Natotevaal. War Chronicle

He finally managed to get away from the chaos of the brain, and tear off his tongue from the palate:

– Al, John, what’s up, guys?

– It sucks, – answered Dybal in Russian and turned his tired sweaty face to him. – That probe with no identification marks, Ronny, that were the Arabs…

– Nonsense, it can’t be, – Whitehouse opened the belts that were holding him, stood up from the bed and hung over the handrails of a racing simulator. – Nonsense.

– If a neighboring space object interferes with the work of one or more computers and jams several channels of communication, it may be an unfortunate coincidence, – said Mackliff tediously and shrugged his shoulders. – But if this object paralyses the work of all computer systems and moreover does this permanently, than it is…

– An invasion! – finished off Dybal.

– An invasion? You must be out of your minds. Since last year the Arabs have been lurking in their holes like mice, thanking Allah they were able to sign a rectification on fire suspension at four levels: sea, land, air and space. Mutual nuclear attacks in Asia, nuclear canopy and burning oil fields taught them well.

They are now engaged in extinguishing fire in the wells, deactivation of mosques and military coups. No, guys, there is something confusing about it. – Whitehouse barely crept to the window and stared into space; they went round the dark side of the Earth.

Dybal sighed deeply and heavily:

You are both right and wrong, Ronald. Islamists are actually sitting quietly and they are not going to start a new campaign in the near future, although it is possible. But believe me they will not miss a chance to capture two of the newest and magnificent spaceships, which are moreover very high-tech. Well, is this clear? This is a tidbit. Apparently they found out that we failed to notify the Center about our dislocation and situation. You see? They jammed our signal and surrounded us. They are going to take us like helpless blind kittens and they will find out whatever they want. Remember, how they have tortured two British pilots who were brought down over Balkhash?

– What ring? I don't see anything, – said the pilot, still staring into the darkness; he decided this was a joke; he didn't want to; he dreaded the thought of believing them. -This is a bad joke, guys.

"Well… I burned the decoder because of you! – Something shorted and burned under the soldering iron of the flight engineer. A cloud of bluish grey and caustic smoke appeared. Mackliff angrily spat at the steaming board and by several hysterical blows of the screwdriver turned the remains of a transmitter, and block orientation of external antennas into a swarm of ugly debris:

-Why do you need a transmitter here? What can it possibly do?

Dybal smiled bitterly:

– Are you getting emotional, John?

– Well, stop boasting of your composure. If you shot twice from a machine gun in the direction of Ankara, it does not make you a hero! In a couple of hours you will be wrapped in reflex spirals and fried until you answer all their questions. Then I will see if you have any – having lost his temper Mackliff shouted suddenly. His short black beard was messed up, green eyes bulging, throbbing veins stood out on his forehead.

Dybal only waved his hand and moved to navigator cabin, where Dick Aidem was moaning feebly.

– Look! There they are three Islamist stations! – Panting flight engineer got to the window, where Whitehouse was hanging in confusion, and began to rub his ragged nail on the dark glass furiously. “There they are: three humpback shapeless silhouettes. Only a blind man would not see them! Look…” – he had such a brutal face, as if he was going to strangle the pilot.

Whitehouse pulled himself together, took hold of the fire extinguisher bell for greater stability and thundered:

-Flight engineer John Harriman Mackliff, I order you to shut up. According to the Statute, after the failure of the captain, his duties are performed by the pilot. I order you to immediately stop the hysteria, and prepare to launch the empty cylinders of the diffusion reactor. Execute an order! – the pilot survived Mackliff’s suddenly vitreous stare and made his way to the navigation bridge being careful not to touch the bodies of Dunois and Fujiecka, that were wrapped in sheets and fastened along the casing of the main on-Board computer.

He tried not to look into black holes of windows and not to think that Mackliff can lose control and start a rampage.

A fight on a falling shuttle is a nightmare.

