by Ryder Stacy
“See?”
Rock saw. There were twin red-white flames outlined against the peaks of the Andes of Peru.
The head Frenchie said with much excitement, “Do you not see? It is for sure a spacecraft. It is Killov’s rocketsheep! It is evident Killov has left Peru. According to ze speed at which he approaches us, he will soon go right past us, and head for Karrak.”
Rock had to adjust the high-power focus several times to keep the rocket image clearly in view. It was going very fast—escape velocity or better. He saw the rocket’s first-stage boosters suddenly flare out, and then the booster fell away. The rocket’s main engine erupted into flames.
Damn. Why couldn’t it have failed? Then the bastard would have fallen hack to Earth. “But no such luck,” Rock cursed. Killov was in that rocket, that was for sure. He sensed it. Killov was coming . . . fast.
Rockson whistled when he saw something about the rocket that he particularly didn’t like to see. There were barbs on the craft; barbs of jutting objects; nasty looking appendages that could only be guns, or missiles.
The Frenchie leader was busy at a control panel. He confirmed to Rockson that the equipment said the approaching rocket did have weapons. Missiles and more. “Sorry, Rockson, we Frenchies can’t arm you with anything like that; we have just a few cannons.”
“When will he get here?” Rock asked, gritting his teeth.
“In a few hours at most. We will be done fixing your saucer; don’t worry. You will leave ahead of him.”
“But Killov has real power in that thing. He’ll catch up to us. Can you think of anything to counter his missile capability? So we don’t get shot down?”
“Nothing to match zat stuff,” Louis said, “because all of our missiles, she was used up in our war weeth les Nazis. Or, rather, ze remnants of ze fameux Nazis. But we can geeve you a large swivel-gun—you know—an anti-aircraft gun? And also perhaps some extra maneuver power. We can give you some more booster jets. Perhaps enough so that you get out of the way, if Killov fires at you—okay? It will only take a few extra minutes to strap on ze maxiboosters. Provided . . .” Louis smiled through his visi-plate.
“Yeah, I know,” Rockson frowned, “provided we can make a deal. What do you want?”
Rockson quickly agreed to trade their Frenchie spacesuits back, once the Americans had boarded the saucer again. In return, the Frenchies would provide the maxiboosters Louis had spoken about.
Fifteen
The rocket they suspected of being Killov’s was less than forty minutes away by the time the Frenchies finished strapping high speed maneuver jets to the saucer. Rockson rushed up in the newly created gunnery bubble at the apex of the saucer. There he saw McCaughlin standing, in his spacesuit, supervising the bolting down of the huge, twin-barrel anti-spacecraft ack-ack gun. McCaughlin would man it, for he had experience with such primitive artillery. He had once led an artillery brigade that had been outfitted from a twentieth-century army depot.
McCaughlin could barely squeeze his large-sized suit into the gunner’s seat. Perhaps it was made for the more dainty French posterior. Still McCaughlin was all excited when he started to sight the space station through the range-finder. “Wow, an illuminated crosshair,” Scot exclaimed. “And a built-in laser-tracking mechanism. This is a great toy—better than the weapon I had back—”
Rock interrupted to say, “Glad you like it, but remember, this ‘toy’ might be the only thing that’ll keep us alive if Killov gets on our tail.” Rock called out to Louis on the wrist radio; “Louis, how soon until you finish checking out the wiring?”
“Ten minutes, mon cher. I will have your saucer out of here in ten minutes. You will have a bon head start on Killov. The extra boosters should keep you ahead of him all the way to Karrak . . . or at least most of the way.”
Rock turned to McCaughlin, “That’s what worries me, Scot. Those words ‘most of the way.’ All Killov has to do is get within range of us and he can send out a gaggle of his intercept missiles against us.”
“Just let him get in range of this twin-barrel death dealer, Rock, and I’ll show the crumb-bum what it’s like to have his face smeared all over outer space.” He made motions of squeezing the twin triggers.
“Careful, Scot; there’s no safety on that thing! You don’t want to blast our host’s space station to pieces, do you?”
