IV

Hayes was wakened at 0400. He felt upon first consciousness, as he

often did after a short sleep, a vague and powerful sense of

uneasiness, like a man walking steeply uphill, with death drawing

nearer behind him. He sat bolt upright, his jaw set and eyes squinting

fire, and slowly the feeling passed. He got out of bed, told the

yeoman to send Calder to him at 0420, and stalked into the bathroom.

Finishing his toilet he reentered the bedroom and immediately began his

morning isometrics, running through his mind as he did so the business

of the day, and recalling with disciplined satisfaction his performance

of the night before. His words to the meeting of Staff:

"My fellow officers of the intrepid Third Fleet, your

Commander-in-Chief asks much of you. As President, he understands as I

do the urgent necessity of our great endeavor, and along with the

Senate, stands squarely behind us. But his political enemies, the

weak-hearted opposition who hold the majority in Congress, needing to

make themselves feel important, have delayed a vote on the formal

Declaration of War. They have attempted to sabotage the mechanisms of

just vigilance and freedom. They SAY they need more proof." As he

said this, and various officers scowled, he had looked over at Frank

and nodded gravely, as if this was what had upset him in the

President's reply.

"Fortunately, Edgar Stone is not the kind of man to let ignorance and

cowardice stand in his way. They have said they need more proof, of

the ruthless barbarity of the Coalition leaders against their own

people, as well as the armed strength of our great nation---and he has

assigned US to give it to them." Expressions of satisfaction and

approval. "To us then falls the task of demonstrating the absolute

superiority of the United Commonwealth of America, and the prowess of

its men at arms. He knows that in this, we shall not fail him."

As he recalled this speech Hayes felt only one regret. In referring to

Stone's (supposed) vote of confidence in the Third Fleet, and

simultaneously expressing his own desires and expectations of it, he

had unwittingly imparted into their image of the President a courage

and forthrightness he did not possess, and which might later have to be

altered, should matters force a showdown and the need arise to

challenge his authority.

But this could not be helped, and already he felt his subconscious

beginning to turn the necessary phrases of shock and disbelief at

Stone's treachery and sudden reversal. He dressed briskly, and had

only just begun to pace when Calder appeared at the portal. He turned

to him at once.

"Have communications officer Janson report to me in SubCon 20 in half

an hour, then tell the yeoman to have my breakfast sent there." His

expression changed slightly as he looked into the unquestioning face of

his loyal subaltern. "... Do you want to know what he really said?"

Calder stepped beyond the portal and turned the small handle that

security-sealed the room, showing by this mute gesture that it did not

matter to him, he would serve his General as he had always done, but

that if Hayes wished to tell him he would be honored to listen. He was

the one man who could have a softening effect on his master, though he

would have been shocked to learn it. Hayes turned to face the wall.

"He tried to cut me off, Michael." He glanced over at him briefly, the

smallest touch of melancholy, then back to the wall. "He said that my

'obsession' with the communist threat was based on pure fabrication,

the result of an unbalance mind." For as he spoke, he truly believed

that this was what Stone had done. "He said that to view the matter

harshly, I had committed treason..... He ordered me to return home

with my tail between my legs and maybe, MAYBE he would forgive me."

Without turning he knew that Calder's face had assumed its

characteristic frown of fierce devotion, the one that acknowledged

tough measures were at hand, not wanted, but forced upon them by those

enemies, unfathomable in their ignorance and baseness, who challenged

and sought to sabotage his master's clear vision and irreproachable

aims.

"He can't do that, sir." Hayes turned, rekindled, as always, by this

soldier's undying spirit.

"No, he can't. Though it does my heart good to hear it." Their eyes

met. "But you needed to know that things could get a little rough.

The President of the United Commonwealth himself is no longer above

suspicion."

"You know that I would do anything," stammered Calder. "Follow you

anywhere."

"Yes, yes! That's the spirit we need to impart! It's entirely on our

shoulders now. The Third Fleet must take up the sword alone." His

temper had been quite restored. "But." He raised a stern finger.

