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Read Ebook: Generals Help Themselves by Pease M C
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GENERALS HELP THEMSELVES
"Did it go well?" the aide asked.
The admiral, affectionately known as the Old Man, did not reply until he'd closed the door, crossed the room, and dropped into the chair at his desk. Then he said:
"Go well? It did not go at all. Every blasted one of them, from the President on down, can think of nothing but the way the Combine over-ran Venus. When I mention P-boats, they shout that the Venusians depended on P-boats, too, and got smashed by the Combine's dreadnoughts in one battle. 'You can't argue with it, man,' they tell me. And they won't listen."
"But the Venusians fought their P-ships idiotically," the aide complained. "It was just plain silly to let small, light, fast ships slug it out with dreadnoughts. If they had used Plan K--"
The Old Man snorted.
"Are you trying to convince me? I've staked my whole reputation on Plan K. They wouldn't give me the money to build a balanced space-fleet, even when the fleets of the Combine of Jupiterian Satellite States were staring them in the face. So, I took what I could get and poured it into P-boats. I threw all our engineering and scientific staff into making them faster and more maneuverable than anyone ever thought a space-ship could be. I got them to build me electronic computers that could direct that speed. And, two years ago, every cent I could lay my hands on went to install the computers on all our ships."
"I remember," the aide said.
"But, now the chips are down, the people have funked out on me. I am one of the most hated men in the Federation. They say I destroyed their Navy. And, we are not going to get a chance to try Plan K. They decided, today, to accept the Combine's offer to send envoys in a month to discuss possible revision of the Treaty of Porran. When I left, they were wondering if there was any chance of getting out for less than Base Q."
"But, good lord, sir, Base Q supplies nine tenths of all our power. The Combine will have a strangle hold on us, if they get that."
"Quite. But the people will give it to them, rather than fight. And the President will sign."
"Surely, sir, the people are not all cowards?"
"No. If they had time to think, they would fight. That's why the Combine is striking now. The people are panicky. Hysterical. The collapse of Venus was so sudden, and the disaster to their P-boats so complete. They've just lost hope. Most people would rather live under a dictator than die to no purpose. They've just lost hope."
The pounding of the Old Man's fist measured his words and the depth of his anger.
"If we could only make them hope. Somehow. Anyhow."
Suddenly, his clenched fist stopped in mid-air. He frowned. Slowly, his hand opened. The frown relaxed and a smile replaced it.
"Maybe we can, at that. Maybe we can." He leaned back with his eyes half closed. His aide knew better than to interrupt him. Ten minutes later, he opened his eyes.
"Make arrangements to have Commander Morgan take command of Base Q as soon as possible. Within two days at the outside." His manner was curt and clipped. "And bring him here to me before he leaves."
"Yes, sir. But may I say, sir, I do not understand?"
"You're not supposed to."
"Yes, sir."
The aide was a competent man. Orders were written that afternoon, in complete disregard of normal red-tape. Base Q was advised of the imminent shift. Commander Stanley Morgan boarded a jet plane on the Australian desert that night. The next morning, he was shown into the Old Man's office.
"Commander," the Old Man said after the preliminaries were taken care of, "as you are well aware, you have been in considerable disgrace, recently, for getting too close to the Venusian-Combine war, in defiance of orders. It has been felt, in certain quarters, that you might have caused a serious international crisis."
The junior officer started to speak, but the admiral waved him to silence.
"You could, if you like, point out that the crisis has come, anyhow. As a matter of fact, I never felt that that phase of your action was too important. I did, however, deplore your disregard of orders--and still do." He paused a moment, while his steel gray eyes studied the younger man. "You are about to receive new orders. It is absolutely imperative that these orders be obeyed explicitly." His pointing finger punctuated his words with slow emphasis.
"These orders place you in command of Base Q. The Treaty of Porran, among other things, designates the asteroid Quanlik, or Base Q, as being the territory solely of the Federation and suitable for the establishment of a delta-level energy converter. Because this converter is the prime source of gamma-level, degenerate matter which is used as the fuel for nearly all our power generators, Base Q is recognized as a prime defense area of the Federation. A sphere, one hundred thousand miles radius about Quanlik, was designated by the treaty as a primary zone. Any ship or ships entering this zone may be ordered to leave within one hour. Upon failure to comply, our military forces may take such action as they deem necessary. A sphere, twenty thousand miles radius, is designated as the secondary zone. Assuming the prior warning has been given upon their entrance into the primary zone, full action may be taken against any ship entering this without delay or further warning.
