Destroyer from the Lost Planet, page 32
“That’s an order,” said Anzû. “Don’t tell me you choose to begin your employment by disobeying a direct order.”
Once out of Catharine’s hearing, David said, “I’m not in your employ, Anzû. We haven’t come to terms, if you’ll recall. And I might add that you’re not endearing yourself to me.”
“Endearing? Why, you—”
Anzû’s conversation with David was jarringly overridden by his communications room.
“Commander,” said Muranu, “all members of the high command are arrived and seek permission to come aboard.”
“Permission granted,” replied Anzû, openly irritated by the interruption. “Have them board quietly. Have them all brought to the onboard conference center—and don’t interrupt this connection again!”
Anzû pasted a phony smile on his face before hitting the button reestablishing contact with David. “Our conversation will have to resume later, David. I have more important people to speak with at the moment.”
“For you,” said David smugly, “there are no more important people than I.”
“Overplaying your hand again. Out,” said Anzû, concerned that David was correct in his assessment of his unique value. He wondered how much time he had to persuade David … before it was too late.
“Hey, Buck,” said Gary, as they banked over the hole in the ice. “All strapped in and ready to hunt? Over.”
“Ready with the bugs,” said Buck. “Are we sure the bastard’s down there? Over.”
“NSA says eighty-eight percent chance,” Gary assured him. “Over.”
“How did they come up with those odds? Over.”
“One o’ their guys was explainin’ it to me.” said Gary. “It’s an algorithm, like everything else nowadays. Over.”
“Based on what data?” asked Buck skeptically. “Over.”
“Based on the frequency of incoming and outgoing communications,” said Gary, “figuring in the target value at both ends of the communication. In other words, if high-level enemy officers are frequently communicating by radio with the guy down the hole, it’s more likely the guy down the hole is Mister Big. Over.”
“Sounds a little shaky to me,” said Buck. “And then there’s that other thing we talked about. Over.”
“You mean the one-way-out problem? Over.”
“Yeah,” said Buck, “what if you’re wrong and his only way out is straight up? Gonna be mutually assured destruction. Over.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, Buck,” said Gary, “he’s got another way out. Hey, if you had that amount of time to build up your installation, would you leave yourself with only one way out? Over.”
“’Course not,” said Buck, “but it’s not a certainty, so it still comes down to the odds. Over.”
“I know the odds,” said Gary, “and they’re in our favor. Over.”
“So, what are they? Over.”
“Eighty-eight percent chance there’s at least one more way to fly out of there,” said Gary, feigning the same level of certainty expressed by the NSA. “Over.”
“Eighty-eight percent?” said Buck. “Sounds like more of that NSA bullshit. Over.”
“It’s not their bullshit,” Gary assured him. “Over.”
“It’s not? Over.”
“Naw,” said Gary, “it’s my bullshit. Ready to release your bugs? Over.”
“Ready,” confirmed Buck. “Over.”
“Take a deep breath, Buck-o. At the end of this skirmish, we’re goin’ into orbit. Release the bugs on my count o’ three—and good hunting. Over.”
“Ready to release on three. And same to you,” said Buck. “Over.”
“One … two … THREE!”
Chapter 21
Anzû was about to move to the conference center at the rear of the ship to meet with his high command when Muranu’s face popped up unexpectedly on the main screen.
“Commander,” shouted Muranu with alarm, “radar above the hole reports numerous fresh signals consistent with mini-drones.”
Anzû clenched both fists. The timing couldn’t have been worse. He’d been just about to parse out instructions for immediate attack because, under present conditions, waiting would be madness; the first to strike with an EMP would doubtless win the upcoming campaign, and there was no telling what unforeseen event could cause first blood to be drawn.
If both sides’ command and control were knocked out, Anzû’s footing would be as poor as that of his enemy. On the other hand, to have David’s telepathic prowess in Anzû’s quiver would provide Anzû with a distinct advantage, for then he’d regain command and control, while enemy forces were still groping for each other in the dark.
