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diff --git a/59622-0.txt b/59622-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5aae40c --- /dev/null +++ b/59622-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,546 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59622 *** + + + + + + + + + + + + + ROUTINE _for a_ HORNET + + BY DON BERRY + + _Hurtling through space to meet the enemy + in equipment too delicate to step on, without + enough fuel to get back, and knowing you're + completely expendable is just_---- + + [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from + Worlds of If Science Fiction, December 1956. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that + the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] + + +Alarm bells filled the wardroom, screaming off the metal walls and +filling the room with their flat, metallic clang. Cressey leaped up, +spilling the table with its checkerboard to the floor. + +Running to the suitlocker, he wondered if the bells had to be loud +enough to jar a man's mind. The other on-duty men in the wardroom were +running with him, and the corridor outside reverberated to the sound +of pounding feet on metal. As his hand automatically manipulated the +zippers on his G-suit, he noticed that his heart was beating furiously. +At this point, Cressey had never been able to tell whether he was +frightened or not. As far as he could know from what his belly told +him, there was no physical difference between plain old chicken fear +and the body's normal preparation for action. + +The men pounded 'up' the metal stairs to the Hornet's Nest on the +satellite's rim. The Hornet's Nest. Cressey thought suddenly how +irrational it was. When a nickname stuck, it carried its aura to +everything around it. He didn't know what live-wire journalist had +first used the name Hornets for the Primary Interceptor Command, but +now, inevitably, the launching racks were Hornet's Nests and the sleek +missiles Stingers. + +He suddenly felt slightly nauseated. He hated this light-headed, +slightly sick feeling, listening to the roaring of blood in his head +and the thundering of his heart. The medics had told him these physical +symptoms were just nature's way of preparing the body for sudden +activity. Cressey didn't know. It felt like fear to him, and he was +afraid now. + +His ship this run was PIC-503, and when he reached it the Stingers +were just coming up the loading elevators. Long, slim, twenty-foot +pencils of death, glistening in the harsh glare of the overheads. They +had their own sort of lethal beauty, those Stingers, and a power about +them, as if they were quiescently submitting to these puny men for now, +for their own mechanical reasons. + +Each Hornet carried two Stingers, slung beneath the stubby delta-wings. +The Stingers were twice the length of the Hornet itself, projecting +fore and aft of the ship for five feet in either direction. The Hornet +looked ungainly, riding atop those slim needles, like some grotesque +parasite hitching a ride on two silver arrows. + +_They're--quite small._ Who had said that? Mackley. Captain Mackley, +the glib Information Officer who'd told Cressey everything he was +allowed to know about Hornets before he saw one. + +_I'll be frank with you, Mr. Cressey. Strategic Command has Hornets +listed not as aircraft, but as portable launching racks. Their job is +to take Stingers to the Outspace ships. There's a man in them because +we can't build a computer as efficient as man at such light weight. And +we couldn't afford to if we had the necessary knowledge._ + +Cressey remembered his shock at being told he was a light-weight +computer, and some of the bitterness. He watched the loading crew lock +the Stingers into position beneath the Hornet's wings and throw the +hooked boarding ladder over the edge of the cockpit. Cressey mounted +past the red-painted NO STEP signs on the wings and settled himself in +the cramped cockpit. As the crew carried the ladder away, he flipped +the switch by his left hand and listened to the hum as the canopy +rolled forward and locked into place with a metallic clack. NO STEP, +he thought wearily. His own god-damned life, entrusted to a piece of +equipment too delicate to step on. + +He swung the fish-bowl over his head and locked it into place. He +coupled the hose leading from his right hip to a similar hose which +disappeared into the floor of the cockpit, and partially inflated his +suit. No detectable leaks. If his check crew had done their job, he was +ready. + +Opening the communications channel, he listened to the other 'hot' +Hornets checking off. + +"427." + +"Ready out." + +"493." + +"Ready out." + +"495." + +"Ready sir. Out." + +"501." + +"My fuel gauge doesn't register, sir." + +"Scratch 501. 