"Standing orders with regard to Base Q are that any ship entering the primary zone shall be warned immediately. Upon failure to comply, after the one hour period, full action shall be taken with the forces stationed on Quanlik. Any ship entering the secondary zone shall be brought to action as soon as possible without warning.
"Your orders direct you to assume command of Base Q and to comply with existing standing orders regarding the maintenance of its security until and unless advised of a change in the standing orders or the Treaty of Porran." The Old Man paused for effect. "Any questions?"
"Yes, sir," the younger man said. "I am wondering if I should inquire what events you are anticipating. Would it be wise for me to ask?"
"No!" The monosyllable cracked out like a shot.
"No further questions, sir."
"I have one. While you were in Australia, I presume you kept well informed on recent developments of Plan K?"
"Yes, sir. The school I commanded taught advanced theory of Plan K."
The young man saluted, collected his orders and walked out. Two hours later, he was in space.
Commander Morgan's office was perched in a plastic bubble high on a crag overlooking Base Q. Directly below it lay a few of the multitude of locks that provided haven for the protecting fleet of P-ships. A vast array of domes and other geometrical shapes bore witness to the hive of machine-shops, storerooms, offices, et al, that kept the fleet operating. And on the far horizon towered the mighty structure of the delta-level converter, the reason for the existence of Base Q. A quarter of a million tons of high-test steel and special alloys, machined to tolerances of less than a thousandth of an inch, with another hundred thousand tons of control equipment, it was yet delicate enough so that it could not have functioned in the gravity field of any planet. This asteroid, small as it was, was barely below the permissible limit.
The Commander sat at his desk, watching the latest flashes in the news-caster. They were not good. At this very moment, the President of the Federation was in conference with the representatives of the Combine, discussing the wording of the protocol that would probably be signed in a few hours. And no word--no hint--that anyone in the Federation outside the services was willing to dare anything at all. A red light flashed on his desk. A buzzer sounded a strident call. He flipped a switch. "Commander talking."
"Far-Search talking. Report contact with large group of ships, probably dreadnought warships. Range, two one oh. Bearing, four oh dash one nine. Speed, seven five. Course, approaching. That is all."
"Keep me advised any change or further details. Advise when contact range is one five oh."
"Wilco."
The Commander pressed a button on his desk. In response, his staff quickly assembled to brief him on the immediate status of Base Q as a war-making machine. As a matter of routine, it was always kept fully ready. His staff merely confirmed this for him.
Seventy-five thousand miles out in space, the Radars of the Far-Search net swept their paths. Men labored over their plotting tables, noting the information the radar echoes brought back; slowly piecing together the picture. Tight communication beams relayed the data back to the base as fast as it was obtained.
About an hour later, the red light flashed again. The assembled staff fell quiet as the Commander flipped the switch, again. "Commander talking."
"Far-Search talking. Contact previously reported now range one five oh. Bearing, four one dash one seven. Course, approaching. Speed, six nine. Estimated twenty-three ships, dreadnought type, plus small ship screen. Battle formation. That is all."
"Advise at range one one oh."
"Wilco."
The Commander turned to his staff. "Sound a general alert." His words were clipped and clear. He flipped a second switch on his desk. "Radio, this is the Commander. Get me a direct beam to the Chief of Staff. Highest urgency. Scramble with sequence Charlie."
His office had emptied by now, with officers running to their posts as the siren of the general alert wailed through the corridors. As its urgent call died off, a green light showed on his desk, indicating contact with earth. "Morgan, Commander, Base Q, requesting direct line to Chief of Staff. Highest urgency."
"Go ahead, Morgan." The Old Man's voice sounded peculiar after passing through the scrambling and unscrambling machines that twisted the sounds into queer pieces and distributed them among several frequencies and methods of modulation. But, even so, it had a note of strain in it that was not artificial.
"Yes, it is." There was a threat in the Old Man's voice.
"Then, sir, would you tell me if there has been any change in those orders since my arrival? Aside from administrative details, of course?"
"No. Absolutely not."
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