A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  “In the event of refusal, we will, from our fortified bases, destroy by missile attack all productive facilities and communication centers in the U.S.S.R. The resulting paralysis will bring down the East power group in ruins. The planet will now lay open before us.”

  Runckel looked at each of his listeners in turn.

  “Everything has been done to make this invasion a success. To crush out any possible miscalculation, we are moving with massive reserves close behind us. Certain glory and a mighty victory await us.

  “Let us raise our heads in prayer, then join in the Oath of Battle.”

  The first wave of the attack came down like an avalanche on the central U.S. Multiple transmitters went into action to throw local radar stations into confusion. Stull-gas missiles streaked from the landing ships to explode over nearby cities. Atmospheric flyers roared off to intercept possible enemy attacks. A stream of guns, tanks, and troop carriers rolled down the landing ways and fanned out to seize enemy power plants and communications centers.

  The commander of the first wave reported: “Everything proceeding according to plan. Enemy resistance negligible.”

  Runckel ordered the second wave down.

  Bade, watching it on a number of giant viewscreens in the operations room of a ship coming down, had a peculiar feeling of numbness, such as might follow a deep cut before the pain is felt.

  Runckel, his face intense, said: “Their position is hopeless. The main landing site is secure and the rest will come faster than the eye can see.” He turned to speak into one of a bank of microphones, then said, “Our glider missiles are circling over their capital.”

  A loud-speaker high on the wall said, “Landing minus three. Take your stations, please.”

  The angle of vision of one of the viewscreens tilted suddenly, to show a high, dome-topped building set in a city filled with rushing beetle shapes—obviously ground-cars of some type. Abruptly these cars all pulled to the sides of the streets.

  “That,” said Runckel grimly, “means their capital is out of business.”

  The picture on the viewscreen blurred suddenly, like the reflection from water ruffled by a breeze. There was a clang like a ten-ton hammer hitting a twenty-ton gong. Walls, floor, and ceiling of the room danced and vibrated. Two of the viewscreens went blank.

  Bade felt a prickling sensation travel across his shoulders and down his back. He glanced sharply at Runckel.

  Runckel’s expression looked startled but firm. He reached out and snapped orders into one of his microphones.

  There was an intense, high-pitched ringing, then a clap like a nuclear cannon of six paces distance.

  The wall loud-speaker said, “Landing minus two.”

  An intense silence descended on the room. One by one, the viewscreens flickered on. Bade heard Runckel say, “The ship is totally damped. They haven’t anything that can get through it.”

  There was a dull, low-pitched thud, a sense of being snapped like a whip, and the screens went blank. The wall loud-speaker dropped, and jerked to a stop, hanging by its cord.

  Then the ship set down.

  Runckel’s plan assumed that the swift-moving advance from the landing site would overrun a sizable territory during the first day. With this maneuvering space quickly gained, the landing site itself would be safe from enemy ground attack by dawn of the second day.

  Now that they were down, however, Bade and Runckel looked at the operations room’s big viewscreen, and saw their vehicles standing still all over the landscape. The troops crowded about the rear of the vehicles to watch cursing drivers pull the motors up out of their housings and spread them out on the ground. Here and there a stern officer argued with grim-faced troops who stared stonily ahead as if they didn’t hear. Meanwhile, the tanks, trucks, and weapons carriers stood motionless.

  Runckel, infuriated, had a cluster of microphones gripped in his hand, and was pronouncing death by strangling and decapitation on any officer who failed to get his unit in motion right away.

  Bade studied the baffled expressions on the faces of the drivers, then glanced at the enemy ground-cars abandoned at the side of the road. He turned to see a tall officer with general’s insignia stagger through the doorway and grip Runckel by the arm. Bade recognized Rast, General Forces Commander.

  “Sir,” said Rast, “it can’t be done.”

  “It has to be done,” said Runckel grimly. “So far we’ve decoyed the enemy missiles to a false site. Before they spot us again, those troops have got to be spread out!”

  “They won’t ride in the vehicles!”

  “It’s that or get killed!”