503." + +"Ready out," replied Cressey. He wondered what was wrong with 501. No +fuel? Or gauge just out of whack somehow? The way the Hornets were +built, you could never be sure of anything. They were made for one +trip, no more. No matter how the intercept worked out, they never went +home again. There was not much money wasted in their construction. +Mackley had easily justified that, too. + +_Cressey, you must understand one thing. We are desperate. The +Outspacers caught us totally unprepared, and some of the measures we +must resort to are not what we would normally desire._ + +_When the Outspacers came into the system, six years ago, we had only +two manned satellites in operation. Within two years this was increased +to six, and it was still inadequate. For this reason, another ring +of stations was set up, this time one-man Detector Posts. There are +twelve of them, two reporting to each Satellite Base. Their orbit is +roughly half-way between the orbits of Earth and Mars. Two concentric +circles about the Earth, do you see? When an Outspacer crosses D-line, +a signal is flashed to the nearest Satellite Base and the Hornets +launched._ + +_The point I'm trying to make, Cressey, is this: it took nearly forty +years to set up the first manned satellite, and that after all the +means were in our hands. Then, in just over two years, we put up four +more satellites and twelve D-Posts. We were not geared for that effort._ + +Translated into personal terms, Mackley had meant that the planet could +not afford to enclose Cressey in an adequate ship. Too much would be +lost if the Outspacer weapons caught it. + +The loading crew had retreated into the sealed cubicle from which they +would watch the launching. The huge, curved walls of the hull began to +roll back, and even in the cockpit, Cressey could hear the air roar out +into space with a brief explosion of sound. The air hissed out of his +cockpit, and his suit inflated full. Still no leak. + +He felt a momentary panic as the launching rack swung him out, pointed +away from the Satellite directly into the emptiness of space. Now he +could not see the reassuring bulk of the mother ship. He was alone, +with only the incredible myriads of stars before him, and the two +needle points of the Stingers projecting full into their mass. The tens +of thousands of bright specks that seemed so close gave no comfort. +His eyes told him space was full, crammed to bursting with stars, and +his mind told him it was as empty as death. + +Pointed out into loneliness, riding the two graceful arrows, Cressey +heard the Communicator rasp, "Gentlemen, you are on an intercept to +an Outspace ship. The safety of your world rides with you. Do your +job well." The hypocritical son-of-a-bitch, thought Cressey angrily, +sitting in his snug control room telling _us_ to do our job! Well, +maybe it made an impression on the first-timers, he couldn't remember. +This was his third, and he could no longer remember any farther back +than when he climbed into the cockpit. It was better not to remember +his other missions, much better. + +The roar seemed to come a split second before the pressure, and then +Cressey was slammed into his acceleration cradle by the sudden impact. +His body suddenly weighed over a thousand pounds, and his blood sloshed +wearily in his veins as a straining heart refused to pump such a load. + + * * * * * + +_"Captain Mackley," said Cressey, "I've heard it said that Earth is the +aggressor in this war."_ + +_"Have you ever seen the London Crater?" asked the Information Officer._ + +_"Pictures, yes, but what I want to know is, who attacked first?"_ + +_"It doesn't really matter, does it Cressey? There is a war, and we've +got to fight it, no matter how it started."_ + +_"Yes sir," said Cressey, "but I wanted to know."_ + +_"All right, I'll tell you then. The Outspacers contacted this system +roughly six years ago. The first eighteen months they spent on the +outer planets. During the second year they came in as far as Mars, +and established a base there. Six months later, one of their ships +left on an obvious course toward Earth. It was destroyed by a missile +launched from Satellite II." Mackley shrugged. "You know the rest. They +retaliated. Satellite II was vaporized."_ + +_"But Earth fired first?"_ + +_"I told you, it doesn't make any difference now. One Outspacer later +got through the defense rings, and now there's nothing from London to +Cambridge but glass. Whatever the hell they use for weapons, they're +effective."_ + +_"So we don't know whether or not they were originally hostile."_ + +_"No, we don't. It had to be assumed they were. We were not in a +position to make allowances. You must realize, Cressey, we were dealing +with something totally unprecedented, a completely unknown force. +Common sense is enough to tell you the Outspacer had to be considered +inimical to us, until proven otherwise."_ + +_"They weren't given much of a chance to prove it."_ + +_"That may be. The point is irrelevant at the moment. We are committed +to a line of action, and we must follow it through. On their part, the +Outspacers are doing the same."_ + +_Cressey was silent for a moment, and Mackley continued in a softer +voice. "Look here, son. I don't have to tell you all this. I could just +as easily shoot you full of starry-eyed patriotism and send you out +to save the world from the Bug-Eyed Monsters, but the military isn't +doing things that way any more. There is a possibility that we've made +a mistake, I'll admit that, but we're stuck with the consequences of +the original action. We're defending our planet with everything we've +got. The Hornets are the only weapon that has proven even remotely +effective."