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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/24122-8.txt b/24122-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..94ecd5f --- /dev/null +++ b/24122-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1181 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pushbutton War, by Joseph P. Martino + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Pushbutton War + +Author: Joseph P. Martino + +Illustrator: Schoenherr + +Release Date: January 2, 2008 [EBook #24122] +Last updated: January 22, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUSHBUTTON WAR *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + PUSHBUTTON WAR + + By JOSEPH P. MARTINO + + Illustrated by Schoenherr + +[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science +Fiction August 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence +that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + + + + + _In one place, a descendant of the Vikings rode a ship such as Lief + never dreamed of; from another, one of the descendants of the + Caesars, and here an Apache rode a steed such as never roamed the + plains. But they were warriors all._ + + +The hatch swung open, admitting a blast of Arctic air and a man clad in +a heavy, fur-lined parka. He quickly closed the hatch and turned to the +man in the pilot's couch. + +"O.K., Harry. I'll take over now. Anything to report?" + +"The heading gyro in the autopilot is still drifting. Did you write it +up for Maintenance?" + +"Yeah. They said that to replace it they'd have to put the ship in the +hangar, and it's full now with ships going through periodic inspection. +I guess we'll have to wait. They can't just give us another ship, +either. With the hangar full, we must be pretty close to the absolute +minimum for ships on the line and ready to fly." + +"O.K. Let me check out with the tower, and she'll be all yours." He +thumbed the intercom button and spoke into the mike: "RI 276 to tower. +Major Lightfoot going off watch." + +When the tower acknowledged, he began to disconnect himself from the +ship. With smooth, experienced motions, he disconnected the mike cable, +oxygen hose, air pressure hose, cooling air hose, electrical heating +cable, and dehumidifier hose which connected his flying suit to the +ship. He donned the parka and gloves his relief had worn, and stepped +through the hatch onto the gantry crane elevator. Even through the heavy +parka, the cold air had a bite to it. As the elevator descended, he +glanced to the south, knowing as he did so that there would be nothing +to see. The sun had set on November 17th, and was not due up for three +more weeks. At noon, there would be a faint glow on the southern +horizon, as the sun gave a reminder of its existence, but now, at four +in the morning, there was nothing. As he stepped off the elevator, the +ground crew prepared to roll the gantry crane away from the ship. He +opened the door of the waiting personnel carrier and swung aboard. The +inevitable cry of "close that door" greeted him as he entered. He +brushed the parka hood back from his head, and sank into the first empty +seat. The heater struggled valiantly with the Arctic cold to keep the +interior of the personnel carrier at a tolerable temperature, but it +never seemed able to do much with the floor. He propped his feet on the +footrest of the seat ahead of him, spoke to the other occupant of the +seat. + +"Hi, Mike." + +"Hi, Harry. Say, what's your watch schedule now?" + +"I've got four hours off, back on for four, then sixteen off. Why?" + +"Well, a few of us are getting up a friendly little game before we go +back on watch. I thought you might want to join us." + +"Well, I--" + +"Come on, now. What's your excuse this time for not playing cards?" + +"To start with, I'm scheduled for a half hour in the simulator, and +another half hour in the procedural trainer. Then if I finish the exam +in my correspondence course, I can get it on this week's mail plane. If +I don't get it in the mail now, I'll have to wait until next week." + +"All right, I'll let you off this time. How's the course coming?" + +"This is the final exam. If I pass, I'll have only forty-two more +credits to go before I have my degree in Animal Husbandry." + +"What on earth do you want with a degree like that?" + +"I keep telling you. When I retire, I'm going back to Oklahoma and raise +horses. If I got into all the card games you try to organize, I'd retire +with neither the knowledge to run a horse ranch, nor the money to start +one." + +"But why raise horses? Cabbages, I can see. Tomatoes, yes. But why +horses?" + +"Partly because there's always a market for them, so I'll have a fair +amount of business to keep me eating regularly. But mostly because I +like horses. I practically grew up in the saddle. By the time I was old +enough to do much riding, Dad had his own ranch, and I helped earn my +keep by working for him. Under those circumstances, I just naturally +learned to like horses." + +"Guess I never thought of it like that. I was a city boy myself. The +only horses I ever saw were the ones the cops rode. I didn't get much +chance to became familiar with the beasts." + + * * * * * + +"Well, you don't know what you missed. It's just impossible to describe +what it's like to use a high-spirited and well-trained horse in your +daily work. The horse almost gets to sense what you want him to do next. +You don't have to direct his every move. Just a word or two, and a touch +with your heel or the pressure of your knee against his side, and he's +got the idea. A well-trained horse is perfectly capable of cutting a +particular cow out of a herd without any instructions beyond showing him +which one you want." + +"It's too bad the Army did away with the cavalry. Sounds like you belong +there, not in the Air Force." + +"No, because if there's anything I like better than riding a good horse, +it's flying a fast and responsive airplane. I've been flying fighters +for almost seventeen years now, and I'll be quite happy to keep flying +them as long as they'll let me. When I can't fly fighters any more, then +I'll go back to horses. And much as I like horses, I hope that's going +to be a long time yet." + +"You must hate this assignment, then. How come I never hear you complain +about it?" + +"The only reason I don't complain about this assignment is that I +volunteered for it. And I've been kicking myself ever since. When I +heard about the Rocket Interceptors, I was really excited. Imagine a +plane fast enough to catch up with an invading ballistic missile and +shoot it down. I decided this was for me, and jumped at the assignment. +They sounded like the hot fighter planes to end all hot fighter planes. +And what do I find? They're so expensive to fly that we don't get any +training missions. I've been up in one just once, and that was my +familiarization flight, when I got into this assignment last year. And +then it was only a ride in the second seat of that two-seat version they +use for checking out new pilots. I just lay there through the whole +flight. And as far as I could see, the pilot didn't do much more. He +just watched things while the autopilot did all the work." + +"Well, don't take it too hard. You might get some flights." + +"That's true. They do mistake a meteor for a missile now and then. But +that happens only two or three times a year. That's not enough. I want +some regular flying. I haven't got any flying time in for more than a +year. The nearest I come to flying is my time in the procedural trainer, +to teach me what buttons to push, and in the simulator, to give me the +feel of what happens when I push the buttons." + +"That's O.K. They still give you your flying pay." + +"I know, but that's not what I'm after. I fly because I love flying. I +use the flying pay just to keep up the extra premiums the insurance +companies keep insisting on so long as I indulge my passion for fighter +planes." + +"I guess about the only way you could get any regular flying on this job +would be for a war to come along." + +"That's about it. We'd fly just as often as they could recover our ships +and send us back up here for another launch. And that would go on until +the economy on both sides broke down so far they couldn't make any more +missiles for us to chase, or boosters to send us up after them. No +thanks. I don't want to fly that badly. I like civilization." + +"In the meantime, then, you ought to try to enjoy it here. Where else +can you spend most of your working hours lying flat on your back on the +most comfortable couch science can devise?" + +"That's the trouble. Just lying there, where you can't read, write, +talk, or listen. It might be O.K. for a hermit, but I'd rather fly +fighter planes. Here's the trainer building. I've got to get out." + + * * * * * + +Seven o'clock. Harry Lightfoot licked the flap on the envelope, sealed +it shut, stuck some stamps on the front, and scrawled "AIR MAIL" under +the stamps. He dropped the letter into the "STATESIDE" slot. The exam +hadn't been so bad. What did they think he was, anyway? A city slicker +who had never seen a live cow in his life? He ambled into the off-duty +pilots' lounge. He had an hour to kill before going on watch, and this +was as good a place as any to kill it. The lounge was almost empty. Most +of the pilots must have been asleep. They couldn't all be in Mike's +game. He leaned over a low table in the center of the room and started +sorting through the stack of magazines. + +"Looking for anything in particular, Harry?" + +He turned to face the speaker. "No, just going through these fugitives +from a dentist's office to see if there's anything I haven't read yet. I +can't figure out where all the new magazines go. The ones in here always +seem to be exactly two months old." + +"Here's this month's _Western Stories_. I just finished it. It had some +pretty good stories in it." + +"No, thanks, the wrong side always wins in that one." + +"The wrong ... oh, I forgot. I guess they don't write stories where your +side wins." + +"It's not really a question of 'my side'. My tribe gave up the practice +of tribal life and tribal customs over fifty years ago. I had the same +education in a public school as any other American child. I read the +same newspapers and watch the same TV shows as anyone else. My Apache +ancestry means as little to me as the nationality of his immigrant +ancestors means to the average American. I certainly don't consider +myself to be part of a nation still at war with the 'palefaces'." + +"Then what's wrong with Western stories where the United States Cavalry +wins?" + +"That's a different thing entirely. Some of the earliest memories I have +are of listening to my grandfather tell me about how he and his friends +fought against the horse-soldiers when he was a young man. I imagine he +put more romance than historical accuracy into his stories. After all, +he was telling an eager kid about the adventures he'd had over fifty +years before. But at any rate, he definitely fixed my emotions on the +side of the Indians and against the United States Cavalry. And the fact +that culturally I'm descended from the Cavalry rather than from the +Apache Indians doesn't change my emotions any." + +"I imagine that would have a strong effect on you. These stories are +really cheering at the death of some of your grandfather's friends." + +"Oh, it's worse than that. In a lot of hack-written stories, the Indians +are just convenient targets for the hero to shoot at while the author +gets on with the story. Those stories are bad enough. But the worst are +the ones where the Indians are depicted as brutal savages with no +redeeming virtues. My grandfather had an elaborate code of honor which +governed his conduct in battle. It was different from the code of the +people he fought, but it was at least as rigid, and deviations from it +were punished severely. He'd never read Clausewitz. To him, war wasn't +an 'Instrument of National Policy'. It was a chance for the individual +warrior to demonstrate his skill and bravery. His code put a high +premium on individual courage in combat, and the weakling or coward was +crushed contemptuously. I don't even attempt to justify the Indian +treatment of captured civilians and noncombatants, but nevertheless, I +absorbed quite a few of my grandfather's ideals and views about war, +and it's downright disgusting to see him so falsely represented by the +authors of the run-of-the-mill Western story or movie." + +"Well, those writers have to eat, too. And maybe they can't hold an +honest job. Besides, you don't still look at war the way your +grandfather did, do you? Civilization requires plenty of other virtues +besides courage in combat, and we have plenty of better ways to display +those virtues. And the real goal of the fighting man is to be alive +after the war so he can go home to enjoy the things he was fighting +for." + +"No, I hadn't been in Korea long before I lost any notions I might have +had of war as the glorious adventure my grandfather described it to be. +It's nothing but a bloody business, and should be resorted to only if +everything else fails. But I still think the individual fighter could do +a lot worse than follow the code that my grandfather believed in." + +"That's so, especially since the coward usually gets shot anyway; if not +by the enemy, then by his own side. Hey, it's getting late! I've got +some things to do before going on watch. Be seeing you." + +"O.K. I'll try to find something else here I haven't read yet." + + * * * * * + +Eight o'clock. Still no sign of the sun. The stars didn't have the sky +to themselves, however. Two or three times a minute a meteor would be +visible, most of them appearing to come from a point about halfway +between the Pole Star and the eastern horizon. Harry Lightfoot stopped +the elevator, opened the hatch, and stepped in. + +"She's all yours, Harry. I've already checked out with the tower." + +"O.K. That gyro any worse?" + +"No, it seems to have steadied a bit. Nothing else gone wrong, either." + +"Looks like we're in luck for a change." + +"Let me have the parka and I'll clear out. I'll think of you up here +while I'm relaxing. Just imagine; a whole twenty-four hours off, and not +even any training scheduled." + +"Someone slipped up, I'll bet. By the way, be sure to look at the +fireworks when you go out. They're better now than I've seen them at any +time since they started." + +"The meteor shower, you mean? Thanks. I'll take a look. I'll bet they're +really cluttering up the radar screens. The Launch Control Officer must +be going quietly nuts." + + * * * * * + +The Launch Control Officer wasn't going nuts. Anyone who went nuts under +stress simply didn't pass the psychological tests required of +prospective Launch Control Officers. However, he was decidedly unhappy. +He sat in a dimly-lighted room, facing three oscilloscope screens. On +each of them a pie-wedge section was illuminated by a white line which +swept back and forth like a windshield wiper. Unlike a windshield wiper, +however, it put little white blobs on the screen, instead of removing +them. Each blob represented something which had returned a radar echo. +The center screen was his own radar. The outer two were televised images +of the radar screens at the stations a hundred miles on either side of +him, part of a chain of stations extending from Alaska to Greenland. In +the room, behind him, and facing sets of screens similar to his, sat his +assistants. They located the incoming objects on the screen and set +automatic computers to determining velocity, trajectory, and probable +impact point. + +This information appeared as coded symbols beside the tracks on the +center screen of the Launch Control Officer, as well as all duplicate +screens. The Launch Control Officer, and he alone, had the +responsibility to determine whether the parameters for a given track +were compatible with an invading Intercontinental Ballistic Missile, or +whether the track represented something harmless. If he failed to launch +an interceptor at a track that turned out to be hostile, it meant the +death of an American city. However, if he made a habit of launching +interceptors at false targets, he would soon run out of interceptors. +And only under the pressure of actual war would the incredible cost of +shipping in more interceptors during the winter be paid without a second +thought. Normally, no more could be shipped in until spring. That would +mean a gap in the chain that could not be covered