“No,” said Hawthorne, sweat glistening on his face. “If we had really surprised them they’d have thrown something at us by now, some backup, emergency reserve we couldn’t have seen before this.”
“That’s madness!” said Shell. “We took out everything they had in orbit.”
“Yes, much too easily.”
“Their arrogance was their undoing,” said Shell. “The Lord Director was right. We must not let our… fear of them unhinge us.”
Hawthorne glanced at Shell.
“I implore you, General, stick to procedure.”
“This is a trap,” Hawthorne dared say.
“What? Nonsense!”
“Highborn don’t go down so easily. We all know that.”
Commander Shell snorted. “They aren’t really supermen after all. We’ve simply fallen for their propaganda. Our success today proves that.”
Hawthorne stubbornly shook his head. “Launch all your interceptors, Commander.”
Commander Shell hesitated. “Perhaps a call to the Lord Director is in order, General.”
General Hawthorne faced the smaller man. “Anyone disobeying my orders will be immediately shot. Is that understood, Commander?”
Commander Shell thought about that. Finally, he clicked his heels and issued the needed orders.
Air Marshal Ulrich grunted as he stepped beside his friend. He whispered, “You’d better know what you’re doing, James.”
A soft, cynical laugh fell from General Hawthorne’s lips. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace again.
15.
Not all of the electronic gear on the space habs orbiting Earth was trained starward. Several passive optic sensors of great power watched the planet, the East Asian Landmass to be precise. Its operators squirted a message to a special satellite that sent it on to the Doom Star Julius Caesar, presently hidden behind the largest space habitat in the Solar System, the gigantic Tiaping Hab in ‘high’ L-5 orbit. The vice-commander in charge immediately beamed a message to Grand Admiral Cassius aboard the sister Doom Star Genghis Khan, also lurking behind Tiaping Hab.
The Grand Admiral, his eyes alight with the need for bloodshed, barked quick commands. The two Doom Stars—each kilometers in diameter—pumped gravity waves and glided forward under emergency acceleration. Although it had occurred much sooner than anticipated, the premen had at last tripped the wire so carefully set for them. Each Doom Star had taken station eight weeks ago in a stealth move and maintained practically zero radiation and radio signature. Now the admiral would pay the premen back for the arrogance of their nuclear strikes and for daring to destroy the space stations. Now they entered phase three of his intricately mapped strategy. Premen were so naively predictable. He just hoped the entire Free Earth Corps in Japan wouldn’t have to be written off. To start training a new Earth Army all over again… he shrugged. As the brilliant preman Napoleon Bonaparte had once so insightfully said, “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”
16.
“Commander!” shouted a staff officer, breaking the quiet of the command center.
Commander Shell growled, “Report.”
“Doom Stars, sir.”
All eyes turned to the staff officer as Commander Shell and General Hawthorne strode to screen S-Fifteen. They hovered behind the staff officer. With unconcealed dread, they studied the growing shapes. The massive Doom Stars gained momentum as they streaked earthward. Spherical as moons and bristling with weaponry, they were launching squadrons of orbital fighters: squat, wicked craft that every person on Earth had learned to hate.
“They’ve never used Doom Stars this near Earth,” said Hawthorne.
“What are they doing here?” muttered a staff officer.
“We’ve been tricked,” said another.
“They’re deep space vessels,” Commander Shell said. “Caught in Earth’s gravity they’ll be easy prey for us.” He frowned at the screen, at the mass of orbital fighters that were spewed from the two Doom Stars. “How many orbitals do they hold?”
“I thought we destroyed the bulk of them at their stations,” an appalled staff officer whispered.
“I want to know which Doom Stars those are,” said General Hawthorne crisply.
“The Genghis Khan, sir.”
“Grand Admiral Cassius’s flagship?” asked General Hawthorne.
Commander Shell grew pale.
“Yes, sir. And the Julius Caesar, sir.”
Somewhere a man retched. The tension in the command center had grown oppressive. The very air seemed to thicken. The Highborn hadn’t yet used the Doom Stars like this—they couldn’t afford to lose one. Everyone wondered what their potential was when fighting this far down the gravity well of a major planet.
General Hawthorne stared at the two Doom Stars as if he could will them away. The Highborn had out maneuvered them again, and so easily. If he’d known that Doom Stars were so near—disaster loomed.
“Sir,” said Commander Shell, “this means—”
“All interceptors at the Genghis Khan,” whispered General Hawthorne, glad he’d insisted they all be launched. Already a plan formed in his brilliant mind, a risky, all or nothing gamble.
“What?” said Shell. “But that’s suicide! The Doom Stars are still too far out. Let them come into closer Earth orbit.”
“Don’t you think I know they’re still too far out?” shouted Hawthorne.
Commander Shell took a step back.
General Hawthorne breathed deeply, once more using his sleeve to dab his features. “Straight at the Genghis Khan,” he said softly. “We have to buy our boys time and pray for luck. We’ll have the added advantage of surprise.”
“What?” said Shell. “Surprise?”
“They’ll never expect us to throw the interceptors so deep into space.”
A visibly agitated Commander Shell collected himself. Once he had been the highest rated interceptor pilot of Earth. His first love still lay there. Everyone knew it.
“General Hawthorne, sir….” Commander Shell straightened his uniform, stepping closer and saluting. “I respectfully beg to report, sir, we cannot afford to throw away the interceptors.”
“Thank you, Commander. I understand your feelings.”
“Sir! I—”
“I said thank you, Commander.” General Hawthorne stared the smaller man down.
At first Shell stiffened, and something in his manner alerted the bionic guards along the walls.
They shifted their attention to him, an ominous, absorbing interest. He glanced at them. A nervous tic twisted the commander’s mouth. Now he couldn’t seem to bring himself to stare back into General Hawthorne’s eyes. Yet he was a stubborn man, and with eyes downcast, he faced the general. “Sir, if we regroup and scramble North and South American squadrons and met the enemy in the stratosphere—”
“No.”
Commander Shell swallowed audibly. “Sir,” he said, his shoulders hunching and something elemental draining from him. He turned to the screen.
So did General Hawthorne. Already the interceptors popped out of the stratosphere and into space. Their rockets glowed orange as they shot toward the nearer Genghis Khan. As far out as the Doom Star was, it would be doubtful that the interceptors would have enough rocket fuel to return to Earth, not after burning their reserves in space-battle maneuvering.
“The orbitals have high ground,” whispered Shell.
General Hawthorne knew that in terms of a space battle Earth was a heavy gravity well. That any craft coming toward the planet came as if down a steep hill and any craft heading up fought gravity, the same for their torpedoes and missiles. As it was, the squat orbital fighters already held every advantage over the interceptors. To give them high ground as well…