Escape orbit, p.13
Escape Orbit, page 13
"We have to escape!" said Warren harshly.
Until she had begun to talk again Warren's mind had been very far away indeed from the Escape. He had been thinking that aboard Victorious some things had been neither possible nor desirable. A female ship's doctor-psychologist was normally kept too busy seeing that everyone else was happy to have any time to feel unhappy herself—if the officer was as dedicated as Fielding, at least. And while ship marriage was the norm on active service, it was not supposed to be entered into between such widely disparate ranks as a Major and a Sector Marshal! In order to attain such eminence an officer had to devote all his mental and physical energy to his career, and it was assumed that sheer force of habit would see to it that he continued this devotion to duty when the pinnacle of power had been reached. A Sector Marshal might very well be approachable and democratic and go through all the motions of being just one of the boys, but a girl might just as soon think of marrying God.
On the prison planet, however, the situation was not the same as aboard ship.
It was the sudden and surprising violence of the temptation, as if her words and her warm, vital presence had triggered off an emotional time-bomb within him, which had shaken Warren so badly and roughened his voice. That and a terrible, growing suspicion.
Still looking at the table-top, she went on quietly, "A female psychologist indulging in self-analysis on the subject of love is probably more than you could bear, sir. So let's just say that I've taken so many men apart mentally that my need is for one with very special qualities and attributes, one that I can truly look up to. One of these attributes need not necessarily be youth."
"Major Fielding ... Ruth ...!" began Warren, and stopped. When he went on a few seconds later he tried to adopt an avuncular manner, but his voice was so strained that he hardly recognized it. He said, "I think that I've just been handed the nicest compliment of my whole life, Ruth. But what you're suggesting isn't possible. You'd be much better advised using your feminine wiles on Hutton, who spends more time looking at you during Staff meetings these days than anything or anyone else ..."
When Major Fielding left a few minutes later her face was stiff and unreadable. The thought came to him that perhaps she had been telling the truth about her feelings toward him, but he suppressed it with a violence which was close to panic. It was much better to think the other way, that he had just foiled the third and potentially the most damaging act of sabotage yet attempted.
On Minus Ten he had to read the riot act to Major Hynds, who had been complaining bitterly that his job was strictly third leg, and tell him in no uncertain terms that it was vital that the prisoners were not allowed to forget any of their technical know-how—or anything at all, for that matter. He sent Hynds on a five-day trip to the other continent to check on the re-education program on the same day that he sent Hutton off to check on practically everything else. If either officer suspected that he was pulling the old divide and rule gambit on them—splitting them up so that they would have no chance to unite in opposition to Kelso, Sloan and himself—there was nothing they could do about it. Major Fielding was angrily cooperative, and Warren could not be sure whether it was the anger of a woman scorned or a conspirator foiled. On Minus Eight he made it known for the first time that Majors Hutton, Hynds and Fielding would take no actual part in the assault, citing as his reason the necessity of leaving behind a nucleus of technical brains for a second attempt should this one fail. In his best dour old warrior's voice he said that he was banking on this one succeeding, and if it didn't he could not bear the thought of having to do it all again.
The news that he intended going up with them gave a tremendous boost to the morale of the assault groups, although when Fielding heard about it her anger towards him became overlaid with a quality which Warren suspected was clinical appraisal ..."
On Minus Seven the assault groups went gradually onto a low residue diet, so far as was possible with locally grown food, and they went off alcohol completely. Warren had let them know in no uncertain language that he didn't want to go storming any ramparts with officers who were blind drunk or hung over. Six and Five he spent chiefly in reassuring officers of various ranks and specialties that he did know how to handle himself in one of Hutton's wastebaskets, that, having listened to the same lectures as they had, he was familiar with Bug physiology and the layout of their guardship, and that he was not contemplating any stupid heroics because he was getting too old and stiff. In short, he told them, he did not intend taking any risks and he was simply going along for the ride.
