“Right the first time. Since we can’t rely on beams, we need missiles, but missiles have problems of their own. As Colin is overly fond of pointing out, there are always trade-offs.
“Sublight missiles can be fired from anywhere, but they’re vulnerable to interception, especially over interplanetary ranges. Hyper missiles can’t be intercepted, but they can’t be launched from atmosphere, either. Even air has mass, and the exact mass a hyper missile takes into hyper with it is critical to where it re-enters normal space. That’s why warships pre-position their hyper missiles just inside their shields before they launch.”
Hatcher leaned forward, listening carefully. Horus had been a missile specialist before the mutiny; anything he had to say on this subject was something the general wanted to hear.
“We can’t do that from a planet. Oh, we could, but planetary shields aren’t like warship shields. Not on habitable planets, anyway. Shield density is a function of shield area; after a point, you can’t make it any denser, no matter how much power you put into it. To maintain sufficient density to stop really large kinetic weapons, our shield is going to have to contract well into the mesosphere. We can stop most smaller weapons from outside atmosphere, but not the big bastards, and we can’t count on avoiding heavy kinetic attack. In fact, that’s exactly what we’re likely to be under if we do need to launch from planetary bases.”
“And if the shield contracts, the missiles would be outside it where the Achuultani could pick them off,” Hatcher mused.
“Exactly. So we have to plan on going hyper straight from launch, and that means we need launchers big enough to contain the entire hyper field—just over three times the size of the missiles—or else their drives will take chunks out of the defense center when they depart.” Horus shrugged. “Since a heavy hyper missile’s about forty meters long and the launcher has to be air-tight with provision for high-speed evacuation of atmosphere, we’re talking some pretty serious engineering just to build the damned things.”
“I see.” Hatcher frowned thoughtfully. “How far behind schedule are you, Horus? We’re going to need those batteries to cover our orbital defenses whatever happens.”
“Oh, we’re not really in trouble yet. Geb allowed for some slippage in his original plans, and he thinks he can make it up once he gets more Imperial equipment on line. Give us another six months and we should be back on schedule. By Dahak’s least favorable estimate, we’ve got two years before the Achuultani arrive, and we should only be looking at a thousand or so scouts in the first wave. If we can hurt them badly enough, we’ll have another year or so to extend the defenses before the main fleet gets here. Hopefully, we’ll have more warships of our own by then, too.”
“Hopefully,” Hatcher agreed. He tried to radiate confidence, but he and Horus both knew. They had an excellent chance of beating off the Achuultani scouts, but unless Colin found the help they needed, Earth had no hope at all against the main incursion.
The cold winter wind and dark, cloudy sky over T’aiyuan’s concrete runways struck Marshal Tsien Tao-ling as an appropriate mirror for his own mood. Impassive and bulky in his uniform greatcoat, Tsien had headed the military machine of the Asian Alliance for twelve tumultuous years, and he had earned that post through decisiveness, dedication, and sheer ability. His authority had been virtually absolute, a rare thing in this day and age. Now that same authority was like a chain of iron, dragging him remorselessly towards a decision he did not want to make.
In less than fifty years, his nation had unified all of Asia that mattered—aside from the Japanese and Filipinos, and they scarcely counted as Asians any longer. The task had been neither cheap nor easy, nor had it been bloodless, but the Alliance had built a military machine even the West was forced to respect. Much of that building had been his own work, the fruit of his sworn oath to defend his people, the Party, and the State, and now his own decision might well bring all that effort, all that sacrifice, to nothing.
Oh, yes, he thought, lengthening his stride, these are the proper skies for me.
General Quang scurried after him, his high-pitched voice fighting a losing battle with the wind. Tsien was a huge man, almost two hundred centimeters in his bare feet, and a native of Yunnan Province. Quang was both diminutive and Vietnamese, and all rhetoric about Asian Solidarity notwithstanding, there was very little love lost between the Southern Chinese and their Vietnamese “brothers.” Thousands of years of mutual hostility could not be forgotten that easily, nor could Vietnam’s years as a Soviet proxy be easily forgiven, and the fact that Quang was a merely marginally competent whiner with powerful Party connections only made it worse.
Quang broke off, puffing with exertion, and the marshal smiled inwardly. He knew the smaller man resented how ridiculous he looked trying to match his own long-legged stride, which was why he took pains to emphasize it whenever they met. Yet what bothered him most just now, he admitted, was hearing a fool like Quang say so many things he had thought himself.
And what of me? Tsien frowned at his own thoughts. I am a servant of the Party, sworn to protect the State, yet what am I to do when half the Central Committee has vanished? Can it be true so many of them were traitors—not just to the State but to all humanity? Yet where else have they gone? And how am I to choose when my own decision has suddenly become so all important?
He looked up at the sleek vehicle waiting on the taxi way. Its bronze-sheened alloy gleamed dully in the cloudy afternoon, and the olive-brown-skinned woman beside its open hatch was not quite Oriental-looking. The sight touched him with something he seldom felt: uncertainty. Which made him think again of what Quang had been saying. He sighed and paused, keeping his face utterly impassive with the ease of long practice
“General, your words are not new. They have been considered, by your government and mine—” what remains of them, idiot “—and the decision has been made. Unless his terms are utterly beyond reason, we will comply with the demands of this Planetary Governor.” For now, at least.
“The Party has not been well-advised,” Quang muttered. “It is a trick.”
“A trick, Comrade General?” Tsien’s small smile was wintry as the wind. “You have, perhaps, noticed that there is no longer a moon in our night skies? It has, perhaps, occurred to you that anyone with a warship of that size and power has no need of trickery? If it has not, reflect upon this, Comrade General.” He nodded in the direction of the waiting Imperial cutter. “That vehicle could reduce this entire base to rubble, and nothing we have could even find it, much less stop it. Do you truly believe that the West, with hundreds of even more powerful weapons now at its disposal, could not disarm us by force as they already have those maniacs in Southwest Asia?”
“But—”
“Spare me your comments, Comrade General,” Tsien said heavily. Especially since they are so close to my own doubts. I have a job to do, and you make it no easier. “We have two choices: comply, or be deprived of the poor weapons we still possess. It is possible they are honest, that this danger they speak of is real. If that is true, resistance would spell far worse for all of us than disarmament and occupation. If they are lying, then at least we may have the opportunity to observe their technology at first hand, possibly even to gain access to it ourselves.”
“But—”
“I will not repeat myself, Comrade General.” Tsien’s voice was suddenly soft, and Quang paled. “It is bad enough when junior officers question orders; I will not tolerate it in general officers. Is that clear, Comrade General?”