Buckbee growled, “You’ve just signed the death warrant for yourself and your entire crew.”
The comm screen went blank.
For a moment Hazard hung weightlessly before the dead screen, struggling to keep the fear inside him from showing. Putting a hand out to the edge of the console to steady himself, he turned slowly to his young officers. Their eyes were riveted on him, waiting for him to tell them what to do, waiting for him to decide between life and death.
Quietly, but with steel in his voice, Hazard commanded, “I said general quarters, Mr. Feeney. Now!”
Feeney flinched as if suddenly awakened from a dream. He pushed himself to the command console, unlatched the red cover over the “general quarters” button, and banged it eagerly with his fist. The action sent him recoiling upward and he had to put up a hand against the overhead to push himself back down to the deck. The alarm light began blinking red and they could hear its hooting even through the airtight hatches outside the CIC.
“Geneva, Miss Yang,” Hazard said sternly, over the howl of the alarm. “Feeney, see that the crew is at their battle stations. I want the satellites under our control on full automatic, prepared to shoot down anything that moves if it isn’t in our precleared data bank. And Mr. Varshni, has that damage-control party gotten underway yet?”
The two young men rushed toward the hatch, bumping each other in their eagerness to follow their commander’s orders. Hazard almost smiled at the Laurel-and-Hardy aspect of it. Lieutenant Yang pushed herself to the comm console and anchored her softboots on the Velcro strip fastened to the deck there.
“Miss Stromsen, you are the duty officer. I am depending on you to keep me informed of the status of all systems.”
“Yes, sir!”
Keep them busy, Hazard told himself. Make them concentrate on doing their jobs and they won’t have time to be frightened.
“Encountering interference, sir,” reported Yang, her eyes on the comm displays. “Switching to emergency frequency.”
Jamming, thought Hazard.
“Main comm antenna overheating,” Stromsen said. She glanced down at her console keyboard, then up at the displays again. “I think they’re attacking the antennas with lasers, sir. Main antenna out. Secondaries…” She shrugged and gestured toward the baleful red lights strung across her keyboard. “They’re all out, sir.”
“Set up a laser link,” Hazard commanded. “They can’t jam that. We’ve got to let Geneva know what’s happening.”
“Sir,” said Yang, “Geneva will not be within our horizon for another forty-three minutes.”
“Try signaling the commsats. Topmost priority.”
“Yes, sir.”
Got to let Geneva know, Hazard repeated to himself. If anybody can help us, they can. If Buckbee’s pals haven’t put one of their own people into the comm center down there. Or staged a coup. Or already knocked out the commsats. They’ve been planning this for a long time. They’ve got it all timed down to the microsecond.
He remembered the dinner, a month earlier, the night before he left to take command of the Hunter. I’ve known about it since then, Hazard said to himself. Known about it but didn’t want to believe it. Known about it and done nothing. Buckbee was right. I killed those six kids. I should have seen that the bastards would strike without warning.
It had been in the equatorial city of Belém, where the Brazilians had set up their space launching facility. The IPF was obligated to spread its launches among all its space-capable member nations, so Hazard had been ordered to assemble his crew at Belém for their lift into orbit.
The night before they left, Hazard had been invited to dinner by an old Navy acquaintance who had already put in three months of orbital duty with the Peacekeepers and was on Earthside leave.
His name was Cardillo. Hazard had known him, somewhat distantly, as a fellow submariner, commander of attack boats rather than the missile carriers Hazard himself had captained. Vincent Cardillo had a reputation for being a hard nose who ran an efficient boat, if not a particularly happy one. He had never been really close to Hazard: their chemistries were too different. But this specific sweltering evening in a poorly air-conditioned restaurant in downtown Belém, Cardillo acted as if they shared some old fraternal secret between them.
