Star Soldier (31 page)

General Hawthorne briefly mused upon the Lord Director’s ways. Enkov believed in blunt power used brutally. The Lord Director had taken captive family members from each of his military officers ranked colonel or higher. These members had become hostages for their good behavior. It was an ancient trick, and so far, it had worked beautifully, at least in terms of maintained loyalty.

General Hawthorne paced as his air armadas gathered like hungry wolves off Japan’s shores. He paced as his fleets hurried to disgorge hundreds of highly trained battalions into battle. He clasped his hands behind his back and strode first one direction and then another. He wore no soft-soled shoes, but military gear that clattered on the tiled floor. He paced in the dim green light. He paced, and he smelled danger. Yes, four weeks ago he’d been in favor of Operation Togo. But since then… was this a trap? He couldn’t shake the feeling. And if it were a trap… who would shoulder the blame for it? Not the Lord Director.

The minutes ticked by. The general paced, and his staff officers pointedly ignored him as they studied their screens. Tension grew. He radiated it. They felt it. So far, the Highborn hadn’t reacted. No lasers stabbed out of space. The stations had been destroyed or damaged beyond use. No orbital fighters screamed down to face his fighters. Again, it was splendid, unbelievable success against negligible Highborn defense. It was unprecedented. No Thor missiles (rocks hurled down from orbit and sped by gravity) bombarded strong points.

The staff officers showed their nervousness in various ways. They wiped their hands on their pant legs or they lit non-narcotic stimsticks or they kept their faces impassive or they checked their chronometers every ten seconds or—only one man paced, his shoes click, click, clicking on the tiles.

None of them, despite the tension, the grimness of not knowing, of waiting, glanced at the bionic security men who even now guarded against treachery. Those carbines, those surgically enhanced muscles had one purpose, one goal: to slaughter anyone who lifted his hand against the State, which was to say against Lord Director Enkov.

General James Hawthorne stopped and blotted his mouth with his wrist.

Air Marshal Ulrich growled, “We have them!”

General Hawthorne thoughtfully pursed his lips.

“We’ve caught them by surprise,” agreed Commander Shell. “We’ve cleared near-orbital space of them. Japan is ours for the plucking.”

General Hawthorne studied the TV screens showing deep space. It was empty, devoid of enemy craft. Subtlety, his bony features shifted from unease, to suspicion and then to a grim certainty. “Scramble the interceptors,” he said.

The staff of Space Control turned sharply. Commander Shell took several steps nearer the general before he clicked his heels together. “Sir! Interceptors have limited fuel capacity. They are only to be launched at intervals, thus always keeping a reserve for when the others are forced to land and refuel.”

“I know very well what their limits are,” said General Hawthorne. “Scramble them all.”

“But sir—”

“This instant, Commander.”

The interceptors were planet-based space fighters, a turbine-rocket hybrid. The interceptors’ magneto-hydro-dynamic turbines used atmospheric oxidizer until they reached the vacuum of space, then they switched to chemical rockets. The use of the MHD power plant in the atmosphere saved the bulky chemical fuel for vacuum use alone, increasing the pitifully short range of the interceptors. Even so, the range limits called for utterly precise use. Those uses had been drilled into every space control officer from the moment he began his training.

“We’ve gained tremendous successes,” argued Commander Shell. He was a small, hawkish man, young for one of such high rank. “Now is the time to hold our cards and wait for whatever moves the enemy can make.”

General Hawthorne stared in dread at the screens showing deep space. His gut boiled. Something, a thing he couldn’t see but feel, oh yes, he felt it twisting his innards—He refused to acknowledge Commander Shell.

Commander Shell shot an imploring look at Air Marshal Ulrich.

The bull-shouldered Ulrich stepped near Hawthorne. “James,” he said. “We have them. But if they have something that can catch us when all the interceptors have landed…”

“No,” said Hawthorne, sweat glistening on his face. “If we had really surprised them they’d have thrown something at us by now, some backup, emergency reserve we couldn’t have seen before this.”

“That’s madness!” said Shell. “We took out everything they had in orbit.”

“Yes, much too easily.”

“Their arrogance was their undoing,” said Shell. “The Lord Director was right. We must not let our…
fear
of them unhinge us.”

Hawthorne glanced at Shell.

“I implore you, General, stick to procedure.”