adequately by +interceptors from the adjacent stations. + +His screens were never completely clear. And to complicate things, the +Quadrantids, which start every New Year's Day and last four days, were +giving him additional trouble. Each track had to be analyzed, and the +presence of the meteor shower greatly increased the number of tracks he +had to worry about. However, the worst was past. One more day and they +would be over. The clutter on his screens would drop back to normal. + +Even under the best of circumstances, his problem was bad. He was hemmed +in on one side by physics, and on the other by arithmetic. The most +probable direction for an attack was from over the Pole. His radar beam +bent only slightly to follow the curve of the Earth. At great range, the +lower edge of the beam was too far above the Earth's surface to detect +anything of military significance. On a minimum altitude trajectory, an +ICBM aimed for North America would not be visible until it reached 83° +North Latitude on the other side of the Pole. One of his interceptors +took three hundred eighty-five seconds to match trajectories with such a +missile, and the match occurred only two degrees of latitude south of +the station. The invading missile traveled one degree of latitude in +fourteen seconds. Thus he had to launch the interceptor when the missile +was twenty-seven degrees from intercept. This turned out to be 85° North +Latitude on the other side of the Pole. This left him at most thirty +seconds to decide whether or not to intercept a track crossing the +Pole. And if several tracks were present, he had to split that time +among them. If too many tracks appeared, he would have to turn over +portions of the sky to his assistants, and let them make the decisions +about launching. This would happen only if he felt an attack was in +progress, however. + +Low-altitude satellites presented him with a serious problem, since +there is not a whole lot of difference between the orbit of such a +satellite and the trajectory of an ICBM. Fortunately most satellite +orbits were catalogued and available for comparison with incoming +tracks. However, once in a while an unannounced satellite was launched, +and these could cause trouble. Only the previous week, at a station down +the line, an interceptor had been launched at an unannounced satellite. +Had the pilot not realized what he was chasing and held his fire, the +international complications could have been serious. It was hard to +imagine World War III being started by an erroneous interceptor +launching, but the State Department would be hard put to soothe the +feelings of some intensely nationalistic country whose expensive new +satellite had been shot down. Such mistakes were bound to occur, but the +Launch Control Officer preferred that they be made when someone else, +not he, was on watch. For this reason he attempted to anticipate all +known satellites, so they would be recognized as soon as they appeared. + +According to the notes he had made before coming on watch, one of the +UN's weather satellites was due over shortly. A blip appeared on the +screen just beyond the 83° latitude line, across the Pole. He checked +the time with the satellite ephemeris. If this were the satellite, it +was ninety seconds early. That was too much error in the predicted orbit +of a well-known satellite. Symbols sprang into existence beside the +track. It was not quite high enough for the satellite, and the velocity +was too low. As the white line swept across the screen again, more +symbols appeared beside the track. Probable impact point was about 40° +Latitude. It certainly wasn't the satellite. Two more blips appeared on +the screen, at velocities and altitudes similar to the first. Each swipe +of the white line left more new tracks on the screen. And the screens +for the adjacent stations were showing similar behavior. These couldn't +be meteors. + +The Launch Control Officer slapped his hand down on a red push-button +set into the arm of his chair, and spoke into his mike. "Red Alert. +Attack is in progress." Then switching to another channel, he spoke to +his assistants: "Take your preassigned sectors. Launch one interceptor +at each track identified as hostile." He hadn't enough interceptors to +double up on an attack of this size, and a quick glance at the screens +for the adjacent stations showed he could expect no help from them. They +would have their hands full. In theory, one interceptor could handle a +missile all by itself. But the theory had never been tried in combat. +That lack was about to be supplied. + + * * * * * + +Harry Lightfoot heard the alarm over the intercom. He vaguely understood +what would happen before his launch order came. As each track was +identified as hostile, a computer would be assigned to it. It would +compute the correct time of launch, select an interceptor, and order it +off the ground at the correct time. During the climb to intercept, the +computer would radio steering signals to the interceptor, to assure that +the intercept took place in the most efficient fashion. He knew RI 276 +had been selected when a green light on the instrument panel flashed on, +and a clock dial started indicating the seconds until launch. Just as +the clock reached zero, a relay closed behind the instrument panel. The +solid-fuel booster ignited with a roar. He was squashed back into his +couch under four gees' acceleration. + +Gyroscopes and acceleration-measuring instruments determined the actual +trajectory of the ship; the navigation computer compared the actual +trajectory with the trajectory set in before take-off; when a deviation +from the pre-set trajectory occurred, the autopilot steered the ship +back to the proper trajectory. As the computer on the ground obtained +better velocity and position information about the missile from the +ground radar, it sent course corrections to the ship, which were +accepted in the computer as changes to the pre-set trajectory. The +navigation computer hummed and buzzed; lights flickered on and off on +the instrument panel; relays clicked behind the panel. The ship steered +itself toward the correct intercept point. All this automatic operation +was required because no merely human pilot had reflexes fast enough to +carry out an intercept at twenty-six thousand feet per second. And even +had his reflexes been fast enough, he could not have done the precise +piloting required while being pummeled by this acceleration. + +As it was, Major Harry Lightfoot, fighter pilot, lay motionless in his +acceleration couch. His face was distorted by the acceleration. His +breathing was labored. Compressed-air bladders in the legs of his +gee-suit alternately expanded and contracted, squeezing him like the +obscene embrace of some giant snake, as the gee-suit tried to keep his +blood from pooling in his legs. Without the gee-suit, he would have +blacked out, and eventually his brain would have been permanently +damaged from the lack of blood to carry oxygen to it. + +A red light on the instrument panel blinked balefully at him as it +measured out the oxygen he required. Other instruments on the panel +informed him of the amount of cooling air flowing through his suit to +keep his temperature within the tolerable range, and the amount of +moisture the dehumidifier had to carry away from him so that his suit +didn't become a steam-bath. He was surrounded by hundreds of pounds of +equipment which added nothing to the performance of the ship; which +couldn't be counted as payload; which cut down on the speed and altitude +the ship might have reached without them. Their sole purpose was to keep +this magnificent high-performance, self-steering machine from killing +its load of fragile human flesh. + +At one hundred twenty-eight seconds after launch, the acceleration +suddenly dropped to zero. He breathed deeply again, and swallowed +repeatedly to get the salty taste out of his throat. His stomach was +uneasy, but he wasn't spacesick. Had he been prone to spacesickness, he +would never have been accepted as a Rocket Interceptor pilot. Rocket +Interceptor pilots had to be capable of taking all the punishment their +ships could dish out. + +He knew there would be fifty seconds of free-fall before the rockets +fired again. One solid-fuel stage had imparted to the ship a velocity +which would carry it to the altitude of the missile it was to intercept. +A second solid-fuel stage would match trajectories with the missile. +Final corrections would be made with the liquid-fuel rockets in the +third stage. The third stage would then become a glider which eventually +would carry him back to Earth. + +Before the second stage was fired, however, the ship had to be oriented +properly. The autopilot consulted its gyros, took some star sights, and +asked the navigation computer some questions. The answers came back in +seconds, an interval which was several hours shorter than a human pilot +would have required. Using the answers, the autopilot started to swing +the ship about, using small compressed-gas jets for the purpose. +Finally, satisfied with the ship's orientation, the autopilot rested. It +patiently awaited the moment, precisely calculated by the computer on +the ground, when it would fire the second stage. + +Major Harry Lightfoot, fighter pilot, waited idly for the next move of +his ship. He could only fume inwardly. This was no way for an Apache +warrior to ride into battle. What would his grandfather think of a steed +which directed itself into battle and which could kill its rider, not by +accident, but in its normal operation? He should be actively hunting for +that missile, instead of lying here, strapped into his couch so he +wouldn't hurt himself, while the ship did all the work. + +As for the missile, it was far to the north and slightly above the ship. +Without purpose of its own, but obedient to the laws of Mr. Newton and +to the wishes of its makers, it came on inexorably. It was a sleek +aluminum cylinder, glinting in the sunlight it had just recently +entered. On one end was a rocket-motor, now silent but still warm with +the memory of flaming gas that had poured forth from it only minutes +ago. On the other end was a sleek aerodynamic shape, the product of +thousands of hours of design work. It was designed to enter the +atmosphere at meteoric speed, but without burning up. It was intended to +survive the passage through the air and convey its contents intact to +the ground. The contents might have been virulent bacteria or toxic gas, +according to the intentions of its makers. Among its brothers elsewhere +in the sky this morning, there were such noxious loads. This one, +however, was carrying the complex mechanism of a hydrogen bomb. Its +destination was an American city; its object to replace that city with +an expanding cloud of star-hot gas. + + * * * * * + +Suddenly the sleek cylinder disappeared in a puff of smoke, which +quickly dissipated in the surrounding vacuum. What had been a +precisely-built rocket had been reduced, by carefully-placed charges of +explosive, to a collection of chunks of metal. Some were plates from the +skin and fuel tanks. Others were large lumps from the computer-banks, +gyro platform, fuel pumps, and other more massive components. This was +not wanton destruction, however. It was more careful planning by the +same brains which had devised the missile itself. To a radar set on the +ground near the target, each fragment was indistinguishable from the +nose cone carrying the warhead. In fact, since the fragments were +separating only very slowly, they never would appear as distinct +objects. By the time the cloud of decoys entered the atmosphere, its +more than two dozen members would appear to the finest radar available +on the ground as a single echo twenty-five miles across. It would be a +giant haystack in the sky, concealing the most deadly needle of all +time. No ground-controlled intercept scheme had any hope of selecting +the warhead from among that deceptive cloud and destroying it. + +The cloud of fragments possessed the same trajectory as the missile +originally had. At the rate it was overtaking RI 276, it would soon pass +the ship by. The autopilot of RI 276 had no intention of letting this +happen, of course. At the correct instant, stage two thundered into +life, and Harry Lightfoot was again smashed back into his acceleration +couch. Almost absentmindedly, the ship continued to minister to his +needs. Its attention was focused on its mission. After a while, the +ground computer sent some instructions to the ship. The navigation +computer converted these into a direction, and pointed a radar antenna +in that direction. The antenna sent forth a stream of questing pulses, +which quickly returned, confirming the direction and distance to the +oncoming cloud of missile fragments. A little while later, fuel pumps +began to whine somewhere in the tail of the ship. Then the acceleration +dropped to zero as the second-stage thrust was terminated. There was a +series of thumps as explosive bolts released the second stage. The whine +of the pumps dropped in pitch as fuel gushed through them, and +acceleration returned in a rush. The acceleration lasted for a few +seconds, tapered off quickly, and ended. A light winked on on the +instrument panel as the ship announced its mission was accomplished. + +Major Harry Lightfoot, fighter pilot, felt a glow of satisfaction as he +saw the light come on. He might not have reflexes fast enough to pilot +the ship up here; he might not be able to survive the climb to intercept +without the help of a lot of fancy equipment; but he was still +necessary. He saw still one step ahead of this complex robot which had +carried him up here. It was his human judgment and his ability to react +correctly in an unpredictable situation which were needed to locate the +warhead from among the cluster of decoys and destroy it. This was a job +no merely logical machine could do. When all was said and done, the only +purpose for the existence of this magnificent machine was to put him +where he was now; in the same trajectory as the missile, and slightly +behind it. + +Harry Lightfoot reached for a red-handled toggle switch at the top of +the instrument panel, clicked it from AUTO to MANUAL, and changed his +status from passenger to pilot. He had little enough time to work. He +could not follow the missile down into the atmosphere; his ship would +burn up. He must begin his pull-out at not less than two hundred miles +altitude. That left him one hundred eighty-three seconds in which to +locate and destroy the warhead. The screen in the center of his +instrument panel could show a composite image of the space in front of +his ship, based on data from a number of sensing elements and detectors. +He switched on an infrared scanner. A collection of spots appeared on +the screen, each spot indicating by its color the temperature of the +object it represented. The infrared detector gave him no range +information, of course. But if the autopilot had done its job well, the +nearest fragment would be about ten miles away. Thus even if he set off +the enemy warhead, he would be safe. At that range the ship would not +suffer any structural damage from the heat, and he could be down on the +ground and in a hospital before any radiation effects could become +serious. + +He reflected quickly on the possible temperature range of the missile +components. The missile had been launched from Central Asia, at night, +in January. There was no reason to suppose that the warhead had been +temperature-controlled during the pre-launch countdown. Thus it probably +was at the ambient temperature of the launch site. If it had been fired +in the open, that might be as low as minus 70° F. Had it been fired from +a shelter, that might be as high as 70° F. To leave a safety margin, he +decided to reject only those objects outside the range plus or minus +100° F. There were two fragments at 500° F. He rejected these as +probably fragments of the engine. Six more exhibited a temperature of +near minus 320° F. These probably came from the liquid oxygen tanks. +They could be rejected. That eliminated eight of the objects on the +screen. He had nineteen to go. It would be a lot slower for the rest, +too. + + * * * * * + +He switched on a radar transmitter. The screen blanked out almost +completely. The missile had included a micro-wave transmitter, to act as +a jammer. It must have been triggered on by his approach. It obviously +hadn't been operating while the ship was maneuvering into position. Had +it been transmitting then, the autopilot would simply have homed on it. +He switched the radar to a different frequency. That didn't work. The +screen was still blank, indicating that the jammer was sweeping in +frequency. He next tried to synchronize his radar pulses with the +jammer, in order to be looking when it was quiet. The enemy, +anticipating him, had given the jammer a variable pulse repetition rate. +He switched off the transmitter, and scanned the radar antenna manually. +He slowly swung it back and forth, attempting to fix the direction of +the jammer by finding the direction of maximum signal strength. He found +that the enemy had anticipated him again, and the jammer's signal +strength varied. However, he finally stopped the antenna, satisfied that +he had it pointed at the jammer. The infrared detector confirmed that +there was something in the direction the antenna pointed, but it +appeared too small to be the warhead. + +He then activated the manual piloting controls. He started the fuel +pumps winding up, and swung the ship to point normal to the +line-of-sight to the jammer. A quick blast from the rockets sent the +image of the jammer moving sideways across the screen. But, of greater +importance, two other objects moved across the screen faster than the +jammer, indicating they were nearer the ship than was the jammer. He +picked the one which appeared the nearest to him, and with a series of +maneuvers and blasts from the rockets placed the object between himself +and the jammer. He switched the radar on again. Some of the jammer +signal was still leaking through, but the object, whatever it was, made +an effective shield. The radar images were quite sharp and clear. + +He glanced at the clock. Nullifying the jammer had cost him seventy-five +seconds. He'd have to hurry, in order to make up for that time. The +infrared detector showed two targets which the radar insisted weren't +there. He shifted radar frequency. They still weren't there. He decided +they were small fragments which didn't reflect much radar energy, and +rejected them. He set the radar to a linearly polarized mode. Eight of +the targets showed a definite amplitude modulation on the echo. That +meant they were rotating slowly. He switched to circular polarization, +to see if they presented a constant area to the radar beam. He compared +the echoes for both modes of polarization. Five of the targets were skin +fragments, spinning about an axis skewed with respect to the radar beam. +These he rejected. Two more were structural spars. They couldn't conceal +a warhead. He rejected them. After careful examination of the fine +structure of the echo from the last object, he was able to classify it +as a large irregular mass, probably a section of computer, waving some +cables about. Its irregularity weighed against its containing the +warhead. Even if it didn't burn up in the atmosphere, its trajectory +would be too unpredictable. + +He turned to the rest of the targets. Time was getting short. He +extracted every conceivable bit of information out of what his detectors +told him. He checked each fragment for resonant frequencies, getting an +idea of the size and shape of each. He checked the radiated infrared +spectrum. He checked the decrement of the reflected radar pulse. Each +scrap of information was an indication about the identity of the +fragments. With frequent glances at the clock, constantly reminding him +of how rapidly his time was running out, he checked and cross-checked +the data coming in to him. Fighting to keep his mind calm and his +thoughts clear, he deduced, inferred, and decided. One fragment after +another, he sorted, discarded, rejected, eliminated, excluded. Until the +screen was empty. + +Now what? Had the enemy camouflaged the warhead so that it looked like a +section of the missile's skin? Not likely. Had he made a mistake in his +identification of the fragments? Possibly, but there wasn't time to +recheck every fragment. He decided that the most likely event was that +the warhead was hidden by one of the other fragments. He swung the ship; +headed it straight for the object shielding him from the jammer, which +had turned out to be a section from the fuel tank. A short blast from +the rockets sent him drifting toward the object. One image on the screen +broadened; split in two. A hidden fragment emerged from behind one of +the ones he had examined. He rejected it immediately. Its temperature +was too low. He was almost upon the fragment shielding him from the +jammer. If he turned to avoid it, the jammer would blank-out his radar +again. He thought back to his first look at the cloud of fragments. +There had been nothing between his shield and the jammer. The only +remaining possibility, then, was that the warhead was being hidden from +him by the jammer itself. He would have to look on the other side of the +jammer, using the ship itself as a shield. + +He swung out from behind the shielding fragment, and saw his radar +images blotted out. He switched off the radar, and aimed the ship +slightly to one side of the infrared image of the jammer. Another blast +from the rockets sent him towards the jammer. Without range information +from the radar, he would have to guess its distance by noting the rate +at which it swept across the screen. The image of the jammer started to +expand as he approached it. Then it became dumbbell shaped and split in +two. + +As he passed by the jammer, he switched the radar back on. That second +image was something which had been hidden by the jammer. He looked +around. No other new objects appeared on the screen. This had to be the +warhead. He checked it anyway. Temperature was minus 40° F. A smile +flickered on his lips as he caught the significance of the temperature. +He hoped the launching crew had gotten their fingers frozen off while +they were going through the countdown. The object showed no anomalous +radar behavior. Beyond doubt, it was the warhead. + +Then he noted the range. A mere thirteen hundred yards! His own missile +carried a small atomic warhead. At that range it would present no danger +to him. But what if it triggered the enemy warhead? He and the ship +would be converted into vapor within microseconds. Even a partial, +low-efficiency explosion might leave the ship so weakened that it could +not stand the stresses of return through the atmosphere. Firing on the +enemy warhead at this range was not much different from playing Russian +Roulette with a fully-loaded revolver. + +Could he move out of range of the explosion and then fire? No. There +were only twelve seconds left before he had to start the pull-out. It +would take him longer than that to get to a safe range, get into +position, and fire. He'd be dead anyway, as the ship plunged into the +atmosphere and burned up. And to pull out without firing would be saving +his own life at the cost of the lives he was under oath to defend. That +would be sheer cowardice. + + * * * * * + +He hesitated briefly, shrugged his shoulders as well as he could inside +his flying suit, and snapped a switch on the instrument panel. A set of +cross hairs sprang into existence on the screen. He gripped a small +lever which projected up from his right armrest; curled his thumb over +the firing button on top of it. Moving the lever, he caused the cross +hairs to center on the warhead. He flicked the firing button, to tell +the fire control system that _this_ was the target. A red light blinked +on, informing him that the missile guidance system was tracking the +indicated target. + +He hesitated again. His body tautened against the straps holding it in +the acceleration couch. His right arm became rigid; his fingers +petrified. Then, with a convulsive twitch of his thumb, he closed the +firing circuit. He stared at the screen, unable to tear his eyes from +the streak of light that leaped away from his ship and toward the +target. The missile reached the target, and there was a small flare of +light. His radiation counter burped briefly. The target vanished from +the radar, but the infrared detector insisted there was a nebulous fog +of hot gas, shot through with a rain of molten droplets, where the +target had been. That was all. He had destroyed the enemy warhead +without setting it off. He stabbed the MISSION ACCOMPLISHED button, and +flicked the red-handled toggle switch, resigning his status as pilot. +Then he collapsed, nerveless, into the couch. + +The autopilot returned to control. It signaled the Air Defense network +that this hostile track was no longer dangerous. It received +instructions about a safe corridor to return to the ground, where it +would not be shot at. As soon as the air was thick enough for the +control surfaces to bite, the autopilot steered into the safe corridor. +It began the slow, tedious process of landing safely. The ground was +still a long way down. The kinetic and potential energy of the ship, if +instantly transformed into heat, was enough to flash the entire ship +into vapor. This tremendous store of energy had to be dissipated without +harm to the ship and its occupant. + +Major Harry Lightfoot, fighter pilot, lay collapsed in his couch, +exhibiting somewhat less ambition than a sack of meal. He relaxed to the +gentle massage of his gee-suit. The oxygen control winked reassuringly +at him as it maintained a steady flow. The cabin temperature soared, but +he was aware of it only from a glance at a thermometer; the air +conditioning in his suit automatically stepped up its pace to keep him +comfortable. He reflected that this might not be so bad after all. +Certainly none of his ancestors had ever had this comfortable a ride +home from battle. + +After a while, the ship had reduced its speed and altitude to reasonable +values. The autopilot requested, and received, clearance to land at its +preassigned base. It lined itself up with the runway, precisely followed +the correct glide-path, and flared out just over the end of the runway. +The smoothness of the touchdown was broken only by the jerk of the drag +parachute popping open. The ship came to a halt near the other end of +the runway. Harry Lightfoot disconnected himself from the ship and +opened the hatch. Carefully avoiding contact with the still-hot metal +skin of the ship, he jumped the short distance to the ground. The low +purr of a motor behind him announced the arrival of a tractor to tow the +ship off the runway. + +"You'll have to ride the tractor back with me, sir. We're a bit short of +transportation now." + +"O.K., sergeant. Be careful hooking up. She's still hot." + +"How was the flight, sir?" + +"No sweat. She flies herself most of the time." + + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pushbutton War, by Joseph P. 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Martino. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pushbutton War, by Joseph P. Martino + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Pushbutton War + +Author: Joseph P. Martino + +Illustrator: Schoenherr + +Release Date: January 2, 2008 [EBook #24122] +Last updated: January 22, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUSHBUTTON WAR *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + + +<h1>PUSHBUTTON WAR</h1> + +<h2>By JOSEPH P. MARTINO</h2> + +<h3>Illustrated by Schoenherr</h3> + +<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science +Fiction August 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence +that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/war1.jpg"><img src="images/war1.jpg" alt=""/></a> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>In one place, a descendant of the Vikings rode a ship such as Lief +never dreamed of; from another, one of the descendants of the +Caesars, and here an Apache rode a steed such as never roamed the +plains. But they were warriors all.</i></p></div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The hatch swung open, admitting a blast of Arctic air and a man clad in +a heavy, fur-lined parka. He quickly closed the hatch and turned to the +man in the pilot's couch.</p> + +<p>"O.K., Harry. I'll take over now. Anything to report?"</p> + +<p>"The heading gyro in the autopilot is still drifting. Did you write it +up for Maintenance?"</p> + +<p>"Yeah. They said that to replace it they'd have to put the ship in the +hangar, and it's full now with ships going through periodic inspection. +I guess we'll have to wait. They can't just give us another ship, +either. With the hangar full, we must be pretty close to the absolute +minimum for ships on the line and ready to fly."</p> + +<p>"O.K. Let me check out with the tower, and she'll be all yours." He +thumbed the intercom button and spoke into the mike: "RI 276 to tower. +Major Lightfoot going off watch."</p> + +<p>When the tower acknowledged, he began to disconnect himself from the +ship. With smooth, experienced motions, he disconnected the mike cable, +oxygen hose, air pressure hose, cooling air hose, electrical heating +cable, and dehumidifier hose which connected his flying suit to the +ship. He donned the parka and gloves his relief had worn, and stepped +through the hatch onto the gantry crane elevator. Even through the heavy +parka, the cold air had a bite to it. As the elevator descended, he +glanced to the south, knowing as he did so that there would be nothing +to see. The sun had set on November 17th, and was not due up for three +more weeks. At noon, there would be a faint glow on the southern +horizon, as the sun gave a reminder of its existence, but now, at four +in the morning, there was nothing. As he stepped off the elevator, the +ground crew prepared to roll the gantry crane away from the ship. He +opened the door of the waiting personnel carrier and swung aboard. The +inevitable cry of "close that door" greeted him as he entered. He +brushed the parka hood back from his head, and sank into the first empty +seat. The heater struggled valiantly with the Arctic cold to keep the +interior of the personnel carrier at a tolerable temperature, but it +never seemed able to do much with the floor. He propped his feet on the +footrest of the seat ahead of him, spoke to the other occupant of the +seat.</p> + +<p>"Hi, Mike."</p> + +<p>"Hi, Harry. Say, what's your watch schedule now?"</p> + +<p>"I've got four hours off, back on for four, then sixteen off. Why?"</p> + +<p>"Well, a few of us are getting up a friendly little game before we go +back on watch. I thought you might want to join us."</p> + +<p>"Well, I—"</p> + +<p>"Come on, now. What's your excuse this time for not playing cards?"</p> + +<p>"To start with, I'm scheduled for a half hour in the simulator, and +another half hour in the procedural trainer. Then if I finish the exam +in my correspondence course, I can get it on this week's mail plane. If +I don't get it in the mail now, I'll have to wait until next week."</p> + +<p>"All right, I'll let you off this time. How's the course coming?"</p> + +<p>"This is the final exam. If I pass, I'll have only forty-two more +credits to go before I have my degree in Animal Husbandry."</p> + +<p>"What on earth do you want with a degree like that?"</p> + +<p>"I keep telling you. When I retire, I'm going back to Oklahoma and raise +horses. If I got into all the card games you try to organize, I'd retire +with neither the knowledge to run a horse ranch, nor the money to start +one."</p> + +<p>"But why raise horses? Cabbages, I can see. Tomatoes, yes. But why +horses?"</p> + +<p>"Partly because there's always a market for them, so I'll have a fair +amount of business to keep me eating regularly. But mostly because I +like horses. I practically grew up in the saddle. By the time I was old +enough to do much riding, Dad had his own ranch, and I helped earn my +keep by working for him. Under those circumstances, I just naturally +learned to like horses."</p> + +<p>"Guess I never thought of it like that. I was a city boy myself. The +only horses I ever saw were the ones the cops rode. I didn't get much +chance to became familiar with the beasts."</p> + +<p>"Well, you don't know what you missed. It's just impossible to describe +what it's like to use a high-spirited and well-trained horse in your +daily work. The horse almost gets to sense what you want him to do next. +You don't have to direct his every move. Just a word or two, and a touch +with your heel or the pressure of your knee against his side, and he's +got the idea. A well-trained horse is perfectly capable of cutting a +particular cow out of a herd without any instructions beyond showing him +which one you want."