SLINGSHOT
by
IRVING W. LANDE
Illustrated by Emsh
_The slingshot was, I believe, one of the few weapons of history that wasn't used in the last war. That doesn't mean it won't be used in the next!_
"Got a bogey at three o'clock high. Range about six hundred miles."Johnson spoke casually, but his voice in the intercom was thin withtension.
Captain Paul Coulter, commanding Space Fighter 308, 58th Squadron, 33rdFighter Wing, glanced up out of his canopy in the direction indicated,and smiled to himself at the instinctive reaction. Nothing there but thefamiliar starry backdrop, the moon far down to the left. If the lightwasn't right, a ship might be invisible at half a mile. He squeezed thethrottle mike button. "Any IFF?"
"No IFF."
"O.K., let me know as soon as you have his course." Coulter squashed outhis cigar and began his cockpit check, grinning without humor as henoticed that his breathing had deepened and his palms were moist on thecontrols. He looked down to make sure his radio was snug in its pocketon his leg; checked the thigh harness of his emergency rocket, wrappedin its thick belly pad; checked the paired tanks of oxygen behind him,hanging level from his shoulders into their niche in the "cradle." Heflipped his helmet closed, locked it, and opened it again. He tossed asardonic salute at the photograph of a young lady who graced the side ofthe cockpit. "Wish us luck, sugar." He pressed the mike button again.
"You got anything yet, Johnny?"
"He's going our way, Paul. Have it exact in a minute."
Coulter scanned the full arch of sky visible through the curving panelsof the dome, thinking the turgid thoughts that always came when actionwas near. His chest was full of the familiar weakness--not fear exactly,but a tight, helpless feeling that grew and grew with the waiting.
His eyes and hands were busy in the familiar procedure, readying theship for combat, checking and re-checking the details that could meanlife and death, but his mind watched disembodied, yearning back toearth.
Sylvia always came back first. Inviting smile and outstretched hands.Nyloned knees, pink sweater, and that clinging, clinging white silkskirt. A whirling montage of laughing, challenging eyes and tossingsky-black hair and soft arms tightening around his neck.
Then Jean, cool and self-possessed and slightly disapproving, withwarmth and humor peeping through from underneath when she smiled. Alazy, crinkly kind of smile, like Christmas lights going on one by one.He wished he'd acted more grown up that night they watched the raindance at the pueblo. For the hundredth time, he went over what heremembered of their last date, seeing the gleam of her shoulder, and theangry disappointment in her eyes; hearing again his awkward apologies.She was a nice kid. Silently his mouth formed the words. "You're a nicekid."
_I think she loves me. She was just mad because I got drunk._
The tension of approaching combat suddenly blended with the memory,welling up into a rush of tenderness and affection. He whispered hername, and suddenly he knew that if he got back he was going to ask herto marry him.
He thought of his father, rocking on the porch of the Pennsylvania farm,pipe in his mouth, the weathered old face serene, as he puffed andlistened to the radio beside him. He wished he'd written him last night,instead of joining the usual beer and bull session in the wardroom. Hewished--. He wished.
"I've got him, Paul. He's got two point seven miles of RV on us. Takethirty degrees high on two point one o'clock for course to IP."
* * * * *
Automatically he turned the control wheel to the right and eased itback. The gyros recorded the turn to course.
"Hold 4 G's for one six five seconds, then coast two minutes for initialpoint five hundred miles on his tail."
"Right, Johnny. One sixty-five, then two minutes." He set the timer,advanced the throttle to 4 G's, and stepped back an inch as theacceleration took him snugly into the cradle. The Return-To-Station-Fueland Relative-Velocity-To-Station gauges did their usual double takes ona change of course, as the ship computer recorded the new information.He liked those two gauges--the two old ladies.
Mrs. RSF kept track of how much more fuel they had than they needed toget home. When they were moving away from station, she dropped inalarmed little jumps, but when they were headed home, she inched alongin serene contentment, or if they were coasting, sneaked triumphantlyback up the dial.
Mrs. RVS started to get jittery at about ten mps away from home, andabove fifteen, she was trembling steadily. He didn't blame the oldladies for worrying. With one hour of fuel at 5 G's, you didn't fire asingle squirt unless there was a good reason for it. Most of their timeon a mission was spent free wheeling, in the anxiety-laden boredom thatfighting men have always known.
_Wish the Red was coming in across our course._ It would have taken lessfuel, and the chase wouldn't have taken them so far out. But then they'dprobably have been spotted, and lost the precious element of surprise.
He blessed the advantage of better radar. In this crazy "war," so likethe dogfights of the first world war, the better than two hundred mileedge of American radar was more often than not the margin of victory.The American crews were a little sharper, a little better trained, butwith their stripped down ships, and midget crewmen, with no personalsafety equipment, the Reds could accelerate longer and faster, and gofarther out. You had to get the jump on them, or it was just too bad.
The second hand hit forty-five in its third cycle, and he stood loose inthe cradle as the power died.
_Sixty-two combat missions but the government says there's no war._ Hismind wandered back over eight years in the service. Intelligence tests.Physical tests. Psychological tests. Six months of emotional adjustmentin the screep. Primary training. Basic and advanced training. The prideand excitement of being chosen for space fighters. By the time hegraduated, the United States and Russia each had several satellitestations operating, but in 1979, the United States had won the race fora permanent station on the Moon. What a grind it had been, bringing inthe supplies.
A year later the Moon station had "blown up." No warning. No survivors.Just a brand-new medium-sized crater. And six months later, the newstation, almost completed, went up again. The diplomats had buzzed likehornets, with accusations and threats, but nothing could beproven--there _were_ bombs stored at the station. The implication wasclear enough. There wasn't going to be any Moon station until onegovernment ruled Earth. Or until the United States and Russia figuredout a way to get along with each other. And so far, getting along withRussia was like trying to get along with an octopus.
Of course there were rumors that the psych warfare boys had some gimmickcooked up, to turn the U. S. S. R. upside down in a revolution, the nexttime power changed hands, but he'd been hearing that one for years.Still, with four new dictators over there in the last eleven years,there was always a chance.
Anyway, he was just a space jockey, doing his job in this screwballfight out here in the empty reaches. Back on Earth, there was no war.The statesmen talked, held conferences, played international chess asever. Neither side bothered the other's satellites, though naturallythey were on permanent alert. There just wasn't going to be any Moonstation for a while. Nobody knew what there might be on the Moon, but ifone side couldn't have it, then the other side wasn't going to have iteither.
And meanwhile, the struggle was growing deadlier, month by month, eachside groping for the stranglehold, looking for the edge that would givedomination of space, or make all-out war a good risk. They hadn't foundit yet, but it was getting bloodier out here all the time. For a while,it had been a supreme achievement just to get a ship out and back, butgradually, as the ships improved, there was a little margin left overfor weapons. Back a year ago, the average patrol was
nothing but asightseeing tour. Not that there was much to see, when you'd been out afew times. Now, there were Reds around practically every mission.
_Thirteen missions to go, after today._ He wondered if he'd quit atseventy-five. Deep inside him, the old pride and excitement were stillstrong. He still got a kick out of the way the girls looked at thesilver rocket on his chest. But he didn't feel as lucky as he used to.Twenty-nine years old, and he was starting to feel like an old man. Hepictured himself lecturing to a group of eager kids.
_Had a couple of close calls, those last two missions._ That Red hadlooked easy, the way he was wandering around. He hadn't spotted themuntil they were well into their run, but when he got started he'd madethem look like slow motion, just the same. If he hadn't tried thatharebrained sudden deceleration.... Coulter shook his head