McCaughlin sheepishly took his hands from the triggers. “No, I guess not. Sure can’t wait until this bubble is pressurized and I can take this friggin’ spacesuit off. It chafes.”
Rockson agreed, and jetted himself out of the open gunner dome before the plexiglass shield was bolted into place by a crew of French women technicians. Rock floated off to the side and watched. He had to admire the French gender obsession. The women’s spacesuits had little feminine adornments: frilled collars and cuffs, and the little twin domes on the chest plates for their ample breasts.
Once the bubble of see-through substance was sealed in place and he saw McCaughlin give him the high-sign, Rockson jetted out a hundred feet from the saucer to make an overall inspection. The Glower’s weird craft looked like a sorry version of a Sea Turtle now, with a bristling assortment of various-sized rocket-engine attachments, plus all sorts of loosely lashed-in-place cables and wires.
True, in space there’s no friction, the stuff shouldn’t blow off; but it was a mess. Once they reached Karrak and decelerated for a soft landing they’d jettison all the empty rocket tanks and engines and “land smooth,” as they say.
It was with some sadness that Rockson watched a crew of spacesuit-clad workers pull his space sail made of aluminum foil and coat hangers off the roof of the saucer. Rockson watched it slowly float away, tumbling over and over. The sun’s light pressure was exerting its feeble yet effective push against the aluminum foil, keeping it moving. Soon the sail was out of sight. It might sail right out of the solar system a few million years from now, Rock thought wistfully. He felt sort of like he was setting a little sailboat, or a cork boat, off into a pond. It would just keep going, as long as the starwinds blew . . .
Through the fogged-up faceplate of the helmet Rockson looked at his Wakmann chronometer. Six minutes to blastoff from the space station. The saucer was as ready as she’d ever be, and he’d better get aboard.
So he jetted back, entered the airlock, strode up to the pilot’s seat. Detroit was co-piloting, and the black Freefighter was already seated, checking system-activation lights. There was a whole mess of new ones—installed to monitor and fire the extra rocket boosters.
Chen was at the science officer’s desk console, flicking a bevy of new switches there. He hadn’t given up on reading the old manual. He was still attempting to restore at least partial power to the LaBarre antigravity drive. If they could get even a small percent of that power, they’d have a better chance of evading Killov.
“How’s the LaBarre?” Rock asked, hopeful. “Looks like you got something going there with all those levers.”
“I have a few percent of the power we had coming up here, Rock. But it won’t last fifteen seconds. I strongly suggest that we use the LaBarre power I have to move the saucer away from the space station before we ignite that mess of strapped-on rocket boosters. Do you get my meaning?”
Rockson nodded. The damned jerry-rigged rocket boosters might blow up!
Rock didn’t let on to the rest of the crew what Chen had intimated. He didn’t want the space station to blow up too, if there was a “major malfunction.”
“Everyone strapped down. Here goes,” Chen said. He hit the LaBarre switches and there was a hum; the saucer started moving without rocket power. It edged a few feet per minute away from the waving Frenchies floating about in space until it was a half mile or more from the station. The fading radio signal from Louis said, “Bon voyage, mon amis. Bon voyage, et bonne chance. Americains, we depend on you.”
Chen turned off the LaBarre. “That’s all from here, Rock,” he said. “It’s your turn.”
R
ockson nodded, and with his fingers crossed on both hands, started flicking the switches that started up the rocket boosters. There was a sickening clanking on the port side. Rockson cursed and immediately switched off a rocket booster. “That was close,” he said as the clanking died down. “That port-aft main booster was too loose to use; I’ve scrubbed it. We’ll never reach Karrak before Kiilov can catch up to us. I’ll hit all the other boosters now, bring them up to full power. Hold on.”
Detroit shouted out over the thundering rockets, “Don’t worry, guys, we can count on our maneuver jets, plus McCaughlin’s twin ack-ack guns, when Killov gets near.”
The shaking and thundering got louder and louder. “Hold onto your gonads, men,” Rock shouted as he fired all the booster rockets full blast. It felt like they were crushed under the weight of a hundred pack-’brids. The saucer unsteadily but rapidly shot away from the earth-orbiting French space station. Soon Rockson was pleased to see the death asteroid looming in the forward visi-screen. Five minutes passed, then ten. The saucer held up, though it shook like Jello.
