The tank gunner squeezed off an answering burst, longer this time. Another silence fell after he stopped. The fellow with the Browning automatic rifle did not reply now. Wounded or dead, Larssen thought grimly, The tank turret turned on to the other BAR man.
He had a better spot from which to shoot back, and lasted quite a bit longer than the first gunner had. The firefight between him and the tank gunner went on through several exchanges. But the fellow, with the BAR was under orders to keep the tank busy, and brave enough to carry out those orders with exactitude. That meant he had to keep exposing himself to fire and in any case, the dirt and bushes behind which he lay were no match for the inches of armor that sheltered the Lizard in the tank turret.
When the second BAR fell silent, the tank turret traversed through another few degrees. Larssen watched it with fearful fascination—for now it bore on him. He was lying in what had been a plowed furrow. When the machine gun began to chatter again, he flattened himself out like a snake, hoping—praying—the hard earth would offer some protection. The second BAR man had lived a little while, after all.
Bullets lashed the ground all around him. Freezing dirt spattered onto his coat and the back of his neck. He could not force himself to get up and shoot back; not in the face of a machine gun behind armor. Did that make him a coward? He didn’t know or care.
The burst from the tank broke off. He lifted his head out of the dirt. If by some miracle the turret had moved on to take up the hunt for someone else, he thought, he might start firing again, and then scoot for new cover. But no. The cannon—and, therefore, the machine gun, too—still bore on him.
He saw motion on the far side of the Lizard tank: more human soldiers, men who’d snuck close to the monster while he and his comrades occupied its attention. He wondered if they’d leap aboard and throw explosives into the turret through the cupola. Lizard tanks had died that way, but an awful lot more soldiers had died trying to kill them.
One of the Americans raised something to his shoulder. It wasn’t a gun: it was longer and thicker. Flame spurted from its rear end. Trailing fire all the way, some kind of rocket round shot across the couple of hundred yards that separated the soldiers from the Lizard tank. It slammed into the engine compartment at the rear, right where the armor was thinnest.
More fire, some blue, some orange, spurted from the stricken vehicle. Hatches popped open in the turret; three Lizards bailed out. Now, yelling like a savage, Jens fired with ferocious glee. Suddenly the tables were turned, the tormentors all but helpless against those they had bedeviled. One Lizard fell, then another.
Then the tank brewed up as the fire reached the main fuel storage. Flame washed over the whole chassis; a smoke ring spurted up from the turret. Pops and booms marked ammunition starting to cook off. The last Lizard who’d made it out of the hatch went down under a fusillade of bullets.
The kid major was up on his feet, waving like a madman. Off to the east, the distant roar of engines marked new motion from the tanks and self-propelled guns the Lizard tank had stalled. Then the major ran back to see how the two BAR men were. Jens ran with him.
One of them was gruesomely dead, the top of his skull clipped off by a Lizard round and gray-red brains splashed in the snow. The other had a belly wound. He was unconscious but breathing. The major pulled aside clothes, dusted the bleeding wound with sulfa powder, slapped on a field dressing, and waved for a medic.
He turned to Larssen: “You know what? I think we’re really gonna do this!”
“Maybe.” Jens knew his voice wasn’t everything it should be; he hadn’t hardened himself against human beings looking like selections from the butcher’s. Trying not to think of that, he asked, “What did they use to take out the tank?” As if to punctuate his words, more rounds went up inside the blazing hulk.
“The rocket? Wasn’t that great?” When the major grinned, he didn’t look a day over seventeen. “The fancy name is 2.36-inch Rocket Launcher, but all the teams I know are calling it after that crazy instrument Bob Burns plays on the radio.”
“A bazooka?” Larssen grinned, too. “I like that.”
“So do I.” The major’s grin slipped a little. “I just wish we had a hell of a lot more of ’em. They were brand new last year, and of course we’ve had the devil’s own time building ’em since the damned Lizards came. But what we’ve got, we’re using.” All at once, he went from informant back to officer. “Now we’ve got to get moving. Bust your hump, there!”
“Shouldn’t they go ahead, sir?” Jens pointed to the Lees and Shermans just now rattling past the carcass of the Lizard tank.
