Oberheim (Voices) Part 29

"The business of the day, sir?"

"Yes, we'll discuss it over breakfast." A rare honor. "Have you eaten yet today?" And Calder went off to do his master's bidding.

Leif Janson, meanwhile, dressed himself in a state of anxiety such as he had seldom experienced. He had no grounds for this feeling; he had been summoned at odd hours by high personages before. But remembering his blunder the day before, so innocent, and yet looked upon with such gravity, he felt in his gut that a dark cloud hung over him, and wondered only at the severity of the coming storm.

He had never liked Hayes, liked him still less for their meeting; but this could not alter the fact, much as it galled him, that he was terrified of the man. STUPID, he admonished himself. THIS ISN'T n.a.z.i GERMANY. He tried to shave, cut himself, realized that this would look bad, placed a skin pad over the area, forgetting to wipe away the blood first, ripped it off, toweled his face and did it again. By now his agitation was so acute that he began to get angry. But his experience in government service told him that if he gave in to his instincts (fought back), not only would things not get better, they could get considerably worse.

And so, pa.s.sing through the corridor and up through an elevator tube, he entered after two lefts and a right, the hallway that led to SubCon 20. He checked his watch. Two minutes early. He stopped, knowing by reputation Hayes' fanaticism concerning time. Needing something to occupy his mind, he mused for perhaps the thousandth time that everything in the military was capital letters and even numbers: black and white. He paced a little, and looking up, saw to his dismay that the hall camera followed his every movement. He checked his watch.

Thirty seconds to go. TO h.e.l.l WITH THIS, he thought. He entered the chamber.

Hayes looked up from the table as he saluted, nodded placidly, and finished his breakfast without haste. Calder, standing against the adjacent wall, gazed at him with the blank, somewhat hostile expression of an off-duty drill sergeant. Hayes placed the tray in the wall-slot, brushed stray crumbs from the table with his uniform sleeve, and without rising, addressed him.

"Major Leif Janson, I believe. Well, Major. Since yesterday I've checked your record, and I believe you can be trusted."

"Thank you, sir." He wondered why this vote of confidence did not comfort him. "I'm sorry for my blunder, sir. It was inexcusable."

Hayes' words belied his expression. "A momentary lapse, nothing more."

He placed a strange emphasis on 'lapse.' "You've been trained for high-speed craft, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir," Janson said stiffly, maintaining with difficulty his rigid posture and straight-ahead gaze. It had been twelve years, but this was hardly the time.....

"I want you to run a very special errand for me, Major. I want you to take some particularly sensitive data back to President Stone, and deliver it to him personally. I'm having a Clipper specially prepared.

She'll fly mainly on auto-pilot, with extra speed built in. I need this material in the President's hands by July 16---he'll know you're coming. Do you think you can do it?"

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir." But this was absurd. Bullet-pouches were three times faster, and with self-destruct, an infinitely better security risk.

"Good, Major. That's what I wanted to hear. Report to Shuttle Dock 36 at 1400 sharp. You're to remain in your quarters till then, and speak of this to no one. I'll have the flight-suit brought to you there.

The materials will be turned over to you by special courier aboard ships. Any questions?"

Janson glanced at him quickly. There were no questions.

"That will be all then, Major. Dismissed." Janson saluted and showed himself the door. As his footsteps receded down the hallway, Hayes turned to Calder.

"You know what to do?" His second nodded sternly and went out.

TOO BAD ABOUT THAT ONE, mused the Secretary briefly. THEY SAY HE HAD A FAMILY. Rising, he left the small conference room and moved with swift steps toward the Main Intercommunications studio to prepare his pre-battle address to the subcommanders. NO, ON SECOND THOUGHT I'D BETTER MAKE IT THE ENTIRE CREW. WE'VE GOT TO FIGHT LIKE THE THREE HUNDRED SPARTANS TOMORROW. And pleased with this metaphor, trying to think how to work it into his speech, he continued on his way.

Squadron-leader Dorfman was approaching his thirtieth hour in light-warp, and was less than sixteen hours away from his projected time of Intercept. His was one of only five missile-ships that remained on course and on target.

There is a certain level of endurance beyond which even the strongest minds cannot go without some loss of rationality. Dorfman, a seasoned veteran, had been on tough, grueling missions before, but this---he could no longer deceive himself---was undoubtedly the cruelest.

He had been able to remain calmly alert and rest his eyes for brief intervals, trusting somewhat to fate, for the first eighteen hours or so, and this had bought him time. A product of East German military training and thinking, his own life or death was now secondary to the success or failure of the mission and, truly believing this, his fears had not been able to engulf him. His life had been full: his wife was a soldier's wife, and his son was now fourteen and able to look after her. But it was not necessary for him, as it was for some men, to discount his own death through such a progression of thought. He knew what his country was up against, and accepted his duty without reservation.

