Rebellion 2456_Martian Wars Trilogy Book 1

by M S Murdock

  “It’s one-sided. It can be taken by surprise.” Buck demonstrated with his hands.

  Turabian made a gesture of disbelief.

  “Back in the early twentieth century, the French invested millions of francs in the construction of a wall of defense against Germany. They called it the Maginot Line. It was supposed to be invulnerable, but in the end the Germans breached it. Its fault was its rigidity. I think Hauberk’s is its complacency.”

  “Isn’t it worth a try, Turabian?” There was an undertone of excitement in Wilma’s voice that Turabian had never heard. “Look at that ship! Did you ever think we would have such technology? If we’re quick, if we strike before RAM has a chance to consider where we might hurt it, we can do more damage in one operation than we’ve managed in twenty years. And if we’re successful, if we actually take Hauberk, think what that could mean for Earth!”

  Many strokes, though with a little axe, thought Buck, hew down and fell the hardest-timbered oak.

  “Freedom,” he said to his companions. There was a daredevil light in his blue eyes. Turabian regarded the two heavily.

  “You’re really serious.”

  “Yes.” This Buck and Wilma said in unison.

  “This isn’t some grandstand play?”

  “No,” said Wilma. Her voice was fairly cold with the remark. “Why should it be?” asked Buck.

  “It would establish your place in the twenty-fifth century,” Turabian reasoned out loud.

  Buck shrugged. “Or kill me. In either case, that doesn’t much concern me.”

  “What does?” asked Turabian.

  “Earth.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s my home. I can remember what it once was. We thought Earth was in trouble in my time. Well didn’t know trouble. People here live like rats. You don’t even know what a prairie looks like, or a field of grain. You’ve never seen real trees, over a hundred feet high. I . . . I want you to have a chance at the Earth I knew. That can never happen as long as RAM controls it.”

  Turabian narrowed his eyes. “You actually think it’s possible to destroy Hauberk?”

  ‘Yes.”

  “Colonel Deering, a word with you. In private,” said Turabian.

  “Of course,” she replied smoothly, flashing Buck a conspiratorial wink. The two moved away.

  Buck watched them, his mind full of niggling doubt. He let his eyes rove over the sleek lines of the RAM fighter. He ached for the chance to fly it.

  Huer’s voice intruded. “I’m sorry, Buck, but I couldn’t get any farther with the schematics. Most of what I gave you is on public records, to act as a deterrent.”

  “For fools like me.”

  “Presumably.”

  "I just wish I could get a closer look at that station,” Buck said.

  “Hauberk? Captain Rogers, that would be fool hardy.”

  “Reconnaissance would be chancy. It could risk alerting RAM to our plan, but . . .” Buck’s eyes were speculative.

  “Buck, please! This line of thought is detrimental to your well-being.”

  “Hauberk is detrimental to my well-being.”

  “I feel strongly that I must ensure your survival-if possible.”

  Buck cocked an eye at Huer. “Must?” he inquired?

  “Why?”

  “There were three reasons that compelled me. First, you are a historical treasure, and as such a landmark for NEO.”

  “Put a plaque on me and call me a monument,” Buck said dryly.

  “Second, my data concerning you tells me you are an intelligent and talented commander-not only an able pilot, but a charismatic leader. You are a valuable addition to NEO.”

  “So file me under ‘Useful.’ ”

  “Third, I . . .” Huer hesitated. “I do not know quite how to say this. I cannot find your match in present day society. Your actions, following your discovery, have been quixotic, but I find your uniqueness a value in itself. Your treatment of me is a case in point.”

  “Doc, copy that. You’ve just hit on the one thing that makes my species worth the wager. Every one of us is unique, and everyone deserves a chance. Thanks for taking a chance on me.”

  Huer looked down, suddenly shy. His head jerked up, and his eyes registered alarm. “Buck! We may have a breach in security!”

  “What?”

  “A security breach,” repeated Huer, who’d had his ears to the airwaves since rearranging the Kraits’ transport voucher. “Concerning the ships!”

