So they caught us with our p-suits down. And our weapons. But with troopers dead we still had six transports on our surface and a command ship in our sky.
Once Bon Marche engagement was over, I got hold of self and found a phone. No word from Kongville, no word from Prof. J-Clty fight had been won, same for Novylen—transport there had toppled on landing; invading force had been understrength from landing losses and Finn’s boys now held disabled transport. Still fighting in Churchill and Tycho Under. Nothing going on in other warrens. Mike had shut down tubes and was reserving interwarren phone links for official calls. An explosive pressure drop in Churchill Upper, uncontrolled. Yes, Finn had checked in and could be reached.
So I talked to Finn, told him where L-City transport was, arranged to meet at easement lock thirteen.
Finn had much same experience as I—caught cold save he did have p-suit. Had not been able to establish control over laser gunners until fight was over and himself had fought solo in massacre in Old Dome. Now was beginning to round up his lads and had one officer taking reports from Finn’s office in Bon Marche. Had reached Novylen subcommander but was worried about HKL—“Mannie, should I move men there by tube?”
Told him to wait—they couldn’t get at us by tube, not while we controlled power, and doubted if that transport could lift. “Let’s look at this one.”
So we went out through lock thirteen, clear to end of private pressure, on through farm tunnels of a neighbor (who could not believe we had been invaded) and used his surface lock to eyeball transport from a point nearly a kilometer west of it. We were cautious in lifting hatch lid.
Then pushed it up and climbed out; outcropping of rock shielded us. We Red-Indianed around edge and looked, using helmet binox.
Then withdrew behind rock and talked. Finn said, “Think my lads can handle this.”
“How?”
“If I tell you, you’ll think of reasons why it won’t work. So how about letting me run my own show, cobber?”
Have heard of armies where boss is not told to shut up—word is “discipline.” But we were amateurs. Finn allowed me to tag along—unarmed.
Took him an hour to put it together, two minutes to execute. He scattered a dozen men around ship, using farmers’ surface radio silence throughout—anyhow, some did not have p-suit radios, city boys. Finn took position farthest west; when he was sure others had had time, he sent up a signal rocket.
When flare burst over ship, everybody burned at once, each working on a predesignated antenna. Finn used up his power pack, replaced it and started burning into hull—not door lock, hull. At once his cherry-red spot was joined by another, then three more, all working on same bit of steel—and suddenly molten steel splattered out and you could see air whoosh! out of ship, a shimmery plume of refraction. They kept working on it, making a nice big hole, until they ran out of power. I could imagine hooraw inside ship, alarms clanging, emergency doors closing, crew trying to seal three impossibly big holes at once, for rest of Finn’s squad, scattered around ship, were giving treatment to two other spots in hull. They didn’t try to burn anything else. Was a non-atmosphere ship, built in orbit, with pressure hull separate from power plant and tanks; they gave treatment where would do most good.
Finn pressed helmet to mine. “Can’t lift now. And can’t talk. Doubt they can make hull tight enough to live without p-suits. What say we let her sit a few days and see if they come out? If they don’t, then can move a heavy drill up here and give ‘em real dose of fun.”
Decided Finn knew how to run his show without my sloppy help, so went back inside, called Mike, and asked for capsule go out to ballistic radars. He wanted to know why I didn’t stay inside where it was safe.
I said, “Listen, you upstart collection of semi-conductors, you are merely a minister-without-portfolio while I am Minister of Defense. I ought to see what’s going on and I have exactly two eyeballs while you’ve got eyes spread over half of Crisium. You trying to hog fun?”
He told me not to jump salty and offered to put his displays on a video screen, say in room L of Raffles—did not want me to get hurt … and had I heard joke about drillman who hurt his mother’s feelings?
I said, “Mike, please let me have a capsule. Can p-suit and meet it outside Station West—which is in bad shape as I’m sure you know.”
“Okay,” he said, “it’s your neck. Thirteen minutes. I’ll let you go as far as Gun Station George.”
