He flicked off his screen and grimaced sourly. He took up his vacuum bottle and finished the contents, then descended on the Kraden ship, his flakflak gun beaming it. He was going to have to expend every erg of energy in his One Man Scout to burn the other ship to the point where his attack would look authentic, and to eliminate all signs of previous action.
He swept it from prow to stern, taking particular care to fire all over the area where the extraterrestrial spaceship had taken its original hits. He raked it up and down until it was little more than a molten hulk.
And then, his offensive powers exhausted, he snapped his communications back on. The face of the commodore of the first squadron of his supposed reinforcements faded onto his screen.
The other, his face young, considering his rank, snapped, “Commodore Franco, Officer Commanding Task Force Three. How do things stand, Lieutenant? Is he still under observation?”
Don said, calmly, clearly, “Yes, sir. I think I’ve finished him, but perhaps you’d better approach with care.”
“You’ve what!”
“Yes, sir.”
VI
Don Mathers wasn’t acquainted with the Lindbergh story. Had he been he could have been aware of the similarities to his landing at the space base and Lindbergh’s coming down in Paris. Not only were all personnel of the base on hand, but the population of Center City and a dozen other nearby communities had erupted to greet him.
He was taken aback by the magnitude of the mob and a little apprehensive about setting down. There seemed to be police, or, more likely, soldiers, shoulder to shoulder to hold back the crowd so that it couldn’t swarm out over the runway. If they broke through the cordon the fat was going to be in the fire. The V-102 had no power usable here within the atmosphere. He had to glide in to a landing. If the mob of cheering citizens broke through to the runway, he’d plow into them.
But the ranks of soldiers held and he came in, making a perfect landing and winding up before the hanger in which the V-102 was usually sheltered.
Before the hanger stood Sergeant Jerry Wilkins and the rest of the mechanic crew. All were in dress uniform, rather than dirty coveralls and all were standing to attention. For once, the sergeant was minus the cynical expression on his wizened face.
Don Mathers, casting a somewhat apprehensive look at the cheering mob, climbed out and approached his crew.
He said to the sergeant, “You were right, Wilkins, the V-102 was tuned like a chronometer. It operated perfectly. Thanks. If even the slightest thing had gone wrong, I wouldn’t be here and whatever that Kraden’s mission was it probably would have been accomplished.”
“Thank you, sir,” Wilkins said.
A group of highly uniformed, highly bemedaled older officers was approaching.
Don grinned wryly at his crew and said, “Here comes the brass. Well, boys, take good care of the V-102. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Afraid the V-102 is out of our hands, sir,” the sergeant told him. “The Space Academy and the Smithsonian Institution are fighting for her. Both want to enshrine her.”
Inwardly, Don thought, “Almighty Ultimate!” He turned and faced the advancing brass. The only one he recognized was Commodore Bernklau and he was the lowest ranking officer among them.
Don came to the salute.
The five star Space Fleet admiral said, “At ease, Lieutenant, and, obviously, congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir,” Don said crisply.
The commodore said, “The news people would like to get to you, Donal, but orders are to avoid them until you have made your first report to the Octagon. I am to accompany you to Bost-Wash.”
Don said, looking out at the cheering mob, and then down at his coveralls, “Yes, sir. But how do we get through that crowd to where I can change into uniform?”
One of the generals laughed and said, “We’ve foxed them, Lieutenant. The Presidential Jet has been sent to pick you up. It is equipped with uniforms of your size, and anything else you might need.”
One of the fleet admirals grinned and said, “Including an autobar. I suspect you could use a drink after what you’ve been through.”
“Yes, sir, I sure could, sir,” Don said.
They all shook hands with him before moving along to the Presidential Jet.
“So long, sir,” the sergeant called after him, unheard. He turned to the rest of the mechanics. “We’ll never see him again,” he said. “He’s about to be, what’s the word? Deified. That means they make a god out of you.”
Don Mathers had never been in Bost-Wash before, though he had flown over it. The city stretched from what had once been Boston to what had once been Washington. In fact, if anything, it would have been more accurate, these days, to call it Port-Port, since it was rapidly engulfing Portland, Maine, to the north, and Portsmouth, Virginia, to the south.
The Presidential Jet swooped in to the extensive landing field adjacent to the Octagon and Don Mathers, now in his sub-lieutenant’s dress uniform, was hurried into a hover-limousine and into the bowels of the enormous military building.
The commodore explained. “We didn’t let the word out that you were on your way here. We were afraid that a couple of million citizens might show up and not even the Octagon has the manpower on hand to hold back a crowd that big.”
“Holy smokes,” Don protested. “I didn’t expect anything like this.”
The commodore looked at him strangely. He said, “Donal, so far as we know, you are the only man ever to destroy a Kraden single-handed. In fact, your Miro Class cruiser is the first Kraden destroyed since the big shoot-out fifty years ago. Every human being alive has been wrapped up in this war for half a century and you’re the first one to draw blood in all that time.”
“Sheer luck,” Don said.
“Of course. But nevertheless you did it.”
They were whisked into a lavish conference room and Don was confronted by a dozen of the ranking military of the solar system.
He came to attention and saluted. None of them bothered to return it.
He said, “Sub-lieutenant Donal Mathers reporting.”
His ultimate commander, Senior Admiral of the Space Forces Frol Rubinoff, said, “Relax, DonaL Have a seat. Would you like a drink?”
Don sat. He said, ruefully, “No, sir. I’d better not. I had a couple on the plane. I needed them then. But I guess I better not need any more now.”
It wasn’t that good a sally but all of them laughed, as though to put him at his ease.
They had a tape recorder before him but also all had scratch pads and stylos.
The Senior Admiral said, “Now, we want to get as much of this down as possible while it’s still fresh in your mind. When did you first spot the Kraden?”
Don said, “He just suddenly materialized, sir. Bang, in front of me, only a few hundred kilometers off.”
One of the others leaned forward and said, “So you think he emerged from hyper-space, as some have called it? That is, that the Kradens have accomplished faster than light travel?”
Don played it sincere. “I don’t know, sir. All of a sudden, he was there.”
To the extent he could, he stuck to the truth. Many of the questions they asked, he couldn’t answer but seemingly did the best he could. In the heat of the action, he explained, a lot of details went by him.
One of them said, “Why in the world did you switch off your scanners just at the point when you went into action? It would have been invaluable to have been able to watch the progress of the attack.”
