Secret of the Red Spot

by Eando Binder

  But he was interrupted by an intercom call from the spacewatch sector of the ship: “Martian Fleet approaching. From zenith ten o’clock. Contact time, five minutes.”

  “We fight,” said Baird calmly.

  “Fight it is,” came back Commander Quincy’s grim voice.

  The two Earth fleets joined as one and by mutual agreement swung up to meet the Martian fleet dead-on. Retreating always meant more losses than direct battle.

  Bruce watched his screen and saw the faint patch of light that heralded the approach of the enemy fleet. “Closing range, 1000 miles,” came from the intercom. “Enemy strength, 500 ships.”

  “And we’ve only got 200 between us,” breathed Baird. “They also have more macroships—100 to our 25.”

  The macroships corresponded to the dreadnaughts or capital battleships of Earth’s oceanic navies of the old days. Below them ranked the crunchers, or cruisers, followed by the small fast blazers, equivalent to destroyers in maritime terms.

  Bruce’s flagship of course was a macroship, with the biggest guns and ray-cannon. Twelve others were in the Fourth Fleet, suitably dispersed and flanked by crunchers and blazers.

  The enemy fleet, with 100 great macroships, was a formidable force with the power to wipe them out in pitched battle. Bruce could tell by Commander Baird’s drawn face how little real chance they had, despite the indomitable spirit of the Earth Navy against odds.

  Steadily the two fleets approached toward a common point of meeting. Deceleration was applied as they came within range of their weaponry. The darting blazers of both fleets clashed first, each seeking to batter down the protective escort around their respective macroships. Ships began to explode and space became filled with a super Fourth-of-July display. But its awesome beauty was at the cost of thousands of lives as men of two worlds were often hurled into space as flaming specks.

  It was Bruce’s second time under fire but this was more nerve-shattering than the raid on Juno. Here it was two great fleets hammering away at each other with enormous firepower, and space itself seemed to writhe in horror.

  Bruce shook himself free of such emotions. He had a job to do. Both fleets were adopting wide sweeping movements and constantly shuttling their various craft into new positions, hoping to catch the other side in a disadvantageous configuration.

  Commander Baird was quietly giving forth a constant stream of orders over the fleet intercom, knitting his units into those under Quincy’s command. To Bruce he only said, “sweep from side to side so I can watch all operations.”

  Watching his screen, Bruce was appalled at the rate ships on both sides were being blown into eternity. And at this kind of straight trade-off, ship for ship, the Martians would easily win. Couldn’t something be done to even the odds?

  As if sensing his thought, Commander Baird sent a new order to the fleet: “Form spearhead behind macroships eight, nine, and ten. Aim for center of Martian formation. All guns fire at signal.”

  Bruce saw the spearhead suddenly leap forth like an arrow, drilling toward the massed center of the Martian fleet, where the flagship sailed in serene might. If that ship could be destroyed, it would be a deadly blow to Martian morale.

  Watching intently, Commander Baird spat out—“Fire!”

  The spearhead’s massed gunnery, backed up by the massive proton-beams of the three macroships, lashed forth and caught Martian ships in blazing fury, temporarily opening a hole within their massed ranks.

  The spearhead plunged on, losing comparatively few ships as yet, until the Martian flagship was almost within range. But with a sinking heart, Bruce saw five Martian macroships maneuvering from the flanks to box in the spearhead. As the Ginzie battlewagons opened up, the spearhead was trapped in a deadly crossfire that rapidly broke it up.

  The plan had failed. Bruce could see Commander Baird shuddering and turning his eyes away. But a quick glance at the screen and Bruce yelled, “Commander! A Martian formation aiming at us!”

  The Martian commander, too, had been scheming to rip at the heart of the Earth fleet and knock out one of the two flagships. A flagship was obvious by the position it took behind the fleet, weaving back and forth to observe all that happened. It had been easy to pick out the Avenger.

  And now six huge macroships without any escort at all were bearing down on them, sweeping blazers and crushers aside disdainfully with all big guns blazing. The unexpected ruse might succeed before other Earth macroships could rush to the rescue.

