The Long Hard Road

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Star Wars

Launch Site

Germany, Near Poland

6^th June 1942

If there was one thing to be pleased about the massive British air effort to crush resistance in the Netherlands, which had prevented any attempt from opening the dykes and drowning everyone, it was that they seemed to have run out of their special weapons. Of course, Obergruppenfuehrer Roth, who had studied war as it had been fought in 2015, knew that they could be replaced – and certainly quicker than the German bridges and power stations could be replaced – but there was a window of opportunity.

Roth worked on the launching site to forget. He’d done what he could to help Kesselring, but he knew that it wasn’t enough. The cold dispassionate words of Doctor Mengele, describing his lover’s repeated violation, echoed through his mind, and he found himself hoping that the evil doctor had survived the nuclear blast. He wanted to deal with him personally, to burn the filth from Germany’s soil.

He studied the rocket as it was erected quickly. Of the seven satellites that Germany had tried to launch, three had failed, but the former engineering student had a good feeling about the rocket on the pad. It felt right; perfect for its role. Part of his mind wished that he would have a chance to work on Von Braun’s long-term plans, plans to place a German space station in orbit, even a base on the moon, but he knew that that would never happen. Even if Germany somehow won the war, his character would be forever too dark to work on such bright projects.

Thoughts of the rocket scientists forced his thoughts over to the other rocket, the one designed to launch a weapon into orbit to hit the space station. He’d asked Himmler’s permission to launch it at once, but the Fuhrer had said nothing, concentrating on preparing the defence of Germany.

“Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, the rocket is finally ready,” the director said. Von Braun himself had been sent east, to one of the secret bases in the Polish wastes, but he’d left trained staff behind. Roth wished that the scientist were with them; his skills were worth having nearby in case of an accident. The rocket, guided by an experimental guidance system – a very primitive computer – was a valuable investment, even if most of it would be wasted.

He shook his head. Germany had been on the verge of a genuine breakthrough in computing, with the knowledge of the future, and now it would all be wasted. They had been proceeding at breakneck speed down the technology tree, trying to master the computers of the 1960s and 1970s, but now it would be wasted. Transistors alone had boosted the German technology base, but they had run out of time.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Roth asked dryly. “Launch at once.”

Five minutes later, the rocket rose from its pad, heading upwards to deploy its cargo into orbit, an orbit that would send it five times around the Earth, and then send it spinning back into Earth’s atmosphere, for a touchdown in Poland.

The Germans expected that the British satellites would keep track of their launches, and further realised that there was no way that they could avoid attracting the attention of British satellites. Instead, they took pains to ensure that tampering with the German satellites would be dangerous; any British spaceman who attempted to steal or board a satellite would be in serious danger.

The Germans didn’t know, couldn’t know, that the British had emplaced a small amount of missiles in orbit. They weren’t designed for space work, being created for use in Eurofighters, but they represented a considerable development. The BVRAAM missiles could take their orders from the space station… which was tracking the German launch. It only took minutes to deduce that the Germans were attempting to launch a satellite, and then the decision was made to engage.

“Engage,” Caroline Salamander said.

The missile received its orders and gently fired its engine for precisely the right amount of time. It fell out of orbit on an intersecting course, smoothly heading towards the German rocket. At the speed it was travelling, there was no need for a warhead; the German satellite was completely destroyed.

“Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, the rocket… it just exploded,” the director said. “Something went wrong…”

Roth ignored him. Losing the satellite was annoying, but it could be replaced. He’d been watching the rocket through his small telescope… and he thought that he’d seen something near the rocket. There had been a tiny flare of light…

The field telephone jangled. Roth picked it up and listened. The German observatories had been watching the rocket as well, just to confirm that it was following the right course, and they were certain that something had hit the rocket, as it had been about to drop the second stage.

“I see,” he said finally. He’d read about orbital weaponry, but it had been the first time they’d had even a hint that the British had such weapons. “I’ll ask the Fuhrer at once.”

He put down the field telephone. “Have the missile for the space station prepared at once,” he ordered. “I’m going to speak to the Fuhrer.”

“But… Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, if the British have weapons designed to shoot down missiles, won’t they just shoot down the rocket?” The director was panicking; Roth didn’t blame him. “It would be a waste of the rocket.”

Roth snapped. “A few hundred miles to the west, Herr Director, there are thousands of soldiers dying,” he said sharply. “What is a single rocket against that?” He allowed himself a moment of anger, before bringing it sharply under control. “Beside, its important to discover how powerful the British weapons are, and how capable.”

He held the director’s eyes. “Do you understand?”

The director wilted. “Yes, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” he said. Roth nodded. It had been a reasonable question, but the simple fact was that the entire Reich was at stake – and what was a single rocket, no matter how expensive, compared to that?

“The Fuhrer,” he snapped into the field telephone. Moments later, it rang again, connecting him directly to the Fuhrerbunker. Quickly, ignoring the growing rage that swelled within him at talking to Himmler, he summarised the situation.