Hazard had worn his IPF summerweight uniform: pale blue with gold insignia bordered by space black. Cardillo came in casual civilian slacks and a beautifully tailored Italian silk jacket. Through drinks and the first part of the dinner their conversation was light, inconsequential. Mostly reminiscences by two gray-haired submariners about men they had known, women they had chased, sea tales that grew with each retelling. But then:
“Damn shame,” Cardillo muttered, halfway through his entrée of grilled eel.
The restaurant, one of the hundreds that had sprung up in Belém since the Brazilians had made the city their major spaceport, was on the waterfront. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the muddy Parã River widened into the huge bay that eventually fed into the Atlantic. Hazard had spent his last day on Earth touring around the tropical jungle on a riverboat.
The makeshift shanties that stood on stilts along the twisting mud-brown creeks were giving way to industrial parks and cinderblock housing developments. Air-conditioning was transforming the region from rubber plantations to computerized information services. The smell of cement dust blotted out the fragrance of tropical flowers. Bulldozers clattered in raw clearings slashed from the forest where stark steel frameworks of new buildings rose above the jungle growth. Children who had splashed naked in the brown jungle streams were being rounded up and sent to air-conditioned schools.
“What’s a shame?” Hazard asked. “Seems to me these people are starting to do all right for the first time in their lives. The space business is making a lot of jobs around here.”
Cardillo took a forkful of eel from his plate. It never got to his mouth.
“I don’t mean them, Johnny. I mean us. It’s a damn shame about us.”
Hazard had never liked being called “Johnny.” His family had addressed him as “Jon.” His Navy associates knew him as “Hazard” and nothing else. A few very close friends used “J.W.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. His own plate was already wiped clean. The fish and its dark spicy sauce had been marvelous. So had the crisp-crusted bread.
“Don’t you feel nervous about this whole IPF thing?” Cardillo asked, trying to look earnest. “I mean, I can see Washington deciding to put boomers like your boats in mothballs, and the silo missiles, too. But the attack subs? Decommission our conventional weapons systems? Leave us disarmed?”
Hazard had not been in command of a missile submarine in more than three years. He had been allowed, even encouraged, to resign his commission after the hostage mess in Brussels.
“If you’re not in favor of what the American government is doing, then why did you agree to serve in the Peacekeepers?”
Cardillo shrugged and smiled slightly. It was not a pleasant smile. He had a thin, almost triangular face with a low, creased brow tapering down to a pointed chin. His once-dark hair, now peppered with gray, was thick and wavy. He had allowed it to grow down to his collar. His deep-brown eyes were always narrowed, crafty, focused so intently he seemed to be trying to penetrate through you. There was no joy in his face, even though he was smiling; no pleasure. It was the smile of a gambler, a con artist, a used-car salesman.
“Well,” he said slowly, putting his fork back down on the plate and leaning back in his chair, “you know the old saying, ‘If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.’”
Hazard nodded, although he felt puzzled. He groped for Cardillo’s meaning. “Yeah, I guess playing space cadet up there will be better than rusting away on the beach.”
“Playing?” Cardillo’s dark brows rose slightly. “We’re not playing, Johnny. We’re in this for keeps.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that I don’t take my duty to the IPF seriously,” Hazard ans
wered.
For an instant Cardillo seemed stunned with surprise. Then he threw his head back and burst into laughter. “Jesus Christ, Johnny,” he gasped. “You’re so straight-arrow it’s hysterical.”
Hazard frowned but said nothing. Cardillo guffawed and banged the table with one hand. Some of the diners glanced their way. They seemed to be mostly Americans or Europeans, a few Asians. Some Brazilians, too, Hazard noticed as he waited for Cardillo’s amusement to subside. Probably from the capital or Rio.
“Let me in on the joke,” Hazard said at last.
Cardillo wiped at his eyes. Then, leaning forward across the table, his grin fading into an intense, penetrating stare, he whispered harshly, “I already told you, Johnny. If we can’t avoid being members of the IPF — if Washington’s so fucking weak that we’ve got to disband practically all our defenses — then what we’ve got to do is take over the Peacekeepers ourselves.”
