Jensen exchanged glances with Christy, and then did likewise, leaving her alone to look at the screens and wonder what they meant. Eventually she, too, lay back.
The hours passed slowly. They took breaks for eating and using the facilities, but mostly they rested. Christy felt a huge relief at not being under Colonel Westorn’s gaze, but the thought of her soldiers going into battle with Westorn and his fanatics brought the tension back. Hopefully, Haida Gwaii or Venture could stop the shuttle before they could board the station.
Ken had become quite friendly after she had given him a briefing on her experiments, and had shown him the data which she had obtained.
“If this checks out,” he said, “the Nakamura Family will gladly give you asylum.” Then something took his attention. He adjusted his screens. “Hmm. Two of our ships have begun accelerating away from FTL-1. Strange. Nothing is due to leave for another day.”
Thirty-four hours into their trip, a squeal from the radio had all three sitting upright, hearts pounding.
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is Euro-Alpha. We are under attack! Station holed on four levels and open to space.”
TWENTY-TWO
AZORES
Sunday, August 29th
Oberst Dreschler had not given them a briefing since he had warned them that the USNA were preparing for war. Nothing had come of the idea that once the ETO had shown it was prepared, that the USNA might back down. Karl wondered if that had ever been a realistic possibility. He sat in the lounge, reader in hand. Every so often, he flipped a page forward. However, if anyone had asked him, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them what he had just read. He wondered if the old men running the ETO were just as anxious for war as the Americans appeared to be.
He glanced over to see his team engaged in likewise profitless activities. Schmidt pretended to sleep, but the man’s breathing gave him away. Kelner sat staring at the vid of the problems in Pakistan, the beginning of the war which no one might be able to stop. With the volume turned off, no one could hear the commentary. They didn’t need to.
He glanced at the chrono. Eighty-four minutes until they began their shift. Then they could look forward to six hours of rising tension before the schedule freed them to get some sleep. He laughed a harsh, barking laugh, which caused his team-members to look his way. He lifted the reader to explain. No one believed his lie, though all pretended they did with nods or closed-mouth smiles.
Sleep? Not a chance. As bad as they found sitting in the ready-room, they knew they were first in line to lift off the planet. Right now, being second in line and sitting in the lounge, they would sweat it; third would know their odds were 60-40 against lifting off; fourth had a slim chance – but they should be sleeping – and fifth, on their day off, knew they were dead. In eighty-three minutes, he had his team would go from second to first – not yet their day off – from worrying about their chances to knowing they would make it off the planet.
Then would come the slowly creeping feeling that their chances diminished with each passing hour until their shift ended and they came face to face with the reality that – should the inevitable war come – their time on Earth had ended also. Otherwise, they would wait as the hours crept by, wait until the possibility of life returned as they moved through fourth and third, and then took second and finally first position again. No wonder everyone looked exhausted already.
Were he in command, he would have already launched three flights into space. At least that way he would have assured that all his fighters would see action. Politically, however, that couldn’t happen. A launch at this time might cause the very disaster that all still hoped to avoid. He smothered his next laugh. Avoidance didn’t seem possible.
He turned off the reader, rose and stretched, the eyes of all his team on him. He walked sedately to the door to the outside, opened it, and stepped into the weather. Dark and windy, with rain in the air, he found it rather fitting. He took a deep breath. Erika’s flight had the day off. He wondered how she coped with the tortuous wait. No one had leave to go off the base, so they were stuck there with nothing to do but fret.
Trying to not think, to simply breathe, he allowed the wind to buffet him, the dampness to cool his skin. He closed his eyes, held on to the railing and wondered why he did not simply resign, return to Hamburg, and wait for the end there. But he knew the answer to that one. This way, he still had a chance – they still had a chance.
Kurt Müller opened his eyes and looked to his chrono. Sixty-two minutes left. He shivered, turned, and reentered the lounge.
“It’s blowing out there, men,” he told them. “But it gives you a feeling of—”
Red lights began flashing, and the klaxon sounded.
They dropped everything, and began to sprint for the exit. This time they moved at more than the moderate jog that regs demanded. No one, Müller thought, felt even the slightest surprise when the Public Address intoned:
“This is not a drill!”
They entered the ready-room just as Emil Flight left for their fighters. Regs said that the third flight should wait for them – the second flight – to get suited before entering, reducing the possibility of interfering. No one said anything as Berta and Cäsar … and then Dora, who had been sleeping … came rushing in.
They suited up in silence – a silence broken by the rumble of the first fighter taking off. His crew stood at the door waiting for him. Their fighter led Anton, and the ground-crew would be raising it into launch position even as the rumble from Fighter-1 of Emil Flight faded. The ground-crews would have all fighters raised before they got to them.
Müller finished dressing, and picked up his helmet even as Fighter-2’s rocket carried it off its pad. Every pair of eyes went to the clock. For about five seconds no one moved, then they all turned to stare at a neighbour. Fighter-2 had lifted off a minute early. That meant only one thing.
“Attention all personnel,” the call came over the speaker. “Early Warning reports inbound cruise missiles.” Then came the estimated time of arrival. Everyone looked at each other. The arrival time would only allow for the second and third flights to escape, and possibly not even all of the third.