“Is it worth the loss of a missile?” Himmler asked. Roth knew that he couldn’t snap at the Fuhrer, not and remain in place for Kesselring. “Why not let the Russians do it?”

“We don’t want them getting that far into space, do we?” Roth asked, as innocently as he could. “Besides, the Russian rockets are nowhere near as capable as ours are, and we have other advantages, such as the nature of the weapon.”

He knew that Himmler was thinking rapidly. “Tell me,” Himmler said finally, “can you guarantee that the same orbital weapon won’t shoot down the missile?”

Roth shook his head, confident that Himmler couldn’t see him. It was the same question as the director had raised, but Himmler was more important. Too important to be fobbed off or overridden, not under these circumstances.

“No, Mien Fuhrer,” he said. “However, the weapon will be boosted into a slightly different orbit and it might escape their notice. If they could shoot down every missile, they would be doing that right now, instead of letting New York and Washington and Richmond take beatings.”

“True,” Himmler conceded.

Roth pressed his advantage. “Mien Fuhrer, we have to move now, before they see the rocket on the ground,” he said. “They already have a policy of hammering rocket launch sites, so they’ll hit here soon. We need to move.”

Himmler didn’t question his comment. “Very well,” he said. “I authorise the rocket.” There was a fake-sounding chuckle. “I might take it out of your salary.”

Roth laughed. Laughing was easy. “There’s nothing like certain employment,” he said. “The rocket will be launched soon, and I’ll keep you advised on progress.”

Space Station Clarke

Low Earth Orbit

6^th June 1942

Abernathy allowed himself a moment of complete awe as he studied the growing space station in low Earth orbit. Unlike Hamilton, Clarke was intended to have some gravity, which meant that it would have to be huge enough to spin without causing significant damage. Carefully, he completed the task of manoeuvring the entire tank into its position on one of the six struts, and moved the MSV back from the station.

He shook his head inside his space suit, which was almost a spacecraft in its own right. Clarke had a couple of open living tanks, but Commander Salamander had refused to allow any risks to be taken, not when help was so far away. She had insisted that they maintain enough fuel and air to return to Hamilton at all times – as a minimal requirement. Complicated computer programs, originating from space war games, had been adapted to handle the complex mechanics of the issue.

“That’s tank thirty-seven in place,” he said. The follow-up team would fit the tank with its rear hatch, for the next tank, and would ensure that there were no air leaks before compressed air could be released into the tank.

“Acknowledged,” Commander Davenport said. He was Salamander’s junior officer – her former second in command – and he’d picked up a lot of her attitudes. “Confirm position and status.”

Abernathy sighed ruefully, but read off the numbers anyway. He had nearly twice as much fuel as was required to return to Hamilton the fast way, and enough air to do it the slow way if required. He wouldn’t have minded; it was very peaceful high above the Earth, once the panic attacks had faded.

He rotated slightly to study Clarke. The space station appeared to be spinning, but he knew that that was an optical illusion caused by his own position. A giant half-completed bicycle wheel – although without the tyre yet – Clarke dwarfed Hamilton. He smiled; he had a feeling that Hamilton would remain one of the most important bases though, it was entirely zero-gee.

“You are directed to return to Hamilton,” Davenport said finally. A course appeared in his MSVs systems, but he checked it anyway, just in case. “Once there, you will assist with the bombardment project.”

“Acknowledged,” Abernathy said, and smiled grimly. The MSV started to move, accelerating ahead to meet Hamilton as it raced around the Earth, coming up on the space station from the rear. He relaxed slightly and allowed himself to wonder; what had it been like for the three lucky men who’d set foot first on the moon? Under the Space Treaty, the moon was British territory as long as they maintained a base upon the surface, and he had applied to join that base.

He checked the orbital monitor as he raced over the world. There had been another series of launches from Russia, aiming at the Americans and one attempt to hit the Churchill space centre. That missile had been shot down by a Patriot missile, the first ICBM to be fired upon in any reality. He shook his head; what did it have to be costing the Axis in resources to build missiles that could only damage a city block or two?

He chuckled. The first consignment of lunar rock was due to be arriving in a few days, compressed into boulders. Salamander had already informed him that he would be taking part in the bombardment, trying to hammer the Russian factories in the Urals. He’d expected that they would have been able to create precision weapons, but they had to be manufactured in Britain and then they had to be carried into space.

Damn, he thought. Still, the space program was expanding; there would be a growing population in orbit, and perhaps some manufacturing capability. He grinned, more population meant more women; the growing space society had already had their first scandal, when a female doctor had literally prostituted herself for money.

He chuckled. It hadn’t been against regulations, as no one had thought of banning it before it became possible. He hadn’t taken her up on her offer – three hundred pounds for zero-gee sex – but nearly a dozen men had before Salamander caught wind of it and given everyone a lecture on the subject. The offending woman had been quietly sent back down – and it had been the joke of the week that Salamander would have preferred to have done that without the bother of a spaceship.

