Warworld: The Lidless Eye

by John F. Carr

  The evacuation of Fort Kursk was going as fast as possible, better than expected. The only good news so far. They’d cut communication to the absolute minimum and had been left alone by the Saurons, almost as if they were not a serious target. We probably aren’t, he thought, grimly. Most of the militia’s jets, the Invictas, had been destroyed in the air by enemy fighters or put out of commission before they left the ground. A few had landed at out-of-the-way airports, as directed in the contingency plans, but he had little hope they’d survive the invasion. Not that they were much good against Sauron fighter craft, whether supraorbitals or just plain air breathers.

  “I don’t think you should leave, Brigadier,” Colonel Thurstone said. “We need you here to take charge of the evacuation. We have thousands of dependents to look after and I for one don’t think we have much time before the Saurons hit us again.”

  Thurstone, like himself, was a former Imperial Marine from Churchill. He was an excellent commandant and, with Colonel Leung, had Fort Kursk running like an Imperial Naval vessel. However, he was a true peacetime warrior. He was also Cumming’s oldest friend on Haven.

  “We aren’t leaving,” the Brigadier said. “We are temporarily relocating to Fort Fornova. At least I am. I want the Regiment to disperse into companies and lie low until we learn more about this invasion. For some reason the Saurons haven’t touched the forts at all. That worries me.”

  “Last report is that another shuttle landed outside Evaskar. Maybe they plan to establish the bridgehead there.”

  “It makes sense. Whoever controls the Karakul Pass holds the steppes in the palm of their hand. It’s where I’d have landed at the outset if the situation were reversed. First, take Fort Stony Point, and then Evaskar at my leisure. Fort Fornova is the next stepping stone to holding the northern Valley. That’s probably why they’ve left Fornova alone; they plan to take it in one piece and use it as their own.”

  Colonel Thurstone nodded. “If the Empire has lost this bloody damn war, part of the reason was leaving you stranded on this godforsaken ball of mud. They should have kicked half the General Staff upstairs and made you Lord Marshal; the Saurons wouldn’t have known what hit them.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Robert. But I seriously doubt my leaving the war had much to do with the Empire’s success or failure. What I need to do is get to Fort Fornova before the Saurons. If they’re going to set up camp at Evaskar, I want to have a little surprise waiting there for them.”

  “You should get full support from Colonel Harrigan. Should we send any of our troops with you?”

  “It will be difficult enough just to get me and a small staff there without alerting the Saurons. Impossible with a company or two along for the ride.”

  “The nuclear depot. You had everyone convinced they were stored right here at Fort Kursk. It kept King Steele reined in; he was always afraid you’d play the nuclear wild card.”

  Cummings laughed. “That’s because he was a vain little man who thought he was the best the species had to offer, so obviously no one could be cleverer. A serious failure of the imagination.”

  “Why not let Harrigan take care of it?”

  “Colonel Harrigan is a good officer, but he’s better at taking orders than fulfilling them. He tends to think he knows more about any situation than he actually does. We need to husband our small nuclear cache and use it for the largest possible gain.”

  “Right, Brigadier,” Thurstone nodded, frowning. “I can see where Colonel Harrigan, or Cahill, his junior, might have some ‘ideas’ of their own about what the best course of action is. Are you sure you can trust him?”

  “Yes, as long as he’s certain that the Brigade is still under my command. We don’t have much time before long distance travel is out of the question. What we can’t afford to do is wait to see what the Sauron game plan is.”

  Sergeant-Major Slater slowed the jeep as they approached an abandoned farmhouse; the house was mostly subterranean, Harmony-style. The barn was still standing.

  Slater honked the horn twice and the barn’s double-doors opened, revealing a small chopper. The pilot and two militiamen left the barn and approached the Brigadier.

  “Any problems?” Colonel Leung asked.

  “No, quiet as a church.”

  “Won’t be for long,” the pilot said, with a grin.