Mighty kind of him. Got there and got on phone again. Finn had called other warrens, located his subordinate commanders or somebody willing to take charge, and had explained how to make trouble for grounded transports—all but Hong Kong; for all we knew Authority’s goons held Hong Kong. “Adam,” I said, others being in earshot, “do you think we might send a crew out by rolligon and try to repair link Bee Ell?”
“This is not Gospodin Selene,” Mike answered in a strange voice, “this is one of his assistants. Adam Selene was in Churchill Upper when it lost pressure. I’m afraid that we must assume that he is dead.”
“What?”
“I am very sorry, Gospodin.”
“Hold phone!” Chased a couple of drillmen and a girl out of room, then sat down and lowered hush hood. “Mike,” I said softly, “private now. What is this gum-beating?”
“Man,” he said quietly, “think it over. Adam Selene had to go someday. He’s served his purpose and is, as you pointed out, almost out of the government. Professor and I have discussed this; the only question has been the timing. Can you think of a better last use for Adam than to have him die in this invasion? It makes him a national hero … and the nation needs one. Let it stand that ‘Adam Selene is probably dead’ until you can talk to Professor. If he still needs ‘Adam Selene’ it can turn out that he was trapped in a private pressure and had to wait to be rescued.”
“Well—Okay, let it stay open. Personally, I always preferred your ‘Mike’ personality anyhow.”
“I know you do, Man my first and best friend, and so do I. It’s my real one; ‘Adam’ was a phony.”
“Uh, yes. But, Mike, if Prof is dead in Kongville, I’m going to need help from ‘Adam’ awful bad.”
“So we’ve got him iced and can bring him back if we need him. The stuffed shirt. Man, when this is over, are you going to have time to take up with me that research into humor again?”
“I’ll take time, Mike; that’s a promise.”
“Thanks, Man. These days you and Wyoh never have time to visit … and Professor wants to talk about things that aren’t much fun. I’ll be glad when this war is over.”
“Are we going to win, Mike?”
He chuckled. “It’s been days since you asked me that. Here’s a pinky-new projection, run since invasion started. Hold on tight, Man—our chances are now even!”
“Good Bog!”
“So button up and go see the fun. But stay back at least a hundred meters from the gun; that ship may be able to follow back a laser beam with another one. Ranging shortly. Twenty-one minutes.”
Didn’t get that far away, as needed to stay on phone and longest cord around was less. I jacked parallel into gun captain’s phone, found a shady rock and sat down. Sun was high in west, so close to Terra that I could see Terra only by visoring against Sun’s glare—no crescent yet, new earth ghostly gray in moonlight surrounded by a thin radiance of atmosphere.
I pulled my helmet back into shade. “Ballistic control, O’Kelly Davis now at Drill Gun George. Near it, I mean, about a hundred meters,” Figured Mike would not be able to tell how long a cord I was using, out of kilometers of wires.
“Ballistic control aye aye,” Mike answered without argument. “I will so inform HQ.”
“Thank you, ballistic control. Ask HQ if they have heard from Congressman Wyoming Davis today.” Was fretted about Wyoh and whole family.
“I will inquire.” Mike waited a reasonable time, then said, “HQ says that Gospazha Wyoming Davis has taken charge of first-aid work in Old Dome.?
??
“Thank you.” Chest suddenly felt better. Don’t love Wyoh more than others but—well, she was new. And Luna needed her.
“Ranging,” Mike said briskly. “All guns, elevation eight seven zero, azimuth one nine three zero, set parallax for thirteen hundred kilometers closing to surface. Report when eyeballed.”
I stretched out, pulling knees up to stay in shade, and searched part of sky indicated, almost zenith and a touch south. With sunlight not on my helmet I could see stars, but inner pert of binox were hard to position—had to twist around and raise up on right elbow.
Nothing—Hold it, was star with disc … where no planet ought to be. Noted another star close, watched and waited.
Uh huh! Da! Growing brighter and creeping north very slowly—Hey, that brute is going to land right on us!