“This is a trap,” Hawthorne dared say.

“What? Nonsense!”

“Highborn don’t go down so easily. We all know that.”

Commander Shell snorted. “They aren’t really supermen after all. We’ve simply fallen for their propaganda. Our success today proves that.”

Hawthorne stubbornly shook his head. “Launch all your interceptors, Commander.”

Commander Shell hesitated. “Perhaps a call to the Lord Director is in order, General.”

General Hawthorne faced the smaller man. “Anyone disobeying my orders will be immediately shot. Is that understood, Commander?”

Commander Shell thought about that. Finally, he clicked his heels and issued the needed orders.

Air Marshal Ulrich grunted as he stepped beside his friend. He whispered, “You’d better know what you’re doing, James.”

A soft, cynical laugh fell from General Hawthorne’s lips. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace again.

15.

Not all of the electronic gear on the space habs orbiting Earth was trained starward. Several passive optic sensors of great power watched the planet, the East Asian Landmass to be precise. Its operators squirted a message to a special satellite that sent it on to the Doom Star
Julius Caesar,
presently hidden behind the largest space habitat in the Solar System, the gigantic Tiaping Hab in ‘high’ L-5 orbit. The vice-commander in charge immediately beamed a message to Grand Admiral Cassius aboard the sister Doom Star
Genghis Khan,
also lurking behind Tiaping Hab.

The Grand Admiral, his eyes alight with the
need
for bloodshed, barked quick commands. The two Doom Stars—each kilometers in diameter—pumped gravity waves and glided forward under emergency acceleration. Although it had occurred much sooner than anticipated, the premen had at last tripped the wire so carefully set for them. Each Doom Star had taken station eight weeks ago in a stealth move and maintained practically zero radiation and radio signature. Now the admiral would pay the premen back for the arrogance of their nuclear strikes and for daring to destroy the space stations. Now they entered phase three of his intricately mapped strategy. Premen were so naively predictable. He just hoped the entire Free Earth Corps in Japan wouldn’t have to be written off. To start training a new Earth Army all over again… he shrugged. As the brilliant preman Napoleon Bonaparte had once so insightfully said, “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”

16.

“Commander!” shouted a staff officer, breaking the quiet of the command center.

Commander Shell growled, “Report.”

“Doom Stars, sir.”

All eyes turned to the staff officer as Commander Shell and General Hawthorne strode to screen S-Fifteen. They hovered behind the staff officer. With unconcealed dread, they studied the growing shapes. The massive Doom Stars gained momentum as they streaked earthward. Spherical as moons and bristling with weaponry, they were launching squadrons of orbital fighters: squat, wicked craft that every person on Earth had learned to hate.

“They’ve never used Doom Stars this near Earth,” said Hawthorne.

“What are they doing here?” muttered a staff officer.

“We’ve been tricked,” said another.

“They’re deep space vessels,” Commander Shell said. “Caught in Earth’s gravity they’ll be easy prey for us.” He frowned at the screen, at the mass of orbital fighters that were spewed from the two Doom Stars. “How many orbitals do they hold?”

“I thought we destroyed the bulk of them at their stations,” an appalled staff officer whispered.

“I want to know which Doom Stars those are,” said General Hawthorne crisply.

“The
Genghis Khan
, sir.”

“Grand Admiral Cassius’s flagship?” asked General Hawthorne.

Commander Shell grew pale.

“Yes, sir. And the
Julius Caesar
, sir.”

Somewhere a man retched. The tension in the command center had grown oppressive. The very air seemed to thicken. The Highborn hadn’t yet used the Doom Stars like this—they couldn’t afford to lose one. Everyone wondered what their potential was when fighting this far down the gravity well of a major planet.

General Hawthorne stared at the two Doom Stars as if he could will them away. The Highborn had out maneuvered them again, and so easily. If he’d known that Doom Stars were so near—disaster loomed.

“Sir,” said Commander Shell, “this means—”

“All interceptors at the
Genghis Khan
,” whispered General Hawthorne, glad he’d insisted they all be launched. Already a plan formed in his brilliant mind, a risky, all or nothing gamble.

“What?” said Shell. “But that’s suicide! The Doom Stars are still too far out. Let them come into closer Earth orbit.”

“Don’t you think I know they’re still too far out?” shouted Hawthorne.