  “Sir,” said Rast, “you don’t understand. I came back here in a gun carrier. To start with, the driver jammed the speed lever all the way to the front shield, and nothing happened. He got up to see what was wrong. The carrier shot ahead with a flying leap, threw the driver into the back, and almost snapped our heads off. Then it coasted to a stop. We pulled ourselves together and turned around to get the cover off the motor box.

  “Wham! The carrier took off, ripped the cover out of our hands, threw us against the rear shield and knocked us senseless. Then it rolled to a stop.

  “That’s how we got here. Jump! Roll. Stop. Wait. Jump! Roll. Stop. Wait. On one of those jumps, the gun went out the back of the carrier, mount, bolts, and all. The driver swore he’d turn off the motor, and fangjaw take the planet and the whole invasion. We aren’t going to win a war with troops in that frame of mind.”

  Runckel took a deep breath.

  Bade said, “What about the enemy’s ground-cars? Will they run?”

  Rast blinked. “I don’t know. Maybe—”

  Bade snapped on a microphone lettered “Aerial Rec.” A little screen in a half-circle atop the microphone lit up to show an alert, harried-looking officer. Bade said, “You’ve noticed our vehicles are stopped?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were the enemy’s ground-cars affected at the same time as ours?”

  “No sir, they were still moving after ours were stuck.”

  “Any motor trouble in Atmospheric Flyer Command?”

  “None that I know of, sir.”

  Bade glanced at Rast. “Try using the enemy ground-cars. Meanwhile, get the troops you can’t move back under cover of the ships’ dampers.”

  Rast saluted, whirled, and went out at a staggering run.

  Bade called Atmospheric Flyer Command, and Ground Forces Maintenance, and arranged for the captured enemy vehicles to be identified by a large yellow X painted across the top of the hood. Then he turned to Runckel and said, “We’re going to need all the support we can get. See if we can bring Landing Force 2 down late today instead of tomorrow.”

  “I’ll try,” said Runckel.

  It seemed to Bade that the events of the next twenty-four hours unrolled like the scenes of a nightmare.

  Before the troops were all under cover, an enemy reconnaissance aircraft leaked in very high overhead. The detector screens of Atmospheric Flyer Command were promptly choked with enemy aircraft coming in low and fast from all directions.

  These aircraft were of all types. Some heaved their bombs in under-hand, barreled over and streaked home for another load. Others were flying hives of anti-aircraft missiles. A third type were suicide bombers or winged missiles; these roared in head-on and blew up on arrival.

  While the dampers labored and overheated, and Flyer Command struggled with enemy fighters and bombers overhead, a long-range reconnaissance flyer spotted a sizable convoy of enemy ground forces rushing up from the southwest.

  Bade and Runckel concentrated first on living through the air attack. It soon developed that the enemy planes, though extremely fast, were not very maneuverable. The enemy’s missiles did not quite overload the dampers. The afternoon wore on in an explosive violence that was severe, but barely endurable. It began to seem that they might live through it.

  Toward evening, however, a small enemy missile streaked in on the end
of a wire and smashed the grid of an auxiliary damper unit. Before this unit could be repaired, a heavy missile came down near the same place, and overloaded the damper network. Another missile streaked in. One of the ships tilted, and fell headlong. The engines of this ship were ripped out of the circuit that powered the dampers. With the next enemy missile strike, another ship was heaved off its base. This ship housed a large proportion of Flyer Command’s detector screens.

  Bade and Runckel looked at each other. Bade’s lips moved, and he heard himself say, “Prepare to evacuate.”

  At this moment, the enemy attack let up.

  It took an instant for Bade to realize what had happened. He canceled his evacuation order before it could be transmitted, then had the two thrown ships linked back into the power circuit. He turned around, and his glance fell on one of the viewscreens showing the shadowy plain outside. A brilliant flash lit the screen, and he saw dark low shapes rushing in toward the ships. Bade immediately gave orders to defend against ground attack, but not to pursue beyond range of the dampers.