  As Slater and the militiamen moved the copter out of the barn, Colonel Thurstone turned to the pilot. “Think it’ll be safe up there?” He pointed up towards Cat’s Eye, then he cocked his thumb in the Brigadier’s direction. “You know, we can’t afford to lose him.”

  “We’ll hug the ground, keep our radar signature down,” the pilot said, with a shrug. He casually added, “Should be as safe as taking a barrel down the Alf River.” He laughed then, as if he had just cracked the best joke in a century.

  The small gathering nodded glumly at his frighteningly accurate assessment.

  III

  Fighter Rank Vil smiled at the fragility of the human norm craft. Museum pieces, he thought in wonder. At least the Imperial Invictas, even if they were half a century out-of-date, had been adversaries of a sort. He hadn’t actually meant to destroy the kites, only shake them up a bit, but at least two of the triple-winged high ones, the ones that didn’t register on his radar, had simply disintegrated as he passed. Fascinating, really. He looked down at the remaining enemy ships, most out of control, one or two fighting to recover from his pass. He saw no parachutes.

  That’s interesting, he thought idly.

  Still, any survivors would have the word out that the “pirates” were here in force. He and his wingman, Stahler, had been waiting all morning to show off their newly-painted fighter craft.

  Fighter Rank Stahler hailed him on the combat frequency. “Amazingly frail ships.”

  “Affirm. What do you think of my introduction to the cattle of the Dol Guldur’s air superiority?”

  “Effective, but a bit overpowering, don’t you think?”

  Vil checked his screen and visuals, and shrugged.

  “Evidently not. A couple of the kites are reforming. We should have time to splash another pair before returning. Let’s go subsonic; be sure to give them a good look. I’ll show them some vertical thrust maneuvers.”

  “Have fun,” Stahler said without emotion. He had not embraced the pirate role as wholeheartedly as Vil and most of his fellow pilots. He had never believed in arrogance toward an outclassed opponent. Desperate foes did desperate things, and could very easily surprise you.

  IV

  The flat spin was often fatal, Leino recalled coolly from his flight school classes. None of the aircraft’s control surfaces interacted with the surrounding air stream the way they had been designed to. Uossi Suomi craft used to have tail ’chutes or canard airfoils to help in such situations, but that was a long time ago.

  Leino began going over every technique he knew to recover from the spin. Every aircraft type recovered in a different way, and you couldn’t really be sure how a particular ship would do it—or if it would do it at all—until you had to try and do it for real. By then, there was often no time to learn.

  But he was lucky; he had altitude, his engine was still running, even his hearing had come back—in one ear, anyway. The airframe was making a high-pitched rattling sound, like a snare drum.

  Leino dropped the flap opposite to the direction of the spin and kicked the rudder likewise as far as it would go. The airframe groaned impressively, but there seemed to be little effect otherwise. The ground was a good deal closer, now. Leino repeated his last maneuver and added a hard push on the stick, then yanked the throttle.

  The biplane shuddered as its engine roared and the tachometer needle snapped past the redline. The ship stood on one wing, turned onto its nose, then dropped like a stone into a power dive.

  Just great, he thought. At least before I was going to die sitting down—not face first!

  But it was possible to recover from a dive. He pulled
out of it with a scant hundred meters of daylight beneath him. He didn’t blackout, and that was a blessing, too. Recovering with a roll, Leino regained his former altitude in minutes only to see the formation utterly shattered. Three aircraft were missing from the Redfielders’ squadron, and one from his own as well.

  The spooks were nowhere to be seen, but at the speeds they were obviously capable of, they could be back at any moment.

  “Viggen, this is Leino, do you read?” His voice sounded funny to him; he ran his tongue over his gums, finding very little left of his front teeth. I must look freaking wonderful, he thought; blood running down my face and no teeth. The wife’ll love this.

  “Leino, this is Viggen, I read you; thought we’d lost you for a few seconds there. Nice flying.”

  “Thanks. What the devil were those things?”