“Take over the Peacekeepers?” Hazard felt stunned at the thought of it.
“Damn right! Men like you and me, Johnny. It’s our duty to our country.”
“Our country,” Hazard reminded him, “has decided to join the International Peacekeeping Force and has encouraged its military officers to obtain commissions in it.”
Cardillo shook his head. “That’s our stupid goddamn government, Johnny. Not the country. Not the people who really want to defend America instead of selling her out to a bunch of fucking foreigners.”
“That government,” Hazard reminded him, “won a big majority last November.”
Cardillo made a sour face. “Ahh, the people. What the fuck do they know?”
Hazard said nothing.
“I’m telling you, Johnny, the only way to do it is to take over the IPF.”
“That’s crazy.”
“You mean if and when the time comes, you won’t go along with us?”
“I mean,” Hazard said, forcing his voice to remain calm, “that I took an oath to be loyal to the IPF. So did you.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. And what about the oath we took way back when — the one to preserve and protect the United States of America?”
“The United States of America wants us to serve in the Peacekeepers,” Hazard insisted.
Cardillo shook his head again, mournfully. Not a trace of anger. Not even disappointment. As if he had expected this reaction from Hazard. His expression was that of a salesman who could not convince his stubborn customer of the bargain he was offering.
“Your son doesn’t feel the same way you do,” Cardillo said.
Hazard immediately clamped down on the rush of emotions that surged through him. Instead of reaching across the table and dragging Cardillo to his feet and punching in his smirking face, Hazard forced a thin smile and kept his fists clenched on his lap.
“Jon Jr. is a grown man. He has the right to make his own decisions.”
“He’s serving under me, you know.” Cardillo’s eyes searched Hazard’s face intently, probing for weakness.
“Yes,” Hazard said tightly. “He told me.”
Which was an outright lie.
“Missiles approaching, sir!”
Stromsen’s tense warning snapped Hazard out of his reverie. He riveted his attention to the main CIC display screen. Six angry red dots were working their way from the periphery of the screen toward the center, which marked the location of the Hunter.
“Now we’ll see if the ABM satellites are working or not,” Hazard muttered.
“Links with the ABM sats are still good, sir,” Yang reported from her station, a shoulder’s width away from Stromsen. “The integral antennas weren’t knocked out when they hit the comm dishes.”
Hazard gave her a nod of acknowledgment. The two young women could not have looked more different: Yang was small, wiry, dark, her straight black hair cut like a military helmet; Stromsen was willowy yet broad in the beam and deep in the bosom, as blonde as butter.
“Lasers on 324 and 325 firing,” the Norwegian reported.
Hazard saw the display lights. On the main screen the six red dots flickered orange momentarily, then winked out altogether.
Stromsen pecked at her keyboard. Alphanumerics sprang up on a side screen. “Got them all while they were still in first-stage burn. They’ll never reach us.” She smiled with relief. “They’re tumbling into the atmosphere. Burn-up within seven minutes.”
Hazard allowed himself a small grin. “Don’t break out the champagne yet. That’s just their first salvo. They’re testing to see if we actually have control of the lasers.”
It’s all a question of time, Hazard knew. But how much time? What are they planning? How long before they start slicing us up with laser beams? We don’t have the shielding to protect against lasers. The stupid politicians wouldn’t allow us to armor these stations. We’re like a sitting duck up here.
“What are they trying to accomplish, sir?” asked Yang. “Why are they doing this?”
“They want to take over the whole defense network. They want to seize control of the entire IPF.”
“That’s impossible!” Stromsen blurted.
“The Russians won’t allow them to do that,” Yang said. “The Chinese and the other members of the IPF will stop them.”
“Maybe,” said Hazard. “Maybe.” He felt a slight hint of nausea ripple in his stomach. Reaching up, he touched the slippery plastic of the medicine patch behind his ear.
“Do you think they could succeed?” Stromsen asked.
