A large anthology of sci.., p.496
A Large Anthology of Science Fiction, page 496
Runckel, by this time, had recovered enough from the third phase to be untied and allowed to walk around with only two guards. As he had not fully recovered his confidence, however, he immediately went to see Bade.
Bade’s illness took the form of nausea, cold hands and feet, and a sensation of severe pressure in the small of the back. Bade was lying on a cot when Runckel came in, followed by his two watchful guards.
Bade looked up and saw the two guards lean warily against the wall, their eyes narrowed as they watched Runckel. Runckel paused at the foot of Bade’s bed. “How do you feel?” Runckel asked.
“Except for yesterday and day before,” said Bade, “I never felt worse in my life. How do you feel?”
“All right most of the time.” He cleared his throat. “Kottek’s down with it now.”
“Did he know in time?”
“No, I’m afraid he’s left things in a mess.”
Bade shook his head. “Do we have a general officer who isn’t sick?”
“Not in the top brackets.”
“Who did Kottek hand over to?”
“Me.” Runckel looked a little embarrassed. “I’m not sure I can handle it yet.”
“Who’s in actual charge right now?”
“I’ve got the pieces of our own staff and the staff of Landing Force 2 working on it. Kottek’s staff is hopeless. Half of them are talking about sweeping the enemy off the planet in two days.”
Bade grunted. “What’s your idea?”
“Well,” said Runckel, “I still get . . . a little excited now and then. If you could possibly provide a sort of general supervision—”
Bade looked away weakly. “How’s Rast?”
“Tied to his bunk with half-a-dozen men sitting on him.”
“What about Vokk?”
“Tearing his lungs out every two or three minutes.”
“Sokkis, then?”
Runckel shook his head grimly. “I’m afraid they didn’t hear the gun go off in time. The doctors are still working on him, though.”
“Well . . . is Frotch all right?”
“Yes, thank heaven. But then he’s Flyer Command. And, worse yet, there’s nobody to put in his place.”
“All right, how about Sozzle?”
“Well,” said Runckel, “Sozzle may be a good propaganda man, but personally I wouldn’t trust him to command a platoon.”
“Yes,” said Bade, rolling over to try to ease the pain in his back, “I see your point.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll try to supervise the thing.” He swung gingerly to a sitting position.
Runckel watched him, then his face twisted. “This whole thing is all my fault,” he said. He choked. “I’m just no goo—”
The two guards sprang across the room, grabbed Runckel by the arms and rushed him out the door. Harsh grunts and solid thumping sounds came from the corridor outside. There was a heavy crash. Somebody said, “All right, get the general by the feet, and I’ll take him by the shoulders. Phew! Let’s go.”
Bade sat dizzily on the edge of the bed. For a moment, he had a mental image of Runckel before the invasion, leaning forward and saying impressively, “Certain glory and a mighty victory await us.”
Bade took several slow deep breaths. Then he got up carefully, found a towel, and cautiously went to wash.
It took Bade almost a week to disentangle the troops from the web of indefensible positions and hopeless last stands Kottek had committed them to in a day-and-a-half of peremptory orders. The enemy, meanwhile, took advantage of opportunity, using ground and air attacks, rockets, missiles and artillery in such profusion as to stun the mind. It was not until Bade’s men and officers had recovered from circulating attacks of the sickness, and another landing force had come down, that it was possible to temporarily resume the offensive. Another two weeks, and another sick landing force recovered, saw the invasion army in control of a substantial part of the central plain of the continent. Bade now had some spare moments to squint at certain reports that were piled up on his desk. Exasperatedly, he called a meeting of high officers.
Bade was standing with Runckel at a big map of the continent when their generals came in. Bade and Runckel each looked grim and intense. The generals looked uniformly dulled and worn down.
Bade took a last hard look at the map, then he and Runckel turned. Bade glanced at Veth, Landing Site Commander. “What’s your impression of the way things are going?”
Veth scowled. “Well, we’re still getting eight to ten sizable missile hits a day. Of course, there’s no predicting when they’ll come in. With the men working outside the ships, any single hit could vaporize large numbers of essential technical personnel. Until we get the underground shelters built, the only way around this is to have whole site damped out all the time.” He shook his head. “This takes a lot of energy.”
Bade nodded, and turned to Rast, Ground Forces Commander.
“So far,” said Rast frowning, “our situation on paper looks not too bad. Morale is satisfactory. Our weapons are superior. We have strong forces in a reasonably large central area, and in theory we can shift rapidly from one front to the other, and be superior anywhere. But in practice, the enemy has so many missiles, of all types and sizes, that we can’t take advantage of the position.
“Suppose, for instance, that I order XX and XXII Tank Armies from the eastern to the western front. They can’t go under their own power, because of fuel expenditure, the wear on their tracks, and the resulting delay for repairs. They can’t go by forceway network because there isn’t any built yet. The only way to send them is by the natives’ iron track roads. That would be fine, except that the iron track roads make beautiful targets for missile attacks. Thanks to the enemy, every bridge and junction either is, has been, or will be blown up and not once, either. The result is, we have to use slow filtration of troops from one front to the other, or we have to accept very heavy losses on route. In addition, we now know that the enemy has formidable natural defenses in the east and west, especially in the west. There’s a range of hills there that surpasses anything I’ve ever seen or heard of. Not only is the difficulty of the terrain an obstacle, but as our men go higher, movement finally becomes practically impossible. I know this from personal experience. The result of it is, the enemy need only guard the passes and he has a natural barrier behind which he can mass for attack at any chosen point.”
Bade frowned. “Don’t the hills have the same harmful effect on the enemy?”
“No sir, they don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. But that and their missiles put us in a nasty spot.”
Bade absorbed this, then turned to General Frotch, head of Atmospheric Flyer Command.
Frotch said briskly, “Sir, so far as the enemy air forces are concerned, we have the situation under control. And various foreign long-range reconnaissance aircraft that have been filtering in from distant native countries, have also been successfully batted out of the sky. However, as far as . . . ah . . . missiles . . . are concerned, the situation is a little strained.”
Bade snapped, “Go on.”
“Well, sir,” said Frotch, “the enemy has missiles that can be fired at the fastest atmospheric flyers, that can be made to blow up near them, that can be guided to them, and even that can be made to chase and catch them.”
“What about our weapons?”
“They’re fine, on a percentage basis. But the enemy has a lot more missiles than we have pilots.”
“I see,” said Bade. “Well—” He turned to speak to the Director of Intelligence, but Frotch went on:
“Moreover, sir, we are having atmospheric troubles.”
“ ‘Atmospheric troubles’ ? What’s that?”
“For one thing, gigantic traveling electrical displays that disrupt plane-to-ground communications, and have to be avoided, or else the pilots either don’t come out, or else come out fit for nothing but a rest cure. Then there are mass movements of air traveling from one part of the planet to another. Like land breezes and sea breezes at home. But here the breezes can be pretty forceful. The effect is to put an unpredictable braking force on all our operations.”
Bade nodded slowly. “Well, we’ll have to make the best of it.” He turned to General Sozzle, who was Disseminator of Propaganda.
Sozzle cleared his throat. “I can make my report short and to the point. Our propaganda is getting us nowhere. For one thing, the enemy is apparently used to being ambushed daily by something called ‘advertising,’ which seems to consist of a series of subtle propaganda traps. By comparison our approach is so crude it throws them into hysterics.”
Bade glanced at the Director of Intelligence, who said dully, “Sir, it’s too early to say for certain how our work will eventually turn out. We’ve had some successes; but, so far, we’ve been handicapped by translation difficulties.”
Bade frowned. “For instance?”
“Take the single word, ‘snow,’ ” said the Intelligence Director. “You can’t imagine the snarl my translators get into over that word. It apparently means ‘white solid which falls in crystals from the sky.’ Figure that out.”
Bade squinted, then looked relieved. “Oh. It means, ‘dust.’ ”
“That’s the way the interpreters translated it. Now consider this sentence from a schoolbook. ‘When April comes, the dust all turns to water and flows into the ground to fill the streams.’ ”
“That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“No. But that’s what happens if you accept ‘dust’ as the translation for ‘snow.’ There are other words such as ‘winter,’ ‘blizzard,’ ‘tornado.’ Ask a native for an explanation, and with a straight face he’ll give you a string of incomprehensible nonsense that will stand you on your ear. Not that it’s important in itself. But it seems to show something about the native psychology that I can’t quite figure out. You can fight your enemy best when you can understand him. Well, from this angle they’re completely incomprehensible.”
“Keep working on it,” said Bade, after a short silence. He turned to Runckel.
Runckel said, “The overall situation looks about the same from my point of view. Namely, the natives are driven back, but by no means defeated. What we have to remember is that we never expected to have them defeated at this stage. True, our time schedule has been set back somewhat, but this was due not to enemy action, but to purely accidental circumstances. That is, first the atmosphere was so deficient in moisture that our ground vehicles were temporarily out of order, and, second, we were disabled by an unexpected disease. But these troubles are over with. My point is that we can now begin the decisive phase of operations.”
“Good,” said Bade. “But to do that we have to firmly hold the ground we have. I want to know if we can do this. On the surface, perhaps, it looks like it. But there are signs here I don’t like. As the old saying goes, ‘A shark shows you his fin, not his teeth. Take warning from the fin; when you see the teeth it’s too late.’ ”
“Yes,” said Frotch, turning excitedly to Rast, “that’s the thought exactly. Now, will you mention it, or shall I?”
“Holy fangjaw,” growled Rast, “maybe it doesn’t really mean anything.”
“The Supreme Commander,” said Runckel angrily, “was trying to talk.”
Bade said, “What is it, Rast? Speak up.”
“Well—” Rast hesitated, glanced uneasily at Runckel, then thrust out his jaw, “Sir, it looks like the whole master plan of the invasion may have come unhinged.”
Runckel angrily started to speak.
Bade glanced at Runckel, took out a long slender cigar, and sat down on the edge of the table to watch Runckel. He lit the cigar and put down the lighter. As far as Bade was concerned, his face was expressionless. Things seemed to have an unnatural clarity, however, as he looked at Runckel and waited for him to speak.
Runckel looked at Bade, swallowed hard and said nothing.
Bade glanced at Rast.
Rast burst out, “Sir, for the last ten days or so, we’ve been wondering how long the enemy could keep up his missile attacks. Flyer Command has blasted factories vital to missile manufacture, and destroyed all their known stockpiles. Well, grant we didn’t get all their stockpiles. That’s logical enough. Grant that they had tremendous stocks stored away. Even grant that before we got here they made missiles all the time for the sheer love of making them. Maybe every man, woman, and child in the country had a missile, like a pet. Still, there’s got to be an end somewhere.”
Bade nodded soberly.
“Well, sir,” said Rast, “we get these missiles fired at us all the time, day after day after day, one missile after the other, like an army of men tramping past in an endless circle forever. It’s inconceivable that they’d use their missiles like this unless their supply is inexhaustible. Frotch gets hit with them, I get hit with them, Veth gets hit with them. For every job there’s a missile. We put our overall weapons superiority in one pan of the balance. They pour an endless heap of missiles in the other pan. Where do all these missiles come from?”
For an instant Rast was silent, then he went on. “At first we thought ‘Underground factories.’ Well, we did our best to find them and it was no use. And whenever we managed to spot moving missiles, they seemed to be coming from the coast.
“About this time, some of my officers were trying to convert a bunch of captives to our way of thinking. One of the officers noticed a peculiar thing. Whenever he clinched his argument by saying, ‘Moreover, you are alone in the world; you cannot defeat us alone,’ the captives would all look very serious. Most of them would be very still and attentive, but here and there among them, a few would choke, gag, make sputtering noises, and shake all over. The other soldiers would secretively kick these men, and jab them with their elbows until they were still and attentive. Now, however, the question arose, what did all this mean? The actions were described to Intelligence, who said they meant exactly what they seemed to mean, ‘suppressed mirth.’
“In other words, whenever we said, ‘You can’t win, you’re alone in the world,’ they wanted to burst out laughing. My officers now varied the technique. They would say, for instance, ‘The U.S.S.R. is our faithful ally.’ Our captives would sputter, gasp, and almost strangle to death. Put this together with their inexhaustible supply of missiles and the thing takes on a sinister look.”
“You think,” said Bade, “that the U.S.S.R. and other countries are shipping missiles to the U.S. by sea?”
General Frotch cleared his throat apologetically, “Sir, excuse me. I have something new to add to this. I’ve set submerger planes down along all three of their coasts. Not only are the ports alive with shipping. But some of our men swam into the harbors at night and hid, and either they’re the victims of mass-hypnosis or else those ships are unloading missiles like a fish unloads spawn.”
Bade looked at Runckel.
Runckel said dully, “In that case, we have the whole planet to fight. That was what we had to avoid at any cost.”
This comment produced a visible deterioration of morale. Before this attitude had a chance to set, Bade said forcefully and clearly, “I was never in favor of this attack. And this fortifies my original views. But from a strictly military point of view, I believe we can still win.”
He went to the map, and speaking to each of the generals in turn, he explained his plan.
In the three following days, each of the three remaining landing forces set down. The men of each landing force, as expected, became violently ill with the exploding sickness. With the usual course of the sickness known, it proved possible to care for this new horde of patients with nothing worse than extreme inconvenience for the invasion force as a whole.
The enemy, meanwhile, strengthened his grip around the occupied area, and at the same time cut troop movements within the area to a feeble trickle. Day after day, the enemy missiles fell in an increasingly heavy rain on the road and rail centers. During the height of this bombardment, Bade succeeded in gradually filtering all of Landing Force 3 back to the protection of the ships.
Rast now reported that the enemy attacks were mounting in force and violence, and requested permission to fall back and contract the defense perimeter.
Bade replied that help would soon come, and Rast must make only small local withdrawals.
Landing Forces 7, 8, and 9, cured of the exploding sickness, now took off. Immediately afterward, Landing Force 3 took off.
Landing Forces 3 and 7, under General Kottek, came down near the base of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and struck south and west to rip up communications in the rear of the main enemy forces attacking General Rast.
Landing Force 8 split, its southern section seizing the western curve of Cuba to cut the shipping lanes to the Gulf of Mexico. Its northern sections seized Long Island, to block shipping entering the port of New York, and to subject shipping in the ports of Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington to heavy attack from the air.
Landing Force 9 remained aloft until the enemy’s reaction to General Kottek’s thrust from the rear became evident. This reaction proved to be a quickly improvised simultaneous attack from north and south, to pinch off the flow of supplies from Kottek’s base to the point of his advance. Landing Force 9 now set down, broke the attack of the southern pincer, then struck southeastward to cut road and rail lines supplying the enemy’s northern armies. The overall situation now resembled two large, roughly concentric circles, each very thick in the north, and very thin in the south. A large part of the outer circle, representing the enemy’s forces, was now pressed between the inner circle and the inverted Y of Kottek’s attack from the north.