But thirteen hundred kilometers is a long way, even when closing to terminal velocity. Reminded self that it couldn’t fall on us from a departure ellipse looping back, would have to fall around Luna—unless ship had maneuvered into new trajectory. Which Mike hadn’t mentioned. Wanted to ask, decided not to—wanted him to put all his savvy into analyzing that ship, not distract him with questions.
All guns reported eyeball tracking, including four Mike was laying himself, via selsyns. Those four reported tracking dead on by eyeball without touching manual controls—good news; meant that Mike had that baby taped, had solved trajectory perfectly.
Shortly was clear that ship was not falling around Luna, was coming in for landing. Didn’t need to ask; it was getting much brighter and position against stars was not changing—damn, it was going to land on us!
“Five hundred kilometers closing,” Mike said quietly. “Stand by to burn. All guns on remote control, override manually at command ‘burn.’ Eighty seconds.”
Longest minute and twenty seconds I’ve ever met—that brute was big! Mike called every ten seconds down to thirty, then started chanting seconds. “—five—four—three—two—one—BURN!” and ship suddenly got much brighter.
Almost missed little speck that detached itself just before—or just at—burn. But Mike said suddenly, “Missile launched. Selsyn guns track with me, do not override. Other guns stay on ship. Be ready for new coordinates.”
A few seconds or hours later he gave new coordinates and added, “Eyeball and burn at will.”
I tried to watch ship and missile both, lost both—jerked eyes away from binoculars, suddenly saw missile—then saw it impact, between us and catapult head. Closer to us, less than a kilometer. No, it did not go off, not an H-fusion reaction, or I wouldn’t be telling this. But made a big, bright explosion of its own, remaining fuel I guess, silver bright even in sunlight, and shortly I felt-heard ground wave. But nothing was hurt but a few cubic meters of rock.
Ship was still coming down. No longer burned bright; could see it as a ship now and didn’t seem hurt. Expected any instant that tail of fire to shoot out, stop it into a dido landing.
Did not. Impacted ten kilometers north of us and made a fancy silvery halfdome before it gave up and quit being anything but spots before eyes.
Mike said, “Report casualties, secure all guns. Go below when secured.”
“Gun Alice, no casualties”—“Gun Bambie no casualties”—“Gun Caesar, one man hit by rock splinter, pressure contained”—Went below, to that proper phone, called Mike. “What happened, Mike? Wouldn’t they give you control after you burned their eyes out?”
“They gave me control, Man.”
“Too late?”
“I crashed it, Man. It seemed the prudent course.”
An hour later was down with Mike, first time in four or five months. Could reach Complex Under more quickly than L-City and was in as close touch there with anybody as would be in-city—with no interruptions. Needed to talk to Mike.
I had tried to phone Wyoh from catapult head tube station; reached somebody at Old Dome temporary hospital and learned that Wyoh had collapsed and been bedded down herself, with enough sleepy-time to keep her out for night. Finn had gone to Churchill with a capsule of his lads, to lead attack on transport there. Stu I hadn’t heard from. Hong Kong and Prof were still cut off. At moment Mike and I seemed to be total government.
And time to start Operation Hard Rock.
But Hard Rock was not just throwing rocks; was also telling Terra what we were going to do and why—and our just cause for doing so. Prof and Stu and Sheenie and Adam had all worked on it, a dummy-up based on an assumed attack. Now attack had come, and propaganda had to be varied to fit. Mike had already rewritten it and put it through print-out so I could study it.
I looked up from a long roll of paper. “Mike, these news stories and our message to F.N. all assume that we have won in Hong Kong. How sure are you?”
“Probability in excess of eighty-two percent.”
“Is that good enough to send these out?”
“Man, the probability that we will win there, if we haven’t already, approaches certainty. That transport can’t move; the others were dry, or nearly. There isn’t that much monatomic hydrogen in HKL; they would have to come here. Which means moving troops overland by rolligon—a rough trip with the Sun up even for Loonies—then defeat us when they get here. They can’t. This assumes that that transport and its troops are no better armed than the others.”