</p> + +<p>"It's too bad the Army did away with the cavalry. Sounds like you belong +there, not in the Air Force."</p> + +<p>"No, because if there's anything I like better than riding a good horse, +it's flying a fast and responsive airplane. I've been flying fighters +for almost seventeen years now, and I'll be quite happy to keep flying +them as long as they'll let me. When I can't fly fighters any more, then +I'll go back to horses. And much as I like horses, I hope that's going +to be a long time yet."</p> + +<p>"You must hate this assignment, then. How come I never hear you complain +about it?"</p> + +<p>"The only reason I don't complain about this assignment is that I +volunteered for it. And I've been kicking myself ever since. When I +heard about the Rocket Interceptors, I was really excited. Imagine a +plane fast enough to catch up with an invading ballistic missile and +shoot it down. I decided this was for me, and jumped at the assignment. +They sounded like the hot fighter planes to end all hot fighter planes. +And what do I find? They're so expensive to fly that we don't get any +training missions. I've been up in one just once, and that was my +familiarization flight, when I got into this assignment last year. And +then it was only a ride in the second seat of that two-seat version they +use for checking out new pilots. I just lay there through the whole +flight. And as far as I could see, the pilot didn't do much more. He +just watched things while the autopilot did all the work."</p> + +<p>"Well, don't take it too hard. You might get some flights."</p> + +<p>"That's true. They do mistake a meteor for a missile now and then. But +that happens only two or three times a year. That's not enough. I want +some regular flying. I haven't got any flying time in for more than a +year. The nearest I come to flying is my time in the procedural trainer, +to teach me what buttons to push, and in the simulator, to give me the +feel of what happens when I push the buttons."</p> + +<p>"That's O.K. They still give you your flying pay."</p> + +<p>"I know, but that's not what I'm after. I fly because I love flying. I +use the flying pay just to keep up the extra premiums the insurance +companies keep insisting on so long as I indulge my passion for fighter +planes."</p> + +<p>"I guess about the only way you could get any regular flying on this job +would be for a war to come along."</p> + +<p>"That's about it. We'd fly just as often as they could recover our ships +and send us back up here for another launch. And that would go on until +the economy on both sides broke down so far they couldn't make any more +missiles for us to chase, or boosters to send us up after them. No +thanks. I don't want to fly that badly. I like civilization."</p> + +<p>"In the meantime, then, you ought to try to enjoy it here. Where else +can you spend most of your working hours lying flat on your back on the +most comfortable couch science can devise?"</p> + +<p>"That's the trouble. Just lying there, where you can't read, write, +talk, or listen. It might be O.K. for a hermit, but I'd rather fly +fighter planes. Here's the trainer building. I've got to get out."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Seven o'clock. Harry Lightfoot licked the flap on the envelope, sealed +it shut, stuck some stamps on the front, and scrawled "AIR MAIL" under +the stamps. He dropped the letter into the "STATESIDE" slot. The exam +hadn't been so bad. What did they think he was, anyway? A city slicker +who had never seen a live cow in his life? He ambled into the off-duty +pilots' lounge. He had an hour to kill before going on watch, and this +was as good a place as any to kill it. The lounge was almost empty. Most +of the pilots must have been asleep. They couldn't all be in Mike's +game. He leaned over a low table in the center of the room and started +sorting through the stack of magazines.</p> + +<p>"Looking for anything in particular, Harry?"</p> + +<p>He turned to face the speaker. "No, just going through these fugitives +from a dentist's office to see if there's anything I haven't read yet. I +can't figure out where all the new magazines go. The ones in here always +seem to be exactly two months old."</p> + +<p>"Here's this month's <i>Western Stories</i>. I just finished it. It had some +pretty good stories in it."</p> + +<p>"No, thanks, the wrong side always wins in that one."</p> + +<p>"The wrong ... oh, I forgot. I guess they don't write stories where your +side wins."</p> + +<p>"It's not really a question of 'my side'. My tribe gave up the practice +of tribal life and tribal customs over fifty years ago. I had the same +education in a public school as any other American child. I read the +same newspapers and watch the same TV shows as anyone else. My Apache +ancestry means as little to me as the nationality of his immigrant +ancestors means to the average American. I certainly don't consider +myself to be part of a nation still at war with the 'palefaces'."</p> + +<p>"Then what's wrong with Western stories where the United States Cavalry +wins?"</p> + +<p>"That's a different thing entirely. Some of the earliest memories I have +are of listening to my grandfather tell me about how he and his friends +fought against the horse-soldiers when he was a young man. I imagine he +put more romance than historical accuracy into his stories. After all, +he was telling an eager kid about the adventures he'd had over fifty +years before. But at any rate, he definitely fixed my emotions on the +side of the Indians and against the United States Cavalry. And the fact +that culturally I'm descended from the Cavalry rather than from the +Apache Indians doesn't change my emotions any."</p> + +<p>"I imagine that would have a strong effect on you. These stories are +really cheering at the death of some of your grandfather's friends."</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's worse than that. In a lot of hack-written stories, the Indians +are just convenient targets for the hero to shoot at while the author +gets on with the story. Those stories are bad enough. But the worst are +the ones where the Indians are depicted as brutal savages with no +redeeming virtues. My grandfather had an elaborate code of honor which +governed his conduct in battle. It was different from the code of the +people he fought, but it was at least as rigid, and deviations from it +were punished severely. He'd never read Clausewitz. To him, war wasn't +an 'Instrument of National Policy'. It was a chance for the individual +warrior to demonstrate his skill and bravery. His code put a high +premium on individual courage in combat, and the weakling or coward was +crushed contemptuously. I don't even attempt to justify the Indian +treatment of captured civilians and noncombatants, but nevertheless, I +absorbed quite a few of my grandfather's ideals and views about war, +and it's downright disgusting to see him so falsely represented by the +authors of the run-of-the-mill Western story or movie."</p> + +<p>"Well, those writers have to eat, too. And maybe they can't hold an +honest job. Besides, you don't still look at war the way your +grandfather did, do you? Civilization requires plenty of other virtues +besides courage in combat, and we have plenty of better ways to display +those virtues. And the real goal of the fighting man is to be alive +after the war so he can go home to enjoy the things he was fighting +for."</p> + +<p>"No, I hadn't been in Korea long before I lost any notions I might have +had of war as the glorious adventure my grandfather described it to be. +It's nothing but a bloody business, and should be resorted to only if +everything else fails. But I still think the individual fighter could do +a lot worse than follow the code that my grandfather believed in."</p> + +<p>"That's so, especially since the coward usually gets shot anyway; if not +by the enemy, then by his own side. Hey, it's getting late! I've got +some things to do before going on watch. Be seeing you."</p> + +<p>"O.K. I'll try to find something else here I haven't read yet."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Eight o'clock. Still no sign of the sun. The stars didn't have the sky +to themselves, however. Two or three times a minute a meteor would be +visible, most of them appearing to come from a point about halfway +between the Pole Star and the eastern horizon. Harry Lightfoot stopped +the elevator, opened the hatch, and stepped in.</p> + +<p>"She's all yours, Harry. I've already checked out with the tower."</p> + +<p>"O.K. That gyro any worse?"</p> + +<p>"No, it seems to have steadied a bit. Nothing else gone wrong, either."</p> + +<p>"Looks like we're in luck for a change."</p> + +<p>"Let me have the parka and I'll clear out. I'll think of you up here +while I'm relaxing. Just imagine; a whole twenty-four hours off, and not +even any training scheduled."</p> + +<p>"Someone slipped up, I'll bet. By the way, be sure to look at the +fireworks when you go out. They're better now than I've seen them at any +time since they started."</p> + +<p>"The meteor shower, you mean? Thanks. I'll take a look. I'll bet they're +really cluttering up the radar screens. The Launch Control Officer must +be going quietly nuts."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The Launch Control Officer wasn't going nuts. Anyone who went nuts under +stress simply didn't pass the psychological tests required of +prospective Launch Control Officers. However, he was decidedly unhappy. +He sat in a dimly-lighted room, facing three oscilloscope screens. On +each of them a pie-wedge section was illuminated by a white line which +swept back and forth like a windshield wiper. Unlike a windshield wiper, +however, it put little white blobs on the screen, instead of removing +them. Each blob represented something which had returned a radar echo. +The center screen was his own radar. The outer two were televised images +of the radar screens at the stations a hundred miles on either side of +him, part of a chain of stations extending from Alaska to Greenland. In +the room, behind him, and facing sets of screens similar to his, sat his +assistants. They located the incoming objects on the screen and set +automatic computers to determining velocity, trajectory, and probable +impact point.</p> + +<p>This information appeared as coded symbols beside the tracks on the +center screen of the Launch Control Officer, as well as all duplicate +screens. The Launch Control Officer, and he alone, had the +responsibility to determine whether the parameters for a given track +were compatible with an invading Intercontinental Ballistic Missile, or +whether the track represented something harmless. If he failed to launch +an interceptor at a track that turned out to be hostile, it meant the +death of an American city. However, if he made a habit of launching +interceptors at false targets, he would soon run out of interceptors. +And only under the pressure of actual war would the incredible cost of +shipping in more interceptors during the winter be paid without a second +thought. Normally, no more could be shipped in until spring. That would +mean a gap in the chain that could not be covered adequately by +interceptors from the adjacent stations.</p> + +<p>His screens were never completely clear. And to complicate things, the +Quadrantids, which start every New Year's Day and last four days, were +giving him additional trouble. Each track had to be analyzed, and the +presence of the meteor shower greatly increased the number of tracks he +had to worry about. However, the worst was past. One more day and they +would be over. The clutter on his screens would drop back to normal.</p> + +<p>Even under the best of circumstances, his problem was bad. He was hemmed +in on one side by physics, and on the other by arithmetic. The most +probable direction for an attack was from over the Pole. His radar beam +bent only slightly to follow the curve of the Earth. At great range, the +lower edge of the beam was too far above the Earth's surface to detect +anything of military significance. On a minimum altitude trajectory, an +ICBM aimed for North America would not be visible until it reached 83° +North Latitude on the other side of the Pole. One of his interceptors +took three hundred eighty-five seconds to match trajectories with such a +missile, and the match occurred only two degrees of latitude south of +the station. The invading missile traveled one degree of latitude in +fourteen seconds. Thus he had to launch the interceptor when the missile +was twenty-seven degrees from intercept. This turned out to be 85° North +Latitude on the other side of the Pole. This left him at most thirty +seconds to decide whether or not to intercept a track crossing the +Pole. And if several tracks were present, he had to split that time +among them. If too many tracks appeared, he would have to turn over +portions of the sky to his assistants, and let them make the decisions +about launching. This would happen only if he felt an attack was in +progress, however.</p> + +<p>Low-altitude satellites presented him with a serious problem, since +there is not a whole lot of difference between the orbit of such a +satellite and the trajectory of an ICBM. Fortunately most satellite +orbits were catalogued and available for comparison with incoming +tracks. However, once in a while an unannounced satellite was launched, +and these could cause trouble. Only the previous week, at a station down +the line, an interceptor had been launched at an unannounced satellite. +Had the pilot not realized what he was chasing and held his fire, the +international complications could have been serious. It was hard to +imagine World War III being started by an erroneous interceptor +launching, but the State Department would be hard put to soothe the +feelings of some intensely nationalistic country whose expensive new +satellite had been shot down. Such mistakes were bound to occur, but the +Launch Control Officer preferred that they be made when someone else, +not he, was on watch. For this reason he attempted to anticipate all +known satellites, so they would be recognized as soon as they appeared.</p> + +<p>According to the notes he had made before coming on watch, one of the +UN's weather satellites was due over shortly. A blip appeared on the +screen just beyond the 83° latitude line, across the Pole. He checked +the time with the satellite ephemeris. If this were the satellite, it +was ninety seconds early. That was too much error in the predicted orbit +of a well-known satellite. Symbols sprang into existence beside the +track. It was not quite high enough for the satellite, and the velocity +was too low. As the white line swept across the screen again, more +symbols appeared beside the track. Probable impact point was about 40° +Latitude. It certainly wasn't the satellite. Two more blips appeared on +the screen, at velocities and altitudes similar to the first. Each swipe +of the white line left more new tracks on the screen. And the screens +for the adjacent stations were showing similar behavior. These couldn't +be meteors.</p> + +<p>The Launch Control Officer slapped his hand down on a red push-button +set into the arm of his chair, and spoke into his mike. "Red Alert. +Attack is in progress." Then switching to another channel, he spoke to +his assistants: "Take your preassigned sectors. Launch one interceptor +at each track identified as hostile." He hadn't enough interceptors to +double up on an attack of this size, and a quick glance at the screens +for the adjacent stations showed he could expect no help from them. They +would have their hands full. In theory, one interceptor could handle a +missile all by itself. But the theory had never been tried in combat. +That lack was about to be supplied.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Harry Lightfoot heard the alarm over the intercom. He vaguely understood +what would happen before his launch order came. As each track was +identified as hostile, a computer would be assigned to it. It would +compute the correct time of launch, select an interceptor, and order it +off the ground at the correct time. During the climb to intercept, the +computer would radio steering signals to the interceptor, to assure that +the intercept took place in the most efficient fashion. He knew RI 276 +had been selected when a green light on the instrument panel flashed on, +and a clock dial started indicating the seconds until launch. Just as +the clock reached zero, a relay closed behind the instrument panel. The +solid-fuel booster ignited with a roar. He was squashed back into his +couch under four gees' acceleration.