  “Full-g turn, 10 degrees!” bawled Baird in desperation. “Then random mode with parabolic twist.”

  Bruce’s g-harness very nearly tore loose as he and his pilots obeyed. The ship swung obediently, angling away from the coming Martian ships. Baird keenly watched the viewscreen and waited till the right moment to command their big cannon to open up. One Martian macroship seemed to crumple like paper and then burst apart as if rotten.

  As Bruce expertly swung their ship into the planned random twist, another Martian macroship was exposed to their broadside of a dozen multi-megawatt proton-beams. It turned into glowing dust.

  Two enemy ships gone, four to go. Three Earth macroships at last arrived within shooting range and dueled two of the Martians, keeping them occupied. Another precision twist in the random mode—by which enemy gunners could not predetermine their target’s movement—and Bruce aligned the Avenger for another killing barrage at the fifth Martian ship.

  But there was nothing anybody could do about the sixth Ginzie macroship, which slid around in a tight turn and got itself into position for direct fire at the Avenger.

  Whoompf!

  Bruce could feel the whole ship shudder as a proton-beam banged into their nose. It was not a killing shot. Automatic doors hissed shut and cut off the damaged compartment where food supplies were kept.

  But the shot must have also impinged on part of the electrical system of the ship, for sparks suddenly leaped from the intercom and struck Commander Baird full in the face. His skin turned black and with a soundless cry, he crumpled up and lay sprawled—lifeless.

  Too stunned to even gasp, Bruce stared at the body for a long moment in panic. The Commander, the skipper, gone!

  “Captain Bruce,” came Sanderson’s sharp yelp, “you’re now in command. And that Martian monster is lining up for the kill-shot…”

  But even in his shock, Bruce was already punching buttons in a blur of speed. The Avenger literally spun in space and then glazed into a new path. Behind it, at the spot it had just left, a broadside of proton-beams licked at empty space.

  Another glance at Baird’s body and cold rage flooded through Bruce. Rage at the Martian ship that had taken his commander’s life so ignominiously, by a freak of electrocution. It didn’t seem fitting for such a staunch warrior to die in that trivial fashion. Or die at all.

  Bruce became a human robot, his thoughts racing at almost computerized speed. He barked rapid orders at his three men for another trick maneuver that resulted in a barrelhouse curve for the ship, lining it up neatly for a broadside at the slowly swinging Martian.

  Bruce snapped on the auxiliary intercom at his control-board. “All guns—fire!” he yelled. The Martian ship made the most spectacular display of all as laser-rays and proton-beams raked it from stem to stern so that all its nuclear generators blew up at once. Pieces of the fragmented ship rained on the hull of the Avenger.

  Bruce had given his first battle order. Calmly now, he flipped the stud that contacted Commander Quincy’s flagship, at the other side of the battleground.

  “Commander Baird was killed, sir. This is Captain Jay Bruce, now in command of the Fourth Fleet.”

  Shocked silence came from the intercom for a moment. Then—“Salute Baird for me. And carry on, Captain Bruce. We’re wearing the Ginzies down.”

  Which was a big brave lie.

  Though the Earth forces out of the skill of desperation had taken 10 Martian ships to 7 of their own, sheer mathematics pointed to the inevitable end result—the Ma
rtians would have ships left over when the last Earth ship went down.

  Chapter 12

  Something had nagged Bruce for several minutes. Something he had seen out of the corner of his eye. He turned his viewscreen to the left. There it was again—an Asteroid that had drifted into this scene of carnage. A small one, floating like a craggy mountain that had somehow been ripped away from a planet. But it flanked the positions of both fighting fleets.

  Bruce’s eyes narrowed. Something lanced through his mind. Into the intercom he spoke in a low whisper: “Hear this, Fourth Fleet contingents. The ten crushers nearest the Avenger will slip away from the battle. Don’t use high speed. Angle back of our ship and follow us—around that Asteroid. On the mark…NOW!”

  In the melee of hundreds of weaving ships crisscrossing space with rays and missiles and eye-searing explosions, the enemy was unaware of the small group of ships that withdrew and sidled around the Asteroid.