Anzû expected that his enemy likely knew nothing of David’s potential importance, but it might not matter what the enemy knew, for David was still plopped before the banquet table like a haughty glutton, ordering an ever-larger piece of pie. North America indeed. The man should count himself lucky to be granted so much as his birthplace of Canarsie. Where the devil is Canarsie, anyway?
Anzû speculated that he’d soon need to resort to securing David’s cooperation by means of false promises. While that wasn’t his favored method of dealing, it wasn’t as though David had some independent means of enforcing a promise of spoils. And heaven knows it wouldn’t be the first time a conqueror reneged on a promise of a piece of his prospective kingdom. Whether this fool David knew it or not, his precious Anunnaki had long been known for such practices.
When did David say he’d be arriving? He dismissed the thought outright for, before he could resume negotiations with David, he’d first need to prevail against the incoming drones. His experts, anticipating a possible drone attack, had assured him that the enemy’s initial wave of drones would likely be unarmed, their mission purely one of reconnaissance. From the newest report of conditions above, it appeared the enemy had grown tired of waiting and was now determined to find out what lay beneath the Antarctic hole. While there was considerable firepower down here, Anzû feared it would look unformidable to his enemy’s space force, which was so new to the age of compact superweapons.
He felt boxed in, and the small choice remaining to him commanded his attention: whether to send his high command back to their own craft and risk their destruction on the airstrip, or immediately lift off with all of them aboard.
“Muranu,” he commanded, feigning his customary level of self-confidence, “secure all incoming and outgoing lines and prepare to cast us off.”
“But commander,” said Muranu, “our entire high command is aboard your craft.”
“So what?” demanded Anzû.
“Commander,” Muranu ventured, “your own standing orders prohibit the gathering of command personnel in a single location when facing the possibility of engagement.”
“Do you suppose,” asked Anzû in his most sarcastic tone, “that the mini-drones will challenge us all at once? Or one at a time?”
“I, er—”
Instead of awaiting an answer, Anzû barked, “Deploy the anti-drone polymer craft. And carry out my orders promptly or I’ll toss you in the brig.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Muranu.
“Once we’re untethered, bring the craft steady at an altitude of thirty meters and turn control over to me.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Muranu. There was a commotion off-camera on Muranu’s end. “Sir, if you’ll check your vertical camera,” he said excitedly, “you’ll see that the mini-drones have begun dropping down through the hole into the cavern’s main vault.”
Anzû stiffened. “See if you can jam their transmissions long enough to give the polymer guns a chance to do their work.”
“Yes, sir,” said Muranu, “and shall I give the order for buildings to emplace the retractable metal shutters over all windows—just in case the disabled drones begin dropping on us?”
At first Anzû equivocated. “No, don’t,” he decided.
“But, sir, with enough broken glass, we stand to lose our atmospheric quarantine.”
Anzû shook his head, though no one could see. “I know,” he conceded quietly, “but the glass is reinforced, and closing the metal shutters would make the installation look even smaller to the enemy. That’s not in our interest.”
“Yes, commander,” said Muranu. “Your craft is now cast off and you’re on your way to thirty meters alt—” His voice broke off, and Anzû could hear the men around Muranu beginning to panic.
“Muranu,” he shouted, “what’s happening?”
“SIR, TWO ENEMY FIGHTERS HAVE DROPPED DOWN THE HOLE, APPROACHING AT SPEED!”
Anzû gasped and his stomach turned. The enemy had evidently found a commander who was strategically competent—something they’d been sorely lacking until now. He wondered fleetingly who it might be.
“Pull yourself together, Muranu. What type of fighters?”
“They’re American SF-5s, sir. Orbital class, equipped with laser cannon. The mini-drones appear to be withdrawing through the hole.”
Anzû swore too softly to be heard. “Return control of this craft to me at once, and instruct my esteemed passengers to buckle up. This could get rough quite fast.”
“Aye, sir. Please don’t forget to shut off your insignia lights.”
Anzû smacked his forehead and cursed the enemy for throwing him so far off balance that he’d forgotten to do something as elementary as concealing his rank. He killed the exterior insignia lights hoping that, like most mistakes made in battle, it would come to naught.