“Main booster shutdown,” Rockson grunted between clenched teeth as he flicked off the five red switches. The acceleration quickly died down to Earth-normal gravity, and the roar became a low whisper. Rockson unstrapped and bolted over to the rear telescopic viewfinder. It took him only a minute to see something he’d hoped not to see.
“Shit,” Rock exclaimed, “Killov has already passed the space station, he’s spotted us, and he’s gaining on us. He’s opening his missile ports! Ready to fire!”
Cohen asked, “Does Killov know about the asteroid? Doesn’t he realize he should leave us alone, that we’re the only chance to save Earth? Why would he fire at us?”
Rockson said grimly, “Killov’s motives are never clear, but he’s comfortable with destruction. He loves destruction.”
The radar-approach indicator told the story: Killov’s ship was very fast, and soon high-frequency microwaves were washing over the saucer. “Killov’s instruments,” Rock exclaimed, “are scanning us. He’s closing to within missile range! Chen, might as well try some of that LaBarre power again, if you have it. Give us whatever juice you can! Just wait until I get seated—McCaughlin! Can you hear me up in the dome? Did you hear all this?”
The scratchy intercom responded, “Hear you clear, Rock. Don’t you worry. I’ve got the guns pointed aft, and I will fire the minute Killov’s in range.”
Chen was frantically working dials, muttering, “I don’t really know exactly what I’m doing Rock, so hold on. Something is starting to happen.”
The ship shuddered as they all strapped down tight and acceleration built up again. “The boosters are only strapped on, Chen,” Rock exclaimed. “Don’t go too fast.”
Chen said, “I can’t control it. I suggest we all pray.”
The acceleration went on for twenty or thirty seconds, then the LaBarre cut out.
Chen said, “That’s all we got. The rest will have to be your game, Rock. Shit— What’s that buzzer sound? What’s that mean?”
“It means,” Rock cursed, “that Killov’s ship has gotten within missile range of us, and that he’s firing those missiles right now.”
Sixteen
Rockson started taking evasive maneuvers while above him, in the gunnery bubble, Scot McCaughlin focused in the crosshairs on Killov’s spacecraft. He got a bead just as the evil KGBer unleashed a pair of Skosk missiles from the underbelly of his batwing-shaped rocket craft.
“Will you look at that?” Scot exclaimed, quickly moving the crosshairs away from Killov’s ship to keep up with the first of the destructive missiles. “I have to get that missile,” Scot yelled, just as Rockson was yelling about the same thing—to never mind Killov, and get the missile.
Scot’s laser lock started to buzz, and the crosshairs flashed bright red, stayed on the fast-moving Soviet missile. The gun turret swiveled violently, almost unseating the bulky Freefighter, but Scot hung on by squeezing down on the twin triggers. The bucking staccato of the huge .333-caliber slugs leaving the twin barrels made his head feel like it was in a blender. No—in a vise hit with a hammer! There was no soundproofing nor shock-absorbing installed in the gunnery bubble. The man’s mighty arms absorbed the bone-jarring concussions, and Scot just kept firing. Most of his shots sailed off to the right or left of the oncoming missile, which the indicators now said would hit the saucer in ten seconds.
Scot was yelling and cursing now, his trigger fingers bleeding as pulverizing jolts and noise filled his plastisealed turret. He had to keep firing despite the pain, for everyone depended on him, Scot knew. He’d keep at it, even if he broke both arms, even if he grew deaf in the process.
There was a near-fatal flaw in the jerry-rigged ack-ack gun, the disheartened fighter discovered. There was no place for the ejected shell cartridges to collect; the steaming-hot jackets of steel just piled up at his feet. Soon the spent cartridges were interfering with the swivel-electric-mount of the gunner’s chair. Scot kicked the shells away from the chair bottom with his huge combat boots as they piled up, trying to keep the gun mount from fouling and jerking to a screeching halt.
He kept missing. The second missile, which had veered off course, seemed to have refound its bearings.