</p> + +<p>Gyroscopes and acceleration-measuring instruments determined the actual +trajectory of the ship; the navigation computer compared the actual +trajectory with the trajectory set in before take-off; when a deviation +from the pre-set trajectory occurred, the autopilot steered the ship +back to the proper trajectory. As the computer on the ground obtained +better velocity and position information about the missile from the +ground radar, it sent course corrections to the ship, which were +accepted in the computer as changes to the pre-set trajectory. The +navigation computer hummed and buzzed; lights flickered on and off on +the instrument panel; relays clicked behind the panel. The ship steered +itself toward the correct intercept point. All this automatic operation +was required because no merely human pilot had reflexes fast enough to +carry out an intercept at twenty-six thousand feet per second. And even +had his reflexes been fast enough, he could not have done the precise +piloting required while being pummeled by this acceleration.</p> + +<p>As it was, Major Harry Lightfoot, fighter pilot, lay motionless in his +acceleration couch. His face was distorted by the acceleration. His +breathing was labored. Compressed-air bladders in the legs of his +gee-suit alternately expanded and contracted, squeezing him like the +obscene embrace of some giant snake, as the gee-suit tried to keep his +blood from pooling in his legs. Without the gee-suit, he would have +blacked out, and eventually his brain would have been permanently +damaged from the lack of blood to carry oxygen to it.</p> + +<p>A red light on the instrument panel blinked balefully at him as it +measured out the oxygen he required. Other instruments on the panel +informed him of the amount of cooling air flowing through his suit to +keep his temperature within the tolerable range, and the amount of +moisture the dehumidifier had to carry away from him so that his suit +didn't become a steam-bath. He was surrounded by hundreds of pounds of +equipment which added nothing to the performance of the ship; which +couldn't be counted as payload; which cut down on the speed and altitude +the ship might have reached without them. Their sole purpose was to keep +this magnificent high-performance, self-steering machine from killing +its load of fragile human flesh.</p> + +<p>At one hundred twenty-eight seconds after launch, the acceleration +suddenly dropped to zero. He breathed deeply again, and swallowed +repeatedly to get the salty taste out of his throat. His stomach was +uneasy, but he wasn't spacesick. Had he been prone to spacesickness, he +would never have been accepted as a Rocket Interceptor pilot. Rocket +Interceptor pilots had to be capable of taking all the punishment their +ships could dish out.</p> + +<p>He knew there would be fifty seconds of free-fall before the rockets +fired again. One solid-fuel stage had imparted to the ship a velocity +which would carry it to the altitude of the missile it was to intercept. +A second solid-fuel stage would match trajectories with the missile. +Final corrections would be made with the liquid-fuel rockets in the +third stage. The third stage would then become a glider which eventually +would carry him back to Earth.</p> + +<p>Before the second stage was fired, however, the ship had to be oriented +properly. The autopilot consulted its gyros, took some star sights, and +asked the navigation computer some questions. The answers came back in +seconds, an interval which was several hours shorter than a human pilot +would have required. Using the answers, the autopilot started to swing +the ship about, using small compressed-gas jets for the purpose. +Finally, satisfied with the ship's orientation, the autopilot rested. It +patiently awaited the moment, precisely calculated by the computer on +the ground, when it would fire the second stage.</p> + +<p>Major Harry Lightfoot, fighter pilot, waited idly for the next move of +his ship. He could only fume inwardly. This was no way for an Apache +warrior to ride into battle. What would his grandfather think of a steed +which directed itself into battle and which could kill its rider, not by +accident, but in its normal operation? He should be actively hunting for +that missile, instead of lying here, strapped into his couch so he +wouldn't hurt himself, while the ship did all the work.</p> + +<p>As for the missile, it was far to the north and slightly above the ship. +Without purpose of its own, but obedient to the laws of Mr. Newton and +to the wishes of its makers, it came on inexorably. It was a sleek +aluminum cylinder, glinting in the sunlight it had just recently +entered. On one end was a rocket-motor, now silent but still warm with +the memory of flaming gas that had poured forth from it only minutes +ago. On the other end was a sleek aerodynamic shape, the product of +thousands of hours of design work. It was designed to enter the +atmosphere at meteoric speed, but without burning up. It was intended to +survive the passage through the air and convey its contents intact to +the ground. The contents might have been virulent bacteria or toxic gas, +according to the intentions of its makers. Among its brothers elsewhere +in the sky this morning, there were such noxious loads. This one, +however, was carrying the complex mechanism of a hydrogen bomb. Its +destination was an American city; its object to replace that city with +an expanding cloud of star-hot gas.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Suddenly the sleek cylinder disappeared in a puff of smoke, which +quickly dissipated in the surrounding vacuum. What had been a +precisely-built rocket had been reduced, by carefully-placed charges of +explosive, to a collection of chunks of metal. Some were plates from the +skin and fuel tanks. Others were large lumps from the computer-banks, +gyro platform, fuel pumps, and other more massive components. This was +not wanton destruction, however. It was more careful planning by the +same brains which had devised the missile itself. To a radar set on the +ground near the target, each fragment was indistinguishable from the +nose cone carrying the warhead. In fact, since the fragments were +separating only very slowly, they never would appear as distinct +objects. By the time the cloud of decoys entered the atmosphere, its +more than two dozen members would appear to the finest radar available +on the ground as a single echo twenty-five miles across. It would be a +giant haystack in the sky, concealing the most deadly needle of all +time. No ground-controlled intercept scheme had any hope of selecting +the warhead from among that deceptive cloud and destroying it.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"> +<a href="images/war2.jpg"><img src="images/war2.jpg" alt=""/></a> +</div> + +<div class="figright"> +<a href="images/war3.jpg"><img src="images/war3.jpg" alt=""/></a> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The cloud of fragments possessed the same trajectory as the missile +originally had. At the rate it was overtaking RI 276, it would soon pass +the ship by. The autopilot of RI 276 had no intention of letting this +happen, of course. At the correct instant, stage two thundered into +life, and Harry Lightfoot was again smashed back into his acceleration +couch. Almost absentmindedly, the ship continued to minister to his +needs. Its attention was focused on its mission. After a while, the +ground computer sent some instructions to the ship. The navigation +computer converted these into a direction, and pointed a radar antenna +in that direction. The antenna sent forth a stream of questing pulses, +which quickly returned, confirming the direction and distance to the +oncoming cloud of missile fragments. A little while later, fuel pumps +began to whine somewhere in the tail of the ship. Then the acceleration +dropped to zero as the second-stage thrust was terminated. There was a +series of thumps as explosive bolts released the second stage. The whine +of the pumps dropped in pitch as fuel gushed through them, and +acceleration returned in a rush. The acceleration lasted for a few +seconds, tapered off quickly, and ended. A light winked on on the +instrument panel as the ship announced its mission was accomplished.</p> + +<p>Major Harry Lightfoot, fighter pilot, felt a glow of satisfaction as he +saw the light come on. He might not have reflexes fast enough to pilot +the ship up here; he might not be able to survive the climb to intercept +without the help of a lot of fancy equipment; but he was still +necessary. He saw still one step ahead of this complex robot which had +carried him up here. It was his human judgment and his ability to react +correctly in an unpredictable situation which were needed to locate the +warhead from among the cluster of decoys and destroy it. This was a job +no merely logical machine could do. When all was said and done, the only +purpose for the existence of this magnificent machine was to put him +where he was now; in the same trajectory as the missile, and slightly +behind it.</p> + +<p>Harry Lightfoot reached for a red-handled toggle switch at the top of +the instrument panel, clicked it from AUTO to MANUAL, and changed his +status from passenger to pilot. He had little enough time to work. He +could not follow the missile down into the atmosphere; his ship would +burn up. He must begin his pull-out at not less than two hundred miles +altitude. That left him one hundred eighty-three seconds in which to +locate and destroy the warhead. The screen in the center of his +instrument panel could show a composite image of the space in front of +his ship, based on data from a number of sensing elements and detectors. +He switched on an infrared scanner. A collection of spots appeared on +the screen, each spot indicating by its color the temperature of the +object it represented. The infrared detector gave him no range +information, of course. But if the autopilot had done its job well, the +nearest fragment would be about ten miles away. Thus even if he set off +the enemy warhead, he would be safe. At that range the ship would not +suffer any structural damage from the heat, and he could be down on the +ground and in a hospital before any radiation effects could become +serious.</p> + +<p>He reflected quickly on the possible temperature range of the missile +components. The missile had been launched from Central Asia, at night, +in January. There was no reason to suppose that the warhead had been +temperature-controlled during the pre-launch countdown. Thus it probably +was at the ambient temperature of the launch site. If it had been fired +in the open, that might be as low as minus 70° F. Had it been fired from +a shelter, that might be as high as 70° F. To leave a safety margin, he +decided to reject only those objects outside the range plus or minus +100° F. There were two fragments at 500° F. He rejected these as +probably fragments of the engine. Six more exhibited a temperature of +near minus 320° F. These probably came from the liquid oxygen tanks. +They could be rejected. That eliminated eight of the objects on the +screen. He had nineteen to go. It would be a lot slower for the rest, +too.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He switched on a radar transmitter. The screen blanked out almost +completely. The missile had included a micro-wave transmitter, to act as +a jammer. It must have been triggered on by his approach. It obviously +hadn't been operating while the ship was maneuvering into position. Had +it been transmitting then, the autopilot would simply have homed on it. +He switched the radar to a different frequency. That didn't work. The +screen was still blank, indicating that the jammer was sweeping in +frequency. He next tried to synchronize his radar pulses with the +jammer, in order to be looking when it was quiet. The enemy, +anticipating him, had given the jammer a variable pulse repetition rate. +He switched off the transmitter, and scanned the radar antenna manually. +He slowly swung it back and forth, attempting to fix the direction of +the jammer by finding the direction of maximum signal strength. He found +that the enemy had anticipated him again, and the jammer's signal +strength varied. However, he finally stopped the antenna, satisfied that +he had it pointed at the jammer. The infrared detector confirmed that +there was something in the direction the antenna pointed, but it +appeared too small to be the warhead.</p> + +<p>He then activated the manual piloting controls. He started the fuel +pumps winding up, and swung the ship to point normal to the +line-of-sight to the jammer. A quick blast from the rockets sent the +image of the jammer moving sideways across the screen. But, of greater +importance, two other objects moved across the screen faster than the +jammer, indicating they were nearer the ship than was the jammer. He +picked the one which appeared the nearest to him, and with a series of +maneuvers and blasts from the rockets placed the object between himself +and the jammer. He switched the radar on again. Some of the jammer +signal was still leaking through, but the object, whatever it was, made +an effective shield. The radar images were quite sharp and clear.</p> + +<p>He glanced at the clock. Nullifying the jammer had cost him seventy-five +seconds. He'd have to hurry, in order to make up for that time. The +infrared detector showed two targets which the radar insisted weren't +there. He shifted radar frequency. They still weren't there. He decided +they were small fragments which didn't reflect much radar energy, and +rejected them. He set the radar to a linearly polarized mode. Eight of +the targets showed a definite amplitude modulation on the echo. That +meant they were rotating slowly. He switched to circular polarization, +to see if they presented a constant area to the radar beam. He compared +the echoes for both modes of polarization. Five of the targets were skin +fragments, spinning about an axis skewed with respect to the radar beam. +These he rejected. Two more were structural spars. They couldn't conceal +a warhead. He rejected them. After careful examination of the fine +structure of the echo from the last object, he was able to classify it +as a large irregular mass, probably a section of computer, waving some +cables about. Its irregularity weighed against its containing the +warhead. Even if it didn't burn up in the atmosphere, its trajectory +would be too unpredictable.</p> + +<p>He turned to the rest of the targets. Time was getting short. He +extracted every conceivable bit of information out of what his detectors +told him. He checked each fragment for resonant frequencies, getting an +idea of the size and shape of each. He checked the radiated infrared +spectrum. He checked the decrement of the reflected radar pulse. Each +scrap of information was an indication about the identity of the +fragments. With frequent glances at the clock, constantly reminding him +of how rapidly his time was running out, he checked and cross-checked +the data coming in to him. Fighting to keep his mind calm and his +thoughts clear, he deduced, inferred, and decided. One fragment after +another, he sorted, discarded, rejected, eliminated, excluded. Until the +screen was empty.</p> + +<p>Now what? Had the enemy camouflaged the warhead so that it looked like a +section of the missile's skin? Not likely. Had he made a mistake in his +identification of the fragments? Possibly, but there wasn't time to +recheck every fragment. He decided that the most likely event was that +the warhead was hidden by one of the other fragments. He swung the ship; +headed it straight for the object shielding him from the jammer, which +had turned out to be a section from the fuel tank. A short blast from +the rockets sent him drifting toward the object. One image on the screen +broadened; split in two. A hidden fragment emerged from behind one of +the ones he had examined. He rejected it immediately. Its temperature +was too low. He was almost upon the fragment shielding him from the +jammer. If he turned to avoid it, the jammer would blank-out his radar +again. He thought back to his first look at the cloud of fragments. +There had been nothing between his shield and the jammer. The only +remaining possibility, then, was that the warhead was being hidden from +him by the jammer itself. He would have to look on the other side of the +jammer, using the ship itself as a shield.