"One thing at a time, and not missing a single detail. That's how

we've got to do it."

"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 NAZI

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, passing 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 HELL 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 sexual 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 passage 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 substitute for hardness and

sheer force of will. The subtle throb and hum of the giant ship felt

strong and reassuring 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 analyzed

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 Space 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 analyze---"

"I hope you've corrected THAT blunder."

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

"Tell those French faggots to stay the hell 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.

"So what the hell are you waiting for?"

"Nothing, sir. Outer seven shield-projectors damaged but reparable.

Several of the discharging chutes and one of the lower batteries out

for twelve to twenty-four hours. No significant damage to interior

vessel or launch ships."

At this Hayes grew calmer, mastered his wrath. NO SIGNIFICAN DAMAGE.

Then perhaps it was for the best after all. . .so long as no more of

them got through. And he liked the unruffled manner of the officer who

had given him the report.

"Very well, Captain. Admiral Frank, have we got a fix on where he came

from?" The Fleet Commander was immediately aware of the change in his

superior's voice.

"Yes, General. It came from the direction of East German Cerberus.

We've trained the First and Fourth Robot Artillery toward that vector,

since it's unlikely they've had time....."

"Correct, Admiral. But see to it that the others aren't napping,

either." THE JERRIES ARE NO FOOLS, THOUGH. THEY KNOW WE'RE COMING

AFTER THEM. "Let's go up into the bubble for a moment, shall we?

Gentlemen, keep us posted."

Entering the 'bubble' through the elevator, a small, Officers' Security

Chamber at the top of the uppermost bridge, the Secretary turned to

Frank, and unexpectedly put his arm around his smaller compatriot's

shoulder. Though incapable of self-reproach, he knew he had been a bit

hard on this man, whose loyalty he could ill afford to lose.

Confused at this sudden gesture, Frank tried to clarify his position

with words. "I'm sorry, General. Not going into full Intercept was a

stupid oversight. I'd just not had experience with this type of craft."

"No, Donald, that's all right. It's a sign of desperation on their

part, turning to guerilla warfare so soon." He motioned the Admiral to

a chair, remained standing himself. "It may even be to our advantage

in the long run. Sometimes there's nothing better for a cocky fighter

than to take a solid right to the jaw---let's him know he's in a real

fight. Coffee?" Frank shook his head, and Hayes continued his oration.

"The upcoming battle isn't going to be as easy as the last one, though

this time we'll be more experienced. Obviously word has leaked out

that we plan to go after the D.G. Provinces. They can't know where we

plan to hit them, of course (the last three digits of the attack

coordinates were only now being relayed to the engineers at the Gate),

but we could still run across the greater part of the Coalition forces

before we're through. And who knows? It might not end there."

"What do you mean?" Frank's look was puzzled.

"I mean that Congress and the liberal press are giving Stone a tougher

time on this than I first let on. He's got the authority and resources

to supply the Third Fleet, but when the House will come around with

full appropriations is another question."

"But surely after this attack the Soviets will intervene? Why. . .we

can't take on Soviet Space with just the Third Fleet." For a moment

Hayes stopped his pacing, and unconsciously ground his teeth. He did

this with his back to the admiral, but realized that it might still

look odd. He continued.

"All the same, I want to hold back as many of our ships as possible,

keep losses to a minimum. And that means the launch-pilots, and our

own gunners, are going to have to fight like hell."

Frank was silent. Hayes took a deep breath and half sighed. "Well,

maybe we'll get reinforcements sooner. One battle at a time! For now

we've got the best men, the best equipment, AND the best leadership."

He winked with his eyelid only. "Well. Let's go back and see if the

Germans have any more surprises for us."

The man rose, shook the hand Hayes offered, and both returned to the

bridge.

"Got him, sir!" came a young voice, almost playful. "Knocked him out

before he could fire; beat the damn computer, too." The man, facing

the controls of Auxiliary Laser Deployment, had obviously not seen the

two generals re-enter.