The pilots jogged out of the ready room to the dispersement area. Before they split up to find their various ships, Müller made his decision. He held up both hands, and everyone stopped.
“Listen up!” Müller called out loudly, though he needed do no such thing in the sudden silence. “We’re carrying full load today. Crew of Cäsar Flight, Fighter-1, come with us. My responsibility.”
Everyone in the area froze, and all heads turned to look at him.
“You can’t do that,” Schmidt said.
“I can, and I will. In fact, I just have.” But he wanted Schmidt on his side, and so continued. “Don’t you understand? Cäsar and Dora won’t get off the ground – and we won’t have anywhere to land. An extra crew won’t affect our manoeuvreability perceptibly, and it will give us a chance to rest. Otherwise, we condemn our friends and fellow soldiers to death. What would you have me do?”
With so many looking on, Schmidt surrendered. “Well, get aboard.”
Müller looked around and found Hirsch. “Feldwebel, you and three of yours, come with us.”
Hirsch grabbed a bag out of his equipment cart and hurried to join them, followed by three of his team. Schmidt gave Müller a dark look, but said nothing as one after the other the rest of Anton Flight followed Müller’s example. And then Berta Flight did the same for the remaining shuttle crews and as many of the ground staff as they could fit aboard.
“You know they’ll court-martial us,” Erika Baumeister said as she stepped into the shuttle and took a place in the troop compartment.
Müller nodded. “If any of them survive, that is. But we’ll need the extra support up top when we dock. Stations Alpha and Beta have maintenance crew for their two fighters only. They can’t possibly support all of us satisfactorily – assuming we can’t come back down. You’re t
he one who put me onto that.”
“True enough. Time to go.”
Müller climbed into the pilot’s chair, and began the checklist. They were interrupted half-way through it.
“Major Müller, Command.”
Müller looked at the console and took a deep breath. Schmidt looked at him, eyes accusing. Well he might, for his orders had put all of them deep in it.
“Herr Oberst Dreschler, Müller here.”
“You will debark your passengers at once. I am sending guards to arrest you. Stand down and await them outside your fighter.”
He opened the tactical channel to the other fighters, and the internal comm, such that his crew and passengers could hear as well. “Negative, Herr Oberst, I will not debark my passengers.” He had thought this out since Erika had given her first hint, and knew exactly what he wanted to say. “Incoming missiles will not allow flights 4 and 5 to lift. You know this. I can use the extra crew – you cannot. They are useless to you on the ground. Estimated damage to facilities will not allow us to return; you know this, too. We fight in space – as we were trained to do – until exhaustion overcomes. With extra crew, we shall fight all the better and longer. Our stations cannot properly support us with their limited maintenance personnel. So we bring some of our own.”
“This is mutiny, Müller,” came back the sharp, clipped words.
“Yes, Oberst Dreschler, I agree.” He continued going through the checklist. “You may have me court-martialed upon our return – if we return.” He paused a moment, then added. “Or you can abort lift-off, and Azores Command will fail in contributing its share to the battle.”
He could almost see the anger of his commanding officer in the silence. Then he heard, “Anton Flight, Fighter-2, Command.”
“Kiergarten here, Herr Oberst. I will not debark my passengers, either.”
“Anton Flight, Fighter-3. Herr Oberst, I will not debark my passengers.”
As Müller listened to all of Anton Flight and Berta Flight repeating that line, he felt the warmth of comradeship flow through him.
“Command, Anton Flight, Fighter-1. Shall I abort lift-off?”
He could imagine what went through Oberst Dreschler’s mind. But the Oberst’s voice, when it came, sounded calm and without passion of any sort. “Negative, Fighter-1. Lift on schedule. Command out.”
Müller lay under no misapprehension. Should they survive – and be able to return to Earth – courts-martial would abound. Schmidt looked over to him, but if he felt anger, he didn’t show it.
“Ready for lift-off, sir.”
A quick peek at the chrono showed them a full twenty-seconds ahead of the new, accelerated schedule. He fastened his helmet.
“Launch!”
The rockets roared, and the acceleration pushed them back into their chairs. He wondered vaguely how Erika felt, passenger when she should be commander of her own craft, of her own flight. He pushed that away. The tactical screen showed their target: the North American Topside Two. Civilians. Insanity.
Data from their Early Warning Satellites showed tell-tale tracks of North American fighters launching, Chinese fighters launching. British, French, Russian, Japanese, African, South Asian and South Americans, Australians and New Zealanders doing the same. Would any alliances hold, or would it be each against all? Command had no answer for that. The only order: Destroy Topside Two. After they had accomplished that, they could go on a tiger-hunt for anything else the North Americans had up: satellites, fighters, navigation buoys. And if the Russians or anyone else decided to join the Americans in their attacks on the ETO, their possessions would become targets as well. Command had tasked the third wave – Berta Flight – to join the fighters of ETO Stations Alpha and Beta in protection duty.
“Herr Major!” Müller heard Horst Tessler’s excited voice above the rockets.
“Horst?”