“They need us, too,” the major answered. “They make the hole, we go through it and we-support them. If the Lizards had had some infantry on the ground to support that vehicle, we couldn’t have stalked it the way we did. Their machines are marvelous and you can’t say they’re not brave, but their tactical doctrine stinks.”
Colonel Groves, Larssen remembered, had said the same thing. At the time, it hadn’t seemed to matter; the aliens’ machines were carrying everything before them. But it seemed they might be fought successfully after all.
The major was already moving west again. Jens trotted heavily after him, giving the pyre of the Lizard tank a wide berth.
Assault Force Commander Rethost said, “No, I can’t send you more landcruisers up there in your sector.”
On the radio, the voice of Zingiber, the Northern Flank Commander, was anguished. “But I need them! The Big Uglies have so much of their garbage coming at me that they’re pushing me back. And it’s not all garbage any more, either: I lost three landcruisers today to those stinking rockets they’ve started using. Our crews aren’t trained to regard infantry as a tactical threat, and we can’t pull them out for training sessions now.”
“Hardly.” Rethost didn’t want to know whether Zingiber was serious or not. He might have been; some males still hadn’t adjusted to the pace war required on Tosev 3. Rethost went on, “I say again, I have no more landcruisers to send. We’ve lost seven on the southern flank as well, and the rocket threat is making us deploy them more cautiously there, too.”
“But I need them,” Zingiber repeated, as if his need would conjure landcruisers out of thin air. “I say again, superior sir, that as things stand we are losing ground. The two Big Ugly attacks may even succeed in joining.”
“Yes, I know. I am also looking at a map screen.” Rethost didn’t like what he saw there, either if the Big Uglies did manage to link their thrusts, they’d cut support for his principal assault force, which was finally pounding into the suburbs of Chicago. That was expensive, too; in the rubble of their towns, the Tosevites fought like ssvapi on Rabotev 2 protecting their burrows.
Zingiber said, “If you can’t send landcruisers, send helicopters to help me take out some more of the Tosevites’ armor.”
Rethost made up his mind that if Zingiber made one more such idiotic request, he’d relieve him. He hissed angrily before he pressed the TRANSMIT button. “We have fewer helicopters than landcruisers to spare. The miserable Tosevites have learned something new.” They’re faster at that than we are. The thought worried him. He made himself continue: “They’ve brought their antiaircraft artillery as far forward as they can, towing it with light armor or sometimes even with soft-skinned vehicles. The helicopters are armored against rifle-caliber bullets. To armor them against these shells would make them too heavy to fly.”
“Let them ship us landcruisers from elsewhere on this stinking planet, then,” Zingiber said.
“The logistics!” Rethost cringed. “Landcruisers are so big and heavy only two will fit onto even our biggest hauler aircraft. And we brought few of those aircraft to Tosev 3, not anticipating so large a need. Besides, the haulers are unarmed and vulnerable to the upsurge in Tosevite air activity lately. It takes only one of those nasty little machines slipping through a killercraft screen to bring down the hauler and the landcruiser both.”
“But if we do
n’t get reinforcements from somewhere, we’ll lose this battle,” Zingiber said. “Let them put the landcruisers on a starship if they must, so long as we get them.”
“Land a starship in the middle of a combat zone, vulnerable to artillery and the Emperor only knows what ingenious sabotage the Big Uglies can devise? You must be joking.” Rethost made a bitter decision. “I’ll pull a few landcruisers back from the principal assault force … maybe more than a few. They can return once they rectify the situation.”
I hope, he thought. The landcruisers didn’t run without fuel, and the Tosevites were doing everything they could to interfere with supply lines. No one loved logistics, but armies that ignored logistics died.
Of course, the Tosevites had fuel problems of their own. They’d stockpiled the noxious stuff their machines burned for this campaign, but the facilities that produced it were vulnerable to assault. Rethost looked at the map again. He hoped the Race would assault them soon.
