To the Stars Trilogy Part 47

Twenty.

"I should be getting to my plane now," Dvora said. 'All of the others are aboard."

She had grown tired of sitting in the car and had climbed out to lean against its side. The night was warm, the stars flickering brilliantly in the rising air currents. Although the airport was blacked out, the dark silhouettes of the big transports were visible where they were lined up along the runway, Her ammunition bag, machine pistol and helmet were at her side. Amri Ben-Haim stood next to her, the bowl of his pipe a glowing spark in the darkness.

"There is no rush, Dvora," he said. "There are thirty minutes at least to takeoff. Your soldiers are grown men, no need to hold their hands."

"Grown men!" she sniffed expressively, "Farmers and university professors. How well will they behave when there are real bullets coming their way?"

"Very well, I am sure. Their training has been the best. Like yours. You just have had some field experiences that they have not. Rely on them...

"Message coming through," the driver said as his radio beeped for attention.

'Accept with my code identification," Ben-Haim said.

There was a murmured interchange. The driver leaned out the window. 'A two word message. Beth doar."

"Post office!" Ben-Haim said. "They've done it. Taken out the Khartoum station. Tell Blonstein that the situation, to use his favorite expression, is go. Then get to your plane. You shouldn't be hanging around out here."

Dvora had her helmet on, her microphone activated, the message pa.s.sed. "Yes... yes, General. I'll do that." She turned to Ben-Haim. 'A communication for you from General Blonstein. He says to keep an eye on Israel for him. He'd like to find it here when he gets back."

"So would I. When you talk to him next say I told you that was up to him, not me. I'll be sitting on my porch waiting for results. That is just as long as I have a porch to sit on." Dvora gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and was gone, the sound of her running feet vanishing in the darkness toward the planes.

Ben-Haim watched quietly as, one by one, the engines of the ma.s.sive planes burst into rumbling life.

Exhausts spat tongues of flame that quickly died away as their throttles were adjusted. The first craft was already mov-ing, picking up speed, faster and faster until it hurled itself into the air. The others were just seconds behind. Both runways were in use; a steady flow of rushing dark shapes that suddenly ended.

The thunder of their engines diminished, died, and silence returned. Ben-Haim's pipe was dead; he tapped it against his heel to knock out the ashes. He felt neither sorrow nor elation, just a great weariness after the days of preparation and tension. It was done, the die cast, no changes were possible now. He turned to the car.

'All right. We can go home now.

Out of sight in the sky above, the flight of planes circled out over the ocean as they gained height; the airs.p.a.ce over Israel was too small for such a maneuver. There was no concern about radar detection here, but there were settlements and towns in the adjoining coun-tries where people might hear and wonder what all the planes were doing up there in the night sky. When they crossed Israel again they were over six miles high, their engines inaudible on the ground below. In a formation of two stepped vees they turned southeast, flying down the length of the Red Sea.

Grigor looked out of the window of the plane and made tsk-tsk sounds with his tongue.

"Dvora," he said, "what I see is not strictly kosher."

'A drove of pigs?"

"Not even with my eyesight from this alt.i.tude."

Grigor was a mathematician, very absentminded, p05-sibly the worst soldier in Dvora's squad. But he was a sharpshooter who never missed his target no matter what the pressure; an a.s.set to be relied upon.

"It's where we are going. We're supposed to be attacking s.p.a.ceconcent in the western United States-I know, don't get excited. A big secret with the name removed from all the maps. A child could tell.

Anyway, the North Star was very clear back there when we turned. So now we are going south so I wondered, something not quite kosher. Or these planes maybe have big fuel tanks to get to America by flying over the South Pole?"

"We are not taking the most direct route."

"You can say that again, Dvorkila," Vasil, the heavy weapons gunner, said.

They were leaning toward her from the seats in front and in back, listening.

"No secrets now," another soldier said. "Who can we talk to about it?"

"I can tell you about this part of our course," she said. "But no more until after we refuel. We are going south now, staying over the sea, but we'll be turning west very soon over the Nubian desert. There i~or rather there wa~a radar station in Khartoum-but that has been taken care of. It was the only one we had to worry about since there is not another one all the way across Africa, not until we get to Morocco..."

