It was foolproof and unjammable and perfect in every way except for the fact tb^j» all global communications were channeled through the two substations and ComCent in Global City. These three stations, wonderfully efficient, handled all the communications with the armed forces on Earth, below the ground, on the moon and in space.
They were knocked out. Betelgeusean commando squads in field armor dropped one null-G onto each center and the battle could not have lasted more than half an hour. When it was over the three communications centers had been taken and the war was lost before it began. Headquarters were cut off from units, individual units from each other tanks from tank commanders, spaceships from their bases. Radar central on the far side of the moon very quickly discovered the blips of the invasion fleet swooping in from beyond Saturn. But there was no way they could tell anyone about it.
"I have to ask my supervisor about it," Jerry Cruncher said, nodding solemnly at the thought. "This being my day off and all. And taking of unauthorized people into the tunnels. Can't say he's going to like it much."
"Mr. Cruncher," the Lieutenant said through tight-clamped teeth. "In case you have not heard, there is a war on. You have just seen a man die because of this war. You cannot call your supervisor because the military override has rendered the civilian visiphone network inoperable."
"Can't say I like that."
"None of us do. That is why we need your help. The enemy aliens have taken our communication centers and they must be recaptured. We have contacted the nearest combat unit by messenger and they are attempting to retake the centers, but they are virtually impregnable."
"They are? How did those Beetlejuicians get in then?"
"Well, yes, it is Sunday, you know, minimum personnel, at 0800 hours the church coaches were leaving, the gates were open…"
"Caught you with your pants down, hey?" A wet suck on his pipe told the world what Jerry Cruncher felt about that kind of efficiency. "So your lot is out and you want back in. So why bother a working-man at home on a Sunday?"
"Because, Mr. Cruncher, war does not recognize days of the week. And you are the oldest employee of CitSubMaint and probably the only man who can answer this question. Our communication centers have their own standby power sources, but they normally use city power. And the land lines and cables go out underground. Now, think carefully before you answer. Can we get into these centers from underground? Particularly into ComCent?"
"Where is it?" He tamped down the glowing tobacco with a cal-lused thumb, then sucked in the gray smoke happily.
"At the junction of 18th Way and Wiggan Road."
"So that's why there are so many cables in 104-BpL."
"Can we get into it?"
In the hushed silence that followed the burble of Jerry Cruncher's pipe could be clearly heard. The Lieutenant stood, fists clenched tightly, and beside him the Sergeant and the Corpsman, as well as the operators who had left their silent communication equipment. All of them waited and listened in strained silence as Jerry Cruncher narrowed his eyes in thought, took the pipe from his mouth and exhaled a cloud of pungent smoke, then turned to face them.
"Yep.” he said.
They weren't the best troops — but they were troops. Technicians and operators, MPs and cooks, clerks, and motor pool mechanics. But they were armed with the best weapons the armories could provide— and armored as well with a sense of purpose. If they stood a little straighter, or held their guns a little more firmly, it was because they knew that the future of the world was in their hands. They marched with grim precision to the road junction where they had been instructed to wait. They had been there no more than a few minutes when Jerry Cruncher showed up. He wore waterproofs and a hardhat, heavy gumboots that came to his waist, while a worn and ancient toolbox was slung by a strap over one shoulder. His pipe was out, but still clamped in his jaw, as he moved his shrewd eyes over the waiting troops.
"Not dressed right," he said.
"Everyone is in combat uniform," the Lieutenant answered.
"Not right for the tunnels. Gets mighty damp—"
"Mr. Cruncher, these are volunteer soldiers. They may die for their world so they do not mind getting wet for it. May we go now?"
Shaking his head in solemn disapproval, Jerry Cruncher led the way to a manhole in the road, into the socket of which he inserted a shining tool with which, in a practiced movement, he flipped the heavy manhole lid aside.
"Follow me then, single-file. Last two men in slide that lid back on and watch out for your fingers. Here we go."
Automatic lights sprang on as they climbed down the ladder to the cool, green tunnel below. Wires, cables and pipes lined the walls and ceiling in a maze that only a Jerry Cruncher could make head or tail of. He slapped them affectionately as they passed.
"Water main, steam main, 50,000 volt line, 220 local feeder, telephone, teletype, co-ax, ice water, pneumo-delivery, food dispenser supply, oxygen, sewer feeder." He chuckled happily. "Yep, we've got a little bit of everything down here."
"Medic!"<naroice called from the rear of the file and the Corpsman hurried away.
"They've found us!" a Permanent KP wailed and there was a rattle of weapons readied.
"Put those away!" the Lieutenant shouted. "Before you kill each other. Get me a report, Sergeant, snap to it."
They waited, weapons clenched and eyes rolling with anxiety, until the Sergeant returned. Jerry Cruncher hummed to himself tonelessly as he tapped various valves with a small ballpeen hammer, then carefully tightened the gasket retainer on one.
"Nothing much," the Sergeant said. "Burne-Smith got a finger mashed putting the lid back on."
"They never listen," Jerry Cruncher coughed disapprovingly.
"Move it out.” the Lieutenant ordered.
"One thing we haven't mentioned," Jerry Cruncher said, unmoving as a block of stone. "You guaranteed that my supervisor would see that I received my pay for this job."
"Yes, of course, can we talk about it as we go?"
"We go when this is settled. I forgot that this being Sunday I'll be getting double time and triple after four hours."
"Fine, agreed. Let's go."
"In writing."
"Yes, writing, of course." The Lieutenant's scriber flew over a message pad and he ripped off the sheet. "There, I've signed it as well, with my serial number. The army will stand behind this."
"Had better," Jerry Cruncher said, carefully folding the slip and placing it securely in his wallet before they moved out again.
It was a nightmare journey for all except the gray, solid man who led them like a Judas goat through this underground inferno. The main tunnels were easy enough to pass through, through pendant valve wheels and transverse pipes lay constantly in wait for the unwary. Had they not been wearing helmets, half of the little force would have been stunned before they had gone a mile. As it was there was many a clank and muffled cry from the rear.
Then came the inspection hatch and the first crawltube leading to a vertical pit sixty feet deep, down which they had to make their way on a water-slippery ladder. At its foot an even damper tunnel, this one faced with blocks of hand-hewn stone, led them through the darkness — no lights here, they had to use their torches — to an immense cavern filled with roaring sound.
"Storm sewer," Jerry Cruncher said, pointing to the rushing river that swirled by just below their feet, "I've seen it bone dry in the season. Been rain in the suburbs lately, and here it is now. Stay on the walkway, this is the shortest way to go, and don't slip. Once in that water you're a goner. Might find your body fifty miles out in the ocean if the fishes don't get it first."