At the moment when he knelt down beside the humps of emergency batteries, he could hear a rustle of still running internal communication from the dynamics beside the navigation pane of the charthouse. A confident voice has started broadcasting in perfect English:

– Astronauts of «Independence» and «Das Rhein»! The Supreme command of the united armed forces of the Arab States Bloc gives you a promise to save your life and dignity, as well as to provide you with medical care and hot meals.

Give up.

Open gateway bays and disconnect the system of self-destruction.

Think about your families, kind and gentle women waiting for you, about your mothers. Surrender, and your life will be saved otherwise you will be destroyed.

Do not wait for help as our probes mimic your emergency call onto the orbits of a different azimuth. Astronauts of the “Independence” and “Das Rhein”, the Supreme…

All of a sudden the Shuttle was filled with a powerful buzzing, as if its hull had a few APS distribution transformers pinned to it.

From the depths of the living quarters you could hear Mackliff shouting:

"Jerry, it is jerry! Idiots, they turned on the military emitter! Fanatics! I had almost thought it out, and they…

Whitehouse and Dybal rushed to the side port.

From the right solar battery of «Independence», from the spot where a combat ship was sticking out of his body; short pale-blue flashes were splitting the darkness. One after the other the probes for tracking and jamming, lit up and were destroyed between them.

The Arabs could not turn off their signal lights, necessary for safety control, and the German gunner methodically shot these electronic suitcases.

Islamist stations began to move away slowly to a safe distance closing them in a cloud of reflecting suspension.

– Come on, comrades, let’s burn the green devils! We are all done for anyway! Let’s have some fun after all…– Dybal was striking out wildly.

At the same time Whitehouse was feverishly writing on the sheets that were torn out of the logbook:

«On the 34th day of the flight we were attacked by the BIS warships.

We have lost the connection.

Fulfilling the duties of the «Independence» NIS, Ronald Scott Whitehouse. Finder must immediately pass this to representatives of the authorities. »

Having nervously filled up six sheets with the same message, he rushed to the reactor of ozone diffusion synthesis and found that Mackliff was already here, finishing the preparation of the cylinders for the launch.

Flight engineer seemed changed.

He was busy.                                                                                                    His fingers stopped shaking there was a metallic gleam in his eyes, and the cheekbones were tightened.

It was the former Mackliff.

Cylinders were intended for many operations: from the input of ozone into the atmosphere up to the dumping of nuclear warheads, and they were designed for multiple passing through the burning atmosphere.

Now they were being prepared to launch without calculation, not above the critical points, and could fall anywhere, but there was a chance that they will be found by their people or allies. So, having torn out the filling tubes, Whitehouse stuck the notes inside and shut the lids. He looked at the flight engineer with expectation.

The other gravely saluted with the expanded palm of his hand.

"– Everything is ready, sir.

– Start without reference. Execute an order. – Whitehouse looked up at the place where on Earth would be the sky. – Let us hope that our people will find those. God bless us!

Cylinders started simultaneously and flew to the Land like an open fan.

The Islamists have not even tried to destroy them.

-It is burning!!! It is burning!!! – Shouted Dybal. – See what a beam can do!

About five miles to the starboard side, one of the enemy ships was burning like a Bengal fire. The emitter continued hitting it.

Germans did not give a chance and just leave it damaged they were finishing it off.

The confident voice that was humming about «The life and dignity, as well as medical care and hot meals», shut up in the middle of a sentence.

– It is burning, you bastard, and it is burning very nicely, – the Navigator was happy as a child, – I hope they do not run out of energy…

At this moment the Shuttle shook as if it hit the rock.

This was followed by a series of aftershocks.

Something exploded and cracked in the engine compartment, you could feel the smell of burning and heated metal. Round bulkhead door to the battery room protruded, but did not open.

The Arabs used non brisant missiles to ‘Independence’, like those that are used to knock out satellites, when you don't want to damage the filling.

Getting out from under a pile of floppy disks and the coils of a collapsed rack of the archive, Whitehouse was anxiously listening to the established silence.

Emitter of «Das Rhein» was silent.

Mackliff was pottering about nearby, "Yes, it has been a long time I was hit in the face like that… "– he said, letting trickles of blood pour into the weightlessness, from his smashed nose.