When they heard that, some of them tried to tell him how they felt. Awkwardly—even Kelso stumbled at it and Sloan was actually shy—they told him that he had done some highly peculiar things, almost suspicious things, in the past, but they knew now that he was with them and they were with him, no matter what. But the way they looked at him while they were talking made Warren feel even worse, because he had never been completely honest with any of them at any time.
In the late evening of Minus Four a top priority signal arrived from one of the observation posts on the eastern tip of the continent, which was already in darkness, saying that a Bug ship of the cruiser or small transport class was locked onto the guardship. It had arrived during daylight when the guardship was above the horizon and hence visible from the ground. Then four hours later, although both ships were by then well within the planetary shadow, the tail-flare of the cruiser illuminated the scene as it pulled away from the guardship preparatory to going into hyperdrive.
There could be no doubt as to what it meant.
"What a blasted inconvenient time for them to land prisoners!" said Kelso, considerably understating Warren's own feelings in the matter. He added, "If they follow the usual procedure, sir, we can expect the shuttle early tomorrow morning."
Warren said, "It would help to have some up-to-date intelligence about the crew and organization of the guardship, and the war, too, of course—but not if it means a Hold to get it. See that the prisoners are rounded up and interrogated as soon as possible, Lieutenant."
The Bug shuttle landed on Minus Three at the time but not in the place expected. It used exactly the same landing spot as had been used on its previous visit, and it delayed several minutes so that the new prisoners could get clear of its tail-flare before it took off—a clear indication that the Bugs were growing careless or else feeling less nervous about the possibility of an ambush by prisoners. Either way it was to Warren's advantage. The new arrivals were contacted and the position explained to them in double quick time—all except one.
Hynds, back from the other continent and somewhat happier now that he had Intelligence work to do instead of acting like a glorified school inspector, made the report.
"It's difficult to process the men properly in the time allowed, sir," he said briskly, "but it seems clear that they are no great shakes mentally, unobservant to an amazing degree and shockingly uninformed regarding the overall tactical position. The forty-three prisoners landed represent the survivors of thirteen ships and actions fought over a period of three years, and many of them have spent this time being moved about from ship to ship as if the Bugs did not quite know what to do with them. From this we might infer that the Bug military organization is beginning to go rapidly to pieces, and I'm sure the missing officer would corroborate this if we could find him."
"Fleet Commander Peters," said Kelso suddenly, "has his farm in that area."
In spite of himself, Warren laughed. "I don't think the Commander could do much to stop us, Lieutenant. Not with one convert, in three days ..." He turned abruptly to Hynds. "Better call in the search parties and gliders, Major. If he hasn't heard all that whistling and drumming or seen a plane and made a signal to it, a stray Battler must have got him. And would you pass the word to Major Hutton—I think he's in Number Two Attack Point—to meet me at the grenade store in forty-five minutes ..."
Three. Two. One ...
Ponderous, faultless and by now unstoppable, the vast machinery of the Escape rolled on. Holding as it did a thirty-two-and-a-half hour orbit, which was the rotational period of the Bug home world, the guardship was below the horizon for just over sixteen hours. But in actual fact the Committeemen had closer to nineteen hours freedom from observation because they had been careful to choose for their surface transport routes which were well-sheltered by natural features—nearby hills and mountains, dense forest and the concealment afforded by the guardship's acute angle of observation through the atmospheric haze. At the present time, four hours after sunrise on E minus one, the Bug ship was due to set in a little over three hours. In a very short time—Warren had to allow for possible delays in transmission—he could signal the final Go.
From Nicholson's post, which was almost deserted now since it too was due for destruction, the town and bay looked peacefully and unremarkably busy in the early sunlight. But there was a growing commotion outside his office, with voices raised so loudly in argument that two of them were recognizable. So he was not completely surprised when Sloan conducted Fleet Commander Peters and a stranger into his presence.
"I expected to find you at the Escape site," said Peters breathlessly, while Sloan was still opening his mouth. "We've wasted far too much time. I've got to speak to you, sir. Alone."
Warren didn't reply at once. Instead he examined the stranger from head to toe, seeing a small, overweight individual with a furiously sweating face whose expression reflected anxiety and confusion. Remembering his own feelings on being first pitchforked into the Committee-Civilian idealogical conflict Warren felt a touch of sympathy for the man, but it was a very light and fleeting touch. He nodded for Sloan to wait outside, then turned to Peters.
"Go ahead, Commander," he said.
Peters had recovered his breath but for some reason seemed to be finding it difficult to speak, and his eyes as they met Warren's held an expression which was very close to pity.
"I'm afraid you'll have to call it off, sir," he said finally. "You've no choice. The war is over ..."
Chapter Seventeen
"MY NAME is Hubbard, sir," the new man put in in a nervous, jerky voice. "Political Officer from the late Resolution. It isn't over, exactly—but it amounts to the same thing. Neither side has the resources, technical, material or personnel, to go on with it."
"Political Officer?" asked Warren dully. It was a completely new rank to him, and even though he felt that the planet had just been pulled from under his feet the process of satisfying his curiosity was automatic.
The position had been created because of the growing distrust of the field commanders by High Command, Hubbard explained, the situation being aggravated by the accelerating breakdown of all military organization and communications. In part this was due to the incredibly poor quality of present officer material, it being the accepted thing these days to refuse rather than to force battle with the enemy. The men just would not fight—although in honesty Hubbard said that this was due to distrust of their own ships and equipment as much as inner qualms. Despite this the officers on space service had been built up as heroes by home propaganda in an attempt to boost the war effort, and this had given some of the field commanders a very nice idea.
Not just as single ships but in flotillas and whole Sector sub-fleets they had simply opted out of the war. But they had not gone home. Instead they had taken themselves to some of the colony worlds—planets with small populations and light defenses—and as heroes placed their worlds under their protection. Or held them to ransom, or tried to carve small, personal empires out of them, depending on the characteristics of the commander concerned and the number of units he possessed whose captains were personally loyal to him. It was Hubbard's duty, and the duty of the other political officers serving with the remains of the fleet, constantly to remind the ships' personnel where their true loyalty lay, because not only the military organization but the whole of Earth's interstellar culture was rapidly falling to pieces. And it was no comfort at all to know that the Bugs were having the same trouble.
"... The Fleet Commander has told me what you're trying to do and I think it's tremendous!" Hubbard rushed on. "But it is a complete waste of lives and effort, sir, believe me. What remains of our military organization is scarcely capable of mounting an offensive patrol much less a rescue operation for the rest of the prisoners! You've got a nice, tight organization here, sir. You'd be better advised to stay put and—"
"Peters," said Warren suddenly, "how many people know about this?"
The Fleet Commander smiled. He said, "Give me credit for a little intelligence, sir. Nobody but ourselves. Releasing it to your people in their present frame of mind would not be smart. I thought you had better handle it, break it to them gently after a long series of Holds ..."
"Sloan!"
The Major charged into the room, his cross-bow unslung and ready, eyes glaring. Harshly, Warren said, "Put these men under close arrest. They are not to be allowed to speak. They are to be confined separately so that they cannot attempt subversion by talking to each other and allowing their seditious talk to be overheard. They are not to say 'Good Morning' or 'Thank you' when meals are served. If they utter one word they are to be killed."
"Yes sir!" said Sloan.
"You ... you can't," began Peters incredulously. "You're mad, power mad ...!"
The words were choked off as in response to Warren's nod Sloan brought up his weapon, aimed at the center of the Commander's forehead and pulled the trigger. The bolt thudded into a log two feet above the Commander's head because at the penultimate instant Warren had used the heel of his hand to jar the Major's elbow.
"You are not to speak at all," he said quietly. "Is that understood?"
It was understood.
Second thoughts and last-minute changes of plan were dangerous, Warren told himself firmly, and a decision taken calmly and unhurriedly should not be altered because of them—especially if they arose because of cowardice, selfishness or the possibility of taking an easy way out. But he gave the final Go signal within minutes of Peters and Hubbard being marched out because he did not want to give himself time to think anyway ...
THE LAST few yards of the main tunnel were opened to the surface while the wooden framework of the dummy was going up around it. These massive, hoop-like timber sections—prefabricated, numbered for ease of assembly and stored in town many months previously—were rushed out to the Escape site by gangs of as many as twenty men to each section. Their route was a straight line from town to the site, but no attempt was made to conceal their tracks in the soft earth because it would later be burned over to look like the scar of a C-7 blast. And while the framework was being assembled, at a pace which could only be described as furious despite the frequent measurement checks, smaller parties were carefully setting alight the farmhouse which was supposed to be burned by the force-landed ship and to the trees and undergrowth sheltering the two forward attack points.
These positions had to appear to be razed to the ground, but at the same time the scorched tree-trunks, bushes and log walls had to give concealment to a large number of men. While this carefully supervised destruction was going on, survey teams with mirrors, flags and extremely loud voices were checking on the alignment of trees in the sections due for burning. Some were marked down for fire-paste and others, those nearest the site, to be blown down with explosives while literally thousands of small trees and bushes had sheets of paper impaled and tied onto a conspicuous branch in such a way that they would burn off but not blow off in a wind, and these were to be ignited by torch. Simultaneously the grass and brush and the more inflammable species of tree along the edges of the fire lanes were being wetted down with water carried from the bay, the marsh or the nearby stream. Some of it had to be carried, in great hide gourds slung on poles, for more than three miles.
On no account could the conflagration so soon to take place be allowed to get out of control, to look like an ordinary, naturally occurring forest fire ...
And through the smoke haze from the burning farm the helio on Nicholson's post blinked out a constant stream of progress reports. The dummy's lock section had left its mountain and was halfway to the coast. The stabilizers were twenty minutes behind it. The last of the hull sections had left Hutton's Mountain. Weather forecast was for no change in wind velocity or direction, but there was a possibility of cloud around dawn. Hutton was having trouble with a temperamental Battler at the head of his convoy and was twenty-five minutes behind schedule. Hutton had turned the Battler loose and was having its load pulled by the extra men he had brought along for just this contingency. The lock sections had been loaded onto their cart and it was at sea, winds favorable. Hutton had picked up ten minutes by Johnson's Bridge, and it was observed that he was helping to pull the lead wagon. A small cat fleet had rendezvoused at Chang's Inlet and the smaller metal sections dispersed among the cliff caves there were being ferried out to them. One of the boats had capsized in the shallows. Its load had been dragged ashore and transferred to another boat—estimated delay forty-five minutes. The first cat was hull up on the horizon. The head of Hutton's convoy was not five hours away ... The helio stopped blinking because the sun was suddenly down among the trees. There was perhaps an hour of usable dusk left, then the remainder of the work would have to be done by torchlight. The signals were resumed, using a focused oil-lamp and shutter. With a red-orange light which gave overtones of anger to everything it said, Nicholson's post gave the news that the guardship would rise in eight hours and seventeen minutes.
By the light of bonfires and strategically placed torches the lock and stabilizer sections were fitted, the tanks of Bug air were brought up and positioned inside the framework and the periscopes were set up and aligned. The vanguard of Hutton's convoy came rumbling and creaking onto the Escape site, off-loaded hurriedly because the fires were making the Battlers restive, and returned to town. While their load of metal plating was being lifted, manhandled into position and hung onto its proper place on the framework, the empty wagons were reloaded with furniture, personal possessions and litters for the injured and driven to the other side of town where they were parked by the roadside. There they waited just as the cats in the bay were waiting—although in their case the furniture and sundry oddments were carried mainly to break up or hide the outlines of the deck cargo of dismantled gliders and similar items too valuable to be destroyed with the town.