A couple of Big Uglies in long black coats and wide-brimmed black hats pushed an ordinance cart toward the flight of killercraft. Gefron took no notice of them; Tosevites were doing a lot of menial work these days, to let males of the Race get on with the business of conquering Tosev 3.
Gefron gave Rolvar and Xarol, his fellow pilots in the flight, their last few instructions: “Remember, this one is important. We really have to plaster that Ploesti place; the Big Uglies of Deutschland draw much of their fuel from it.”
“It shall be done,” the other two males chorused together.
Gefron went on, “So much I have been ordered to tell you. But for myself, I would like to dedicate this mission to the spirit of my predecessor as head of this unit, Flight Leader Teerts. We shall aid in making it impossible for the Big Uglies to kill or capture—we still do not know his exact fate—any more brave males like Teerts. Thanks to us, the conquest of Tosev 3 shall grow nearer its completion.”
“It shall be done,” the pilots chorused again.
Mordechai Anielewicz walked along Nowolipie Street between closed armaments plants, listening to Nathan Brodsky. The Jewish fighting leader had long since grown used to taking promenades through Warsaw to listen to things he didn’t want to take the chance of having the Lizards overhear. This was one of those things: Brodsky, who worked as a laborer at the airport, had picked up a lot of the Lizards’ language.
“No doubt about it,” Brodsky was saying. The hem of his coat flapped around his ankles as he walked beside Anielewicz. “Their destination is Ploesti; they were talking about knocking out all the Nazis’ oil. Nu, I know that’s important, so I told the Lizard boss I was sick and came straight to you.”
“Nu, nu,” Anielewicz answered. “You’re not wrong; it is important. Now I have to figure out what to do about it.” He stopped. “Let’s head back toward my headquarters.”
Brodsky obediently turned. Now Anielewicz walked with his head down, hands jammed into his pockets against the cold. He was thinking very hard indeed. Cooperating with the Germans in any way still left the worst of bad tastes in his mouth. He kept having second thoughts about letting that damned panzer major through with even half his saddlebag of explosive metal.
And now again, If the Lizards wrecked Ploesti, the Nazi war machine was liable to grind to a halt; the Germans, without oil of their own, desperately needed what they got from Romania. The Nazis were still fighting hard against the Lizards; and even hurting them now and again: no one could deny they turned out capable soldiers and clever engineers.
Suppose in the end the Germans won. Would they rest content inside their own borders? Anielewicz snorted. Not bloody likely! But suppose the Germans—suppose mankind—lost. Would the Lizards ever use human beings as anything but hewers of wood and drawers of water? That wasn’t bloody likely, either.
The Jewish fighting leader came around the last corner before the office building his men occupied. Among many others, his bicycle stood out in front of it. Seeing it there helped him make up his mind. He slapped Brodsky on the back. “Thank you for letting me know, Nathan. I’ll take care of it.”
“What will you do?” Brodsky asked.
Anielewicz didn’t answer; unlike Brodsky, he’d come to appreciate the need for tight security. What the other Jew didn’t know, he couldn’t tell. Anielewicz hopped on his bicycle, rode rapidly to a house outside the ghetto. He knocked on the door. A Polish woman opened it. “May I use your telephone?” he said. “I’m sorry; I’m afraid it’s quite urgent.”
Her eyes went wide: few people who are part of contingency plans ever expect the contingencies to arrive. But after a moment she nodded. “Yes, of course. Come in. It’s in the parlor.”
Anielewicz knew where the phone was; his men had installed it. He cranked it, waited for an operator to answer. When she did, he said, “Give me Operator Three-Two-Seven, please.”
“One moment.” He heard clicks from the switchboard, then: “Three-Two-Seven speaking.”
“Yes. This is Yitzhak Bauer. I need to place a call to my uncle Michael in Satu Mare, please. It’s urgent.”
The operator was one of his people. The false name was one for which she was supposed to be alert. And she was. Without a second’s hesitation, she said, “I will try to put you through. It may take some time.”
“As fast as you can, please.” At full stretch from where he stood, Anielewicz could just reach a chair. He snagged it, sank into it. Polish long-distance phone service had been bad before the war started. It was worse now. He kept the receiver pressed to his ear. What he mostly heard was silence. Every so often, there would be more switchboard clicks or operators’ voices at the very limit of hearing.