_ + +_"I'll have to think it over, Captain."_ + +_"Of course," said Mackley. "It's not an easy decision to make. Come +back again, any time you like, and we'll talk it over some more."_ + +And Cressey had gone back. + + * * * * * + +Acceleration pressure abated, and Cressey's face resumed its normal +shape. The red haze in front of his eyes cleared, and he could see +out through his canopy again. The thick blanket of stars remained +motionless, though he knew he was moving with tremendous speed toward +the Outspace ship. + +In front of him behind the instrument panel, he could hear the +insect-like buzzing as his course computer was fed information from his +Base Satellite. With both the outer D-Post and the Satellite tracking +the enemy, fairly precise positioning was possible. Unfortunately, +because of the enormous distances involved, not precise enough to +pinpoint the Stingers themselves. You had to be closer to do that, and +the way to get closer was in a Hornet. + +For a few minutes now, Cressey had only to watch his own scope for +the first pip, and consider his insane position. It was his third +mission. Of nearly a thousand Hornetmen, forty-three had more than one +mission. If he got out of this one, he had two more before compulsory +retirement. He was not sure he could go two more missions, even if he +survived physically. + +Five missions, then retirement. It had looked good to him, a year ago. +When he left college for Primary Interceptors, it had seemed the very +best kind of an idea. Five missions as a Hornetman, then home. Home as +a hero, as a king. At twenty-one he would never have to worry about +anything again. The pension Mackley had mentioned was so high as to be +inconceivable. And that was just from the government. Being a hero had +other, less official compensations. A shack in Beverly Hills, worth a +hundred thousand or so? Hell, they'd force it on him, just for being a +hero. A woman? What woman could resist a five-mission Hornetman? Every +daydream he'd ever had, and a hundred he'd not thought of, free for +nothing. Or free for running five intercepts. + +It had looked good to him until his first mission. Then it had suddenly +lost its charm. He had learned why, so far, there were no five-mission +Hornetmen. + +Abruptly he heard the "ping" telling him his radar was tracking. The +Satellite had guided him true enough. He was within the limited range +of his own radar. + +"Radar contact made," he said into the lip mike. "503 going on manual +control. Out." He clicked the Com switch and settled down to fixing on +his target. + +From the size of the blip on the screen, he could see the Outspace ship +was huge, as all of them were. Funny, there had not even been enough +contact to know how many different sorts of ship the Alien had. They +were not battleships, nor cruisers, nor anything else specific. They +were simply Outspace, and he had to seek them out and destroy them. + +A single ship, as usual. He wondered why they had never sent more than +one ship at a time. Perhaps their thinking was so completely foreign +it had never occurred to them. No one knew anything about how they +thought, except that they retaliated when attacked. + +Cressey wondered how the conflict looked through Outspacer eyes. +Perhaps they were completely bewildered by attack. Perhaps those +god-awful disruptor beams were meant for some other, more peaceful +purpose, and were being pressed into use as an emergency weapon by +frightened beings. It was even possible the aliens did not know they +were under attack by sentient creatures, and wrote off the loss of +their ships to natural calamity of some unknown nature. + +There were a thousand maybes. It was useless to speculate in the total +absence of data. You couldn't be sure of anything, so you couldn't +take any chances. You had to act as though they were hostile just to be +on the safe side. The malignant neurosis of humanity, making it behave +as though all things unknown were dangerous. Or perhaps just realistic +thinking. You couldn't know, unless you knew all about the universe. +Perhaps the idea of conscious animosity was incomprehensible to the +Outspacers, but there was no way to tell. He reached between his legs +to the cockpit floor and threw the switches there, arming the Stinger +warheads. + +On his first mission he had actually gotten within visual range of the +Outspace ship, launching the Stingers at not more than three miles +range. The ship had been bulky, almost grotesque by his own standards, +covered with lumps and bulges of indeterminate purpose. There had been +no lights visible, no ports. Perhaps the Aliens did not see in our +spectrum, or perhaps they had radiation screens across the ports, there +was no way to tell. + +Cressey smiled ruefully. This miserable war was turning him into a +philosopher. + +On his second mission he had not seen his target. He had launched at +six miles, out of fear, trusting to the followers in the Stingers' +noses to track. He did not know what the result had been either time. +He had turned and run for home at full acceleration, and