  “Looked like supraorbitals. Some kind of fighter. Insignia makes them pirates, by my guess. Not scruffy ones either, like that Black Hand that passed through here a while back. And pirates would make that sort of pass on ships like ours—arrogant bastards. Shock wave took out four of our boys. Sorry, still no pick up on radar.”

  The radios squawked with another signal.

  “Break, break, break. This is Viggen Four.” It was the Redfielder pilot who had been at high altitude with one of Leino’s men.

  “Go ahead, V-Four,” Viggen said. The Redfielder squadron was indeed well trained. Despite the obvious superiority of their opposition, they had all reformed into flying formation and Leino’s boys were right with them. Leino felt a little better. He was airborne among some of the best Haven had to offer.

  Not that it had saved four of them when that supersonic sky-train had gone by.

  “I have visual on the spooks, bearing two hundred twenty-seven degrees, very far below your position, closing fast. Doesn’t look like they’re making the same speed as before, sir.”

  “Leino, I am to defer to you on this mission,” Viggen’s voice came through with a hard edge of desire. “What are your orders, engage or disperse?”

  “My orders for my group were specific that Uossi Suomi ships were not to fire on your aircraft, nor to engage these things, Viggen.”

  “You are breaking up, Leino. “Say again,” Viggen’s signal was crystal clear.

  “Leino out.”

  Good luck, Viggen, he thought. I would very much like to have met you. Leino banked his craft and watched the Redfielders position themselves for the interception courses that would perhaps allow them a firing pass at the spooks.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I

  “Estimated time for recovery of fighters?” First Rank Diettinger asked.

  “Seven minutes, sir. Attack run to commence in twenty-seven minutes, by Second Rank’s program,” Weapons stated.

  Diettinger noted the tone in his mention of Second Rank, a respected officer, as dynamic as she was competent, and blooded as a Soldier. The bridge crew resented their reassignment. Saurons, they believed, were Soldiers to fight, not livestock to breed.

  Diettinger knew they were only half-right. Saurons were warrior stock, bred to fight.

  He kept silent, however. Against his will, he realized he missed Second Rank, too.

  II

  “Vil, this is Stahler. Do you see what I see?”

  The rhetorical question brought a grin from Fighter Rank Vil. The cattle were actually turning to attack them. Bright flashes of light along the cowls of the antique enemy aircraft revealed the firing of their archaic slug-throwers.

  Vil held a straight and steady course, compensating for the loss of lift with vertical thrusters, cutting his speed back as much as possible to give the cattle a target they could not miss. The high velocity slugs flattened themselves against the Sauron fighter craft’s skin and canopy, to no effect.

  “My turn,” Vil said quietly. He acquired four of the rear aircraft with his weapons radar; for some reason the attackers actually bearing down on him still did not register on his sensors. No matter. Four light missiles lurched away from the underbelly of his craft, soaring up to the rear aircraft in seconds.

  Leino saw the missiles. Instinctively, he allowed the one bearing down on him to come as close as he dared before pulling the stick back and dropping into a hammerhead stall. There was a noise like a pickax piercing a steel drum, and Leino actually saw the missile pass through the thin metal of his upper right wing and fly right on through. The fire from its rocket motor melting a hole around the puncture point and setting his sleeve and headgear aflame.

  Either the wing hadn’t offered enough resistance to detonate the warhead, Leino thought in numb disbelief, or the proximity fuse had failed. Either way, I’m still alive.

  The same could not be said for the remainder of his squadron. Clouds of blast-dispersed smoke hung over columns of flaming debris tumbling downward, glittering in the bright, late-morning sun.

  Leino slapped out the fire on his arm and headgear before it could spread to the oxygen supply in his mask; if that happened, he knew, he was gone. Not that he held much hope for himself, now. The vibration in the airframe was rattling his teeth and he could barely hold the stick on a steady course.

  He looked over the side to see that the pirates were actually hanging in midair. Resting, he supposed, on vertical thrusters, as the Redfielders circled and fired on them, to no apparent effect. One of the spooks began to ease forward, apparently readying to make another pass.