"And just exactly what have you GOT?" said Frank disparagingly. The

soldier whirled in his chair, and for a moment his face registered

alarm. But very quickly the look of boyish confidence returned.

"One of those German torpedo-ships, Admiral. Neutralized the missile,

too."

"Correct sir," added the main gunnery officer. Frank started to say

something, but Hayes lightly touched his arm.

"That's very good shooting, gunner. But what would have happened if

another 'torpedo ship' came out of warp while you were celebrating? I

assure you, you'll have no time for games tomorrow. And to be sure

that I make my point, I'm going to assign you a quota. Knock out

twelve more targets tomorrow, and you might even retain your present

rank. Do I make myself quite clear?"

The young man looked confused, turned to the gunnery officer as for

support. But aware of Frank's eyes upon him, this older man nodded

sternly, and the gunner had no choice.

"Yes, Mr. Secretary." Angry, humiliated, he turned back to his

station. I'LL GET MORE THAN TWELVE, YOU OVERSTUFFED SON OF A BITCH.

Such were his thoughts all that morning, and the thoughts that carried

over, and were turned to hatred in the midst of the next day's fighting.

Returning after a time to the Intercom Studio, Hayes addressed the

assembly again, this time in different tone and with stronger words.

And like pondering horses to the whip, they responded.

But not all of them alike.

*

Squadron-leader Heinrich Dorfman, in the last of three German ships to

complete the mission, had held himself back on purpose, hoping to

arrive last and unexpectedly---to do real, rather than symbolic damage.

And when his lead signal bounced back to him the image of Goethe,

still some distance away, along with the outward-bound trail of the

supercarrier, he set his course. He did this carefully, staying just

above tracking speed, in a wide arc, hoping to come upon the

Dreadnought in a time and place not as thoroughly guarded.

And like the two younger pilots who had come so far, his mind had long

since crossed the line of rational human endurance. Now, when he

closed his eyes he saw the gray, rotted-meat faces of old men crawling

with maggots. He saw random sexual parts horribly distorted: almost

physical the effect of their ugliness upon him. His spirit had given

up all hope of survival: strange voices. His tortured neck and back

fused with the paroxysms of a migraine to form the single and

inescapable sensation of concrete and iron, bent-forward pain. He felt

he no longer had eyes, but that the image of the scope shot straight

through the empty skull-sockets and into his brain. The last remnants

of heart and courage despaired.

But now, on the verge of his thirtieth hour, with the target in reach,

it was almost as though his mind were no longer attached to the body.

Numb fatigue had shaken it off like the parting soul shakes off flesh.

Nothing remained but his mission and his will.

He was ready. He would do it. He tried to rouse himself mentally for

the last decisive seconds. He bean to slow out of light speed.

The time was now. Not too fast.....

:00- The ship in sight, minor adjustment.

:01- Locked on.

:02- Fire. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG?

:03- Indicator light. PROJECTILE NON-FUNCTIONAL

:04- DAMN IT! Manual disengage, back to---

:05- Warp. Robot batteries aboard Dreadnought destroy the

cast-off projectile. Fan-burst of ruby lasers miss the second target,

fire again.

:57- Dorfman breaks his hand against the ceiling of the inner

hull. He had failed. "Damn it! GOD DAMN IT!"

21:12- The squadron leader slows his tiny ship and continues

to steer toward the sun, Athena. Slowing further still, he places

himself directly in line with sun and planet, close enough to Athena to

distort tracking. Sends out his sounding beam.

34:29- Dorfman continues to wait for his signal to proceed him

to Goethe. The time arrives. With the last of his e-light capacity

and deep-space fuel, he fires toward the distant speck of blue-green

ocean world.

49:50- The third echo of his signal tells him he is drawing

near. Slows to sub-light and raises entry shields, makes other

preparations to enter atmosphere.

1:13:30- Entry halfway competed: elevation 1200 Kilometers.

The buffeting of atmosphere increases. Aware that he is being tracked

and pursued by Alliance fighters, he makes jerking motions with the

vessel, simulating (and nearly causing) atmospheric destruction.