  A savage, half-lit struggle developed. The enemy, whose weapons failed to work in range of the dampers, attacked with bayonets, and used guns, shovels, and picks in the manner of clubs and battle axes. In a spasm of bloody violence they fought their way in among the ships, then, confused in the dimness, were thrown back with heavy losses. As night settled down, the enemy dug in to make a fortified ring close around the landing site.

  The enemy missile attack failed to recover its former violence.

  Bade gave silent thanks for the deliverance. As the comparative quiet continued, it seemed clear that the enemy high command was holding back to avoid hitting their own men dug in nearby.

  It occurred to Bade that now might be a good time to get a little sleep. He turned to go to his cot, and there was a rush of yellow dots on Flyer Command’s pilot screen. As he stared wide-eyed, auxiliary screens flickered on and off to show a ghostly dish-shaped object that led his flyers on a wild chase all over the sky, then vanished at an estimated speed twenty times that the enemy planes were thought capable of doing.

  Runckel said, “Landing Force 2 can get here at early dawn. That’s the best we can manage.”

  Bade nodded dully.

  The ground screens now lit in brilliant flashes as the enemy began firing monster rockets at practically point-blank range.

  Night passed in a continuous bombardment.

  At early dawn of the next day, Bade put in all his remaining missiles, and bomber and interceptor flyers. For a brief interval of time, the enemy bombardment was smothered.

  Landing force 2 sat down beside Landing Force 1.

  Bade ordered the Stull-gas missiles of Landing Force 2 exploded over the enemy ground troops. In the resulting confusion, the ground forces moved out and captured large numbers of enemy troops, weapons, and vehicles. The captured vehicles were marked and promptly put to use.

  Bade spoke briefly with General Rast, commanding the ground forces.

  “Now’s your chance,” said Bade. “Move fast and we can capture supplies and reinforcements flowing in, before they realize we’ve broken their ring.”

  Under the protection of the flyers of Landing Force 2, Rast’s troops swung out onto the central plain of the North American continent.

  The advance moved fast. Enemy troops and supply convoys were caught off guard on the road. When the enemy fought, his resistance was patchy and confused.

  Bade, feeling drugged from lack of sleep, lay down on his cot for a nap. He awoke feeling fuzzy-brained and dull.

  “They’re whipped,” said Runckel gleefully. “We’ve got back the time we lost yesterday. There’s no resistance to speak of. And we’ve just made a treaty with the East bloc.”

  Bade sat up dizzily. “That’s wonderful,” he said. He glanced at the clock. “Why wasn’t I called sooner?”

  “No need,” said Runckel. “It’s all just a matter of form. Landing Force 3 is coming down tonight. The war’s over.” Runckel’s face, as he said this, had a peculiar shine.

  Bade frowned. “Isn’t the enemy making any reaction at all?”

  “Nothing worth mentioning. We’re driving them ahead of us like a school of minnows.”

  Bade got to his feet uneasily. “It can’t be this simple.” He stepped out into the operations room and detected unmistakable signs of holiday jubilation. Nearly everyone was grinning, and gawkers were standing in a thick ring before the screen showing the map room’s latest plot.

  Bade said sharply, “Don’t these men have anything to do?” His voice carried across the room with the effect of a shark surfacing in the midst of a ladies’ swimming party. Several of the men at the map jumped. Others glanced around jerkily. There was a concerted bumping of elbows, and the ring of gawkers evaporated briskly in all directions. In every part of the room there was abruptly something approaching a businesslike atmosphere.

  Bade looked around angrily and sat down at his desk. Then he saw the map. He squeezed his eyes shut, then looked again.

  In the center of the map of North America was a big blot, as if a bottle of red ink had been thrown at it. Bade turned to Runckel and asked harshly, “Is that map correct?”

  “Absolutely,” said Runckel, his face shining with satisfaction.

  Bade looked back at the map and performed a series of rapid calculations. He glanced at the viewscreens, and saw that those which would normally show the advanced ground troops weren’t in use. This, he supposed, meant that the advance had outrun the technical crews.

  Bade snapped on a microphone lettered “Supply, Ground.” In the half-circle atop the microphone appeared an officer in the last stage of sleepless exhaustion. The officer’s eyes twitched, and his skin had a drawn dull look. His head was slumped on his hand.

  “Supply?” said Bade in alarm.

  “Sorry,” mumbled the officer, “we can’t do it. We’re overstretched already. Try Flyer Command. Maybe they’ll parachute it to you.”

  Bade switched off, and glanced at the map again. He turned to Runckel. “Listen, what are we using for transport?”

  “The enemy ground-cars.”

  “Fast, aren’t they?”

  Runckel smiled cheerfully. “They are built for speed. Rast grabbed a whole fleet of them to start with, and they’ve worked fine ever since. A few wrecks, some bad cases of kinkfoot, but that’s all.”

  “What the devil is ‘kinkfoot’ ?”

  “Well, the enemy have tiny feet with little toes and no webs at all. Some of their ground-car controls are on the floor. There just isn’t much space so our men’s feet get cramped. It’s just a mild irritation.” Runckel smiled vaguely. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Bade squinted hard at Runckel. “What’s Supply using for transport?”

  “Steam trucks, of course.”

  “Do they work all right, or do they jump?”

  Runckel smiled dreamily. “They work fine.”

  Bade snapped on the Supply microphone. The same weary officer appeared, his head in his hands, and mumbled, “Sorry. We’re overloaded. Try Flyer Command.”

  Bade said angrily, “Wake up a minute.”

  The man raised his head, blinked at Bade, then straightened as if hauled by the back of the collar.

  “Sir?”

  “What’s the overall supply picture?”

  “Sir, it’s awful. Terrible.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The advance is so fast, and the units are all mixed up, and when we get to a place, they’ve already pulled out. Worse yet, the steam trucks—” He hesitated, as if afraid to go on.

  “Speak up,” snapped Bade. “What’s wrong with the trucks? Is it the engines? Fuel? Running gear? What is it?”

  “It’s . . . the water, sir.”

  “The water?”

  “Sir, there’s that constant loss of steam out the exhaust. At home, we just throw a few more buckets of water in the tank and go on. But here—”

  “Oh
,” said Bade, the situation dawning on him.

  “But around here, sir,” said the officer, “they’ve had something called a ‘severe drought.’ The streams are dry.”

  “Can you dig down?”

  “Sir, at best there’s just muck. We know there’s water here somewhere, but meanwhile our trucks are stalled all over the country with the men dug down out of sight, and the natives standing around shaking their heads, and sure, there’s got to be water down there somewhere, but what do we use right now?”

  Bade took a deep breath. “What about the enemy trucks? Can’t you use them?”

  “If we’d started off with them, I suppose we could have. But Ground Forces has requisitioned most of them. Now we’re spread out in all directions with the front getting farther away all the time.”

  Bade switched off and got in touch with Ground Forces, Maintenance. A spruce-looking major appeared. Bade paused a moment, then asked, “How’s your work-load, major? Are you behind schedule?”

  The major looked shocked. “No, sir. Far from it. We’re away ahead of schedule.”

  “Aren’t these enemy vehicles giving you any trouble? Any difficulties in repair?”

  The major laughed. “Fangjaw, general, we don’t repair them! When they burn out, we throw them away. We pried up the hoods of some of them, pulled off the top two or three layers of machinery, and took a good look underneath. That was enough. There are hundreds of parts, all shapes and sizes. And dozens of different kinds of motors. Half of the parts are stuck so they won’t move when you try to get them out, and, to top it all, there isn’t enough room in there to squeeze in an extra grain of sand. So what’s the use? If something goes wrong with one of those things, we give it a shove off the road and forget it. There are plenty of others.”

  “I see,” said Bade. “Do you send your repair crews out to shove the ground-cars off the road?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” said the major looking startled. “Like the colonel says, ‘Let the Ground Forces do it.’ Sir, it doesn’t take any skill to do that. It’s just that that’s our policy: Don’t repair ’em. Throw ’em away.”