The speaker of internal communication rustled again:

– ‘Das Rhein’ calls up ‘Independence’, ‘Das Rhein’ calls up ‘Independence’.

Raumwaffe Colonel Manfred von Conrad speaking…As a result of penetration of the cumulative rocket depressurization of all compartments has occurred. I beg permission to move into your Shuttle.

Whitehouse approached the microphone as quickly as possible:

– Yes, hurry up. We will open the lower gateway.

German astronauts appeared in ten painfully long minutes.

Covers of cadmium suits were torn apart; glass of pressure helmets was smoke-stained, identification badges looked faded.

Their eyes were empty, staring at one point. Their faces looked like the astronauts have just returned from the underworld. There were four of them, Colonel von Conrad, Navigator Eichberger and board gunner Hoffman, who was laid next to the fourth, Matthias Leiseheld, whose body was inside a funeral package with a small black-and-red-and-yellow flag pinned to the chest.

He was killed when one of the missiles hit the emitter cupola.

– Well, what do we do now? – Eichberger asked gloomily.

– Allah Akbar. That's what. – Von Conrad looked up at his Navigator with his dull eyes, reddened from the capillary bleeding, and brushed the edge of his hand across his throat.

– There, there! We will show them! – Dybal said, forcing himself to smile and made a hand movement as if he closed the breech of an antique naval gun. – “Our proud ‘Varyag’ does not surrender and nobody asks for mercy…”

At this point from the utilization camera of sanitary block they heard blows of metal upon metal, buzzing of krypton cutter and already stifling air was filled with the smell of welding flux; Board engineer John Mackliff was in the process of making something:

– Hey, anybody! Come here quickly! – His excited voice pierced the silence.

Two German astronauts started moving, but Whitehouse stopped them and began to examine their wounds. Dybal went to see Mackliff, taking first-aid kit with him just in case.

But first-aid kit was not needed; Mackliff sent the navigator back with the task to rip off the heat sealing siding from the cooling compressor of the engine.

 Bandaging Eichberger’s hand and watching Dybal flying back and forth with thermal insulation mats, dragging a trail of debris and wiping sweat from his forehead, Whitehouse asked:

– What is going on there, Al?

– He didn't say. Probably afraid of the evil eye, but he looks determined. He is messing with the garbage bins.

Von Conrad caught a receiver with a ‘Jean Dupois’ label, which was hovering nearby and tuned in.

A familiar voice of the CNV commentator could hardly be heard due to constant noise:

-… that has forced the Countries of the Big Three to allocate additional seven billion dollars SGSA to the ‘TRANS-Selva’ state company, formed at a Congress of the South American Union in order to carry out the works on restoring forest belts along the left bank of the Amazon and its tributaries: Rio Negro, Mara;;n and Juru;.

According to the statement of the UN Commission on controlling the spread of Equatorial deserts – CSED, the sands come with the speed of up to three miles per year. The Amazon, which has lost the Northern part of its water basin, is rapidly drying up. For the last six weeks the water level has reduced to two feet… Amazonia, the lungs of our planet, may die within a few years. The world community…– Von Conrad tuned in to another frequency.

– You are listening to the World sports radio… Hugo Stern is at the microphone. Listen to a brief news summary… The Norwegian football team, having defeated the footballers of French Canada, reached the final of the world championship ahead of time…Who will be their rivals in the finals? Is it going to be the National team of Wales or the Italians? Ring bike race in Tampa-Set is still going on.

The unsurpassed Marc van Gal from Belgium has gathered seventy-six points in the standings and is leading… – von Conrad scratched his index finger on his grey temple:

– It is strange how they keep talking about this rubbish, but they do not say a word about the war…

– True – agreed Eichberger– If the Islamists had started another commotion, then all the channels would have been already broadcasting it; caution, nuclear alarm, and so on, without a break.

The Colonel nodded, feeling the bandage on his arm and at the same time squeezing raspberry jam from a tube in his mouth.

His eyes shone with the reflection of emergency lights, over the bridge of the nose deep wrinkles were ingrained, while he was eating, his lower jaw protruded like an excavator bucket.