1:31:37- Alliance fighters draw within firing range. Dorfman

mimics a lifeless crash-landing into the dark, heaving waters. The

pursuit ships hover for a time. Sixty foot waves show only scattered

debris, no signs of life. They break off.

1:55:24- Czech submarin-guerilla vessel picks up coded

recovery signal, makes toward the jettisoned escape pod, small and

coffin-shaped.

3:27:02- Submarin vessel recovers German pilot, returns to a

safer depth and slinks carefully back to guerilla base.

5:56:00- A large underwater door, thoroughly camouflaged,

opens in the root of tower-like Manta Island. Vessel enters, continues

forward, then slowly rises to the surface of a vast, underground

hollow. Heinrich Dorfman begins his exile, which will last until the

end of the war.

* * *

At 1440 hours, a bay door was opened aboard the Dreadnought, and a

small speed-shuttle emerged. Major Janson brought her to a safe

distance from the mother ship, double-checked coordinates, and took a

deep breath. Slowly he engaged the main engines, preparing for

light-speed.

"God help us..... At least I'll get to see Jenny and the kids."

He achieved the necessary momentum, switched on to full power, and

turned the controls over to the computer. Seven minutes later the bomb

detonated, and the ship burst into a thousand fragments.

His Christian God did nothing to save him.

......................................................................

V

At 0700 the following day the Dreadnought approached the Star Gate,

whose hexagonal frame gleamed coldly among the stars like the

blue-black barrel of a gun, surrounded by the vessels of its makers.

Linear skeletons, huge anti-matter projectors lay dormant within, their

task completed. A soft-glistening sheet of silver, like a fine spray

of undulating mist, shrouded the multiplied blackness beyond. This

protective film began to grow vague as the rounded monolith of the

Carrier, here and there ribbed or jagged, continued to advance

patiently, with measured speed.

This silent Gate to Cerberus, newest tool of Armageddon, like those

before it showed not the slightest emotion at its use, only cold,

mechanical efficiency. The curving prow of Dreadnought, insane

metallic smile, pushed forward at the mark, and was wrapped in a clear

sheen of brilliance.

To a suddenly humbled engineering vessel that viewed this passage from

the side (though itself a work of successive human genius), it appeared

indeed a magician's trick: the monstrous vessel was reduced by small

fractions. Length was seduced, and did not reappear. And then the

thrusting phallus was gone. The framework was all that remained.

Aboard the carrier the rush of scintillating motion had begun. Even

those crews aboard ships within the great ship, their minds bent

forward in preparation for combat, could feel the sudden thrill of

weightless, bodiless movement, and taste the ghoulish hum that began at

low, convulsive pitch, then rose through noteless octaves, whirling,

then whining high and unbearable, then gone beyond the range of hearing.

Aboard the vessel only Hayes seemed unmoved by the lightless passage,

like falling down a colossal well to the heart of a venomous, robotoid

planet. All ship's power was lost, and in that phantom black those who

did not already grip at chair and support-beam bent to their knees as

if in prayer for deliverance.

But not Hayes. In his mind, he descended into Hell like the crucified

Christ, whose lanced breast had flowed blood and water of forgiveness.

Except that Hayes did not forgive. For soon he would rise again,

invincible.

True to the hollow-world metaphor, the ship, upon reaching the center

of its plunge, passed through and slowed gradually, and sensation

became more bearable. The witch-sound returned with its screeching

whine; but soon the worst was passed. And like the short-lived fright

of the daring child, who has pumped and pulled the playground swing to

its highest arc and is suddenly weightless, cast loose from the normal

laws of earth, feels a moment's fear, but then with the rush of

downward motion again feels himself a conqueror, who has faced the

darkness unafraid, so the men of the Third Fleet, once more surviving

the nightmare world, felt themselves strong and hard, little boys

afraid of nothing, marching boldly toward their moment of destiny and

schoolyard fight.