“Receiving telemetry from our local EW Sat, sir. Ballistic missiles launched from the North Atlantic.”
“Show me.” Müller swallowed. Successive Strategic Arms Talks had eliminated intercontinental ballistic missiles from nations’ arsenals some sixty years previous. No one should have them. His tactical screen suddenly showed the beginning arcs of the submarine-launched missiles.
“Sir, preliminary data shows them likely targeting the ETO.”
Bastards. He opened the InShip to let everyone know. “The North Americans have launched ICBMs on us. They broke the treaty.” Silence from all; all wondering if – believing that – these missiles contained banned nuclear warheads. “We will continue tracking and let you know–”
“Major,” Tessler interrupted. “Ballistic missile launch from the North Sea.”
The news shocked Müller. European cities would have not even minutes to prepare for that.
Tessler swallowed audibly. His voice barely registered over the ever-present roar. “Sir … they’re ours, targeting North America.”
Müller felt sick. So, his own side – the moral ETO – had also retained forbidden weaponry. With multiple independently targeted warheads – for who might believe that each side would keep any but the most devastating weaponry – both Europe and the USNA would become radioactive ruins. They wouldn’t be going home. At least not to any home they might recognize. Müller looked again at the tactical.
“Three’s away,” came the report. “Scores of cruise missiles less than twenty minutes out – too many for our defences.”
Unlikely, then, that all of the third flight would get off.
“Four’s away.”
Müller blinked. So quickly. Someone down there had thrown out the regulations. Oberst Dreschler, no doubt. Dreschler’s war would end in twenty minutes – especially if any of the cruise missiles had a nuclear warhead – and no doubt the Oberst desired to do the most damage he could before the enemy made further participation impossible.
“Five’s away!”
“Himmel!” Schmidt muttered. “Ready to drop booster.”
Müller looked at his instruments. He took another look at his tactical.
“Ready to drop booster,” Schmidt repeated, a little more sharply.
And so they should, were they to achieve an orbit that would allow them to best attack Topside Two.
“Continue burn. Send to the rest of the flight to rendezvous at Alternate Gustav. Recalculate burn for that objective. We’re going high orbit.”
Schmidt stiffened, but he said nothing, for which Müller felt thankful. He turned the InShip back on. “We’re climbing to Alternative Gustav. We’ll form up with the rest of the flight there. Then we’ll decide our best course of action.”
“Ready to drop booster,” Schmidt reported.
“Drop booster.”
Fighter-1 whipped upwards. They could still possibly take out Topside Two if they fired immediately.
“Target Topside Two within range,” Oberleutnant Kelner reported. “Fire missiles?”
“Negative, we may need them later.”
Müller watched his tactical. “Getting crowded up here,” he commented. The fighters of other nations had stayed lower, mostly near the altitude of the orbiting satellites and stations.
“Berta Fighter-1’s dropped boosters. Command calling for you.”
“Müller here.”
“Oberst Dreschler, Müller. Müller, you made a good decision. We have fifty missiles almost upon us and another wave behind them. Make them pay, Müller, make them pay. Don’t let our deaths be in vain.”
“They will pay, Herr Oberst.” And they would, even if his flight were destroyed without firing a shot.
“What results of attack on Topside Two? Link to our TacSat down.”
Now he decided to lie. “Topside Two badly damaged.” If it hadn’t been already, it surely would be shortly. “Topside One blown. Only debris in her position. Now going after American fighters.”
“Sehr gut, Herr…” A burst of static came through. The missiles had arrived. Müller wondered if Dreschler might surv
ive them. At least he had given the man the word that he so wished to hear.
Schmidt interrupted his thought. “Captain, I’m seeing two shuttles far out, heading away. Their trajectory suggests they wish to rendezvous with the new FTL station, Haida Gwaii or an attendant ship. They must have left hours ago.”
Müller felt excitement rise. “Show me!” The tactical appeared on his screen. Haida Gwaii and FTL ship Venture looked to be most of the way to the Moon. They would likely escape the destruction happening below. Several shuttles and life-pods also appeared to be heading there from FTL-1, one’s icon went dark as a missile intercepted it. Other life-pods held trajectories for a return to Earth, some of them targeted by fighters of various persuasions.
“Fighter-2 has formed up,” Schmidt reported.
Each succeeding fighter burned a little more on the booster, to catch the one that preceded it. Now Kiergarten employed her forward thrusters to slow her fighter down. The others quickly joined them at Alternate Gustav.
“Multiple nuclear explosions on the North American continent,” Tessler reported. Europe had already passed over the horizon. But they still had some functioning EWSats. “Berlin gone. Paris gone. Mein Gott!”
“What is it, Tessler?”
“Israel has launched – on everyone within their range, including us. Why?”
Suddenly tired, Müller answered, “Because this will be the only chance they get to use their weapons. Why have them and fail of using them? They must know they’re not going to survive, and want – as Oberst Dreschler suggested – to not die in vain. They will have their revenge, even if it helps kill everyone on the planet.”
Below them, station after station blew. Fighters engaged each other, and everything seemed to be going to hell.
“Getting distress calls, overlapping.”
Not With A Whimper: Destroyers Page 18