  As the battle was eclipsed from their eyes by the Asteroid’s bulk, Brace called a halt and addressed the ten crashers. “Take up a flying wing formation with my flagship at the apex. Follow coordinates 16-Y-22 at 22 degrees as we sweep around the Asteroid. We will come up in back of the enemy.”

  Bruce had to grin as among the “Aye, sirs,” came one crusher’s reply—“Oh boy!”

  Thankful for the silence of space, where sound could not betray them, Bruce led his phalanx completely around the Asteroid at low acceleration and then in a broad curve that came up behind the Martian fleet, which was totally unaware.

  “Full-g attack,” yelled Bruce now and the formation leaped forward as one, straight toward the massed Martian fleet. Before one Martian radarman could give the alarm, Earth guns were belching their lethal loads. Like a scythe, the combined fire raked across the Martian formation and left a swath of destruction. Startled by the sneak attack from the rear, Martian ships blundered helplessly as Earth gunnery picked them off. Not a single Earth ship had yet been lost.

  Still a cold, calculating machine, Bruce gave new orders and his group formed into a gimlet that sped forward into the massed center of the Martian fleet. His goal was the Martian flagship.

  But now the surprise was over, and Martian gunnery began to pepper back. Bruce winced each time one of his ships was blown into oblivion. He had only one chance, to survive with his macroship and trade blows with the Martian flagship—if he could just get within range.

  His escort melted away and Bruce silently saluted the men who died. They had protected his flanks and kept two other macroships from engaging him directly. Alone now, the Avenger bored for the Mars flagship, sweeping blazers aside like gnats. Nothing could stop the juggernaut now.

  At the precise split second, Bruce hissed, “Proton-gun sweep, followed by H-missiles and laser-barrage…MARK.”

  The Avenger’s mighty armament was unleashed at the Martian flagship, which was trying to maneuver out of its sitting duck position. Martian fire came back in a burst of fury. But the cold-eyed Earth man, who was both commander and chief pilot, swung his ship in unbelievable twists that completely unnerved the Martian gunners. Their fire went wild, even catching a few of their own small ships nearby.

  And then, in one great crescendo, the all-out barrage of the Avenger struck the Martian behemoth squarely amidships. Kilotons of solid steel were converted into more atoms than all the stars in the universe.

  “Scratch one Ginzie flagship,” gloated Bruce.

  The next moment, heedless of Martian intervention of the call, Bruce sent a radio message to Commander Quincy. “Drive forward all-out while Martians are demoralized without flagship.”

  Defeat switched around incredibly to victory. With the other macroships attacked by Quincy’s forces and too busy to bother him, Bruce ran his macroship among the rear groupings of small-fry Martian ships and blasted them mercilessly.

  Between these two grindstones, the Martian fleet was chopped into shreds. Earth ships could now vie for medals for downing the most Ginzie tubs. Some Earth ships were racking up scores of ten and more. At that rate, the Earth ships soon ran out of targets.

  A dozen speedy Martian blazers and one crusher escaped, too insignificant to be pursued. With a score of 100 macroships wiped out, the Martians had suffered a bad blow.

  Bruce cut off Commander Quincy’s praises after he learned the details of the Asteroid coup. “Thank you, sir. But that doesn’t end the war. Let’s get back to base and make ready for the next campaign against the Martians.”

  “Right, Captain Bruce. This was only a skirmish, to tell the truth. The big battles lie ahead. And Earth must prevent the Martian outer-planet blockade from succeeding.”

  Yes, thought Bruce, or else he could never reach Jupiter again and expose the ominous secret of the Red Spot. It was hopeless of course to tell the story to Commander Quincy and expect him to believe it. A war base established on the surface of the giant planet, under multi-g conditions, was an engineering feat never dreamed of before. It was sheerly preposterous to others that the Martians had performed such a mad miracle. Only someone who had seen it with his own eyes—as Bruce had—could accept it as something more than a fable or joke.

  Bruce’s lips were sealed for another reason. He was still a traitor and renegade in the eyes of the law authorities. One word of the story and he would be exposed by the ensuing checkup as a wanted man. He would not end up vindicated, just riddled with holes before a firing squad.