Hamilton appeared ahead of him, floating in the void. A glittering construction of silver and gold, it seemed to be teeming with activity; another heavy-lift booster had brought more supplies into orbit. He toggled his radio and reported his position. The reply took longer than he would have expected.

“Ah, Captain Abernathy,” Sonja Whitehall said. She was the current traffic controller. “There seems to be some problem…”

“Captain, its me,” Salamander said. Abernathy, who would have recognised her voice anywhere, said nothing. “There’s been a slight problem.”

His MSV began to receive new instructions. “The Germans have placed something in orbit,” Salamander said sharply. “It’s coming our way.”

Abernathy examined the orbit and cursed. The German… whatever had entered orbit, and was moving fast enough to climb as it whirled around the Earth. In another orbit, or forty minutes, whatever it was would intersect with the station… and destroy it. Even if it were just a empty capsule, the destruction of Hamilton would be inevitable.

“Shoot it down,” he snapped. “Fire a missile at it.”

“There’s none in position to intercept,” Salamander said grimly. Most of the missiles had been placed in LEO, not in a position where they could hit a moving target in orbit. Even if they did manage to intercept, the debris might still hit the station and conceivably make the situation worse. The space station itself couldn’t fire upon it until it was very close. “You have to force it out of orbit.”

Abernathy had been a fighter pilot. Calm wasn’t a problem. “I want to update my will,” he said. “I’m ready to go.”

“Good luck,” Salamander said. “Begin boost now.”

Abernathy shuddered as the MSV triggered its boosters, propelling it slowly into a different orbit, one that should intersect with the German missile. He checked the orbital display, running the calculations; the Germans clearly hadn’t been able to boost the entire rocket at the space station – or perhaps they’d grown cautious when they’d lost a rocket.

“Should have shot that one down as well,” he muttered, and scowled. Without laser weapons, there was no quick way to replace any expanded missiles. “Moving to intercept.”

He narrowed his mind down to one thing, watching the radar display as he closed in on the German… weapon. Time seemed to fade as he closed in, and then he saw it, glinting in the light reflected from Earth. It didn’t look ultra-dangerous, more like a single hunk of metal, but that was all that would be needed to rip the station apart.

Thankfully, the station stayed off the air. He could guess at the panic as everyone was hustled into their space suits and the SSTO was cast off for duty, preparing to move everyone to Clarke if the worse happened, but he didn’t know. The German weapon came closer and closer… and with a bump he locked on to it.

Farewell, he thought, and closed his eyes. A moment later he opened them; the weapon, whatever it was, hadn’t exploded. It was still moving towards Hamilton, but it clearly wasn’t a bomb. “Fuck me,” he breathed.

“Only if you deflect that thing,” Salamander said. It was so out of character that Abernathy gaped, before realising what he had to do. Without thinking of the possible consequences, he triggered his boosters, burning through the last of his fuel for the MSV.

“I need a course projection,” he said, hoping that he’d gotten it wrong. A moment later he knew the truth; he hadn’t gotten it wrong at all. The sudden boost hadn’t been enough to deflect the German weapon from its course. Time was running out… and there was only one decision left to make.

“I think we’ll have to do it in heaven,” he said. If Salamander got mad at him – if he survived – he could live with it. Quickly, before anyone could argue, he triggered the boosters on his spacesuit’s unit, adding as much speed as he could to the weapon, pushing it down. Earth’s gravity pulled at it, pulling it down, and he boosted it as much as he could and…

“You’ve done it,” Salamander said. She didn’t even sound annoyed at his little crack at her. “Oh… Victor…”

Abernathy shook his head inside his space suit as Hamilton passed overhead. He’d burnt all of his fuel, and he was trapped on the same orbit as the weapon, an orbit spiralling down towards the Earth. He entertained a fantasy about literally riding the weapon back through the atmosphere, but he knew that it was nonsense. If by some miracle he survived the heat, he would not survive the impact.

He heard Salamander and the other crewman babbling about a rescue, but he knew that it was impossible; there was nothing short of a UFO that might be able to rescue him. He looked around hopefully, but apart from the Ministry’s space efforts, there was nothing in space, no alien space bats coming to save a doomed spaceman.

“Here’s hoping there’s a German under this orbit,” he said. “It was a honour to serve with all of you.”

He looked around hopefully for a UFO, for Q coming to save his life, but there was nothing. The weapon was spinning slightly, allowing the great green globe of Earth to appear above him as he grew closer and closer. He shut of his radio; there was nothing he wished to saw to anyone, as the heat began to rise. He wondered what burning up would feel like, as the planet swelled above it. His perspective swam – he thought for a long moment that the planet reached out and swallowed him – and the orbit degraded into the atmosphere,

“Goodbye,” he murmured. “Goodbye all of you.”

Abernathy fell forever.