Her voice died away, 'And then?" Grigor urged. "Something maybe to do with the big black cross I found on the side of this plane when I helped to tear the paper off it earlier tonight. Sailing under false colors like pirates?"

"It's top secret...

"Dvora, please!"

"You're right, of course. It can't do any harm now. We have, what you might call, agents placed high up in the UN government." Or maybe they have us, she thought to herself. No doubts now. Even if this was a trap they had to go ahead with it, right to the b.l.o.o.d.y end. "So we know that German troops are being sent to help hold the s.p.a.ce center in Mojave. We have their identification and their markings on our planes. We intend to take their place."

"Not so easily done," Grigor said. "I a.s.sume that there are other things that you are not telling us...

"Yes. But I can add just one thing more. We are flying just one. hour ahead of the German planes.

That's why the delay on the takeoff. Exact timing is very important, since once we're airborne we're out of touch with the ground. From now on everything happens by schedule. S~take some rest while you can.

The dark map of Africa moved past slowly and steadi-ly beneath them. Most of the men slept in the blacked-out planes, only the pilots were alertly awake and watching their instruments, monitoring the operation of the auto-matic pilots. General Blonstein, a qualified flyer himself, was in the pilot's seat of the lead plane. From this height he could make out clearly the darkness of the Atlantic Ocean, coming into view beyond the pale deserts of Mo-rocco. The receiver rustled.

"Rabat tower to Air Force flight four seven five. Do you read me?"

'Air Force flight four seven five. I read you, Rabat tower."

The radio contact was just a formality, The ground station had already activated the transponder in every craft, completely automatically, which had returned all the recorded data including identification, route and destination.

"We have you cleared for the Azores, Air Forceflight." There was the sound of mumbled voices for a moment. "We have afiag on your flight plan that you seem to be running fifty-nine, that is five niner minutes ahead of your filed flight plan."

"Strong tail winds," Blonstein said calmly, "Understood, Air Force flight. Out."

There were other ears listening in on the ground control frequency, A burnoosed man concealed from sight in a grove of trees close to the coast highway, Paralleling the highway were the columns of a high tension electricity line. The man had been following the conversation closely, frowning as he concentrated on making out the words through the crackle of static on his cheap radio. He waited a few moments to be absolutely sure that the transmission was over. Nothing else followed. He nodded and bent down to press the b.u.t.ton on the box at his feet.

A bright white flame lit up the night; a few seconds later the sound of the explosion reached him. One of the pylons in the 20,000 volt line leaned over, faster and faster, until it struck the ground. There was a colorful display of large sparks that went out quickly.

So did half the lights in Rabat. It was not by accident that the radio beacon station was included in this circuit as well.

The duty staff at Cruz del Luz airport on the island of Santa Maria were all soundly asleep. Very few planes had been stopping recently for refueling in the Azores, so the night shift had quickly become used to staying awake during the daytime hours. Admittedly someone had set the alarm bleeper, but that wasn't really needed. The radio would wake them up.

It did. Captain Sarmiento was pulled from a deep and dream-free sleep by the amplified voice from the wall speaker. He stumbled over from the couch and banged his shins ruthlessly on the control station before he found the light switch.

"Cruz del Luz here, come in." His voice was rough with sleep and he coughed and spat into the wastebasket while he groped through the printouts on his desk.

"This is Air Force flight four seven five requesting clearance fir landing."

Sarmiento's scrabbling fingers found the printout even while the voice was speaking; yes, the right one.

"You are cleared for approach on runway one. I have a reading you are locked in to landing control." He blinked at a figure on the sheet, then looked up at the clock. "Your arrival approximately one hour ahead of schedule Air Force flight..."

"Thi/ winds," was the laconic reply.

Sarmiento dropped wearily into his chair and looked with disdain at his sleepy, shambling crew just entering the office. His temper burned strongly, "Sons of wh.o.r.es! A major refueling, the first in six months, a most important wartime occasion and you lie around like swine in a sty."

Sarmiento continued enthusiastically in this manner while his staff hurried, hunch-shouldered, about their duties. This was good employment and they wanted to do nothing to jeopardize it.

