But the ranks of soldiers held and he came in, making a perfect landing and winding up before the hanger in which the V-102 was usually sheltered.
Before the hanger stood Sergeant Jerry Wilkins and the rest of the mechanic crew. All were in dress uniform, rather than dirty coveralls and all were standing to attention. For once, the sergeant was minus the cynical expression on his wizened face.
Don Mathers, casting a somewhat apprehensive look at the cheering mob, climbed out and approached his crew.
He said to the sergeant, “You were right, Wilkins, the V-102 was tuned like a chronometer. It operated perfectly. Thanks. If even the slightest thing had gone wrong, I wouldn’t be here and whatever that Kraden’s mission was it probably would have been accomplished.”
“Thank you, sir,” Wilkins said.
A group of highly uniformed, highly bemedaled older officers was approaching.
Don grinned wryly at his crew and said, “Here comes the brass. Well, boys, take good care of the V-102. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Afraid the V-102 is out of our hands, sir,” the sergeant told him. “The Space Academy and the Smithsonian Institution are fighting for her. Both want to enshrine her.”
Inwardly, Don thought, “Almighty Ultimate!” He turned and faced the advancing brass. The only one he recognized was Commodore Bernklau and he was the lowest ranking officer among them.
Don came to the salute.
The five star Space Fleet admiral said, “At ease, Lieutenant, and, obviously, congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir,” Don said crisply.
The commodore said, “The news people would like to get to you, Donal, but orders are to avoid them until you have made your first report to the Octagon. I am to accompany you to Bost-Wash.”
Don said, looking out at the cheering mob, and then down at his coveralls, “Yes, sir. But how do we get through that crowd to where I can change into uniform?”
One of the generals laughed and said, “We’ve foxed them, Lieutenant. The Presidential Jet has been sent to pick you up. It is equipped with uniforms of your size, and anything else you might need.”
One of the fleet admirals grinned and said, “Including an autobar. I suspect you could use a drink after what you’ve been through.”
“Yes, sir, I sure could, sir,” Don said.
They all shook hands with him before moving along to the Presidential Jet.
“So long, sir,” the sergeant called after him, unheard. He turned to the rest of the mechanics. “We’ll never see him again,” he said. “He’s about to be, what’s the word? Deified. That means they make a god out of you.”
Don Mathers had never been in Bost-Wash before, though he had flown over it. The city stretched from what had once been Boston to what had once been Washington. In fact, if anything, it would have been more accurate, these days, to call it Port-Port, since it was rapidly engulfing Portland, Maine, to the north, and Portsmouth, Virginia, to the south.
The Presidential Jet swooped in to the extensive landing field adjacent to the Octagon and Don Mathers, now in his sub-lieutenant’s dress uniform, was hurried into a hover-limousine and into the bowels of the enormous military building.
The commodore explained. “We didn’t let the word out that you were on your way here. We were afraid that a couple of million citizens might show up and not even the Octagon has the manpower on hand to hold back a crowd that big.”
“Holy smokes,” Don protested. “I didn’t expect anything like this.”
The commodore looked at him strangely. He said, “Donal, so far as we know, you are the only man ever to destroy a Kraden single-handed. In fact, your Miro Class cruiser is the first Kraden destroyed since the big shoot-out fifty years ago. Every human being alive has been wrapped up in this war for half a century and you’re the first one to draw blood in all that time.”
“Sheer luck,” Don said.
“Of course. But nevertheless you did it.”
They were whisked into a lavish conference room and Don was confronted by a dozen of the ranking military of the solar system.
He came to attention and saluted. None of them bothered to return it.
He said, “Sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers reporting.”
His ultimate commander, Senior Admiral of the Space Forces Frol Rubinoff, said, “Relax, DonaL Have a seat. Would you like a drink?”
Don sat. He said, ruefully, “No, sir. I’d better not. I had a couple on the plane. I needed them then. But I guess I better not need any more now.”
It wasn’t that good a sally but all of them laughed, as though to put him at his ease.
They had a tape recorder before him but also all had scratch pads and stylos.
The Senior Admiral said, “Now, we want to get as much of this down as possible while it’s still fresh in your mind. When did you first spot the Kraden?”
Don said, “He just suddenly materialized, sir. Bang, in front of me, only a few hundred kilometers off.”
One of the others leaned forward and said, “So you think he emerged from hyper-space, as some have called it? That is, that the Kradens have accomplished faster than light travel?”
Don played it sincere. “I don’t know, sir. All of a sudden, he was there.”
To the extent he could, he stuck to the truth. Many of the questions they asked, he couldn’t answer but seemingly did the best he could. In the heat of the action, he explained, a lot of details went by him.
One of them said, “Why in the world did you switch off your scanners just at the point when you went into action? It would have been invaluable to have been able to watch the progress of the attack.”
Don looked at him and said, “Yes, sir, but I had just been ordered by my fleet admiral not to attack. I was afraid that if I continued to communicate he would give me further orders that I felt I couldn’t obey, not if the Kraden wasn’t going to get away.”
The Senior Admiral shook his head in rejection but also in admiration. He said, “You are a very undisciplined young man, Lieutenant. In this case, thank the Almighty Ultimate. What did you think you were going to accomplish going in to attack?”
“I… I’m not sure I know, sir. I guess that I thought that I might be able to divert him for a short time. Keep him busy until the Monitors came up. I wasn’t as fast as he was by a long shot, but I was more maneuverable at short range. I… I didn’t expect to be able to do much more than a mosquito could to an elephant.”
One of the others shook his head. “You shouldn’t have been able to,” he muttered.
“Yes, sir,” Don said.
The screen before the Senior Admiral lit up and he glowered at it impatiently. He growled, “I thought I had given orders that we were not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”
But then he brought his eyes up and said, “The lieutenant has been taken out of our hands.” He looked at Don. “The President of the Solar System League has ordered that you immediately be flown to New Geneva.”
“Yes, sir,” Don said, coming to his feet. It was a relief, though he tried not to let that show in his face. These were not stupid men. It might have been only a matter of time before one of them asked some question that he couldn’t answer. Some question that would trip him up.
The Senior Admiral looked at the commodore and said, “Bernklau, see sub-lieutenant Mathers back to the Presidential Jet. It will not be necessary that you further accompany him.”
“Yes, sir,” the commodore said.
The Senior Admiral came back to Don. He said, “Sub-lieutenant Mathers, I congratulate you. You have conducted yourself in such manner that the whole human race can only be proud of you.”