“What’s important is, do they think they can succeed? There are still hundreds of ballistic missiles on Earth. Thousands of hydrogen warheads. Buckbee and his cohorts apparently believe that if they can take control of a portion of the ABM network, they can threaten a nuclear strike against the nations that don’t go along with them.”
“But the other nations will strike back and order their people in the IPF not to intercept their strikes,” said Yang.
“It will be nuclear war,” Stromsen said. “Just as if the IPF never existed.”
“Worse,” Yang pointed out, “because first there’ll be a shoot-out on each one of these battle stations.”
“That’s madness!” said Stromsen.
“That’s what we’ve got to prevent,” Hazard said grimly.
The orange light began to blink again on the comm console. Yang snapped her attention to it. “Incoming message from the Graham, sir.”
Hazard nodded. “Put it on the main screen.”
Cardillo’s crafty features appeared on the screen. He should have been still on leave back on Earth, but instead he was smiling crookedly at Hazard.
“Well, Johnny, I guess by now you’ve figured out that we mean business.”
“And so do we. Give it up, Vince. It’s not going to work.”
With a small shake of his head Cardillo answered, “It’s already working, Johnny boy. Two of the Russian battle stations are with us. So’s the Wood. The Chinks and Indians are holding out but the European station is going along with us.”
Hazard said, “So you’ve got six of the nine stations.”
“So far.”
“Then you don’t really need Hunter. You can leave us alone.”
Pursing his lips for a moment, Cardillo replied, “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Johnny. We want Hunter. We can’t afford to have you rolling around like a loose cannon. You’re either with us or against us.”
“I’m not with you,” Hazard said flatly.
Cardillo sighed theatrically. “John, there are twenty other officers and crew on your station…”
“Fourteen now,” Hazard corrected.
“Don’t you think you ought to give them a chance to make a decision about their own lives?”
Despite himself, Hazard broke into a malicious grin. “Am I hearing you straight, Vince? You’re asking the commander of a vessel to take a vote?”
Grinning back at him, Cardillo admitted, “I guess that was kind of dumb. But you do have their lives in your han
ds, Johnny.”
“We’re not knuckling under, Vince. And you’ve got twenty-some lives aboard the Graham, you know. Including your own. Better think about that.”
“We already have, Johnny. One of those lives is Jonathan Hazard, Jr. He’s right here on the bridge with me. A fine officer, Johnny. You should be proud of him.”
A hostage, Hazard realized. They’re using Jon Jr. as a hostage.
“Do you want to talk with him?” Cardillo asked.
Hazard nodded.
Cardillo slid out of view and a younger man’s face appeared on the screen. Jon Jr. looked tense, strained. This isn’t any easier for him than it is for me, Hazard thought. He studied his son’s face. Youthful, clear-eyed, a square-jawed honest face. Hazard was startled to realize that he had seen that face before, in his own Academy graduation photo.
“How are you, son?”
“I’m fine, Dad. And you?”
“Are we really on opposite sides of this?”
Jon Jr.’s eyes flicked away for a moment, then turned back to look squarely at his father’s. “I’m afraid so, Dad.”
“But why?” Hazard felt genuinely bewildered that his son did not see things the way he did.
“The IPF is dangerous,” Jon Jr. said. “It’s the first step toward a world government. The Third World nations want to bleed the industrialized nations dry. They want to grab all our wealth for themselves. The first step is to disarm us, under the pretense of preventing nuclear war. Then, once we’re disarmed, they’re going to take over everything — using the IPF as their armed forces.”
“That’s what they’ve told you,” Hazard said.
“That’s what I know, Dad. It’s true. I know it is.”
“And your answer is to take over the IPF and use it as your armed forces to control the rest of the world, is that it?”
“Better us than them.”
Hazard shook his head. “They’re using you, son. Cardillo and Buckbee and the rest of those maniacs; you’re in with a bunch of would-be Napoleons.”
There Will Be War Volume X Page 6