Gary’s SF-5 corkscrewed down the hidey-hole at a seventy-degree angle. He’d assumed that, on such a high-powered descent, his craft would shriek like a Stuka dive bomber. Instead, the only sound reaching him from outside was a cavernous echo of the loud swoosh generated by his craft’s aerodynamic frame. And even though Buck’s craft was only fifteen seconds behind, it was entirely inaudible.
The hole proved to be a foggy circular gap through a thick ice shelf that went on for several thousand feet. Heading nearly straight down, Gary couldn’t immediately see past the hole’s bottom, shrouded as it was in a thin, crystalline cloud. But he hadn’t long to wait; in a split second, he dropped out of the hole, piercing the cloud, and found himself about a thousand feet off the ground in the main vault of a gigantic cavern. At its base were numerous metal buildings whose interior lights had been left on—a stupid choice in defending against an aerial attack, where defenses are few and darkness the most reliable among them. At the high point of each building flashed an intermittent blue beacon.
Sprawled out on the floor was an airstrip that seemed surprisingly compact to Gary, accustomed as he was to jet aircraft requiring a lot of runway. The airstrip was home to a wing of about a hundred craft of various types. Perhaps thirty were fighters. As Gary surveyed the small force, a couple of the fighters switched on their running lights, telegraphing an intention to pursue.
But the craft that had already drawn Gary’s earnest attention had all its running lights on, and it sat stationary fifty meters above the runway. Its roof bore a luminescent digital display like a small version of a billboard in Times Square. On the display appeared a single, unchanging insignia. Gary grabbed the mic. “Buck, you see that craft with the billboard roof? Over.”
“Wait,” said Buck sarcastically, “lemme put on my sunglasses. Of course I can see it,” said Buck. “Over.”
“Is that the insignia from hell?” asked Gary. “Over.”
“Affirmative,” replied Buck. “Gotta be the flagship. Over.”
As though on cue, the flagship switched off its roof display and its insignia lights went black.
Gary snickered. “Too late, asshole.”
The flagship made a sharp right turn and zoomed off at high speed and very low altitude. Gary pressed the mic button. “Bucko, he’s exitin’ pronto stage right and keepin’ low. Can I call ’em or what? Over.”
Buck replied, “What a dodo! He’s about to take the back door outta here with two American fighters on his tail. Is it time for jammers? Over.”
“Let’s flip ’em on, Buck.” Gary turned on his jammer. “Over.”
“Mine’s on,” said Buck. “How ’bout yours? Over.”
“Mine’s on,” replied Gary. “You got a solid link to the bugs? Over.”
“Five by five, man,” said Buck. “Clear signal, clear echo. I sent ’em up a few thousand feet so they can see where we exit the ice. I’ll start a locator beacon as soon as you tell me there’s daylight ahead. Any bogey that tries to follow us out’ll be met by a nifty surprise at the tunnel exit. Over.”
Almost too good to be true, thought Gary. “Thank God they brought back the tail gun,” he said. “Keep a little distance between you and me and throw your tailgun on automatic. I’ll keep my rear vids running, but I’m shuttin’ down my tailgun just to be safe. I’ll take care of whatever’s ahead. Over.”
“That’s the way to do it, boss,” said Buck. “Don’t let ’im breathe … and don’t let ’im turn. He’s got a rendezvous in orbit and we’re escortin’ his ass up there, like it or not. Over.”
“I’m matchin’ his altitude now, Buck,” said Gary. “Follow me. Get ready for some flack, and watch for bogeys. Over.”
As Gary matched his altitude to Anzû’s flagship, he somehow lost sight of his quarry in the gloom of the cavern. In a moment of desperation, he flipped on his forward landing lights, which lit up the flagship like a moth in a laser beam. Unfortunately, however, his lights also offered the bogey’s rear guns a clear target, forcing Gary to decide whether to kill his lights and risk losing sight of his quarry in the dark tunnel ahead or begin a deliberate pitch-and-roll that would make him a harder target but also increase his risk of striking the walls of the unfamiliar tunnel, which would surely be … terminal. He opted for the pitch-and-roll or, more precisely, the pitch-roll-and-pray. He checked his rear view and saw that Buck had already done the same.