“Three seconds to impact,” Rockson yelled, but Scot knew that; he just didn’t have time to answer. The Soviet missile grew so close he could see the blinking homing radar dome on the front. It looked like an angry eye of death.
Just 100 yards from the saucer, the .335-caliber shells hit it. It blew up, and the saucer rocked violently. The gunnery bubble took a few shrapnel hits but held. McCaughlin spun the gun, looking for the second missile, and laughed. It was following some big piece of the first missile, away from the saucer. Luck!
“I’m mucho glad that wasn’t a nuke-tip job,” Rock said, steering the saucer back on course. “Now get Killov, will you, Scot?”
On board the pursuing batwing rocketship, Killov cursed in a fury. He had expected to shout in elation, but the enemy had destroyed his missiles. Now he’d have to fire the cannons, and the three mini-Snark heat-seeking smart bombs! All at the same time! These little babies would make a much harder target for whoever was manning the big gun on the saucer. Killov was amazed to see what kind of response the American saucer could mount against missiles. Still, he had confidence of victory. The turret-firing ack-ack gun on the saucer made him almost laugh out loud. Killov shouted to his servant, “Tekkamaki, see what they shoot back with? It is a pop gun. Prepare to fire all the smart bombs, and the cannons, in a continuous salvo. On my command!”
“But sir,” the tiny Japanese servant protested, “that will destabilize us.”
“Just do what I say, before that wily Rockson figures out some other clever damned maneuver on us.”
Killov and Tekkamaki were the only two beings aboard the quickly built rocket. It was actually six rockets, six ICBMs made into one superior spacecraft, using ancient Inca welding secrets. Killov had tracked the American saucer right up from the western United States. He was certain that Rockson was aboard, for he had intercepted some of the Doomsday Warrior’s radio communications with the space Frenchies. Killov had eavesdropped on conversations in which he’d been amazed to hear that the asteroid was going to hit the earth. Amazed, but not displeased. He had begun to formulate a new plan-one that would make him and his faithful servant Tekkamaki the last two people alive in the universe. “He who lives last wins the game.” Didn’t Nietzsche say that? Or was it Saddam? Never mind.
Tekkamaki, who was a samurai by heredity and therefore an armaments expert, hit all the switches. A thousand rounds of explosive cannonballs flung themselves out where Rockson’s saucer had been, and missed. The smart bombs were another matter, though.
Aboard the saucer, McCaughlin was doing his best, but he’d hit only one smart bomb that homed in on the saucer . . . one out of seventeen. Rockson’s quick maneuvers had saved them so far.
“I’m outt
a ammo,” Scot shouted, as the banging from the big ack-ack gun suddenly ceased. “Rock! If you head 0-900, you can maneuver out of the way of those things—they’re in a cluster.”
“Negative,” Rockson said. “Booster shutdown.” The Doomsday Warrior hung his head in sorrow.
“Thirteen seconds to impact, eleven, ten,” Chen cried out, reading the radar approach indicators, the computer language that spelled out death.
Scheransky turned his head. “So this is it. Let me say it was a great pleasure to serve with you, Commander, and—”
Rockson felt a slight vibration and looked over to Chen, who shouted, “I fixed the LaBarre drive! Hit the main drive thrusters. Now!”
Rockson did, and the saucer shot out of the way of the oncoming smart bombs, easy as pie.
Rockson smiled. “My lord, we have nearly full power; we can do anything. I can run rings around Killov, Maybe we should go back and sail past Killov, and unleash a few shots of our own at him.”
“With what?” McCaughlin called down. “Remember, I’m flat outta ammo.”
“Yeah, I forgot . . . damn. Well, we’ll just have to leave him.”
“No,” Chen smiled slyly. “You can do what you want to do. Listen, just go back and get that smart bomb group back on our tail. Keep them close, but not too close.” Chen had an evil grin on his face.
“I get it,” Rock agreed. “Hit him with his own smart bombs.” As his men shouted and yippeed, Rockson expertly maneuvered to approach Killov’s lost armaments. He got them to spot the saucer, then led the smart bombs around full circle and closed on Killov’s batwing rock craft with deadly accuracy. “Just like a game of chicken,” he snickered. “Killov’s gonna have to blink first.”