he fully +intended to do the same on this mission. There was such a thing as +pushing your luck too far, and he needed all he had. + +The pip on his screen drifted to the left, and he gave a short burst +to center it. He begrudged having to use his infinitesimal fuel on +tracking when he needed it so desperately to go home. He looked through +the canopy, but saw nothing, and returned his eyes to the screen. The +telltale pip had drifted slightly to the right. He had overcorrected. +Cursing, he fired another burst, shorter this time, with the left bank, +and watched the pip center. That was good enough. + +His ranging said only twelve miles, his speed two mps, relative to +target. One second, two seconds, three--there it was, occulting a tiny +area of star patched sky. + +Out of the corner of his eye he saw a bright flare as some other Hornet +disappeared in the wave of energy released by its molecular disruption. +Then another, in another quadrant. The Alien was fighting back. He +jabbed violently at the Stinger release, and saw the two pencils +roar fiercely out ahead of him on their own power. He cut his flimsy +launching rack into as tight a turn as it would take. The familiar red +haze clouded his vision, and just before blacking out he fired another +last long burst on the rockets to head him toward home. + + * * * * * + +_"You understand," said Mackley, "that the amount of fuel we can pack +into a Hornet is severely limited by the size of the craft. There is +not enough to perform the complicated braking maneuvers necessary to +return to the Satellite._ + +_"Therefore, the Hornets make no attempt to return to the Satellite +from which they were launched. Instead, they return directly to Earth. +This may sound contradictory, but remember that the planet has a heavy +envelope of air, which the Satellite Bases, of course, have not. We use +that air to brake the ships, through friction."_ + +_"But Captain, wouldn't the Hornet burn as soon as it touched +atmosphere?"_ + +_"Ordinarily, if it plunged directly in, yes. But there are techniques +for slowing your flight through friction without heating excessively. +Basically, the operation is the same as skipping a flat stone on a +lake. The Hornet actually only skims the atmosphere, entering at a very +shallow angle. The entire delta-wing of the ship is a control surface. +That much area, even at such extreme heights, gives a certain amount of +control, and the pilot can pull up out of the atmosphere again before +heating has become too extreme. He has also been considerably slowed by +the same friction which causes the heating. Do you follow me?"_ + +_"Yes, I suppose so, but it seems pretty tricky."_ + +_"It is tricky, Cressey, and you never want to forget it. It takes a +very considerable amount of piloting skill, but it can be done."_ + +_"Captain, how many Hornets do you lose trying to get in like that?"_ + +_Mackley hesitated momentarily. "Our losses are right around +thirty-seven percent. That's due to enemy fire. It's high, but under +the circumstances, it isn't extreme. We're fighting at a disadvantage, +and combat is not a gentle affair. Men's lives are lost. That's been +true ever since two cave men took after each other with stone axes. +It was true with bows and arrows and muzzle loaders. It was true with +tanks and machine guns, and it is true now._ + +_"It is expected in a combat situation that men will die. One of the +aims of military strategy has always been to keep as many of your own +men alive as possible. This has not changed either. But combat is, +after all, combat; and there are some unavoidable risks."_ + +_"What's the total loss, Captain? I mean from enemy action and from the +hazards of this skip approach you were talking about?"_ + +_The Information Officer stared at Cressey for what seemed like a long +time before he answered. "Our total losses, Mr. Cressey, are roughly +ninety-three percent."_ + + * * * * * + +When Cressey regained consciousness, the Earth was a great globe, +filling his entire field of vision. He could not estimate his distance, +though he thought he was within the Satellite ring. His speed would +plunge him into atmosphere shortly, too shortly. + +Within seconds he began to feel the warmth as he entered the region +where a few air molecules began to brush over the surfaces of his ship. +He rotated the delta-wings full, but there was no response. He was not +yet deep enough into the sea of air for the control surfaces to react. +He watched the tips of the wings, so ridiculously close to him, though +he knew he would not be able to see anything. Soon he began to feel a +gentle bucking motion as the wings met resistance. He flattened them +out, horizontal, and began to draw them up again slowly, so they would +move the tiny ship upward instead of simply tearing off at the roots. + +The heat was already uncomfortable, and he was slowing. Now he was +pressed forward against the seat belt as deceleration increased. The +control surfaces bit into the thin air more solidly now, and Cressey +thought the nose had come up a bit, but it was so slight he couldn't be +sure. The bucking motion was more pronounced, but there was nothing he +could