Commander Shell took a step back.

General Hawthorne breathed deeply, once more using his sleeve to dab his features. “Straight at the
Genghis Khan
,” he said softly. “We have to buy our boys time and pray for luck. We’ll have the added advantage of surprise.”

“What?” said Shell. “Surprise?”

“They’ll never expect us to throw the interceptors so deep into space.”

A visibly agitated Commander Shell collected himself. Once he had been the highest rated interceptor pilot of Earth. His first love still lay there. Everyone knew it.

“General Hawthorne, sir….” Commander Shell straightened his uniform, stepping closer and saluting. “I respectfully beg to report, sir, we cannot afford to throw away the interceptors.”

“Thank you, Commander. I understand your feelings.”

“Sir! I—”

“I said thank you, Commander.” General Hawthorne stared the smaller man down.

At first Shell stiffened, and something in his manner alerted the bionic guards along the walls.

They shifted their attention to him, an ominous, absorbing interest. He glanced at them. A nervous tic twisted the commander’s mouth. Now he couldn’t seem to bring himself to stare back into General Hawthorne’s eyes. Yet he was a stubborn man, and with eyes downcast, he faced the general. “Sir, if we regroup and scramble North and South American squadrons and met the enemy in the stratosphere—”

“No.”

Commander Shell swallowed audibly. “Sir,” he said, his shoulders hunching and something elemental draining from him. He turned to the screen.

So did General Hawthorne. Already the interceptors popped out of the stratosphere and into space. Their rockets glowed orange as they shot toward the nearer
Genghis Khan
. As far out as the Doom Star was, it would be doubtful that the interceptors would have enough rocket fuel to return to Earth, not after burning their reserves in space-battle maneuvering.

“The orbitals have high ground,” whispered Shell.

General Hawthorne knew that in terms of a space battle Earth was a heavy gravity well. That any craft coming
toward
the planet came as if down a steep hill and any craft heading
up
fought gravity, the same for their torpedoes and missiles. As it was, the squat orbital fighters already held every advantage over the interceptors. To give them high ground as well…

Commander Shell, trembling, ashen-faced, turned for the last time toward General Hawthorne. “Sir—”

The general put his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “We’re going to take massive losses today. My only goal now is make them bleed as much as possible. That means some of the amphibious troops have to make it through.” In an authoritative voice he said, “Alert the merculite batteries and the proton stations!”

“We can’t fire until the interceptors are out of the way,” said Shell.

General Hawthorne stared steely-eyed at the screen. “Like you said, Commander, our interceptors don’t have a chance. But they can still be of use as decoys.”

A staff officer said, “The batteries and stations are online, sir!”

“Tell them to target the
Genghis Khan
and fire everything they have.”

Upon hearing those words, a shocked Space Commander Shell slumped into a nearby chair. His eyes seemed to film with tears, but it was difficult to tell.

17.

The bloody remnants of the 93rd Slumlords fell upon a trench line of Samurai defenders. Men fired at pointblank range. Vibroknives whined; the dying screamed and the shock of grenades hurled both attackers and defenders against the trench walls. Then Captain Sigmir jumped down among them. With his gyroc pistol, he blasted Samurais into gory chunks. When his gun clicked empty, he went berserk. Armored elbows, hands and feet, he lashed in every direction, laughing in maniacal glee as he slaughtered those weaker than him.

Then it was over, the trench taken. The survivors crumpled and tore off their helmets, gasping for air. They were shaken and surprised to be alive. Their faces reflected the certain knowledge that they’d been transported to Hell and that no one knew the way back. Slowly, sanity returned to their eyes.  They were embarrassed to glance at each other, to know that others had seen them behave like animals so they could endure another hour of life.

Three hundred meters in front of them towered their goal, the end of a savage quest, a cup of blood that they’d paid in pounds of flesh to sip. The mighty merculite missile station was almost in their grasp—it seemed that they would be the first to reach it. After weeks of butchery and dying, the 93rd Slumlords had breached the battery’s outer defenses. Few of the original FEC soldiers were left: Marten, Omi, Turbo, Stick, Kang, Petor and a few others. The 10th Company had less than forty soldiers to its name. Those few set up flamer tripods and smart missile sites. The others guzzled synthahol and cleared filth off their weapons.