And all at once their power returned. On the re-lighted bridge men

quickly assumed martial attitudes, and those whose functions allowed it

watched the screens. Another silvery sheet appeared before them.

Soon this, too, was parted. Stars returned to the sky, along with the

gold-orangish hue of a nearby planet. And behind and to one side of

them, though still far off, a detachment of the Coalition Fleet whirled

about and began to pursue. From the orbit of the planet as well, rose

a small and desperate defense.

Hayes' voice boomed on the intercom, superceding sectarian commanders.

"All vessels prepare to attack. Chutes one through twelve lower and

discharge. Enemy at five o'clock, bearing 3 - 4 Mark. Outward

batteries key on planetary forces. Give 'em hell boys; this one's for

real!"

Within minutes over two hundred fighters, cruisers and destroyers had

emerged from the death-womb of the Carrier, formed into squadrons and

flotillas, turned to face the enemy and begun to move forward. That

number again, including the four titanic battleships, were held in

reserve.

The straggle of fighters and destroyers from the planet's last line of

defense the launched ships ignored altogether, these being handled

easily by the multitude of blazing turrets aboard the Dreadnought. One

or two handfuls managed to elude fire long enough to harry the rear of

the advancing ranks; but these were little more than beetles biting at

the legs of wolves. A single heavy cruiser would turn its guns in

their direction, and end forever the one-sided argument.

The ships that advanced to meet them were more formidable. Suspecting

a move of this kind (but needing to suspect a dozen other possibilities

as well), the Coalition had detached eighty vessels, nearly a quarter

of its strength, to patrol the area, and defend Friedrich Schiller, the

beloved and irreplaceable East German home planet. And when the time

came, though sleep had been scarce and tension high, they were ready to

fight. Consisting mainly of German forces, they needed no

high-sounding words to give blood in defense of their homeland.

In open Space battles of this kind, where there was no constricting

lattice of energy fields to hinder movement (as at the Battle of

Athena), the aggressor held the decided advantage. For here there was

no barricades or tactically advantageous points, only a three

dimensional sea of emptiness in all directions, here and there pricked

by planet islands, themselves destructible and a hindrance to mobility.

For this reason both sides had attempted to charge, and the resulting

collision of forces at once split the conflagration into a dissipated

struggle without borders, boundaries or points of reference.

And for the Coalition pilots and vessel commanders, this proved to be

fatal. Outnumbered nearly three to one by more modern, swifter craft,

needing to be watchful of every quarter at once, aware that soon the

Dreadnought would add its considerable firepower to the fray, and thus

needing an early knockout. . .it was impossible. They fought with

courage and intensity, but so did the Americans. And though they knew

it was no game (some of the Americans did also), and though they fought

for home and family, this could not make them react quicker or shoot

straighter than their more youthful counterparts, whose duel

ambition---to stay alive and cover themselves with glory---combined

with simply better equipment to give them the clear and early upper

hand.

There would be no repeat of the Battle of Britain.

After ninety minutes of butchery, the bravest socialist pilots had had

enough. Those who could, turned and fled into warp. Those who could

not, were cut to pieces by the Dreadnought.

There were no prisoners taken.

*

While at the conclusion of this skirmish some faces among the ranks of

the Commonwealth force beamed with confidence and victory, Hayes' was

not one of them. He allowed his men roughly three minutes to exchange

war hoops and congratulations, then ordered his next deployment. And

he ordered his new Communications Officer, stationed on the bridge, to

make contact with Schiller, which now lay exposed.

At first the planet refused to acknowledge the attempt, feigning

interference. It was obvious they were trying to buy time. But when

the Dreadnought, which continued to advance, began to lower its four

great battleships, and Hayes, on an uncoded channel ordered them, once

deployed, to take up pseudo-orbital positions around it and begin

planetary destruct sequence, the East German leadership dropped its

futile ploy. On the large central screen of the bridge, the erect

figure of the Prime Minister appeared, seated at the head of a long

table surrounded by military advisors. His face was gray and stern.

Though his English was good, he chose for the moment to make it harsh

and clipped.