</p> + +<p>He swung out from behind the shielding fragment, and saw his radar +images blotted out. He switched off the radar, and aimed the ship +slightly to one side of the infrared image of the jammer. Another blast +from the rockets sent him towards the jammer. Without range information +from the radar, he would have to guess its distance by noting the rate +at which it swept across the screen. The image of the jammer started to +expand as he approached it. Then it became dumbbell shaped and split in +two.</p> + +<p>As he passed by the jammer, he switched the radar back on. That second +image was something which had been hidden by the jammer. He looked +around. No other new objects appeared on the screen. This had to be the +warhead. He checked it anyway. Temperature was minus 40° F. A smile +flickered on his lips as he caught the significance of the temperature. +He hoped the launching crew had gotten their fingers frozen off while +they were going through the countdown. The object showed no anomalous +radar behavior. Beyond doubt, it was the warhead.</p> + +<p>Then he noted the range. A mere thirteen hundred yards! His own missile +carried a small atomic warhead. At that range it would present no danger +to him. But what if it triggered the enemy warhead? He and the ship +would be converted into vapor within microseconds. Even a partial, +low-efficiency explosion might leave the ship so weakened that it could +not stand the stresses of return through the atmosphere. Firing on the +enemy warhead at this range was not much different from playing Russian +Roulette with a fully-loaded revolver.</p> + +<p>Could he move out of range of the explosion and then fire? No. There +were only twelve seconds left before he had to start the pull-out. It +would take him longer than that to get to a safe range, get into +position, and fire. He'd be dead anyway, as the ship plunged into the +atmosphere and burned up. And to pull out without firing would be saving +his own life at the cost of the lives he was under oath to defend. That +would be sheer cowardice.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>He hesitated briefly, shrugged his shoulders as well as he could inside +his flying suit, and snapped a switch on the instrument panel. A set of +cross hairs sprang into existence on the screen. He gripped a small +lever which projected up from his right armrest; curled his thumb over +the firing button on top of it. Moving the lever, he caused the cross +hairs to center on the warhead. He flicked the firing button, to tell +the fire control system that <i>this</i> was the target. A red light blinked +on, informing him that the missile guidance system was tracking the +indicated target.</p> + +<p>He hesitated again. His body tautened against the straps holding it in +the acceleration couch. His right arm became rigid; his fingers +petrified. Then, with a convulsive twitch of his thumb, he closed the +firing circuit. He stared at the screen, unable to tear his eyes from +the streak of light that leaped away from his ship and toward the +target. The missile reached the target, and there was a small flare of +light. His radiation counter burped briefly. The target vanished from +the radar, but the infrared detector insisted there was a nebulous fog +of hot gas, shot through with a rain of molten droplets, where the +target had been. That was all. He had destroyed the enemy warhead +without setting it off. He stabbed the MISSION ACCOMPLISHED button, and +flicked the red-handled toggle switch, resigning his status as pilot. +Then he collapsed, nerveless, into the couch.</p> + +<p>The autopilot returned to control. It signaled the Air Defense network +that this hostile track was no longer dangerous. It received +instructions about a safe corridor to return to the ground, where it +would not be shot at. As soon as the air was thick enough for the +control surfaces to bite, the autopilot steered into the safe corridor. +It began the slow, tedious process of landing safely. The ground was +still a long way down. The kinetic and potential energy of the ship, if +instantly transformed into heat, was enough to flash the entire ship +into vapor. This tremendous store of energy had to be dissipated without +harm to the ship and its occupant.</p> + +<p>Major Harry Lightfoot, fighter pilot, lay collapsed in his couch, +exhibiting somewhat less ambition than a sack of meal. He relaxed to the +gentle massage of his gee-suit. The oxygen control winked reassuringly +at him as it maintained a steady flow. The cabin temperature soared, but +he was aware of it only from a glance at a thermometer; the air +conditioning in his suit automatically stepped up its pace to keep him +comfortable. He reflected that this might not be so bad after all. +Certainly none of his ancestors had ever had this comfortable a ride +home from battle.</p> + +<p>After a while, the ship had reduced its speed and altitude to reasonable +values. The autopilot requested, and received, clearance to land at its +preassigned base. It lined itself up with the runway, precisely followed +the correct glide-path, and flared out just over the end of the runway. +The smoothness of the touchdown was broken only by the jerk of the drag +parachute popping open. The ship came to a halt near the other end of +the runway. Harry Lightfoot disconnected himself from the ship and +opened the hatch. Carefully avoiding contact with the still-hot metal +skin of the ship, he jumped the short distance to the ground. The low +purr of a motor behind him announced the arrival of a tractor to tow the +ship off the runway.</p> + +<p>"You'll have to ride the tractor back with me, sir. We're a bit short of +transportation now."</p> + +<p>"O.K., sergeant. Be careful hooking up. She's still hot."</p> + +<p>"How was the flight, sir?"</p> + +<p>"No sweat. She flies herself most of the time."</p> + + +<p>THE END</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pushbutton War, by Joseph P. 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Martino + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Pushbutton War + +Author: Joseph P. Martino + +Illustrator: Schoenherr + +Release Date: January 2, 2008 [EBook #24122] +Last updated: January 22, 2009 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUSHBUTTON WAR *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + PUSHBUTTON WAR + + By JOSEPH P. MARTINO + + Illustrated by Schoenherr + +[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science +Fiction August 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence +that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + + + + + _In one place, a descendant of the Vikings rode a ship such as Lief + never dreamed of; from another, one of the descendants of the + Caesars, and here an Apache rode a steed such as never roamed the + plains. But they were warriors all._ + + +The hatch swung open, admitting a blast of Arctic air and a man clad in +a heavy, fur-lined parka. He quickly closed the hatch and turned to the +man in the pilot's couch. + +"O.K., Harry. I'll take over now. Anything to report?" + +"The heading gyro in the autopilot is still drifting. Did you write it +up for Maintenance?" + +"Yeah. They said that to replace it they'd have to put the ship in the +hangar, and it's full now with ships going through periodic inspection. +I guess we'll have to wait. They can't just give us another ship, +either. With the hangar full, we must be pretty close to the absolute +minimum for ships on the line and ready to fly." + +"O.K. Let me check out with the tower, and she'll be all yours." He +thumbed the intercom button and spoke into the mike: "RI 276 to tower. +Major Lightfoot going off watch." + +When the tower acknowledged, he began to disconnect himself from the +ship. With smooth, experienced motions, he disconnected the mike cable, +oxygen hose, air pressure hose, cooling air hose, electrical heating +cable, and dehumidifier hose which connected his flying suit to the +ship. He donned the parka and gloves his relief had worn, and stepped +through the hatch onto the gantry crane elevator. Even through the heavy +parka, the cold air had a bite to it. As the elevator descended, he +glanced to the south, knowing as he did so that there would be nothing +to see. The sun had set on November 17th, and was not due up for three +more weeks. At noon, there would be a faint glow on the southern +horizon, as the sun gave a reminder of its existence, but now, at four +in the morning, there was nothing. As he stepped off the elevator, the +ground crew prepared to roll the gantry crane away from the ship. He +opened the door of the waiting personnel carrier and swung aboard. The +inevitable cry of "close that door" greeted him as he entered. He +brushed the parka hood back from his head, and sank into the first empty +seat. The heater struggled valiantly with the Arctic cold to keep the +interior of the personnel carrier at a tolerable temperature, but it +never seemed able to do much with the floor. He propped his feet on the +footrest of the seat ahead of him, spoke to the other occupant of the +seat. + +"Hi, Mike." + +"Hi, Harry. Say, what's your watch schedule now?" + +"I've got four hours off, back on for four, then sixteen off. Why?" + +"Well, a few of us are getting up a friendly little game before we go +back on watch. I thought you might want to join us." + +"Well, I--" + +"Come on, now. What's your excuse this time for not playing cards?" + +"To start with, I'm scheduled for a half hour in the simulator, and +another half hour in the procedural trainer. Then if I finish the exam +in my correspondence course, I can get it on this week's mail plane. If +I don't get it in the mail now, I'll have to wait until next week." + +"All right, I'll let you off this time. How's the course coming?" + +"This is the final exam. If I pass, I'll have only forty-two more +credits to go before I have my degree in Animal Husbandry." + +"What on earth do you want with a degree like that?" + +"I keep telling you. When I retire, I'm going back to Oklahoma and raise +horses. If I got into all the card games you try to organize, I'd retire +with neither the knowledge to run a horse ranch, nor the money to start +one." + +"But why raise horses? Cabbages, I can see. Tomatoes, yes. But why +horses?" + +"Partly because there's always a market for them, so I'll have a fair +amount of business to keep me eating regularly. But mostly because I +like horses. I practically grew up in the saddle. By the time I was old +enough to do much riding, Dad had his own ranch, and I helped earn my +keep by working for him. Under those circumstances, I just naturally +learned to like horses." + +"Guess I never thought of it like that. I was a city boy myself. The +only horses I ever saw were the ones the cops rode. I didn't get much +chance to became familiar with the beasts." + + * * * * * + +"Well, you don't know what you missed. It's just impossible to describe +what it's like to use a high-spirited and well-trained horse in your +daily work. The horse almost gets to sense what you want him to do next. +You don't have to direct his every move. Just a word or two, and a touch +with your heel or the pressure of your knee against his side, and he's +got the idea. A well-trained horse is perfectly capable of cutting a +particular cow out of a herd without any instructions beyond showing him +which one you want." + +"It's too bad the Army did away with the cavalry. Sounds like you belong +there, not in the Air Force." + +"No, because if there's anything I like better than riding a good horse, +it's flying a fast and responsive airplane. I've been flying fighters +for almost seventeen years now, and I'll be quite happy to keep flying +them as long as they'll let me. When I can't fly fighters any more, then +I'll go back to horses. And much as I like horses, I hope that's going +to be a long time yet." + +"You must hate this assignment, then. How come I never hear you complain +about it?" + +"The only reason I don't complain about this assignment is that I +volunteered for it. And I've been kicking myself ever since. When I +heard about the Rocket Interceptors, I was really excited. Imagine a +plane fast enough to catch up with an invading ballistic missile and +shoot it down. I decided this was for me, and jumped at the assignment. +They sounded like the hot fighter planes to end all hot fighter planes. +And what do I find? They're so expensive to fly that we don't get any +training missions. I've been up in one just once, and that was my +familiarization flight, when I got into this assignment last year. And +then it was only a ride in the second seat of that two-seat version they +use for checking out new pilots. I just lay there through the whole +flight. And as far as I could see, the pilot didn't do much more. He +just watched things while the autopilot did all the work." + +"Well, don't take it too hard. You might get some flights." + +"That's true. They do mistake a meteor for a missile now and then. But +that happens only two or three times a year. That's not enough. I want +some regular flying. I haven't got any flying time in for more than a +year. The nearest I come to flying is my time in the procedural trainer, +to teach me what buttons to push, and in the simulator, to give me the +feel of what happens when I push the buttons." + +"That's O.K. They still give you your flying pay." + +"I know, but that's not what I'm after. I fly because I love flying. I +use the flying pay just to keep up the extra premiums the insurance +companies keep insisting on so long as I indulge my passion for fighter +planes." + +"I guess about the only way you could get any regular flying on this job +would be for a war to come along." + +"That's about it. We'd fly just as often as they could recover our ships +and send us back up here for another launch. And that would go on until +the economy on both sides broke down so far they couldn't make any more +missiles for us to chase, or boosters to send us up after them. No +thanks. I don't want to fly that badly. I like civilization." + +"In the meantime, then, you ought to try to enjoy it here. Where else +can you spend most of your working hours lying flat on your back on the +most comfortable couch science can devise?" + +"That's the trouble. Just lying there, where you can't read, write, +talk, or listen. It might be O.K. for a hermit, but I'd rather fly +fighter planes. Here's the trainer building. I've got to get out." + + * * * * * + +Seven o'clock. Harry Lightfoot licked the flap on the envelope, sealed +it shut, stuck some stamps on the front, and scrawled "AIR MAIL" under +the stamps. He dropped the letter into the "STATESIDE" slot. The exam +hadn't been so bad. What did they think he was, anyway? A city slicker +who had never seen a live cow in his life? He ambled into the off-duty +pilots' lounge. He had an hour to kill before going on watch, and this +was as good a place as any to kill it. The lounge was almost empty. Most +of the pilots must have been asleep. They couldn't all be in Mike's +game. He leaned over a low table in the center of the room and started +sorting through the stack of magazines. + +"Looking for anything in particular, Harry?" + +He turned to face the speaker. "No, just going through these fugitives +from a dentist's office to see if there's anything I haven't read yet. I +can't figure out where all the new magazines go. The ones in here always +seem to be exactly two months old." + +"Here's this month's _Western Stories_. I just finished it. It had some +pretty good stories in it." + +"No, thanks, the wrong side always wins in that one." + +"The wrong ... oh, I forgot. I guess they don't write stories where your +side wins." + +"It's not really a question of 'my side'. My tribe gave up the practice +of tribal life and tribal customs over fifty years ago. I had the same +education in a public school as any other American child. I read the +same newspapers and watch the same TV shows as anyone else. My Apache +ancestry means as little to me as the nationality of his immigrant +ancestors means to the average American. I certainly don't consider +myself to be part of a nation still at war with the 'palefaces'." + +"Then what's wrong with Western stories where the United States Cavalry +wins?" + +"That's a different thing entirely. Some of the earliest memories I have +are of listening to my grandfather tell me about how he and his friends +fought against the horse-soldiers when