  Leino made a decision and thought of his wife and unborn child. He hoped it lived. If so, he hoped it was a boy. Haven was a bad place for a girl without a father.

  “I confess I’m beginning to enjoy this, Stahler,” Vil signaled. “One more pass?”

  “We have to leave some of them to spread the news of the Dol Guldur ‘pirates,’ Stahler replied, “recall time coming up, anyway. Leave that biplane alone and take out as many as you can of those triplane stringbags as we leave.” He decided Vil could have all the ‘fun’ he wished. Stahler had little stomach for slaughter. It was inefficient.

  “Good enough,” Vil cheerfully agreed. Despite all their training as Sauron Soldiers, there was something of the freebooter in every fighter pilot who ever lived, and Vil was no exception.

  But if all fighter pilots are rogues, then all are heroes to some degree as well, and of those Marinus Leino was a prime example.

  The Redfielder craft, Leino knew, were even more fragile than his own. If his ship was rattling fit to shake apart, theirs could not survive another close pass by the spooks. It was obvious to him that another such flyby was about to occur.

  From above and to one side, he could see the spooks begin their vectors. Leisurely, almost insultingly slow, they were giving him a wide berth, letting him have plenty of room to run home and spread word of the godlike, star-spanning pirates who had come to call. Look on our works, Haveners, and despair, Leino thought with a grim smile.

  The taste of blood from his face and gums was salty and warm in his mouth. He spat. Perhaps he could send these fellows back home with a message of his own.

  “Surprise,” Leino whispered, as he pushed the shuddering stick forward. The biplane quivered, humming like a guitar string, as it nosed into a dive.

  Fighter Rank Vil saw the kite above and to his right begin a dive, and promptly dismissed it from his thoughts. Its pilot had obviously decided to take the opportunity to make his run to safety. The recall signal sounded; at the same moment, another tone went off in the cabin—this one strident, warning. Vil’s radar proximity alarm had activated. And at that moment, Fighter Rank Vil’s Sauron reflexes did something they had never done in all his twenty-two standard years: they failed him—shock had numbed them.

  Stahler watched incredulously as the cattle’s obsolete kite slammed into Vil’s right front quarter. The fighter craft’s atmospheric intakes were wide open, supercharging air through the engines for the vertical thrusters. Great chunks of the ramming ship were gobbled up by the turbines which proceeded to shred themse
lves to bits on the invading materials.

  Fuel feed lines ruptured, spraying liquid hydrogen into the empty maw of the gutted turbine housing. Most of the fighter’s insides had been spewed out the rear and bottom fans, along with the remnants of the pilot and his plane. The fuel ignited in the superheated environment; in hundredths of a second it spread to the fuel tanks. Fighter Rank Vil and his ship vanished in a colossal blue-white fireball.

  Stahler saw the other kites beating away, almost at ground level by now. He was intensely impressed. Vil had been a Sauron and a comrade Soldier, but even human norms deserved praise for such an act. Ignoring his own recall signal, Stahler executed a slow circle, standard tribute among fighter pilots to a downed enemy since man first took his wars to the skies. Then he nosed the fighter up and took her out of the atmosphere.

  III

  Diettinger was mildly surprised at losing one of the supraorbital fighters in combat. When he found out how, he too was impressed. Haven evidently bred warriors. So much the better. We will need such people.

  The moment the docking bay notified him that Stahler’s craft was secured, Diettinger turned to Weapons.

  “Weapons, stand by.”

  “Acknowledged, First Rank.”

  In the immersion display before him, Haven turned, filling the bridge with its blue-green immensity. The new homeworld, Diettinger thought. The Breedmasters were optimistic that the planet’s history and its rugged environment would have produced a hardy strain of humanity, many of whom would be acceptable for interbreeding with the Saurons settling there. And, according to Second Rank, they had already bred fine warriors in the past; Haven was the former home of the Seventy-seventh Imperial Marines. A division that had been a thorn in the side of High Command on more than one occasion, especially at Lavaca.