  “Wilma!” Buck called, not certain what Huer was implying. Wilma, Turabian on her heels, came on the run. “We’ve got trouble,” said Buck, indicating Huer’s abstracted countenance. “What is it, Doc?”

  “It seems our shipment to the belt did not go unnoticed.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Buck.

  “What shipment?” asked Turabian.

  “The Kraits,” Wilma said tensely.

  “Oh.” Turabian’s eye’s widened.

  “Quite.” Huer’s succinct comment was chilling.

  “Who noticed? ” asked Wilma.

  “Just a moment. I’m trying to sort the transmission. Its source seems to be scrambled.”

  “How specific is it?” asked Buck.

  “Just an insinuation of activity in the belt, with a promise of more information for the right price. The transmission seems to be generated by Ardala Valmar.”

  Wilma’s eyebrows rose. “The heavy artillery,” she said.

  “Valmar?” asked Buck. “From what I’ve heard, more likely poison.”

  Chapter 16

  Capt. Buck Rogers leaned back in the pilot’s seat and sent his ship into space. His gauges registered his velocity, but in zero gravity there was no feeling of speed. He knew he was moving faster than he ever had before, but he felt curiously detached. Only the receding bulk of Salvation III in his aft viewer gave him a sense of movement. This was the fifth flight-test he had run on the Krait fighter in space. He was beginning to get the hang of maneuvering it at speed. The feel of the ship was as touchy as anything he had ever flown, but it could move, and from the technical read-outs, it looked like it was going to be a workhorse. He was used to supersonic aircraft that required more maintenance time on the ground than flight time Krait was not so delicate. He moved the stick slowly to the left, and the ship obliged by a dramatic turn. As he put it back on its original course, its directional thrusters answering to his touch, he could not help smiling. This was where he belonged. This was what he loved. He had jumped five centuries to land in pilot paradise.

  He recalled the jubilation on the faces of the pilots NEO selected to fly with him. Their historical code names sometimes gave Buck an unearthly sense of deja vu, but their enthusiasm was all pilot. They were a motley lot, ranging in age from Crabbe, who was eighteen, to Washington, a veteran of twenty years’ service. They came from radically different backgrounds to NEO, lived different lives fighting for it, but when they saw the Krait fighters lined up in shining rows, they could have been one person. It had been love at first sight for all of them. . . .

  Washington ran a gentle hand over the nose of the closest fighter. “When I was a kid, I dreamed about flying a ship like this. I even tried RAM’s air guard, but I wasn’t connected right to be anything but a ground man, and I wanted to fly. I never thought I’d get a chance like this.”

  “Me either,” said da Vinci. “For the chance to fly a bird like this, I’d go straight into the mouth of hell.”

  “How perspicacious of you, Leo.” The knot of fliers turned as Wilma Deering approached.

  “I should have known you’d be behind this, Colonel Deering.”

  “Sorry, Leo. Not this time. Not that I wouldn’t like to take the credit.”

  “Then who?” asked Washington. “I think I’d like to shake his hand.”

  Buck, wearing a mechanic’s coverall, was standing between two craft, wiping his greasy fingers with a rag. The coverall was stained with oil and spatters of blue paint from the ship’s
recent redressing. Wilma pointed a finger at him, and Buck smiled, his blue eyes dancing with the pilots’ excitement. “Wait a minute,” he said, “until I wipe my hands.”

  Washington shoved through the crowd, his hand outstretched. “A pilot who can’t stand grease on his hands has no business flying,” he said, grasping Buck’s still-slippery hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

  “Captains,” said Wilma, “meet Buck Rogers.”

  There was a murmur of incredulity as Buck’s identity registered among them.

  “You mean this is the guy who was freeze-dried five hundred years ago?” said Wright, his thin face showing astonishment.

  “That’s him,” said Wilma.

  “He looks pretty good for, an old man,” murmured Earhart, her blond mane cascading over her shoulders as she removed her flight helmet. “Sorry I’m late, but I see I’m still in time for the party.”

  “It’s only just begun,” said Wilma.

  “You mean all that hoo-ha about a resurrected flier from the twentieth century was real?”