he was a young man. I imagine he +put more romance than historical accuracy into his stories. After all, +he was telling an eager kid about the adventures he'd had over fifty +years before. But at any rate, he definitely fixed my emotions on the +side of the Indians and against the United States Cavalry. And the fact +that culturally I'm descended from the Cavalry rather than from the +Apache Indians doesn't change my emotions any." + +"I imagine that would have a strong effect on you. These stories are +really cheering at the death of some of your grandfather's friends." + +"Oh, it's worse than that. In a lot of hack-written stories, the Indians +are just convenient targets for the hero to shoot at while the author +gets on with the story. Those stories are bad enough. But the worst are +the ones where the Indians are depicted as brutal savages with no +redeeming virtues. My grandfather had an elaborate code of honor which +governed his conduct in battle. It was different from the code of the +people he fought, but it was at least as rigid, and deviations from it +were punished severely. He'd never read Clausewitz. To him, war wasn't +an 'Instrument of National Policy'. It was a chance for the individual +warrior to demonstrate his skill and bravery. His code put a high +premium on individual courage in combat, and the weakling or coward was +crushed contemptuously. I don't even attempt to justify the Indian +treatment of captured civilians and noncombatants, but nevertheless, I +absorbed quite a few of my grandfather's ideals and views about war, +and it's downright disgusting to see him so falsely represented by the +authors of the run-of-the-mill Western story or movie." + +"Well, those writers have to eat, too. And maybe they can't hold an +honest job. Besides, you don't still look at war the way your +grandfather did, do you? Civilization requires plenty of other virtues +besides courage in combat, and we have plenty of better ways to display +those virtues. And the real goal of the fighting man is to be alive +after the war so he can go home to enjoy the things he was fighting +for." + +"No, I hadn't been in Korea long before I lost any notions I might have +had of war as the glorious adventure my grandfather described it to be. +It's nothing but a bloody business, and should be resorted to only if +everything else fails. But I still think the individual fighter could do +a lot worse than follow the code that my grandfather believed in." + +"That's so, especially since the coward usually gets shot anyway; if not +by the enemy, then by his own side. Hey, it's getting late! I've got +some things to do before going on watch. Be seeing you." + +"O.K. I'll try to find something else here I haven't read yet." + + * * * * * + +Eight o'clock. Still no sign of the sun. The stars didn't have the sky +to themselves, however. Two or three times a minute a meteor would be +visible, most of them appearing to come from a point about halfway +between the Pole Star and the eastern horizon. Harry Lightfoot stopped +the elevator, opened the hatch, and stepped in. + +"She's all yours, Harry. I've already checked out with the tower." + +"O.K. That gyro any worse?" + +"No, it seems to have steadied a bit. Nothing else gone wrong, either." + +"Looks like we're in luck for a change." + +"Let me have the parka and I'll clear out. I'll think of you up here +while I'm relaxing. Just imagine; a whole twenty-four hours off, and not +even any training scheduled." + +"Someone slipped up, I'll bet. By the way, be sure to look at the +fireworks when you go out. They're better now than I've seen them at any +time since they started." + +"The meteor shower, you mean? Thanks. I'll take a look. I'll bet they're +really cluttering up the radar screens. The Launch Control Officer must +be going quietly nuts." + + * * * * * + +The Launch Control Officer wasn't going nuts. Anyone who went nuts under +stress simply didn't pass the psychological tests required of +prospective Launch Control Officers. However, he was decidedly unhappy. +He sat in a dimly-lighted room, facing three oscilloscope screens. On +each of them a pie-wedge section was illuminated by a white line which +swept back and forth like a windshield wiper. Unlike a windshield wiper, +however, it put little white blobs on the screen, instead of removing +them. Each blob represented something which had returned a radar echo. +The center screen was his own radar. The outer two were televised images +of the radar screens at the stations a hundred miles on either side of +him, part of a chain of stations extending from Alaska to Greenland. In +the room, behind him, and facing sets of screens similar to his, sat his +assistants. They located the incoming objects on the screen and set +automatic computers to determining velocity, trajectory, and probable +impact point. + +This information appeared as coded symbols beside the tracks on the +center screen of the Launch Control Officer, as well as all duplicate +screens. The Launch Control Officer, and he alone, had the +responsibility to determine whether the parameters for a given track +were compatible with an invading Intercontinental Ballistic Missile, or +whether the track represented something harmless. If he failed to launch +an interceptor at a track that turned out to be hostile, it meant the +death of an American city. However, if he made a habit of launching +interceptors at false targets, he would soon run out of interceptors. +And only under the pressure of actual war would the incredible cost of +shipping in more interceptors during the winter be paid without a second +thought. Normally, no more could be shipped in until spring. That would +mean a gap in the chain that could not be covered adequately by +interceptors from the adjacent stations. + +His screens were never completely clear. And to complicate things, the +Quadrantids, which start every New Year's Day and last four days, were +giving him additional trouble. Each track had to be analyzed, and the +presence of the meteor shower greatly increased the number of tracks he +had to worry about. However, the worst was past. One more day and they +would be over. The clutter on his screens would drop back to normal. + +Even under the best of circumstances, his problem was bad. He was hemmed +in on one side by physics, and on the other by arithmetic. The most +probable direction for an attack was from over the Pole. His radar beam +bent only slightly to follow the curve of the Earth. At great range, the +lower edge of the beam was too far above the Earth's surface to detect +anything of military significance. On a minimum altitude trajectory, an +ICBM aimed for North America would not be visible until it reached 83 deg. +North Latitude on the other side of the Pole. One of his interceptors +took three hundred eighty-five seconds to match trajectories with such a +missile, and the match occurred only two degrees of latitude south of +the station. The invading missile traveled one degree of latitude in +fourteen seconds. Thus he had to launch the interceptor when the missile +was twenty-seven degrees from intercept. This turned out to be 85 deg. North +Latitude on the other side of the Pole. This left him at most thirty +seconds to decide whether or not to intercept a track crossing the +Pole. And if several tracks were present, he had to split that time +among them. If too many tracks appeared, he would have to turn over +portions of the sky to his assistants, and let them make the decisions +about launching. This would happen only if he felt an attack was in +progress, however. + +Low-altitude satellites presented him with a serious problem, since +there is not a whole lot of difference between the orbit of such a +satellite and the trajectory of an ICBM. Fortunately most satellite +orbits were catalogued and available for comparison with incoming +tracks. However, once in a while an unannounced satellite was launched, +and these could cause trouble. Only the previous week, at a station down +the line, an interceptor had been launched at an unannounced satellite. +Had the pilot not realized what he was chasing and held his fire, the +international complications could have been serious. It was hard to +imagine World War III being started by an erroneous interceptor +launching, but the State Department would be hard put to soothe the +feelings of some intensely nationalistic country whose expensive new +satellite had been shot down. Such mistakes were bound to occur, but the +Launch Control Officer preferred that they be made when someone else, +not he, was on watch. For this reason he attempted to anticipate all +known satellites, so they would be recognized as soon as they appeared. + +According to the notes he had made before coming on watch, one of the +UN's weather satellites was due over shortly. A blip appeared on the +screen just beyond the 83 deg. latitude line, across the Pole. He checked +the time with the satellite ephemeris. If this were the satellite, it +was ninety seconds early. That was too much error in the predicted orbit +of a well-known satellite. Symbols sprang into existence beside the +track. It was not quite high enough for the satellite, and the velocity +was too low. As the white line swept across the screen again, more +symbols appeared beside the track. Probable impact point was about 40 deg. +Latitude. It certainly wasn't the satellite. Two more blips appeared on +the screen, at velocities and altitudes similar to the first. Each swipe +of the white line left more new tracks on the screen. And the screens +for the adjacent stations were showing similar behavior. These couldn't +be meteors. + +The Launch Control Officer slapped his hand down on a red push-button +set into the arm of his chair, and spoke into his mike. "Red Alert. +Attack is in progress." Then switching to another channel, he spoke to +his assistants: "Take your preassigned sectors. Launch one interceptor +at each track identified as hostile." He hadn't enough interceptors to +double up on an attack of this size, and a quick glance at the screens +for the adjacent stations showed he could expect no help from them. They +would have their hands full. In theory, one interceptor could handle a +missile all by itself. But the theory had never been tried in combat. +That lack was about to be supplied. + + * * * * * + +Harry Lightfoot heard the alarm over the intercom. He vaguely understood +what would happen before his launch order came. As each track was +identified as hostile, a computer would be assigned to it. It would +compute the correct time of launch, select an interceptor, and order it +off the ground at the correct time. During the climb to intercept, the +computer would radio steering signals to the interceptor, to assure that +the intercept took place in the most efficient fashion. He knew RI 276 +had been selected when a green light on the instrument panel flashed on, +and a clock dial started indicating the seconds until launch. Just as +the clock reached zero, a relay closed behind the instrument panel. The +solid-fuel booster ignited with a roar. He was squashed back into his +couch under four gees' acceleration. + +Gyroscopes and acceleration-measuring instruments determined the actual +trajectory of the ship; the navigation computer compared the actual +trajectory with the trajectory set in before take-off; when a deviation +from the pre-set trajectory occurred, the autopilot steered the ship +back to the proper trajectory. As the computer on the ground obtained +better velocity and position information about the missile from the +ground radar, it sent course corrections to the ship, which were +accepted in the computer as changes to the pre-set trajectory. The +navigation computer hummed and buzzed; lights flickered on and off on +the instrument panel; relays clicked behind the panel. The ship steered +itself toward the correct intercept point. All this automatic operation +was required because no merely human pilot had reflexes fast enough to +carry out an intercept at twenty-six thousand feet per second. And even +had his reflexes been fast enough, he could not have done the precise +piloting required while being pummeled by this acceleration. + +As it was, Major Harry Lightfoot, fighter pilot, lay motionless in his +acceleration couch. His face was distorted by the acceleration. His +breathing was labored. Compressed-air bladders in the legs of his +gee-suit alternately expanded and contracted, squeezing him like the +obscene embrace of some giant snake, as the gee-suit tried to keep his +blood from pooling in his legs. Without the gee-suit, he would have +blacked out, and eventually his brain would have been permanently +damaged from the lack of blood to carry oxygen to it. + +A red light on the instrument panel blinked balefully at him as it +measured out the oxygen he required. Other instruments on the panel +informed him of the amount of cooling air flowing through his suit to +keep his temperature within the tolerable range, and the amount of +moisture the dehumidifier had to carry away from him so that his suit +didn't become a steam-bath. He was surrounded by hundreds of pounds of +equipment which added nothing to the performance of the ship; which +couldn't be counted as payload; which cut down on the speed and altitude +the ship might have reached without them. Their sole purpose was to keep +this magnificent high-performance, self-steering machine from killing +its load of fragile human flesh. + +At one hundred twenty-eight seconds after launch, the acceleration +suddenly dropped to zero. He breathed deeply again, and swallowed +repeatedly to get the salty taste out of his throat. His stomach was +uneasy, but he wasn't spacesick. Had he been prone to spacesickness, he +would never have been accepted as a Rocket Interceptor pilot. Rocket +Interceptor pilots had to be capable of taking all the punishment their +ships could dish out. + +He knew there would be fifty seconds of free-fall before the rockets +fired again. One solid-fuel stage had imparted to the ship a velocity +which would carry it to the altitude of the missile it was to intercept. +A second solid-fuel stage would match trajectories with the missile. +Final corrections would be made with the liquid-fuel rockets in the +third stage. The third stage would then become a glider which eventually +would carry him back to Earth. + +Before the second stage was fired, however, the ship had to be oriented +properly. The autopilot consulted its gyros, took some star sights, and +asked the navigation computer some questions. The answers came back in +seconds, an interval which was several hours shorter than a human pilot +would have required. Using the answers, the autopilot started to swing +the ship about, using small compressed-gas jets for the purpose. +Finally, satisfied with the ship's orientation, the autopilot rested. It +patiently awaited the moment, precisely calculated by the computer on +the ground, when it would fire the second stage. + +Major Harry Lightfoot, fighter pilot, waited idly for the next move of +his ship. He could only fume inwardly. This was no way for an Apache +warrior to ride into battle. What would his grandfather think of a steed +which directed itself into battle and which could kill its rider, not by +accident, but in its normal operation? He should be actively hunting for +that missile, instead of lying here, strapped into his couch so he +wouldn't hurt himself, while the ship did all the work. + +As for the missile, it was far to the north and slightly above the ship. +Without purpose of its own, but obedient to the laws of Mr. Newton and +to the wishes of its makers, it came on inexorably. It was a sleek +aluminum cylinder, glinting in the sunlight it had just recently +entered. On one end was a rocket-motor, now silent but still warm with +the memory of flaming gas that had poured forth from it only minutes +ago. On the other end was a sleek aerodynamic shape, the product of +thousands of hours of design work. It was designed to enter the +atmosphere at meteoric speed, but without burning up. It was intended to +survive the passage through the air and convey its contents intact to +the ground. The contents might have been virulent bacteria or toxic gas, +according to the intentions of its makers. Among its brothers elsewhere +in the sky this morning, there were such noxious loads. This one, +however, was carrying the complex mechanism of a hydrogen bomb. Its +destination was an American city; its object to replace that city with +an expanding