Time crawled by. The Polish woman brought him a cup of coffee, or rather the burnt-kasha brew that substituted for it. He’d long since grown used to the ersatz, and besides, it was warm. But if the call didn’t get through pretty soon, he wouldn’t have needed to bother making it: the Lizards would have bombed Ploesti and headed back.
How long to finish arming their planes? he wondered. That was the biggest variable; the flight from here to a little north of Bucharest wouldn’t take long, especially not at the speeds the Lizards’ aircraft used.
More clicks, more distant chatter, and then, sounding almost as clear as if she were sitting in his lap, Operator Three-Two-Seven said, “I am through to Sate Mare, sir.” He heard another operator’s voice, more distant, speaking oddly accented German rather than Polish or Yiddish: “Go ahead, Warsaw. To whom do you wish to speak?”
“My uncle Michael—Michael Spiegel, that is,” Anielewicz said. “Tell him it’s his nephew Yitzhak.” Lieutenant Colonel Michael Spiegel, he was given to understand, commanded the Nazi garrison at Sate Mare, the northernmost Romanian town still in German hands.
“I will connect you. Please wait,” the distant operator said.
Anielewicz listened to still more clicks, and then at last a ringing phone. Someone picked it up; he heard a brisk male voice say, “Bitte?” The operator explained who he claimed to be. A long pause followed, and then, “Yitzhak? Is that you? I hadn’t expected to hear from you.”
I hadn’t expected to call, either you Nazi bastard Anielewicz thought; Spiegel’s clear German set his teeth on edge by conditioned reflex. But he made himself say, “Yes, it’s me, Uncle Michael. I thought you ought to know that our friends will want some cooking grease from your family—as much as you can spare.”
He felt how crude the improvised code was. Spiegel, fortunately, proved quick on the uptake. Hardly missing a beat, the German said, “We’ll have to get it ready for them. Do you know when they’re coming?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if they’d already left,” Anielewicz answered. “I’m sorry, but I just found out they felt like getting it myself.”
“Such is life. We’ll do what we can. Hei—Good-bye.” The line went dead.
He started to say Heil Hitler, Anielewicz thought. Damn good thing he caught himself in case the Lizards are listening in.
As soon as he replaced the receiver, the Polish woman stuck her head into the parlor. “Is everything all right?” she asked anxiously.
“I—hope so,” he answered, but felt he had to add, “If you have relatives you can stay with, that might be a good idea.”
Her pale blue eyes went wide. She nodded. “I’ll arrange to have someone get word to my husband,” she said. “Now you’d better go.”
Anielewicz left in a hurry. He felt bad about endangering a noncombatant family, and even worse about endangering them to benefit the Nazis. I hope I did the right thing, he thought as he climbed onto his bicycle. I wonder if I’ll ever be sure.
Blips appeared on the head-up display that reflected into Gefron’s eyes from the inside of the killercraft’s windscreen. “Some of the Big Uglies on the ground must have spotted us,” the flight leader said. “They’re sending aircraft up to try to keep us away from Ploesti.” His mouth fell open in amusement at the absurdity of the idea.
The other two pilots in the flight confirmed that their electronics saw the Tosevite aircraft, too. Xarol observed, “They’re sending up a lot of aircraft.”
“This fuel is important to them,” Gefron answered. “They know they have to try to protect it. What they don’t know is that they can’t. We’ll have to show them.”
He studied the velocity vectors of the planes the Big Uglies were flying. A couple were the new jets the Deutsche had started throwing into the air. They were fast enough to have been troublesome if they were equipped with radar. As it was, he knew they were there while they still groped for him.
“I’ll take the jets,” he told the other males. “You two handle the ones with the revolving airfoils. Knock down a few and keep going; we haven’t any time to waste toying with them.”
He chose targets for his missiles, gave them to the computer.
When the tone from the speaker taped to his hearing diaphragm told him the computer had acquired them, he touched the firing button. The killercraft bucked slightly as the wingtip missiles leapt away.
In the Balance Page 69