But even through so many well-laid defenses, the exhaustion and mental strain had begun to do their work on him. Fatigue became a constant torture. To keep his eyes open and on anything, let alone the bulbous, softly glowing scope before him, was next to impossible. But to take a stimulant, he knew, would be worse. He could ill afford to compound the demands on mind and body. Muscle tremors and adrenalin surges would make him useless if ever. . .WHEN he reached his target. Having no choice, he stayed where he was, his eyes fastened on the scope.

Being a thoroughly disciplined man, it was perhaps more difficult for him to deal with the violent, primal images and emotions that now thrashed about inside him. Visions of tearing Stone's throat out, and of s.e.xual violence toward nameless, faceless women were particularly prevalent, but not nearly so painful as the occasional outbursts of groundless hatred toward his wife and son. He knew these for what they were, distorted by-products of the subconscious, and reminded himself as their intensity grew that they could not physically hurt him. But secretly he was upset, and wished they would go away.

Finally he had to make a decision. It was either rest his eyes and neck for a moment, possibly get up and stretch, or smash his fist against the screen. He stood up and put his hands together behind him, craning both neck and back, them pumped his ribs twice with his biceps.

He sat back down after an elapse of two minutes and drank some water.

Then returned to his vigil.

It was nearing 6:00 AM, United Commonwealth Earth time, 0600 by the military clock. On the dark side of Goethe there was no time, only the slow indifferent turning of the dark skied, sea-laden monster.

Hayes had decided to do the broadcast live. He sat before the tiny camera fixtures cool and alert, with a partial script before him.

Added to the natural intensity of his features was the hard, predatory gleam that always rimmed his eyes before a battle. No matter that the rapid-black pa.s.sage through the star gate, and the fighting sure to follow, would not occur until the next morning. He would not eat or sleep until then, concentrating all his energies and attention on the slightest details of preparation. By seven o'clock the next morning he would be transformed into the atavistic frame of mind where decisions were not tainted by conscience or emotion but were ruthless, correct in their unhesitating aggression, and sharp as razor steel. In battle as in life, he told himself, there was no subst.i.tute for hardness and sheer force of will. The subtle throb and hum of the giant ship felt strong and rea.s.suring around him, as it headed toward the limits of the system.

The red light of the studio came on: twenty seconds. Ten. The man in the booth signaled him, and he began to speak.

"My fellow soldiers of the dauntless Third Fleet. We stand on the eve of a great battle. At stake is nothing less....."

Nine minutes later the first of the East German scat-ships came out of warp. In the five seconds allotted him, SubCaptain Hessler located the target, aimed and fired his missile, and broke off again into e-light.

The automated batteries aboard the Dreadnought picked up and a.n.a.lyzed his presence, aimed a ruby laser and fired: too late. Also too late were the bursts it fired at the lightning-fast projectile, sent in a curved trajectory at its more vulnerable underside.

The neonuclear explosive hit home with a violence that even the emptiness of s.p.a.ce could not diffuse, penetrating seven of the Carrier's sixteen layered shields.

Within the ship there was a sudden, jarring concussion, and the corridors of every vessel inside it resounded with the drone of a battle-stations alert. For the briefest instant the lights of the studio went out; and when they returned Hayes saw that his speech was ruined. A pitcher of water had spilled across it, and the liquid inside blurred ink and paper together into an unrecognizable wrinkle of smeared sheaves. The man in the booth made a quizzical motion, in the form of a question drawing his finger across his throat. But Hayes shook him off angrily.

"All men to your posts," he barked gruffly. "Maybe now you'll see that this is no game." He himself hastened to the uppermost bridge, furious at this sneak attack, and even more at his own men for having allowed it to happen.

"Damage report!" he shouted, entering the circle of men and equipment that scrambled with sudden activity like an ant-hill beaten with a stick. "How many ships!"

"Damage report coming," said a voice, calm and professional.

"Just the one," came another.

"It only slowed to sub-light long enough to fire the projectile, then broke off again just as fast." This last belonged to Gen-Admiral Frank, commander of the Fleet.

"Why didn't the robot-guns get him?"

"They weren't set for full kill intercept. With so many Alliance ships in the vicinity, they had to a.n.a.lyze---"

"I hope you've corrected THAT blunder."

"Yes, General. And I've warned the Alliance pilots---"

"Tell those French f.a.ggots to stay the h.e.l.l away from us." Hayes had taken to calling the Belgians 'French', and the Swiss 'Krauts'. "If they want to play soldier, let them do it somewhere else."

"Damage report," came the first voice.