He called the local flight controller, got permission to take off. The twin turbofans in the killercraft roared to life. The vibration and noise went all through him, a good and familiar feeling.
He taxied down the runway, then climbed steeply, acceleration shoving him back hard into his seat. His horizon expanded marvelously, as it did whenever he went airborne. He enjoyed that expansion less than he had from other bases, though, for it soon brought into view the ruins of Miami.
Teerts had been flying down to Florida when that area went up in an appalling cloud. Had he been a little ahead of himself, the fireball might have caught him, or the blast might have wrecked his killercraft or flipped it into a spin from which it never would have recovered.
Even thinking about that squeezed an alarmed hiss from him. Of itself, his hand started to reach for the little plastic vial of powdered ginger. When he was reassigned to the lesser continental mass, he’d wondered if he would still be able to get the powdered herb he craved. But a good many males on the Florida base used it, and the dark-skinned Big Uglies who labored for the Race seemed to have an unending supply. They hadn’t yet asked him for anything more than trinkets, little electronic gadgets he could easily afford to give up in exchange for the delights ginger brought him.
But-“I will not taste now,” he said, and made his hand retreat. However good ginger made him feel, he knew it clouded his judgment. Engaging the Big Uglies wasn’t so easy or so safe as it had once been. If you went at them confident you’d have things all your own way no matter what, you were liable to end up with your name on the memorial tablet that celebrated the males who had perished to bring Tosev 3 into the Empire.
Rabotev 3 and Halless 1 had such tablets at their capitals; he’d seen holograms of them before setting out from Home. The one on Halless 1 had only a few names, the one on Rabotev 2 only a few hundred. Teerts was sure the Race would set up memorial tablets for Tosev 3; if they’d done it on the other worlds they’d conquered, they’d do it here. If you didn’t maintain your traditions, what point to having a civilization?
But the memorial tablets here would be different from those of the other two habitable worlds the Race had conquered. “We can set up the tablets, then build the capital inside them,” Teerts said. In spite of himself, his mouth fell open. The image was macabre, but it was also funny. The memorial tablets to commemorate the heroes who fell in the conquest of Tosev 3 would have alot of names on them.
Teerts flew his prescribed sweep, north and west over the lesser continental mass. A lot of the territory over which he passed was still in the hands of the local Big Uglies. Every so often, antiaircraft fire would splotch the air below and behind him with black puffs of smoke. He didn’t worry about that; he was flying too high for the Tosevites’ cannon to reach him.
He did keep a wary eye turret turned toward the radar presentation in his head-up display. Intelligence said the Americans lagged behind the British and the Deutsche when it came to jet aircraft, and they mostly used their piston-and-airfoil machines for ground attack and harassment duties, but you never could tell… and Intelligence wasn’t always as omniscient as its practitioners thought. That was another painful lesson the Race had learned on Tosev 3.
Here and there, snow dappled the higher ground. As far as Teerts was concerned, that was as good a reason as any to let the Big Uglies keep this part of their world. But if you let them keep all the parts where snow fell, you’d end up with a depressingly small part of the world to call your own.
He drew nearer the large river that ran from north to south through the heart of the northern half of the lesser continental mass. The Race controlled most of the territory along the river. If his aircraft got into trouble, he had places where he could take refuge.
The large river marked the westernmost limit of his planned patrol. He was about to swing back toward Florida, which, no matter how humid it was, did at least enjoy a temperate climate, when his forward-looking radar picked up something new and hideous.
Whatever it was, it took off from the ground and rapidly developed more velocity than his killercraft had. For a moment, he wondered if something inside his radar had gone wrong. If it had, would the base have the components it needed to fix the problem?
Then his paradigm shifted. That wasn’t an aircraft, like the rocket-powered killercraft the Deutsche had started using. It was an out-and-out rocket, a missile. The Deutsche had those, too, but he hadn’t known the Americans did. From his briefings, he didn’t think Intelligence knew it, either.
He flicked on his radio transmitter. “Flight Leader Teerts calling Florida base Intelligence,” he said.
Satellite relay connected him almost as quickly as if he’d been in the next room. “Intelligence, Florida base, Aaatos speaking. Your report, Flight Leader Teerts?”
Teerts gave the particulars of what his radar had picked up, then said, “If you like, I have fuel enough to reach the launch site, attack any launcher or Tosevite installation visible, and still return to base.”
“You are a male of initiative,” Aaatos said. Among the Race, the phrase was not necessarily a compliment, though Teerts chose to take it as one. Aaatos resumed: “Please wait while I consult my superiors.” Teerts waited, though every moment increased the likelihood that he would have to refuel in the air. But Aaatos was not gone long. “Flight Leader Teerts, your attack against the Tosevite installation is authorized. Punish the Big Uglies for their arrogance.”
“It shall be done,” Teerts said. The computers aboard the killercraft held the memory of where radar had first picked up the missile. They linked to the Satellite mappers the Race had orbiting Tosev 3 and guided Teerts toward the launch site.
He knew the Race was desperately low on antimissile missiles. They’d expended a lot of them against the rockets the Deutsche hurled at Poland and France. Teerts had no idea how many-if any-were left, but he didn’t need to wear the fleetlord’s body paint to figure out that. If the Race had to start using them here in the United States, whatever remaining reserves there were would vanish all the sooner.
He skimmed low over the woods west of the great river, and over a clearing where. If his instruments didn’t lie, the American missile had begun its flight. And, sure enough, he spotted a burned place in the dead grass of the clearing. But that was all he saw.
Whatever launcher or guide rails the Big Uglies had used, they’d already got them under cover of the trees.
Had he had an unlimited supply of munitions, Teerts would have shot up the area around the clearing on the off chance of hitting worthwhile. As things were… He radioed the situation back to the Florida air base. Aaatos said, “Return here for full debriefing, Flight Leader Teerts. We shall have other opportunities to make the Big Uglies look back in sorrow upon the course they have chosen.”
“Returning to base,” Teerts acknowledged. If the American Tosevites were starting to use missiles, the Race would have plenty of chances to attack their launchers in the future, anyhow. Whether that was just what Aaatos had meant, Teerts didn’t know.
Holding his white flag of truce high, George Bagnall moved out into the clearing in the pine woods south of Pskov. Hisvalenki made little scrunching noises as he walked through the packed snow. The big, floppy boots put him in mind of Wellingtons made of felt; however ugly they were, though, they did a marvelous job of keeping his feet warm. For the rest of him, he wore his RAF fur-and-leather flying suit. Anything that kept him from freezing above Angels Twenty was just about up to the rigors of a Russian winter.