  “As real as the man you see standing there,” answered Wilma. She put a hand on Wright’s shoulder. “I know it’s far-fetched, but that’s the truth.”

  “But I didn’t think they had the technology in the twentieth century for a successful cryogenic freeze,” said da Vinci, scratching his ear.

  “Well,” drawled Buck, “it was sort of an accident.”

  Washington laughed. “I don’t care what it was,” he said, “if you’re the man responsible for the upgrade in our equipment.”

  “Guilty,” said Buck with a grin.

  Rickenbacker tore himself away from an examination of the fighter and turned on Buck. “How the hell did you do it?”

  Buck spread his hands. “I’m just the idea man. It took a computer expert to get those ships here.”

  “And you’ve got one?”

  “You might say I’ve got a personal friend in the computer business.”

  Washington chuckled. “I’ll bet they gave him a RAMbit Tech computer gennie.”

  Buck grinned, liking the man. “Everybody got tired of answering my questions,” he said, “so they gave me Doc Huer.”

  “And you used him to steal SIX of the sweetest fighter craft I’ve seen in my life,” said Rickenbacker. “I don’t believe it.”

  Buck gestured to the ships, his face as innocent as a baby’s.

  Washington laughed outright. “I think I’m going to like this man’s air force,” he said.

  The formation of the fighter wing had given Buck some sleepless nights. He had been a successful commander in his own time, and he was aware of the charisma that drew men to him, but he was no longer sure of it. He knew from experience that a man with a reputation had three strikes against him. Somehow it rubbed a person the wrong way, challenged pride, and Buck was now saddled with the biggest reputation in the world. He was a dead legend, his achievements blown entirely out of proportion by the passage of time. With Washington’s laugh, he knew he had nothing to worry about. A pilot was a pilot. They might push each other, but they were brothers under the skin. Buck patted a ship fondly. “The ladies need some exercise. Care to talk about it?”

  Washington’s eyes danced. “You bet,” he said.

  Since that introduction, the wing had sorted itself out. Buck was right in his estimation of Washington. He not only was the eldest, but was the key to the group. He’d been around a long time, and the pilots all knew him, at least by reputation. His immediate acceptance of Buck was a distinct advantage. Buck occupied a position in limbo, between the rest of the pilots and Wilma.

  It was a revelation to Buck to see their treatment of Wilma Deering. From the care with which they addressed her, it was clear they respected her. Their deference to her judgment made it equally plain that they considered her their best. As their acknowledged leader, she got no opposition from any of them.

  They flew grueling flight-tests out of Salvation III, risking detection every time they went out, but unable to train without the risk. Turabian and Lafayette worked out a schedule for them, pinpointing the daily flight plans filed with RAM’s Terran controller and setting up the fighters’ launch times and trajectories to take advantage of lulls in traffic. Salvation’s surrounding mercantile dead zone gave the pilots a chance to clear the station without much problem, but they had a devil of a time finding space for maneuvers. Still, they persevered, and in a few days’ time, they were starting to act like a unit.

  At the end of the third day, Buck walked into the briefing room Turabian had set aside for the pilots and threw his flight gloves on the table. He turned on the weary fliers trickling through the door, his large frame still charged with energy. “I just wish we had more time,” he told them. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen more talent in one place.”

  “Thanks for the good words,” said Rickenbacker, sinking into a chair, “but I’ve got one problem.”

  Buck cocked an eyebrow in question.

  “I love flying that bird, but I think she’s beating me. I’m used to a bucket of bolts that moves like a fat lady. This thing is quicksilver.”

  Buck looked the group over. The exhilaration of their first sight of Krait had dimmed. An aura of depression hung over them. “Like I said, I wish we had more time. I may be new to this century, but an eon ago I was lucky. I flew the fastest and the most advanced ships of my time, so I’m used to the idea. And it takes some getting used to, but it’s nothing you can’t handle.”

  There was a murmur of dissent.

  “Believe me, I know. I’ve done my stint as an instructor, and I’ve seen this before. She feels like a greased gyro shell, ready to slip out of your control at any minute, with a mind of her own. Don’t let her buffalo you.”