– Hey, commander! Ronald! – Mackliff emerged from a sanitary unit. Everything is ready.

– What is ready? – Whitehouse had to step aside, and press his wet, sweaty back into a dead power distribution cabinet in order to let Dybal in. – What a crush!

– Well yeah, it is not a stadium, – confirmed Dybal, who was dragging a couple of reserve oxygen regenerators.

Flight engineer gleefully shook the working cutter, from which yellow flames were bursting out:

– I melted thermal insulation from refrigerators on the internal surface of the garbage containers, fit a control panel in the automatic shields of aerodynamic braking and parachutes. I made the locks on the inside. Of course, I understand that sanitary rubbish container is not the most convenient means of transport in the world, but this is still a chance. So, you can put your suits on and occupy the best seats.

– You have gone nuts! What do the trashcans have to do with it? What is the remote control on the braking shields meant for? – Whitehouse could barely restrain himself, not to thrust a bunch of repair keys tucked under his arm at Mackliff. All this sounded too gibberish.

Flight engineer grinned, pulled out a crumpled paper from a pocket of his overalls, and gently tapped the pilot on his broad shoulder:

– Here is the calculation. If we release the braking shields five minutes forty-five seconds earlier, and at the same time open up the first couple of parachutes, the internal temperature in the containers can be held at the level of forty to fifty degrees Celsius. Plus our air conditioned suits which we will be wearing. The temperature will be quite permissible. The first couple of parachutes will burn up of course, but the main domes will still be there…

– All of us will not fit in there, – glumly said Whitehouse, reckoning something in his head.

– Why? Two containers are ready. One will carry the badly wounded, the doctor and supplies. All the others will fit in a second container. We will have to leave the deceased, though.

The Shuttle twitched and there was a grinding sound, all port windows were closed by the body of Islamist station; the Arabs docked to the ‘Independence’ side-by-side.

Eichberger grabbed Whitehouse by the sleeve of his overalls:

-We can wait no more, Herr Commander. They will be inside the Shuttle in half an hour. We have to make a decision. We either give up, discrediting ourselves, or turn on the system of self-destruction and attempt to escape in the containers.

At this time, Von Conrad, looking like a samurai, who was sentenced to death, took out a screwdriver from Eicherger’s pocket, and clasping it in his hand, turned to the airlock.

From the outside you could hear the sound of scuffling, soft footsteps on the shell plating, the hum of the cutters; Islamists began to open the airlock hatch, and ‘Independence’ was rapidly falling under the escort of enemy ships.

Whitehouse was trifling a piece of paper with Mackliff’s calculations in his hands, unseeing eyes looked at the lines of differential equations of eighth order while he listened to his inner voice, that always helped him out. When he was a kid, on his way back from Grandma Theresa he had turned to a totally strange yard and in a minute a war between clans of Stone and Ho Chi broke out in the Great Park. Afterwards the police up nine corpses of random passersby that had been pierced with holes from quick squirts from the pavement.

And later, in Foot Strasse, at the training base of 51st wing of the U.S. air forces, where he did not make to after dismissal, because he got drunk in a pub just opposite the CPT base, at the same time, when his perfect all-weather interceptor with a pilot substituting for him was broken to pieces. And then, on the frontline in the center of besieged Ankara, when he and two rangers entered the rear of the command post of the 115th shock division of the Islamists, found themselves in the lair of the enemy, under the mass of concrete just a few minutes before a local nuclear attack…

Now, floating in zero gravity among the rubbish and garbage, under a luminous board showing 251 miles at perigee, he did not hear that inner voice, and therefore lingered.

– Hurry up, Ronny, don’t fall asleep, – Dybal startled him out of his apathy.

He and Eicberger were already fully clothed in suits and gently shoved Aydem into the suit.

The light blue emergency lights were slowly fading, giving deathly shade to faces of  feverishly working people, the altimeter was signaling monotonously, changing the decreasing numbers, heat sealing that was cooling off in the containers had a disgusting smell.