“Buck, I see a long tunnel comin’ up,” said Gary. “It’s unfamiliar to me, but I’ll bet the bastard knows it pretty well. So, I’m gonna climb up his ass. He’ll probably jink at the end, lookin’ for a quick kill, so watch out for any tricks. And remember, if we shoot at him first we’ll end up in the brig. Over.”
“And we’ll also face startin’ World War III charges, right?” offered Buck. “Over.”
“Yeah,” said Gary, “that, too. Over.”
The enemy flagship picked up speed to the point where any collision with the tunnel walls would surely be catastrophic. Not that Gary had much choice in the matter, but he accelerated in tandem.
Suddenly, the icy walls of the cavern narrowed until the open passage ahead barely exceeded the size of the flagship. Gary could hear the flagship’s hull begin shattering tiny icicles hanging from the tunnel roof like stalactites.
He prayed there were none of sufficient mass to knock his quarry off course. Though the SF-5 was a bit smaller than its quarry (theoretically giving Gary the better chance of avoiding collision with the tunnel walls), if the flagship in front of him were to strike the wall or get knocked off course by ice, Gary calculated his own chances of surviving the resultant chaos at approximately don’t-think-about-it.
With so little distance between Gary’s hull and the tunnel walls, for the first time things got loud. Joining the swishing of the hull came a continuous high-pitched shriek, as though the craft itself was telling him he was crazy to try to pilot a fighter through a soda straw.
He wondered momentarily why the flagship hadn’t already turned its rear cannon on him, but soon realized that any kickback from the flagship’s cannon would send that ship right into a wall—and probably even Buck’s—and adios for both craft. While they remained in the ice tunnel, Gary surmised, there would be no exchange of fire. Unless, that is, some cowboy tried to ride up Buck’s ass. Then all bets were off. There was no way of being sure what Buck would do. There never was.
Gary grudgingly admired the skill and patience of the flagship’s pilot. He had no idea that it was Anzû himself at the helm.
Buck split the screen on his main viewer, giving himself side-by-side views out his front and rear. He flipped on the frontal proximity-alert system, which allowed him to take his eyes off Gary’s craft ahead long enough to see if he was being followed. While he didn’t get a visual on anyone behind him in the tunnel, his rear-facing radar detector reported that he’d picked up a tail, an orbital fighter that was still a mile or so behind. As straight as the tunnel seemed to Buck, the bogey was around a bend.
Buck wondered if the bogey would be stupid enough to deploy its fire-system radar in such a confined area. It didn’t take long to find out. Buck’s radar detector signaled that he was being painted from behind, the only possible source being the bogey.
He took but a moment to decide whether to have his tailgun lay down laser or standard cannon fire. Though laser would emit virtually no mass (reducing the likelihood that its kick would slam Buck’s craft into a tunnel wall), it could hit a target only in direct line of sight, which would accomplish nothing, as the bogey was still around a bend.
Although gunfire was more likely to throw Buck off his narrow course, physical bullets would remain aloft in the bogey’s path for some small but measurable time and might just be there to greet the bogey as it rounded the turn preparing to bring Buck’s craft into its line of sight.
Buck opted for standard cannon fire, which seemed tactically better and also more likely to create a fireball to his rear. Not only would fire be more likely to destroy the nearest bogey, but it would also be more likely to dissuade the next bastard in line from coming too close—and wasn’t there always another bastard in line?
He assumed manual control over the automated tailgun long enough to pull the trigger on three widely spaced medium bursts. He even dropped a little chaff into the mix, because—What the hell? Let’s see how the bastard reacts to all that.
Fortunately, the bogey didn’t react well at all. Before it could even bring Buck into its line of sight, it ran into his cannon fire and exploded like a comet full of napalm.