  “Huh?” said Wright. Buck’s colloquialisms sometimes confused him.

  “Don’t let a piece of machinery control you. You--” Buck pointed at the group “-are the pilots, not that ship’s computer. You tell it what to do.”

  Washington wiped the sweat off his forehead and stared at his fingertips. “Rogers is right,” he said slowly. “We all said we’d give anything for the chance to fly these planes. We’ve all made our own bargains with NEO. We’re here to fight RAM. Now we’ve finally got something to do it with. We go back out. We go out until we get it right.”

  “There’s something else.” Rickenbacker was hesitant.

  “What’s bothering you, Eddie?” asked Buck.

  “How much time have we got?”

  “Not much if we want to take RAM by surprise,” said Buck.

  “Why do I have the feeling you have something specific in mind?” asked Washington mildly.

  Buck grinned, but he could not soften the suspicion in Washington’s eyes. “Maybe I do.”

  “Would you mind sharing it?” “No,” was Buck’s reply.

  Washington sat back, crossing his hands on his stomach and his feet at the ankles. “Well?”

  “Hauberk” There was complete silence. Washington’s eyes widened, but he did not say a word.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me I’m crazy?” asked Buck.

  Washington shook his head. “That it can’t be done?”

  “No.”

  “None of you is going to start listing Hauberk’s defenses?” . . . “I’m sure you’re aware of them,” said Washington for them all.

  Buck surveyed the silent assemblage. “I would like some feedback.”

  “Oh, I can give you that,” replied Washington. He looked over his shoulder at the faces of his companions, and his eyes warmed. “We’re going to go out there and master that little she-bird if it kills us. Then we’re going to strike Hauberk.”

  “That’s the key to Mars’s control of Earth. Knock that out . . .” Earhart’s soft alto voice trailed off.

  “Knock that out and you open the door to freedom,” said Washington.

  Buck smiled at the sweetness of the silence that followed Washington’s words.

 
They flew the wings off Krait, testing it in space and atmosphere, setting up war games that made Wilma exclaim, “I didn’t know we had this kind of dedication. Until now, NEO’s strike forces have been half-mercenary. You never knew from one minute to the next whether you were going to have a partner or whether he was going to go for a better deal.”

  “You never know,” said Buck. “But I say give a man something to fight for.”

  . . . That had been Buck’s introduction to his wing. Days had passed, and still the memory made him smile. He sent his vessel back toward Salvation, checking his on-board computer to make sure he would arrive at the precise time Lafayette had calculated his approach would go unnoticed. As he neared Salvation, he cut speed so a cursory sweep of a RAM tracking scanner might take him for a merchant vessel. As Salvation appeared on his viewer, two other ships came up on his port bow. They slowed as well, and fell in behind Buck.

  Salvation’s mercantile boundary showed on his navigational chart, and Buck turned, again mocking a merchant ship avoiding the local garbage dump. Any real attempt at identification would show the ship’s class, but NEO banked on the illogic of hiding anything as hot as a stolen fighter so close to its original destination. As they passed behind Salvation, momentarily out of sight of both Earth and Luna, its moon, Buck cranked his thrusters and the ship turned on its tail like a whirling dervish, aiming for Salvation’s dock. There was a narrow channel through the floating salvage, and Buck negotiated it, the other two ships on his tail. They flew into the dock at a speed Buck would not have managed days before. He felt a surge of satisfaction at the knowledge.

  Buck cut the ship’s engines and used its thrusters to berth it, then shoved back the canopy. He saw the flashing red lights that indicated the air lock was still closing, then lifted off his flight helmet as the lights went out. He looked across at one of the men who had followed him in. Revere gave him a thumbs up, and Buck returned it.

  “You’re right, Revere,” he said to himself. “It is A-OK. We are finally learning to handle these things.”

  The canopy on the ship next to him slid back, and the pilot slid off her helmet. Wilma’s red hair, damp with perspiration so that it curled around her face in wet tendrils, gleamed under the artificial lights.