“You'll have air support shortly,” said Jonnie. “You can withdraw-”
“Well, the Chamco brothers say they know what will happen in there. That we'll flood the place with air! They said they know how 'us Hockners' took the Duraleb system back. They say there aren't enough breathe-gas masks and vials but the recirculating system has plenty. These Chamco brothers are design and maintenance engineers. They promised to help us if we paid them. They say the whole planet has been on half-pay and no bonuses. And they don't want to be killed in an 'air flood' as they called it.”
Jonnie had on the warm clothing and was finishing a sandwich of oat bread and dried venison. “Sir Robert, as soon as you get air support you can plan something-”
“The Chamco brothers told us the breathe-gas recirculating system was exterior to the base and air-cooled, and they were tricked into admitting all one had to do was shoot up the intake pipes from the cooling system and the pumps would fill the whole compound with air.”
“You got it all solved,” said Jonnie.
“Yes, but we need the intakes shot up at long range from the air.”
“That shouldn't take long. As soon as
Glencannon gets here-'
“Well, I think you ought to do it,” said Robert. “It’s not very dangerous and if you fire from about a half-mile off-'
“I can do that as I take off.”
“But you should come back down here to verify-”
Suddenly Jonnie knew what Robert was up to. Robert the Fox was going to wait until all planes could converge on that drone. And that was taking a chance. The planes to other minesites might be in trouble themselves. “Sir Robert, are you trying to keep me from making a single-handed attack on that drone?”
The veteran spread his hands. "Jonnie, laddie, you've done too much already to get yourself killed now!” His eyes were pleading.
Jonnie swung up into the plane.
“Then I’m coming with you!” said Robert the Fox.
“You're going to stay right here and direct this assault!”
A mine car ricocheted into the end of the ravine and came to a halt. The driver grabbed an assault rifle and ran up to the lines to get back into the battle. Glencannon stepped down and limped over to them. “Damn!” said Robert the Fox.
“What's the matter?” said Glencannon, a bit taken aback with the greeting. "I’m all right. If somebody will tape up my ribs and put something around this ankle, I can fly.”
Robert the Fox put an arm around Glencannon's shoulder. “It was something else,” he said. “I’m glad you got back alive. We've got a job for you. A lot of them, in fact. The snipers on the old Chinko quarters-”
“Goodbye, Sir Robert,” Jonnie said and closed the door.
“Good luck,” said Robert sadly. He knew Jonnie would suicide-crash the drone if everything else failed. He didn't expect to see him again. Then he turned and began to issue orders to two waiting runners. He had a little trouble seeing them.
Jonnie sent the plane soaring out of the ravine, too fast to be spotted and hit, and was on his way to attempt something the combined military powers of Earth had failed to do. And on his way to do it all alone.
Waiting until the drone was– what, five hours?– from Scotland was cutting it a bit close. If attacks on it did succeed they might blow gas canisters, and a freak wind could wipe out Scotland and Sweden as well. There was much to be said for attack in force. But even that guaranteed no success. And no one had ever tried a head-on smash at the drone with a Psychlo battle plane traveling at maximum with all guns blazing at the moment of collision. As a last resort, that would destroy almost anything. He hadn't said anything about it to Sir Robert. Surely the old man hadn't guessed it.
Chapter 3
Dunneldeen was a very happy man. The Cornwall compound of the British Isles was dead ahead, lit up like the one-time cities must have been.
They had drawn straws for Cornwall. This was the minesite that sent out hunting parties and made it death for Scots to go south. The Psychlos at this place, over the centuries, had gunned down people beyond count just for sport on their days off. There was even a tale of a raiding party captured and tied to trees and shot tiny bit by tiny bit and man by man for eighteen agonizing days. And many tales like it.
He and his copilot Dwight had drawn the long straw to the envy of their fellow pilots. They had drilled the navigation. No Scot had ever gotten within a hundred miles of this minesite in over a thousand years and little was actually known of it, but they had absorbed what there was.
They had lain all night, quite relaxed, warmly dressed for stratosphere flying. They had heard the warning horns go for the final firing of the semiannual. They had piled into their seats, hands waiting at the consoles.
Wide-eyed and thrilled, they had watched Jonnie's incredible sprint. Something had gone wrong as he reached the cage and that part wasn't so good. No rescue. But Jonnie had piled down under the edge of the bluff, safe as a wee bairn in his truckle bed before the blast rifles went.
The recoil had been a bit disconcerting for it had slewed the plane out of position with concussion. But all was well. They had vaulted their plane into the sky on schedule. They had seen the planetwide radio towers collapse in a tangle of cables behind them, hit by both the concussion of recoil and bazooka fire. A twelve-hour radio silence had begun successfully. Ample time for the farthest minesite to be reached without any warning.
At two thousand miles an hour, one hundred thousand feet up, they had shifted the clock and come down to normal Psychlo approach levels to a nighttime minesite. There it was!
Scanners and viewscreens a light, they found no sign of hostile action, no guard planes in the air.
Lighted steam was coming out of some shafts in the hills that must be five miles deep. Smelter chimneys belched curling, green smoke. Warehouses stood in bold outline. And there were the glowing domes of the compound! Target one.
But Dunneldeen, being Dunneldeen, was quick to take advantage of sudden opportunities even when they were not quite specified in planning.
The silly apes down there lit up the whole landing area for him! It gleamed like a bloody stage. They thought he was simply some nonscheduled Psychlo flight. Bless radio silence.
And Dunneldeen saw something else. Strung on massive power poles, coming down from the north, was their power supply. And right there, in the full glare of the landing area, was the obvious master pole. The freaks cared nothing about an aerial navigation menace. It was the master pole. The lines from the north came down into it. The local light cables all routed out from it to the buildings and compound. There was a big open space for landing and take-off in the middle of this spider's web.
Right at the side of the landing stage was a huge wheel. Dunneldeen recognized it. The master wheel that, when spun, withdrew the master bus bar from the circuit.
By Dunneldeen's opportunist mentality, it was simply too good to miss. Why let them have lots of light while they rushed about manning their defense weapons and trying to get out to their planes? Why not simply throw the whole thing into total chaos? And then go up and, with infrared screens, shoot the place to bits. Their own plane had a wave neutralizer, copied from one stolen from a ground car, and they could turn it on and those apes wouldn't know what to shoot at. Further, if this battle plane took off it would seem like it was a defense plane.
Dunneldeen spoke rapidly to a startled but agreeable Dwight. Just as casually as though they were a visiting plane, they landed right beside the big wheel. Dunneldeen hitched the assault rifle strap over his shoulder, opened the door of the plane, stepped down, walked over to the bus bar wheel, and gave it its first spin.