HB-13 Annihilators were catapulted out of underground runways, lofting the heavy bombers into the dark, morning sky. Behind them followed long-range NF-5 Night Owls and Wobbly Goblins 9000s, the latest in electronic counter measures aircraft. AL-101 Standoff Screamers, which launched near-space missiles, roared up last to do battle with the remaining space stations. Hundreds of aircraft per hidden base sped into the night sky, heading toward their rendezvous point over the East China Sea.
A colonel muttered quiet words to the air marshal. He checked his chronometer before grunting, “Scramble Korea.”
Airforce staff officers leaned toward their mikes, issuing orders. The screens switched to underground Korean airfields, where swarms of F-33 Tigers and A-14 Laser Razors buzzed into the night sky like angry wasps. They headed directly for the Tsushima Strait and Japan beyond. Lastly lofted sleek attack choppers, whomping a few feet above the waves all the way to the islands.
In the circular chamber, left of air control, Admiral O’Connor likewise studied screens. His showed Earth’s last carriers, the latest in ship design. The fast, submersible carriers rose out of the deep and whisked toward Japan on a cushion of air. First Fleet and Second Fleet together numbered over twenty of the sub-hover flattops. They launched bombers, fighters, surveillance craft and cunning ECM drones. Third, Fourth and Fifth Fleets contained every other major oceanic unit left to Earth. Serene underwater shots showed an armada of sleek hunter/killer submarines and the much bulkier cruise missile submarines. Yet other screens provided an idea of the incredible number of troop transport and cargo ships at Social Unity’s disposal. In the first wave alone fully seven hundred thousand SU soldiers, twenty-five hundred bio-tanks and one thousand cybertanks would land in the beleaguered Japanese Islands to hurl the hated invader off Earth.
Space control, to the left of Navy, waited to order the interceptors into action and to issue the go-word for the merculite missile batteries in Hong Kong, Beijing and Tokyo. Meanwhile, the newly placed and incredibly powerful proton beam stations in Manila, Taipei, Shanghai and Vladivostok clawed near-Earth orbit, obliterating the remaining space platforms. Already air-launched missiles from the Standoff Screamers roared into near-orbital space to finish off what the beams missed.
General James Hawthorne paced back and forth in the center of command. Against the Lord Director’s strictest orders he had kept observers in various farm habitats orbiting Earth. Despite the open habitat order granted by the Highborn, General Hawthorne needed military personnel there to give him far ranging eyes into space. His disobedience was a tremendous gamble in two completely different ways. If the Highborn found out, they might destroy the habs or they might rescind the open order. If they did either, those areas of Earth still under Social Unity’s control could face massive starvation. The second danger, a much more personal threat, was that Lord Director Enkov’s allegiance monitors—ruthless secret police agents—might uncover his disobedience. They pried everywhere, and were one source of Enkov’s unprecedented power. The bionic guards who lined the circular command chamber and watched everyone were the other source.
General Hawthorne briefly mused upon the Lord Director’s ways. Enkov believed in blunt power used brutally. The Lord Director had taken captive family members from each of his military officers ranked colonel or higher. These members had become hostages for their good behavior. It was an ancient trick, and so far, it had worked beautifully, at least in terms of maintained loyalty.
General Hawthorne paced as his air armadas gathered like hungry wolves off Japan’s shores. He paced as his fleets hurried to disgorge hundreds of highly trained battalions into battle. He clasped his hands behind his back and strode first one direction and then another. He wore no soft-soled shoes, but military gear that clattered on the tiled floor. He paced in the dim green light. He paced, and he smelled danger. Yes, four weeks ago he’d been in favor of Operation Togo. But since then… was this a trap? He couldn’t shake the feeling. And if it were a trap… who would shoulder the blame for it? Not the Lord Director.
The minutes ticked by. The general paced, and his staff officers pointedly ignored him as they studied their screens. Tension grew. He radiated it. They felt it. So far, the Highborn hadn’t reacted. No lasers stabbed out of space. The stations had been destroyed or damaged beyond use. No orbital fighters screamed down to face his fighters. Again, it was splendid, unbelievable success against negligible Highborn defense. It was unprecedented. No Thor missiles (rocks hurled down from orbit and sped by gravity) bombarded strong points.
The staff officers showed their nervousness in various ways. They wiped their hands on their pant legs or they lit non-narcotic stimsticks or they kept their faces impassive or they checked their chronometers every ten seconds or—only one man paced, his shoes click, click, clicking on the tiles.
None of them, despite the tension, the grimness of not knowing, of waiting, glanced at the bionic security men who even now guarded against treachery. Those carbines, those surgically enhanced muscles had one purpose, one goaclass="underline" to slaughter anyone who lifted his hand against the State, which was to say against Lord Director Enkov.
General James Hawthorne stopped and blotted his mouth with his wrist.
Air Marshal Ulrich growled, “We have them!”
General Hawthorne thoughtfully pursed his lips.
“We’ve caught them by surprise,” agreed Commander Shell. “We’ve cleared near-orbital space of them. Japan is ours for the plucking.”
General Hawthorne studied the TV screens showing deep space. It was empty, devoid of enemy craft. Subtlety, his bony features shifted from unease, to suspicion and then to a grim certainty. “Scramble the interceptors,” he said.
The staff of Space Control turned sharply. Commander Shell took several steps nearer the general before he clicked his heels together. “Sir! Interceptors have limited fuel capacity. They are only to be launched at intervals, thus always keeping a reserve for when the others are forced to land and refuel.”
“I know very well what their limits are,” said General Hawthorne. “Scramble them all.”
“But sir—”
“This instant, Commander.”
The interceptors were planet-based space fighters, a turbine-rocket hybrid. The interceptors’ magneto-hydro-dynamic turbines used atmospheric oxidizer until they reached the vacuum of space, then they switched to chemical rockets. The use of the MHD power plant in the atmosphere saved the bulky chemical fuel for vacuum use alone, increasing the pitifully short range of the interceptors. Even so, the range limits called for utterly precise use. Those uses had been drilled into every space control officer from the moment he began his training.
“We’ve gained tremendous successes,” argued Commander Shell. He was a small, hawkish man, young for one of such high rank. “Now is the time to hold our cards and wait for whatever moves the enemy can make.”
General Hawthorne stared in dread at the screens showing deep space. His gut boiled. Something, a thing he couldn’t see but feel, oh yes, he felt it twisting his innards—He refused to acknowledge Commander Shell.
Commander Shell shot an imploring look at Air Marshal Ulrich.
The bull-shouldered Ulrich stepped near Hawthorne. “James,” he said. “We have them. But if they have something that can catch us when all the interceptors have landed…”