The runway lights came on brightly as the fire engine raced along it to take position at the end of the runway, Out of the darkness the beams of landing lights speared in and the first of the arrivals thundered overhead to slap down to the runway's surface. One after another they landed, and once on the ground were guided automatical-ly to the refueling points. Every bit of the operation was computer-controlled.

Engines were cut and brakes applied at the proper spot. A TV camera rose up from each refueling well and scanned the undersurface of the wing above, locating the fuel access port. Once identified and pinpointed the smoothly articulated arm could open the cover and insert the hose so that pumping could begin. Sensors in each tank a.s.sured that there would be no overflow or spillage. While this industrious robot activity was taking placc all of the big planes remained dark and quiet, sealed tight. Except for the command ship. The door on this one opened, the entrance stairs ground out and settled into place. A man in uniform came quickly down them and strode firmly down the length of the refueling stations.

Something drew his attention to one of the pits, he bent over and looked close. His back was to the tower, the underpart of his body in shadow, the package that slipped from his jacket dropped into the well, unseen. He stood, brushed his clothing straight, then continued on toward the illuminated coiltrol tower.

Sarmiento blinked up at the officer and felt slightly grubby, The man's black uniform was pressed and smooth, the b.u.t.tons and gold braid gleaming in the light. A maltese cross hung about his neck, there were decorations on his breast, a gla.s.s lens covered one eye. Sarmiento climbed to his feet, impressed.

"Sprechen sie Deutsch?" the mdn said.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't understand what you are saying." The officer scowled, then continued in thickly accented Portuguese.

"I am here to sign the receipted form," he said.

"Yes, to be sure excellency," Sarmiento waved in the direction of the computer bank. "But that will not be ready. until all of the refueling is complete."

The officer nodded curtly, then strode up and down the office; Sarmiento found important work to do.

They both turned when the bell rang and the completed form was ejected.

"Here, and here if you please," Sarmiento said, pointing out the correct places, not even looking at the papers himself. "Thank you very much." He tore off the bottom copy a~d pa.s.sed it over, happy to see the man turn and stamp away toward his waiting aircraft. Only when he was safely aboard did Sarmiento pick up the forms to file them. Strange names these foreigners had. Hard to read the angular script.

Looked like Schickelgruber... Adolph Schickelgruber.

Urgent hands pulled the officer through the door, closing it almost on his heels.

"How much time?" he asked, urgently, 'About twenty-eight minutes yet. We have to get air-borne before they make radio contact."

"They might be behind schedule.....

"They could be ahead of it if our imaginary tailwind is real. We can't take any chances."

The first planes were already off the runway, vanishing up into the night. The lead plane was the last one to go, following the others out into the darkness. But instead of reaching for alt.i.tude it made a long circle out over the ocean and returned to the airfield. Th~rottled back, flying low, making a pa.s.s down the runway.

"There's the fire engine, back in the barn already," someone said.

'And the rest of the men still in the building, no, there's one at the door, waving," General Blonstein said.

"Let's give him a blink of our lights to say farewell." This time they continued out across the ocean to the west. Blonstein pressed the earphones to his head, listening, praying for time. Still all right, nothing, no other calls yet. "That's enough," he finally said, flipping up a red cover and thumbing the b.u.t.ton beneath it.

Sarmiento heard the strange thud and looked up at the window just as the column of flame jutted high into the air. The aviation fuel burned brilliantly, Alarms sounded on all sides, the printers chattered, the radio burst to life with prerecorded emergency messages.

The German troop carriers had just cleared the Afri-can coast when the message came through.

"New course, the commander said, summoning up a map on the screen. "Some sort of accident, message didn't go into details. Anyway, we're cleared now for Madrid:'

The commander was concerned about the new vector and the status of fuel in his tanks. He never thought to call through to Cruz del Luz airport; that was no concern of his now. Therefore the worried, frightened and tremendously upset Captain Sarmiento was spared one other problem in addition to the ones that now tormented him. He would not have to worry about how two flights that night had been scheduled to arrive with the same flight numbers and identical descriptions.

Twenty-One.

"That is the first half of the job completed," Admiral Skougaard said with satisfaction as the debris of the ene-my fleet vanished behind them. "It went far better than I had hoped. Did as well as Nelson did at Cape Trafalgar, better if you consider the fact that I am still alive. And we suffered not a scratch, unless you count the man with a broken foot where one of our cannonb.a.l.l.s dropped on it. Course corrections?"