It was getting unbearably stuffy with every minute; without getting enough voltage, the respiratory mixture regenerators had stopped functioning.

The Arabs had already passed through the outer hatch of the airlock, and there was a sound of grinding diamond drills, that were exposing the first inner membrane.

Someone was rummaging in the engine compartment, having got in through the hole in the empty fuel tanks.

– Why the hell did you take «Coke», throw it out immediately. And what's this? Goose liver? Will do.  Dried rice? All right. Strawberry jam? Leave it to the Arabs. Chocolate? Suitable…– Whitehouse and Dybal loaded the second container with product packs and most valuable instruments.

Unconscious Hoffman was already inside with Eichberger, who was taking the load and arranging it in a form of small pyramids.

 Mackliff and von Conrad dragged Aydem:

– Step aside we are going to ship the commander.

– The most interesting fact is that he will not fit in there. He will have to fly in our container. See how many things we have got? And we cannot put Hoffman in a different position. You do not want to tie his knees to the chest while he is unconscious. – Whitehouse froze with a box of rice in his hands and a blank face.

– Meanwhile Dybal leaned over the hatch to Eichberger’s container, turning his shoulder timer to him:

– Hey, man, if you do not want us to be blown apart by a couple hundred miles, then listen carefully and memorize. Let’s check the time first. It is fifteen forty – forty one– forty two– forty three on my timer …

– Have you managed to set the time? Good for you.

So, you must reset the timer at start, and when it comes up to twenty-seven minutes fifteen seconds, you press that button there below the elbow. Shield braking will open and the parachutes will shoot off.

It will shake, but not much. Then you can relax.

All the rest will be done automatically. If we do it synchronously, we will land within half a mile from each other. If not, then much further. Yes, there is one more thing. If at landing a ‘010’ symbol appears this will mean you have landed on water. Do not unlock the hatch in any case, and turn on the beacon immediately. Got it?

– All right. God bless us! We are 99% dead already. Therefore farewell. – Eichberger crossed himself and closed the glass of his pressure helmet.

Von Conrad helped him lower the heavy round hatch:

– Goodbye. But still you should sit back. Just in case we get lucky.

When there was a click of internal bolt, still warm from Mackliff’s design tweaks, flight engineer sighed with relief:

– Seems that it worked. Let us hope that design of our capsule will not fail us either, – he was looking for something wooden to knock three times against the evil eye by the Russian tradition, which he remembered all of a sudden.

He did not find anything wooden, of course, so he spit three times over his left shoulder, and climbed in the container.

– Yo, damn mechanic, what is that hissing sound? – Whitehouse asked warily; he could hardly settle between Dybal and the colonel.

-Oh… I opened a goodbye helium tank, – said Dybal and listened to the whistling sound, as if overheated steam burst out from a kettle. He added with a wry grin:

-That will be a nice big blow when self-destruction is triggered. The "Green ones" will definitely enjoy it.

The Arabs were creaking with their diamond drills in the airlock, exposing the inner flap; liquid helium was hissing, flowing like a mist; self-destruct timer was buzzing; an alarm sound was roaring at regular intervals and dispassionate voice in the headsets repeated:

-The station is ready to explode. Three minutes left…

– The station is ready to explode. Two minutes forty-five seconds left.

– Batten down the window, Al. Automatic start will set off in a minute, – snapped Whitehouse and rolled down the glass of his pressure helmet.

Dybal quickly pulled the cover and spun the bolt wheel:

– Farewell, father "Independence" and mother life!

Pressurized helmet lights illuminated the inner parts of the container; astronauts were cramped like canned sprats.

They could not even stir; there was no question about it.

All they could was to move their hands a little that have been prudently placed in front of the dashboards of their spacesuits.

Von Conrad was either whispering something quickly, or praying, or piling up one of his creepy complex abuse.

Dybal was trying to blow away a chewing gum wrapper from his nose; which had somehow gotten under the glass of his pressure helmet.

Nervously biting his lip, Mackliff was holding his index finger on the timer reset button, looking steadily at his shoulder altimeter which was showing 213 miles at perigee: