door and a wide peel of metal screeched away.
His foot was jolted on the grip lever and the grips went on.
Jonnie's head slammed against the map case.
Lights flashed in his skull.
Blackness.
Chapter 7
During all this time, Zzt had been fluctuating between hope and suspicion.
The antics of that plane puzzled him. He knew he had no friends. Who would want to rescue him? He couldn't think of anybody. Char had been his shaftmate, and Char had vanished and was undoubtedly dead, for who would miss a chance to go home? And Char had not shown up at the firing. Terl. Probably Terl had killed him. So it was not Char. Who else was there? Nobody. So who was interested in rescuing him? It was a highly suspicious circumstance.
Battlefield Earth Page 44