cloud of star-hot gas. + + * * * * * + +Suddenly the sleek cylinder disappeared in a puff of smoke, which +quickly dissipated in the surrounding vacuum. What had been a +precisely-built rocket had been reduced, by carefully-placed charges of +explosive, to a collection of chunks of metal. Some were plates from the +skin and fuel tanks. Others were large lumps from the computer-banks, +gyro platform, fuel pumps, and other more massive components. This was +not wanton destruction, however. It was more careful planning by the +same brains which had devised the missile itself. To a radar set on the +ground near the target, each fragment was indistinguishable from the +nose cone carrying the warhead. In fact, since the fragments were +separating only very slowly, they never would appear as distinct +objects. By the time the cloud of decoys entered the atmosphere, its +more than two dozen members would appear to the finest radar available +on the ground as a single echo twenty-five miles across. It would be a +giant haystack in the sky, concealing the most deadly needle of all +time. No ground-controlled intercept scheme had any hope of selecting +the warhead from among that deceptive cloud and destroying it. + +The cloud of fragments possessed the same trajectory as the missile +originally had. At the rate it was overtaking RI 276, it would soon pass +the ship by. The autopilot of RI 276 had no intention of letting this +happen, of course. At the correct instant, stage two thundered into +life, and Harry Lightfoot was again smashed back into his acceleration +couch. Almost absentmindedly, the ship continued to minister to his +needs. Its attention was focused on its mission. After a while, the +ground computer sent some instructions to the ship. The navigation +computer converted these into a direction, and pointed a radar antenna +in that direction. The antenna sent forth a stream of questing pulses, +which quickly returned, confirming the direction and distance to the +oncoming cloud of missile fragments. A little while later, fuel pumps +began to whine somewhere in the tail of the ship. Then the acceleration +dropped to zero as the second-stage thrust was terminated. There was a +series of thumps as explosive bolts released the second stage. The whine +of the pumps dropped in pitch as fuel gushed through them, and +acceleration returned in a rush. The acceleration lasted for a few +seconds, tapered off quickly, and ended. A light winked on on the +instrument panel as the ship announced its mission was accomplished. + +Major Harry Lightfoot, fighter pilot, felt a glow of satisfaction as he +saw the light come on. He might not have reflexes fast enough to pilot +the ship up here; he might not be able to survive the climb to intercept +without the help of a lot of fancy equipment; but he was still +necessary. He saw still one step ahead of this complex robot which had +carried him up here. It was his human judgment and his ability to react +correctly in an unpredictable situation which were needed to locate the +warhead from among the cluster of decoys and destroy it. This was a job +no merely logical machine could do. When all was said and done, the only +purpose for the existence of this magnificent machine was to put him +where he was now; in the same trajectory as the missile, and slightly +behind it. + +Harry Lightfoot reached for a red-handled toggle switch at the top of +the instrument panel, clicked it from AUTO to MANUAL, and changed his +status from passenger to pilot. He had little enough time to work. He +could not follow the missile down into the atmosphere; his ship would +burn up. He must begin his pull-out at not less than two hundred miles +altitude. That left him one hundred eighty-three seconds in which to +locate and destroy the warhead. The screen in the center of his +instrument panel could show a composite image of the space in front of +his ship, based on data from a number of sensing elements and detectors. +He switched on an infrared scanner. A collection of spots appeared on +the screen, each spot indicating by its color the temperature of the +object it represented. The infrared detector gave him no range +information, of course. But if the autopilot had done its job well, the +nearest fragment would be about ten miles away. Thus even if he set off +the enemy warhead, he would be safe. At that range the ship would not +suffer any structural damage from the heat, and he could be down on the +ground and in a hospital before any radiation effects could become +serious. + +He reflected quickly on the possible temperature range of the missile +components. The missile had been launched from Central Asia, at night, +in January. There was no reason to suppose that the warhead had been +temperature-controlled during the pre-launch countdown. Thus it probably +was at the ambient temperature of the launch site. If it had been fired +in the open, that might be as low as minus 70 deg. F. Had it been fired from +a shelter, that might be as high as 70 deg. F. To leave a safety margin, he +decided to reject only those objects outside the range plus or minus +100 deg. F. There were two fragments at 500 deg. F. He rejected these as +probably fragments of the engine. Six more exhibited a temperature of +near minus 320 deg. F. These probably came from the liquid oxygen tanks. +They could be rejected. That eliminated eight of the objects on the +screen. He had nineteen to go. It would be a lot slower for the rest, +too. + + * * * * * + +He switched on a radar transmitter. The screen blanked out almost +completely. The missile had included a micro-wave transmitter, to act as +a jammer. It must have been triggered on by his approach. It obviously +hadn't been operating while the ship was maneuvering into position. Had +it been transmitting then, the autopilot would simply have homed on it. +He switched the radar to a different frequency. That didn't work. The +screen was still blank, indicating that the jammer was sweeping in +frequency. He next tried to synchronize his radar pulses with the +jammer, in order to be looking when it was quiet. The enemy, +anticipating him, had given the jammer a variable pulse repetition rate. +He switched off the transmitter, and scanned the radar antenna manually. +He slowly swung it back and forth, attempting to fix the direction of +the jammer by finding the direction of maximum signal strength. He found +that the enemy had anticipated him again, and the jammer's signal +strength varied. However, he finally stopped the antenna, satisfied that +he had it pointed at the jammer. The infrared detector confirmed that +there was something in the direction the antenna pointed, but it +appeared too small to be the warhead. + +He then activated the manual piloting controls. He started the fuel +pumps winding up, and swung the ship to point normal to the +line-of-sight to the jammer. A quick blast from the rockets sent the +image of the jammer moving sideways across the screen. But, of greater +importance, two other objects moved across the screen faster than the +jammer, indicating they were nearer the ship than was the jammer. He +picked the one which appeared the nearest to him, and with a series of +maneuvers and blasts from the rockets placed the object between himself +and the jammer. He switched the radar on again. Some of the jammer +signal was still leaking through, but the object, whatever it was, made +an effective shield. The radar images were quite sharp and clear. + +He glanced at the clock. Nullifying the jammer had cost him seventy-five +seconds. He'd have to hurry, in order to make up for that time. The +infrared detector showed two targets which the radar insisted weren't +there. He shifted radar frequency. They still weren't there. He decided +they were small fragments which didn't reflect much radar energy, and +rejected them. He set the radar to a linearly polarized mode. Eight of +the targets showed a definite amplitude modulation on the echo. That +meant they were rotating slowly. He switched to circular polarization, +to see if they presented a constant area to the radar beam. He compared +the echoes for both modes of polarization. Five of the targets were skin +fragments, spinning about an axis skewed with respect to the radar beam. +These he rejected. Two more were structural spars. They couldn't conceal +a warhead. He rejected them. After careful examination of the fine +structure of the echo from the last object, he was able to classify it +as a large irregular mass, probably a section of computer, waving some +cables about. Its irregularity weighed against its containing the +warhead. Even if it didn't burn up in the atmosphere, its trajectory +would be too unpredictable. + +He turned to the rest of the targets. Time was getting short. He +extracted every conceivable bit of information out of what his detectors +told him. He checked each fragment for resonant frequencies, getting an +idea of the size and shape of each. He checked the radiated infrared +spectrum. He checked the decrement of the reflected radar pulse. Each +scrap of information was an indication about the identity of the +fragments. With frequent glances at the clock, constantly reminding him +of how rapidly his time was running out, he checked and cross-checked +the data coming in to him. Fighting to keep his mind calm and his +thoughts clear, he deduced, inferred, and decided. One fragment after +another, he sorted, discarded, rejected, eliminated, excluded. Until the +screen was empty. + +Now what? Had the enemy camouflaged the warhead so that it looked like a +section of the missile's skin? Not likely. Had he made a mistake in his +identification of the fragments? Possibly, but there wasn't time to +recheck every fragment. He decided that the most likely event was that +the warhead was hidden by one of the other fragments. He swung the ship; +headed it straight for the object shielding him from the jammer, which +had turned out to be a section from the fuel tank. A short blast from +the rockets sent him drifting toward the object. One image on the screen +broadened; split in two. A hidden fragment emerged from behind one of +the ones he had examined. He rejected it immediately. Its temperature +was too low. He was almost upon the fragment shielding him from the +jammer. If he turned to avoid it, the jammer would blank-out his radar +again. He thought back to his first look at the cloud of fragments. +There had been nothing between his shield and the jammer. The only +remaining possibility, then, was that the warhead was being hidden from +him by the jammer itself. He would have to look on the other side of the +jammer, using the ship itself as a shield. + +He swung out from behind the shielding fragment, and saw his radar +images blotted out. He switched off the radar, and aimed the ship +slightly to one side of the infrared image of the jammer. Another blast +from the rockets sent him towards the jammer. Without range information +from the radar, he would have to guess its distance by noting the rate +at which it swept across the screen. The image of the jammer started to +expand as he approached it. Then it became dumbbell shaped and split in +two. + +As he passed by the jammer, he switched the radar back on. That second +image was something which had been hidden by the jammer. He looked +around. No other new objects appeared on the screen. This had to be the +warhead. He checked it anyway. Temperature was minus 40 deg. F. A smile +flickered on his lips as he caught the significance of the temperature. +He hoped the launching crew had gotten their fingers frozen off while +they were going through the countdown. The object showed no anomalous +radar behavior. Beyond doubt, it was the warhead. + +Then he noted the range. A mere thirteen hundred yards! His own missile +carried a small atomic warhead. At that range it would present no danger +to him. But what if it triggered the enemy warhead? He and the ship +would be converted into vapor within microseconds. Even a partial, +low-efficiency explosion might leave the ship so weakened that it could +not stand the stresses of return through the atmosphere. Firing on the +enemy warhead at this range was not much different from playing Russian +Roulette with a fully-loaded revolver. + +Could he move out of range of the explosion and then fire? No. There +were only twelve seconds left before he had to start the pull-out. It +would take him longer than that to get to a safe range, get into +position, and fire. He'd be dead anyway, as the ship plunged into the +atmosphere and burned up. And to pull out without firing would be saving +his own life at the cost of the lives he was under oath to defend. That +would be sheer cowardice. + + * * * * * + +He hesitated briefly, shrugged his shoulders as well as he could inside +his flying suit, and snapped a switch on the instrument panel. A set of +cross hairs sprang into existence on the screen. He gripped a small +lever which projected up from his right armrest; curled his thumb over +the firing button on top of it. Moving the lever, he caused the cross +hairs to center on the warhead. He flicked the firing button, to tell +the fire control system that _this_ was the target. A red light blinked +on, informing him that the missile guidance system was tracking the +indicated target. + +He hesitated again. His body tautened against the straps holding it in +the acceleration couch. His right arm became rigid; his fingers +petrified. Then, with a convulsive twitch of his thumb, he closed the +firing circuit. He stared at the screen, unable to tear his eyes from +the streak of light that leaped away from his ship and toward the +target. The missile reached the target, and there was a small flare of +light. His radiation counter burped briefly. The target vanished from +the radar, but the infrared detector insisted there was a nebulous fog +of hot gas, shot through with a rain of molten droplets, where the +target had been. That was all. He had destroyed the enemy warhead +without setting it off. He stabbed the MISSION ACCOMPLISHED button, and +flicked the red-handled toggle switch, resigning his status as pilot. +Then he collapsed, nerveless, into the couch. + +The autopilot returned to control. It signaled the Air Defense network +that this hostile track was no longer dangerous. It received +instructions about a safe corridor to return to the ground, where it +would not be shot at. As soon as the air was thick enough for the +control surfaces to bite, the autopilot steered into the safe corridor. +It began the slow, tedious process of landing safely. The ground was +still a long way down. The kinetic and potential energy of the ship, if +instantly transformed into heat, was enough to flash the entire ship +into vapor. This tremendous store of energy had to be dissipated without +harm to the ship and its occupant. + +Major Harry Lightfoot, fighter pilot, lay collapsed in his couch, +exhibiting somewhat less ambition than a sack of meal. He relaxed to the +gentle massage of his gee-suit. The oxygen control winked reassuringly +at him as it maintained a steady flow. The cabin temperature soared, but +he was aware of it only from a glance at a thermometer; the air +conditioning in his suit automatically stepped up its pace to keep him +comfortable. He reflected that this might not be so bad after all. +Certainly none of his ancestors had ever had this comfortable a ride +home from battle. + +After a while, the ship had reduced its speed and altitude to reasonable +values. The autopilot requested, and received, clearance to land at its +preassigned base. It lined itself up with the runway, precisely followed +the correct glide-path, and flared out just over the end of the runway. +The smoothness of the touchdown was broken only by the jerk of the drag +parachute popping open. The ship came to a halt near the other end of +the runway. Harry Lightfoot disconnected himself from the ship and +opened the hatch. Carefully avoiding contact with the still-hot metal +skin of the ship, he jumped the short distance to the ground. The low +purr of a motor behind him announced the arrival of a tractor to tow the +ship off the runway. + +"You'll have to ride the tractor back with me, sir. We're a bit short of +transportation now." + +"O.K., sergeant. Be careful hooking up. She's still hot." + +"How was the flight, sir?" + +"No sweat. She flies herself most of the time." + + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pushbutton War, by Joseph P. 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