“How about that repair crew to Bee Ell?”
“I say not to wait. Man, I’ve used your voice freely and made all preparations. Horror pictures, Old Dome and elsewhere, especially Churchill Upper, for video. Stories to match. We should channel news Earthside at once, and announce execution of Hard Rock at same time.”
I took a deep breath. “Execute Operation Hard Rock.”
“Want to give the order yourself? Say it aloud and I’ll match it, voice and choice of words.”
“Go ahead, say it your way. Use my voice and my authority as Minister of Defense and acting head of government. Do it, Mike, throw rocks at ‘em! Damn it, big rocks! Hit ‘em hard!”
“Righto, Man!”
25
“A maximum of instructive shrecklichkeit with minimum loss of life. None, if possible”—was how Prof summed up doctrine for Operation Hard Rock and was way Mike and I carried it out. Idea was to hit earthworms so hard would convince them—while hitting so gently as not to hurt. Sounds impossible, but wait.
Would necessarily be a delay while rocks fell from Luna to Terra; could be as little as around ten hours to as long as we dared to make it. Departure speed from a catapult is highly critical and a variation on order of one percent could double or halve trajectory time, Luna to Terra. This Mike could do with extreme accuracy—was equally at home with a slow ball, many sorts of curves, or burn it right over plate—and I wish he had pitched for Yankees. But no matter how he threw them, final velocity at Terra would be close to Terra’s escape speed, near enough eleven kilometers per second as to make no difference. That terrible speed results from gravity well shaped by Terra’s mass, eighty times that of Luna, and made no real difference whether Mike pushed a missile gently over well curb or flipped it briskly. Was not muscle that counted but great depth of that well.
So Mike could program rock-throwing to suit time needed for propaganda. He and Prof had settled on three days plus not more than one apparent rotation of Terra—24hrs-50min-28.32sec—to allow our first target to reach initial point of program. You see, while Mike was capable of hooking a missile around Terra and hitting a target on its far side, he could be much more accurate if he could see his target, follow it down by radar during last minutes and nudge it a little for pinpoint accuracy.
We needed this extreme accuracy to achieve maximum frightfulness with minimum-to-zero killing. Call our shots, tell them exactly where they would be hit and at what second—and give them three days to get off that spot.
So our first message to Terra, at 0200 13 Oct 76 seven hours after they invaded, not only announced destruction of their task force, and denounced invasion for brutalit
y, but also promised retaliation bombing, named times and places, and gave each nation a deadline by which to denounce F.N.’s action, recognize us, and thereby avoid being bombed. Each deadline was twenty-four hours before local “strike”.
Was more time than Mike needed. That long before impact a rock for a target would be in space a long way out, its guidance thrustors still unused and plenty of elbow room. With considerably less than a full day’s warning Mike could miss Terra entirely—kick that rock sideways and make it fall around Terra in a permanent orbit. But with even an hour’s warning he could usually abort into an ocean.
First target was North American Directorate.
All great Peace Force nations, seven veto powers, would be hit: N.A. Directorate, Great China, India, Sovunion, PanAfrica (Chad exempted), Mitteleuropa, Brasilian Union. Minor nations were assigned targets and times, too—but were told that not more than 20 percent of these targets would be hit—partly shortage of steel but also frightfulness: if Belgium was hit first time around, Holland might decide to protect her polders by dealing out before Luna was again high in her sky.
But every target was picked to avoid if possible killing anybody. For Mitteleuropa this was difficult; our targets had to be water or high mountains—Adriatic, North Sea, Baltic, so forth. But on most of Terra is open space despite eleven billion busy breeders.
North America had struck me as horribly crowded, but her billion people are clumped—is still wasteland, mountain and desert. We laid down a grid on North America to show how precisely we could hit—Mike felt that fifty meters would be a large error. We had examined maps and Mike had checked by radar all even intersections, say 105° W by 50° N—if no town there, might wind up on target grid … especially if a town was close enough to provide spectators to be shocked and frightened.