noting the rateat which it swept across the screen. The image of the jammer started toexpand as he approached it. Then it became dumbbell shaped and split intwo.
As he passed by the jammer, he switched the radar back on. That secondimage was something which had been hidden by the jammer. He lookedaround. No other new objects appeared on the screen. This had to be thewarhead. He checked it anyway. Temperature was minus 40 deg. F. A smileflickered on his lips as he caught the significance of the temperature.He hoped the launching crew had gotten their fingers frozen off whilethey were going through the countdown. The object showed no anomalousradar behavior. Beyond doubt, it was the warhead.
Then he noted the range. A mere thirteen hundred yards! His own missilecarried a small atomic warhead. At that range it would present no dangerto him. But what if it triggered the enemy warhead? He and the shipwould be converted into vapor within microseconds. Even a partial,low-efficiency explosion might leave the ship so weakened that it couldnot stand the stresses of return through the atmosphere. Firing on theenemy warhead at this range was not much different from playing RussianRoulette with a fully-loaded revolver.
Could he move out of range of the explosion and then fire? No. Therewere only twelve seconds left before he had to start the pull-out. Itwould take him longer than that to get to a safe range, get intoposition, and fire. He'd be dead anyway, as the ship plunged into theatmosphere and burned up. And to pull out without firing would be savinghis own life at the cost of the lives he was under oath to defend. Thatwould be sheer cowardice.
* * * * *
He hesitated briefly, shrugged his shoulders as well as he could insidehis flying suit, and snapped a switch on the instrument panel. A set ofcross hairs sprang into existence on the screen. He gripped a smalllever which projected up from his right armrest; curled his thumb overthe firing button on top of it. Moving the lever, he caused the crosshairs to center on the warhead. He flicked the firing button, to tellthe fire control system that _this_ was the target. A red light blinkedon, informing him that the missile guidance system was tracking theindicated target.
He hesitated again. His body tautened against the straps holding it inthe acceleration couch. His right arm became rigid; his fingerspetrified. Then, with a convulsive twitch of his thumb, he closed thefiring circuit. He stared at the screen, unable to tear his eyes fromthe streak of light that leaped away from his ship and toward thetarget. The missile reached the target, and there was a small flare oflight. His radiation counter burped briefly. The target vanished fromthe radar, but the infrared detector insisted there was a nebulous fogof hot gas, shot through with a rain of molten droplets, where thetarget had been. That was all. He had destroyed the enemy warheadwithout setting it off. He stabbed the MISSION ACCOMPLISHED button, andflicked the red-handled toggle switch, resigning his status as pilot.Then he collapsed, nerveless, into the couch.
The autopilot returned to control. It signaled the Air Defense networkthat this hostile track was no longer dangerous. It receivedinstructions about a safe corridor to return to the ground, where itwould not be shot at. As soon as the air was thick enough for thecontrol surfaces to bite, the autopilot steered into the safe corridor.It began the slow, tedious process of landing safely. The ground wasstill a long way down. The kinetic and potential energy of the ship, ifinstantly transformed into heat, was enough to flash the entire shipinto vapor. This tremendous store of energy had to be dissipated withoutharm to the ship and its occupant.
Major Harry Lightfoot, fighter pilot, lay collapsed in his couch,exhibiting somewhat less ambition than a sack of meal. He relaxed to thegentle massage of his gee-suit. The oxygen control winked reassuringlyat him as it maintained a steady flow. The cabin temperature soared, buthe was aware of it only from a glance at a thermometer; the airconditioning in his suit automatically stepped up its pace to keep himcomfortable. He reflected that this might not be so bad after all.Certainly none of his ancestors had ever had this comfortable a ridehome from battle.
After a while, the ship had reduced its speed and altitude to reasonablevalues. The autopilot requested, and received, clearance to land at itspreassigned base. It lined itself up with the runway, precisely followedthe correct glide-path, and flared out just over the end of the runway.The smoothness of the touchdown was broken only by the jerk of the dragparachute popping open. The ship came to a halt near the other end ofthe runway. Harry Lightfoot disconnected himself from the ship andopened the hatch. Carefully avoiding contact with the still-hot metalskin of the ship, he jumped the short distance to the ground. The lowpurr of a motor behind him announced the arrival of a tractor to tow theship off the runway.
"You'll have to ride the tractor back with me, sir. We're a bit short oftransportation now."
"O.K., sergeant. Be careful hooking up. She's still hot."
"How was the flight, sir?"
"No sweat. She flies herself most of the time."
THE END
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