"Yes, Mr. Secretary."

"Good morning, Schultz. I won't banter. I want your planetary shields

lowered, and your orbiting Artillery Stations---yes, I know about

them---silenced and evacuated. They will be destroyed in one hour's

time. Also, I want you to relay my signal to General Itjes."

"First let me be sure I understand you. Are you offering terms for our

surrender?"

"I'm doing nothing of the kind and you know it. Your planet and your

people are, for the moment, my hostage. I will reestablish contact in

one hour and ten minutes. At that time I will expect a patch-through

to Itjes. In the meantime my ships will continue to take up positions

around you. If they are fired upon, even once, I'll turn the

battleships loose on the cities." He signaled his Com Officer to end

the transmission.

The Third Fleet, three quarters of which was now discharged from the

carrier, began to form up into fully operational task forces, each with

a battleship in its center, and to move into place in a wide belt

encircling the planet, then turned facing outward like a bristle of

spears. Or more aptly, since the guns of the battleships faced inward

as well, like a crown of thorns.

Hayes' plan was cruelly simple: to put a gun to the head of Schiller,

and force General Itjes and the remainder of the Coalition fleet into a

fight they couldn't win. His deepest concern was for the passage of

time, which might bring enemies and forces unlooked-for. By recent

intelligence the nearest significant Soviet presence was at least a

week distant. But how many of the smaller nations of the Coalition

might be willing to risk their own national forces, it was impossible

to say. But here Hayes held to the confidence of the bully, believing

that each would be more concerned with their own personal survival, and

thus bring them all into peril.

The allotted time passed. The task forces stood at the ready. Itjes

continued to move swiftly toward the system, and the entire planet

scrambled into plans of evacuation that few had believed would ever be

used.

And when they received news of the plight of fully half their

space-bound population, and of their dearest home save earth, the East

German forces of other Coalition patrols, near and far, with leave or

without it, broke off and began to converge on Schiller. Were it not

for the time factor ---the majority of these would not arrive (or even

receive the message) for days---Hayes might have had a problem.

And even in the coming duel with Itjes' divided force, the scales might

have been more evenly balanced, but for the simple disparity in the

weapons-systems of a wealthy superpower, and those of a group of

nations which had to live, buy, and protect within their means. The

four Commonwealth battleships were of a class possessed by only three

Powers in the galaxy---themselves, the Soviet Space Republics (which

didn't deal them out), and the German States, who had no apparent love

for their sundered countrymen. Also added to the equation:

The two remaining Coalition carriers, ten years old and of a lesser

Soviet series, could fit together inside the Dreadnought, and had not

one-third the long-range firepower. Neither was capable of extended

warp; and needless to say, they had no star gate, and thus no surprise

capability. They were built for defense, and the Coalition defenses

had been breached. How Hayes (or anyone else) could take pleasure in

the prospect of a battle at such clearly unequal odds, remained a

mystery.

He was connected to Helmut Itjes.

"Yes, General Hayes. You have our people by the throat; what do you

want?" Itjes had lived too long.....

At this point Hayes blanked out his own visual transmission. He then

wrote out his replies on paper, to be read by the Communications

Officer. He was going to leave the enemy no proof of the conversation

about to follow. A short pause, then the young man read:

"I want you, General Itjes. If the First Combat Fleet will engage us,

to the death, the civilians may go free---afterwards."

"And if we refuse?"

"I will blanket the planet with microwaves. It would be a shame to

destroy. . .such beautiful architecture."

"What kind of animal are you?" snapped Itjes. He now saw, beyond all

doubt, that he was dealing with a madman. The written notes, read by a

young voice without malice or understanding, had sent a chill straight

through him. They reminded him strangely, uncannily, of the techniques

employed by Adolph Eichmann and the Hitler S.S.

... "The one who's going to see you in Hell."

"I will attack when the Dresden detachment joins us. Then God HELP

you."

"You have twelve hours, Helmut."

"My name is ITJES!"

The screen went blank.