  By joining the Outer Space Navy, Bruce had worked his way out to the Asteroids. How agonizingly long would it take to reach Jupiter, and by what kindness of fate? The future was a frustrating blank to him. He was one jump ahead of the law and a thousand jumps from his eventual goal.

  And what of Dr. Kent and Dora? Bruce ground his teeth at thought of the girl, the girl who had captured his heart so suddenly and blindingly. How was she faring in Martian hands? Bruce’s one consolation was that John Gorson would not allow any real harm to come to her from her Martian captors. And if they could not menace her to break down Dr. Kent’s spirit, then even the old scientist might be holding out.

  But for how long? It could not be forever. With each passing day, Bruce felt the pressure of time. Before too long, he must by some unnamed miracle reach the two captives and free them. Impossible? Bruce recognized no such word.

  At least one bit of good news came along. The Martians had finally been beaten back in their attempt at destroying or capturing New York City on Earth. Bruce felt a half-shudder and half-glow at this.

  A half-shudder because he himself had very nearly brought about the downfall of the city by unwittingly bringing in the two spies and their ion-dome penetrator. A half-glow because by exposing the spies he had nipped that insidious plan in the bud. And unable to penetrate the ion-dome, the Imperial Martian Navy had had to retreat. They still retained their base on the Moon, however, which could mean trouble later.

  As for now, in the vicinity of Earth, the two space navies were clashing periodically in a war of attrition that only Mars could gain by. With their superior forces, long built up before hostilities began, the Martians could in time grind down the lesser Earth forces until their power was broken.

  And meanwhile, the Mercurians were busily raiding the sun routes and also cutting into the Venus-Earth lifeline. If ever that was cut off, the Coalition would be through and the war would be lost. But the Venusian Space Legion was doing a valiant job of keeping the Mercurians off balance.

  But at present, the most vital of all the battlefronts was out in the Asteroids. Once the Martian blockade was established, it would accomplish two great objectives. One was to isolate the outer-planet colonies of Earth at Jupiter and Saturn. The other was to bottle up the Jovian Space Navy in case Jupiter did give up neutrality and joined the Venus-Earth Coalition. And by keeping those possible allies apart, the Martians could then mount an attack on Jupiter from the four Earth-held moons, once they were taken over. And the double-edged attack would also come from the secret Martian
base in the Red Spot—a secret known only to Jay Bruce.

  It was grinding irony. Jay Bruce, fugitive from the law, alone knew of the planned Martian coup at Jupiter, but his tongue was tied. Could fate somehow break this impasse? Bruce sighed wearily and awaited his next assignment in the Outer Space Navy.

  * * * *

  Only three days later, on secret orders, Bruce led the Fourth Fleet away from Tycho Base. His ship had been repaired of the previous battle damage. The flight coordinates led them to a different sector of the Asteroids. As they hove to near an unoccupied planetoid, too worthless to exploit, call after call came in from other arriving units. The space warships came by the hundreds and thousands, massing through a million cubic miles of space. Even units of the Venusian Legion arrived.

  Bruce sensed that this was the prelude to a major campaign, an all-out Coalition drive against the Martian blockade. An attempt to punch through and cripple the Martian forces so that they could never again block the path to the outer planets.

  The overall fleet intercom finally spoke in crisp words. “Now hear this, all units. Admiral Theodore Jordan speaking, in command of all fleets. The bulk of Outer Space Navy power has been assembled here for a direct attack against the blockading fleet of the Imperial Martian Asteroid Navy, which has amassed to cut off the main route to Jupiter. This we cannot allow. We must smash through them and open our outer-planet lifelines.”

  The speaker seemed to draw a breath before finishing. “Needless to say, we must all fight our best. If our attempt fails, the Martians will have won an important strategic position that could well win the entire war for them. All I can say is—fight hard.”

  Not an inspiring speech but its cold, hard message came through. Fight or the Earth empire would die. Formal orders came through, then, from the navy staff of Admiral Jordan as to the mission each fleet had. Intricate and involved, they coordinated the armada’s far-flung units into one cohesive whole in action.