do about that. + +Slowly, slowly. The wings had to tilt so very slowly, or they would be +ripped from the pod-like hull, leaving it to plummet into thick air and +glow briefly like a cigarette in the dark before it plunged down to +earth. His face was wet behind the fish-bowl, but he could not reach it +to wipe the sweat away. Nor could he have taken his hands away from the +controls in any case. + +The nose had come up, he was certain of that now. He was definitely +rising, but the heat was becoming unbearable. Imperceptibly, a thin +shrieking had arisen in the cabin, almost out of sonic range, just +enough to make a man's nerves feel as if they had been dragged across a +rough file. The heat transmitted through the body of the pod and into +the bucket was beginning to burn his legs. He was being held out of +the seat itself by the force of his deceleration, but the backs of his +calves still touched metal. He thought he could smell the fabric of his +suit burning, but realized it was probably his overwrought imagination. + +His cheeks felt too large, puffed out, as though strong, implacable +hands were pulling all his loose flesh forward. His eyes strained +forward, threatening to come out of their sockets. The red haze +began, and he had a sudden frightening thought that he might lose +consciousness before the Hornet had well begun its rise out of +atmosphere. The red darkened into black. + +He regained consciousness. The first skip had been made. The ship began +to settle back into atmosphere again, and now its speed was lower. +With each pass the heat would become more intense, as the plane would +not have a chance to cool completely before it began to heat again. He +had to maintain a delicate balance between going deep enough to slow +him, but not so deep he couldn't bring the ship up before it burned, +cherry-red. His body was drenched as by a shower, and the inner lining +of his suit felt soggy from sweat. + +The second skip was worse than the first, and he lost consciousness +almost too soon. The third was worse than the second. After the fourth, +he could not lift high enough to clear atmosphere. He had gone too +deep, and was now bound by the great mass of Earth below. + +He was still at a shallow angle, relative to the ground. He estimated +he would make at least one complete orbit, perhaps two, before his +spiralling trajectory brought him to the contact point on the surface. +If he were still conscious, he would leave the aircraft at 30,000 +feet, and hope. He knew his speed was still too high, well over Mach 2, +higher than it had been on either of his other approaches. The ship was +threatening to tear apart under the furious pounding it was taking from +air and shock waves. + +Hobson's choice. Bail out high, and suffocate because the automatic +chute release would not allow him to make a delayed opening. Bail out +low, and the thick air would pound his body to a pulp, and below the +steel webbed chute would hang nothing but a suit, full of a still, red +messiness. + +The timing had to be precision itself, but it had to be done by +guesswork. There was no training that could prepare a man for this. It +was all new. He uncoupled the air hose leading to his suit, and placed +his hand on the ejector lever. He knew he was too high, but the wings +showed quivering signs of buckling under the strain. + +He pulled the lever, releasing the canopy and arming the seat +cartridge. The canopy disappeared miraculously from over his head. +He was deafened by the thunderous roar of air that entered the +cramped cockpit, like an explosion peak that remained constant, not +diminishing. Instinctively, he ducked his head, recoiling at the sound. +He did not remember triggering the seat ejector. + +Cressey fell. The seat dropped away from him, the incredibly strong +parachute opened, all automatically. He fell forty-five thousand +feet into the Pacific Ocean, unconscious. His face was battered by +windblast almost beyond recognition, and his body equally so. When +the rescue team pulled him from the water, three hours later, they +thought he was an old man. His eyes were a mass of red, from dozens of +sub-conjunctival hemorrhages. He would see again, but not until after +weeks of near blindness. + +But he was alive. When he woke up in the California hospital four days +later, he considered ruefully that that was about the best one could +expect in his business. + + * * * * * + +"Cressey, can you hear me?" + +"Yes, I can hear you. Who is it?" + +"It's Captain Mackley. I've come to see you." + +"Well--thanks, Captain." + +"You got the Outspacer, Cressey. I thought you'd like to know." + +"Frankly, Captain, I couldn't care less. But thanks for telling me, +anyway." + +"It means a lot, Cressey. There were a lot of people's lives riding +with you." + +_Yeah, I'm a hero. I'm a Hornetman._ + +"Thanks, Captain." + +"Was it pretty rough?" + +_Rough? Like birth and death and all of life, rolled into minutes._ + +"No more so than I expected, Captain. Pretty much routine. Routine for +a Hornetman." + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Routine for a Hornet, by Don Berry + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59622 *** |