* * *

The Coalition First Combat Fleet, both detachments, stood fast at a

safe distance from the hornet's nest that surrounded Schiller, and

formed into a single front to face them.

Itjes stood among his officers and technicians on the bridge of the

carrier 'Smolensk', staring at the blank communications screen. Five

minutes before he had told Hayes flatly that there would be no

engagement without his recordable promise---both visual and vocal---of

the free evacuation of the planet, regardless of the outcome of the

battle. This helpless waiting, for a reply so paramount, and yet so

utterly beyond his control, was an agony of the human spirit.

The request was perfectly reasonable, and Hayes had every intention of

granting it. He merely wanted the extra time to study his opponent's

weaponry and deployment. There was something to be learned even from

the loser of a given confrontation, and Itjes had the reputation of

being a tough and resourceful foe. So he watched, and made mental

notes: two-hundred and sixty lesser craft against his three-hundred

deployed, and the superior guns of the Dreadnought. This should teach

his boys to fight.

The Commonwealth forces began to move forward. Hayes appeared on the

screen, flanked by Admiral Frank. "You have your promise, General.

Win or lose, utterly, and the population goes free."

Utterly.

Itjes bit his lip till it bled, ordered his forces to attack.

*

The main battle went much the same as the skirmish which had preceded

it. The Coalition's flyers were, on the whole more experienced, more

disciplined, in some ways better trained; and for a time they did

fairly well. They kept their forces together, found cracks in the

fences of their enemies, and were able to weed out and destroy the

greener of the American combatants.

But soon the blows were raining hard and heavy upon them, and coming

from every direction at once. Squadrons and formations were broken up,

strategies broken down. And after a time, good and lesser soldiers

alike, veterans and younger men, husbands, heroes and cowards, were

killed by shots that did not discriminate. No magical God-force

protected the just and perseverant; no hand of Providence reached down.

Men and women died, adding their silent numbers to the ancient mass of

corpses piled in an endless grave in the name of War, because men had

not yet learned that name was foul.

The Coalition forces kept fighting for five hours, fighting and dying,

waiting for an order to retreat that never came, fighting and dying and

waiting for an order to retreat that never came, then a surrender that

never came, fighting and dying and waiting for an order to retreat and

then a surrender, and an end to the carnage that never came, fighting

and dying and waiting for an order to retreat and then a surrender and

an end to the carnage, and some kind of sanity that never came,

fighting and dying and waiting for an order to retreat and then a

surrender and some kind of sanity, then simple deliverance, that never

came---except in death.

The Commonwealth lost eighty ships, mostly fighters and destroyers, in

annihilating the entire Coalition Fleet. Ten hours later the last

evacuation vessels left the planet, though many inhabitants remained

behind of their own volition. The four Battleships took up their

equidistant points about the equator of the Friedrich Schiller, firing

a long and continuous heat and shock laser burst into its core. The

planet's surface writhed and convulsed with earthquakes and eruptions

for perhaps two hours, till the outer crust was broken into crumbling

islands in a molten sea, and what was left of the face fell apart. The

Battleships ceased their barrage, leaving it to die its final death of

fire, lava and smoke. The Secretary chose to leave it thus, rather

than blow it apart, to further anger the Soviets and goad them into

reprisals. That such a decision might have other consequences he knew,

but at that moment his mind was driven by a single impulse only. He

wanted, with all his soul, a full-scale World War.

Several hours later in prearranged rendezvous, the Third Fleet's

engineering vessels followed the earlier course of the Dreadnought

through the star gate. Immediately upon arrival (and finding that

things had gone their way), they turned about and began to construct a

second entrance, leading back the way they had come. Since the

corridor itself was already in existence, needing only a return inlet,

this took less than forty-eight hours. Then, all Commonwealth vessels

tucked up safe inside the mother, the Third Fleet returned to the

limits of the Athena system, destroying the further gate, dismantling

the nearer, behind them. The Dreadnought then proceeded, at just above

tracking speed, to a new and untraceable location.

Hayes had won again.