Lemuel blinked once. He swallowed. Thandla suspected he was about to turn around and run straight into the jungle that he usually refused to enter. But instead, his voice tremoring slightly, Lemuel lifted his chin resolutely and answered. “That’s true. I can do the job.”
Thandla felt a sudden urge to hug the brash, irascible, impossible American. But instead, he merely smiled again. “No, Major. That will not do. Dr. Wasserman’s specialization cannot be replaced. He does know more about computers than I know about drives, but that is exactly why he must not go. His expertise is fundamentally unique and irreplaceable. Mine is merely very rare. I will replace Kapitan Dortmuller’s Arat Kur software specialist.”
The officers nodded, the American holding the visor of his cap for a moment, before they swung off toward their separate commands. Thandla watched them go, smiling, and felt that—despite the line of clouds on the horizon—this was a very good day after all. He turned back to Wasserman.
Whose face was red, almost distended. “Jesus Christ,” he hissed, “Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell are you doing, Sanjay? What the fuck have you gotten yourself—?”
Thandla put a hand on Lemuel’s arm; he would have liked to place it against his cheek. “Lemuel. Stop. Think. There is no other choice. And you were ready to take the same risk. Today we cannot afford to protect ourselves, cannot afford to lose precious seconds or even one small advantage.”
Wasserman shook his head. “But it’s not safe. Have you looked at the first wave’s mission specs—I mean, really looked at them?”
“I have. Possibly more than you. And there is no alternative. The first wave cannot be comprised solely of remote operated vehicles, because if the comm links are broken or disrupted, that would be the end of them.”
Wasserman shook his head even harder. “Look. The live control vehicles don’t need to be in the first wave, Sanjay. They could stay behind it, control it by lascom.”
“On the contrary. You know what lascom control links mean in terms of degraded reaction time. The drone sends us data, we send it reactive orders—and lose a fraction of a second every time we do. And in that microsecond, the drone is extremely vulnerable. No. Our crewed control vehicles must be so close that there is no measurable delay. Otherwise, we cannot be sure that our manned air forces will arrive in Java, let alone in sufficient numbers to attain battlespace parity.”
“Sanjay, listen to what you’re saying. You’re talking about flying into a shooting gallery.” Wasserman seemed ready to reach out and shake some sense into his friend, then blushed and threw his hands up in the air instead. “Don’t do it. It’s not safe.”
“Today, Lemuel, personal safety must be set aside. Our survival as a planet and a species depends on our acceptance of that, my friend.”
Wasserman hesitated. And Thandla knew why: because Sanjay Thandla had called him “my friend.” What could Lemuel Wasserman say in response to that?
Lemuel swallowed—it seemed hard for him to do, as if he had a sore throat—and looked out to sea. “Yeah, well—you’re going to be fine. You optimistic son of a bitch. I’ll be way back in the second wave, and they’ll still find a way to kill me. And when I’m dead, you’ll still be smiling that stupid smile of yours. You son of a bitch. I’m going to die and you’re going to be fine.”
Thandla smiled, put an arm around Lemuel’s shoulder, looked out to sea with him. “Of course I am.”
Thandla watched the low waves run—inexhaustible but futile—toward their feet, and, failing, retract and gather to rush at them once more. And no matter what happens, that will be true. I’m going to be fine.
“The situation becomes more difficult, Esteemed Fleetmaster R’sudkaat.”
R’sudkaat’s response to Tuxae was flat-toned. “Report.”
“The human missile barrage has begun to drop off rapidly.”
“Excellent.”
“Yes, Fleetmaster, but the damage reports are alarming. We have lost thirty percent of our PDF targeting arrays. Almost all grounded aircraft took some measure of damage from shrapnel or other debris. Readiness ratings for half of them are uncertain. Communications are being switched through a dangerously small number of antennae: many of the masts have been damaged or destroyed. Fatalities have been low, but the wounded are numerous, and—due to communication losses—we have lost touch with many of the firebases in the countryside.”
“All recoverable losses.”
“I harmonize, Fleetmaster, all recoverable—if we are given the time to recover. Unfortunately, the human operations show no sign of diminishing. Close-range ground engagement began at each of our compounds just over three minutes ago.”
“So they are starting to mount a ground offensive.”
“No, Fleetmaster R’sudkaat, they are not ‘starting’ it. It is in process, and all their actions commenced within the same five-second interval.”
“What? Across the entirety of Java?”
“Yes.”
“So they have found a means of communication we cannot jam. Inconsequential. Our tactical air will crush them. Instruct—”
Did R’sudkaat not know how to listen? “Fleetmaster, I repeat: our tactical air assets are at less than seventy percent due to damage. Those remaining are returning to refuel and rearm, but this will take three times as long as usual.”
“What? Why?”
“Enough of the humans’ large, ship-launched rockets survived to hit half of our air-support facilities with cluster-bomblet munitions. Runways, landing pads, service vehicles have all been compromised. Fuel and ordnance, according to protocol, was moved into protective bunkers and so is not in immediate readiness. Surabaja is particularly affected. It is down to twenty percent function.”
“Why did you not tell me of this earlier?”
“Esteemed Fleetmaster, I am receiving these updates as we speak. Surabaja is having to divert craft to Jakarta for refueling and refit. But in consequence, almost all relief pilots and all the munitions are being drawn from one cache.”
“Consumables for our air assets may run dry, but before then—”
“Before then, they may be shot down, Fleetmaster. Because so many aircraft are now depending upon Jakarta’s various airports, the wait-time there for landing and service has tripled. In consequence, although we are maximizing dispersal, our aircraft are nonetheless stacked in multilayered holding patterns above Jakarta—”
“—and so are perfect targets for surface-to-air missiles. Even small ones with short range.” R’sudkaat’s mandibles clacked urgently. “I harmonize. Quickly, alert the combat air traffic controllers in Jakarta. Despite our orbital interdiction, the humans might hope to use this moment to bring their own air assets into the battle—”
Behind Thandla’s mid-seat position in the German VTOL, the roughly purring engines—both the vertical lifters and the aft thrusters—suddenly yowled as if enraged. The flat, blue expanse of shallows leapt at, and then unrolled under and behind, them in what seemed like a single long second. Thandla was pushed back in the seat—hard. On either side, five Deutsche AeroFabrik VTOLs, identical to his own save for the tail numbers, were spread in the forward arms of a vee, for which his craft was the vertex.