Seas of Venus(57)

"Sir, they'll do it!" Britten cried. "Even if our ships're already in the Straits—"

"They're not in the Straits," Dan interrupted crisply. He swept his cold eyes around the faces of the other men on the bridge, all of them staring at him. "There's just a submarine surfaced fifty miles back in the ocean, broadcasting as if it was Blackhorse Command."

He took a deep breath. "That'll work until morning, when they can get up a full complement of gliders on the thermals. The real fleet has entered Ishtar Basin from the southeast, in the direction the Warcocks are going to force us to turn. And then—"

The Holy Trinity staggered as she cut the heavy cable supporting the inner net across Paradise Harbor. The guardship vanished beneath the dreadnought's bow. Moments later there was a barely perceptible crunch. The white froth of the bow wave was speckled with debris, fragments of the Dragger and her crew as they slid back inexorably toward the churning propellers.

"—we'll have another surprise for them." Dan continued.

For a moment, his mask of clam slipped into something equally quiet but much more bleak. "Assuming that the Angels don't take care of us themselves before then," he said.

The Holy Trinity, accelerating with the ponderous grace of an elephant, crashed through the outer cable as well. There was a metallic scream astern as something—net, cable, or a portion of the shattered guardship—fouled one of the dreadnought's screws.

But they were out of the harbor—and out of the series of events they could control. Whatever happened next was a matter for others—and for God.





21


An' now the hugly bullets come peckin' through the dust,

An' no one wants to face 'em, but every beggar must. . . .

—Rudyard Kipling





The port outer drive shaft was shut down. The length of cable, caught in the free-spinning screw and streaming back in the wake, still twisted the Holy Trinity with a rhythmic vibration.

An hour and a half of the jolting, with no real work to take Johnnie's mind off it, was putting him to sleep.

His head jerked up an instant before it touched the console. His skin was flushed and his head buzzed. He looked around quickly to see who might have noticed his lapse, but all the faces he saw were drawn and focused on their own internal fears.

Even Uncle Dan.

". . . glider activity," one of the technicians was reporting earnestly to the commander, "and the masts of destroyers are already on the horizon."

"The battleships must be under way by now," Fayette chipped in gloomily. "I can't get this pig above twenty-three knots with a fouled screw. No way. Sir."

"We're here to draw them, aren't we?" Dan said. The words were nonchalant, but there was nothing light in either his tone or his expression. "We're just doing a better job than we'd counted on."

"We ain't going to run as far southeast as planned, neither," somebody muttered.

Dan had connected the main radio to the ship's internal communications system, so that the scattered Blackhorse parties would know as much about the situation as he did himself. As a result, the message from Blackhorse Command, broken oddly by static because of the nature of frequency-hopping transmission, came through the public-address speaker in the center of the bridge.

"Three," said the emotionless voice. "this is Six. There is heavy enemy activity to your north and west. The plan is inoperative. I say again, the plan is inoperative. Six over."

Everyone looked at Dan. He licked his lips and said, "Six, this is Three. What are your orders? Three over."

During the perceptible pause before the response came, Sergeant Britten removed the magazine from his rifle, checked it, and reloaded his weapon. There were beads of sweat on his face.

"Three, this is Six," said the distant voice. "Use your own initiative. I have no orders for you. Six out."

"Six, what do you mean?" Uncle Dan shouted into the pick-up wand. "We don't have any initiative! One of the props is fouled. Six, what are your orders? Three over!"

"Three, this is Six," Headquarters repeated. "I say again, we have no orders for you. Save what you can. Six out."

Dan put down the wand. "Fayette," he said calmly, "bring us onto a course of one-twenty-three degrees. Flank speed."

He grinned. His face looked like a skull stained dark by oxides. "Or as close as we can get to flank speed, with three screws and a sea anchor," he added.

The helmsman made a series of quick control changes. The Holy Trinity was too big to react suddenly to anything, but Johnnie felt the ship slowly heel as she started to come around in the severe course change.