During the ensuing months since May 10, he had struggled to correct the strategy of the late Lord Director. But despite his best efforts, many blamed him for the loss of the islands. To his detractors he pointed out his lack of oceanic vessels, and that he’d saved three-quarter a million trained troops, desperately needed troops that now bolstered the Eurasian Continent.
The Directorate had fired back and told him that his statement was illogical. If he could slip troops out, surely he could have put enough in to hold somewhere.
“That is imprecise,” he’d written back. “Enemy laser stations ring the planet. Any of our military craft flying higher than fifty meters are targeted and vaporized. Meanwhile, Highborn orbital fighters routinely buzz any merchant marine we have left. If military men or material are spotted or analyzed to be aboard ship, the vessel is sunk.”
“How, then, did you extract the troops?” returned the query.
“Ah. Now you begin to understand the magnitude of my accomplishment.”
Several on the Directorate had bristled at his tone. He should have used more tact. He knew that now. But he had become so tired.
“General?”
“Hmm?”
The Commodore tapped her chronometer. “It’s time for your staff meeting.”
“The proton beam report?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded. Despite heavy PHC interference, he’d begun a crash proton beam-building program. Everyone feared to use them. They said the Highborn would simply drop more asteroids and take them out again. He disagreed. They needed many proton weapons and enough merculite missile batteries to support them. Fortress Earth was his new strategy.
“What about my meeting with Yezhov?” he asked.
“I hadn’t heard about that,” she said. “When was it supposed to take place?”
“Tomorrow, I think.”
She shook her head. “I doubt it will happen now. The Chief of PHC is in New Baghdad. There have been riots in the capital.”
Hawthorne swung open the door.
The Commodore followed, saying, “I still suggest that you should order anyone entering your presence—”
“Please, Commodore, save it until after the meeting.”
2.
Surprise was complete.
The Supreme Commander of Social Unity Armed Forces stood with his staff around a holoimage of Earth. The dark headquarters deep in the Joho Mountains of China Sector provided a safe haven from the space-borne invaders. There the officers studied the red dots circling the softly glowing, blue-green image of the planet. The dots indicated enemy space-laser platforms, orbital-fighter stations and two enemy Doom Stars, one of which orbited the Moon. Grimly, they pointed out to one another the much fewer yellow dots on the Earth: the proton beam installations and the merculite missile batteries.
As the officers discussed various strategies and the coming run of the Bangladesh, the door opened, flooding the darkened room with light. Air Marshal Ulrich, a bull-shouldered German, wearing his immaculate blue uniform, stepped within. A weird look twisted his florid features. Sweat glistened his face and soaked his too-tight collar.
The whispers died as one member of the staff after another glanced up.
The Air Marshal used his heel to close the door. Then, in a jerky motion, he unsnapped his holster flap and drew a heavy .55 magnum revolver.
“Ulrich! What’s the—”
A deafening BOOM cut the question short. The slug tore through the holoimage of Earth and hit Space Commander Shell, a short, hawkish man standing on the other side. Shell flew backward, his chest a gaping cavity. BOOM. Colonel-General Green, formerly of Replacement Army East, lost his head. BOOM, BOOM. Admiral O’Connor ceased to exist and Commodore Tivoli slammed against the back wall, her right shoulder gone.
Stunned, with his eyes bulging and his ears ringing, the Supreme Commander of Social Unity Armed Forces watched Ulrich stalk around the table that contained the electronics that projected the holoimage above it. General James Hawthorne found that he was shaking, and that his limbs refused to obey him. His heart pounded and suddenly he drew an agonizing gasp. Something wet soaked his left sleeve and a horrible groan awoke him to the fact that he was about to die.
Air Marshal Ulrich, with sweat pouring off his face, lifted the heavy hand cannon.
“Please, Ulrich—no!”
BOOM.
General Hawthorne flinched. Then he blinked in amazement. He felt no pain. It finally penetrated that the groaning had stopped. He twisted leftward. Commodore Tivoli no longer had a face. Ulrich had put her out of her misery.
The Air Marshal now drew a deep breath.
Seeming to move in slow motion, General Hawthorne turned toward him. He wished he could think of something profound to say, or something coolly indifferent. Instead, he had to fight not to throw himself onto his knees and beg for his life.
A grimace twisted the Air Marshal’s lips. He re-targeted the smoking .55, while his other hand fumbled in his jacket pocket, finally drawing a rag. He mopped his brow and wiped sweat from his chunky neck.
“Ulrich—”
“They want you alive,” interrupted the Air Marshal, his voice compressed. He wiped spittle from his lips.
Hawthorne’s knees almost buckled, he was so grateful that Ulrich didn’t plan to butcher him. Then his mind kicked back into focus.
The Air Marshal squinted and minutely shook his head. “No, James. Don’t try it. They said to kill you if it looks like it won’t work.”
“Who are they?”
“Turn around.”
“The Highborn?”
“Turn around!”
Although in his fifties, Hawthorne shifted onto the balls of his feet. He hoped Ulrich would wave with that sickeningly heavy pistol for him to turn around. He was grateful now for the agonizing hours he took each week keeping fit.
Ulrich had short, blunt fingers, an even thicker thumb. He used it to cock the hammer. “I understand, General. In fact, maybe it’s better this way, more mercifully that they don’t get their hands on you.”
Panic caused Hawthorne’s heart to thud in his chest. He turned around, his throat suddenly raw. He was too much of a soldier not to look at his dead friends. Space Commander Shell lay grotesquely. Commodore Tivoli—
From behind Ulrich stepped closer. Fabric rustled. Hawthorne willed himself to move, to use his elbow and slam it into Ulrich and spin around for a death-fight. But before the thought could become action, the heavy gun-barrel poked his back.
“It’s harder to be a hero than you think,” said Ulrich, his breath hot on Hawthorne’s ear. Then something cool touched the back of his neck.
Ulrich shuffled sideways, out of range. “Face me,” he said.
Hawthorne reached for the back of his neck. He heard the click. Next thing he knew he was falling. He didn’t feel anything until his left cheek struck the floor. Pain exploded. He wanted to rub his cheek, but his arms wouldn’t move.
Click. His shoulder throbbed where it had hit the floor, but at least he could move again, and feel.
“Don’t touch your neck,” said Ulrich. “Now, get up slowly.”
Hawthorne did. “What is it?” he said. “What did you put on me?”
“A neural inhibitor. I press my switch and it cuts off your nerve impulses from the neck down. Adhesive bonding keeps it in place.”
Hawthorne noted the thumb-sized switch in Ulrich’s free hand.
“Oh, one more thing. I have a second button. If I press it a mini-bomb detonates and your head detaches from your body.”
“What?”
“You’ll walk in front of me all the way out of here, General. If anything happens to me along the way—boom. No more head.”
“Then my security team kills you.”
Ulrich nodded as he wiped sweat from his face.
“Are you really willing to die?” asked Hawthorne.