"Computed, sir," the operator said. "Engines will be firing in a little over four minutes."

"Excellent. As soon as we are in our new orbits I want the watches below to stand down and eat." He turned to Jan. "Privilege of rank; I'm having mine now. Join me?"

Food had been the farthest thing from Jan's mind up to that moment. But as the tension of the past hours drained away he realized that it had been a long time between meals. "I'll be happy to join you, Admiral."

The table was already laid when they entered the Admiral's private quarters, the chef himself putting the last of the food on the table. Th~ Admiral and the chef exchanged some remarks in a guttural and incomprehen-sible tongue, laughing together at a throaty witticism.

"Smorgasbord," Jan said, eyes widening. "I haven't seen that since-why I don't remember when."

"Stor hold bord," Admiral Skougaard corrected. "The Swedish term has taken over in the popular mind, but it is not the same thing at all. We Danes enjoy our food. I always ship out with my larder full.

Growing empty now, he sighed. "We had better win this war quickly, Here's to victory,"

They toasted each other with tiny gla.s.ses of frigid akvavit, downing them in a gulp. The chef instantly refilled them from the bottle-frozen into its own cake of ice on the table. Thickly b.u.t.tered rye bread was heaped high with lashings of herring in endless variety. Cold beef with grated horseradish, caviar with raw egg, more and more and all washed down with bottles of cold Danish beer. Theirs was the appet.i.te of victory~f survival as well. In defeating the enemy they had extended their own exis-tences a bit more into the future. Eat and drink; the morrow would come soon enough.

Over coffee, with just enough room left to nibble a bit of cheese, their thoughts returned irresistibly to the final phase of the battle.

"Would you believe that I had the computer pro-grammed for at least two dozen future plans, depending upon the outcome of the battle?" Skougaard said. 'And of all of them I came up with the best. Number one. So my next problem is how to keep that plan a secret from the enemy 5 reserves. Let me show you.

He arranged the salt cellar, mustard pot, knives and forks upon the table top. "Here we are, our squadron is the knife. Next to us is the fork, the second squadron. Over here is Earth and that is the way they are headed. The remaining enemy ships are in loose groupings, here and here. They'll be on interception orbits by now but they will be too late to interfere with what will happen next. Before they can reach this spot our ships will cap-ture and occupy these spoons, the power satellites. As you know these big mirrors turn solar energy to electricity and radiate it to Earth as microwaves This energy feeds the electric grids of Europe and North America, which means that they will be very unhappy when we cut it off. All of the satellites, at exactly the same second. With a little luck we'll start a blackout cascade. But all of this is really just nuisance value. Earth has enough other energy sources that they can cut in, so it won't matter at all in the long run. But the present is what concerns us. Hopefully they will try and dislodge our men. This will have to be done hand to hand because they don't dare fire missiles or they will destroy their own satellites. But we have no compunc-tion about firing at their ships. It will be an interesting battle. And totally unimportant. A diversion, nothing more. Here," he tapped the knife, "is where they should be looking."

The knife moved out and around one plate and back toward another which had some small cream cakes upon it. "The Moon," Skougaard said, touching the first plate. "The Earth," pointing to the second plate, then taking one of the cakes. "Hopefully the diversion will pull off a lot of their defenses. The second part of the plan should make a big hole in what is left:'

"This second part. This is where we coordinate with the attack on s.p.a.ceconcent in the Mojave desert?"

Skougaard licked a last bit of cream from his finger-tips. "Exactly, My hope is that with the destruction of their main fleet, the attack on the satellites, blackouts and power failures, resistance sabotage, why they just might forget about Mojave for the moment. If your friend~ur friend hopefully-Thurgood-Smythe is telling us the truth, why he will have a lot to do with increasing the confusion. In any case, win or lose, we go for the big one." He put a second knife beside the first one and moved them around the plate, to the back of the Moon.

"Here is where I divide my forces yet again. We will be out of sight and detection from the Earth stations when we are on the far side of the Moon. Also, when we pa.s.s this spot, here, we will be over the horizon and past the last remote detection station. That is when we fire our engines for a course change.