Michael McCollum - Duty, Honor, Planet

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2024-11-24 0 0 48.34KB 19 页 5.9玖币

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DUTY, HONOR, PLANET

Michael McCollum

A story of love, honor, courage,

and the Strategic Defense Initiative...

Jan Pieter Heugens had been a hod carrier, a sailor, a revolutionary, and a hard working diplomat in his

time. As he stood before his spacious office window and watched the rain sluice down on New York

from leaden skies, he reviewed his checkered career with a mood that matched the gloom of the

weather. In the last dozen years, he had seen famines, and floods, and revolutions aplenty -- all of which

the UN had somehow weathered under his stewardship as Secretary-General. As he watched the

rivulets of water cascading down the glass wall in front of him, he wondered if either he or the UN would

last long enough for his term of office to reach a dozen and one years.

The oaken door behind him opened and his secretary ushered a ragged figure inside. Heugens took a

deep breath and turned to face the man he was careful to think of only by his code name, "Bernard."

Bernard peeled off a threadbare raincoat and tossed it over the back of one of the leather chairs in front

of the Secretary-General's desk.

"Did you have a good flight down?"

"Average good for a re-entry, Mr. Secretary-General. A little bumpy on final approach to the Cape,"

Bernard said, seating himself in the other chair. "I see by the Times that the Security Council has

scheduled a vote for next Wednesday."

"Don't believe everything you read in the papers. Torres is not about to let it come to a vote. The

Motion to Censure is dead. It just hasn't laid down yet."

"Then we go as planned?"

"We go as planned. Have you found your man?"

Bernard nodded. "Yes. Of course, a thousand things could go wrong."

"Such as?"

"Our intelligence could be faulty. Maybe Torres is on to our scheme and feeding us what he wants us to

hear."

"In that event, Bernard, we'd better prepare for the firing squad."

"What about Warren? Can we trust him?"

"He is the President of the United States. If not him, who?"

Bernard's response was a rude noise.

"When can you get the ball rolling?" the S-G asked, tamping tobacco into his pipe. His doctor would not

let him light it, but the act of holding it clenched between his teeth relaxed him.

"Forty-eight hours."

Then we start operations two days from now. You put our plan into action."

"Order acknowledged, Mr. Secretary-General."

Heugens sighed. Now that the decision had finally been made, the burden on his shoulders felt lighter

than it had in days.

"How about a glass of sherry before heading back?" asked his visitor.

"A whiskey'd go down better."

"Then whiskey it is!"

The Earth was a blue-white jewel poised against the jet-black canvas of open space. Occasionally a

patch of brown or green, or gray would poke through the all-encompassing white bands of clouds that

girded the globe and obscured the familiar outlines of the seas and continents.

Friedrich Stassel gazed absently at the viewscreen at one end of the mess hall and noted the trailing

terminator was near the western salient of Africa. He hurriedly gulped down the last of his tea. Two

quick bites finished off the last of his toast and peach marmalade. It was late and he was due on duty in a

few minutes.

Unnoticed by Stassel, Major N'Gomo, the Station Executive Officer, stepped through the messhall hatch

and surveyed the crowded room with sharp eyes. He spotted the young German and moved quickly

through the clutter of tables and subdued conversation to stand beside him. Stassel looked up to see a

set of flashing white teeth set in a face of darkest ebon.

"The Commandant would like to see you, Fred," the Ghanaian said.

"Yes sir," Stassel replied. He looked quizzically at N'Gomo, but the Exec's face was an aloof mask as

always. No one could ever tell what went on behind those yellow tinged eyes. Stassel gathered up his

tray, standing slowly to keep the cup and silverware in place in the one-third gravity of the space station,

and headed for the main hatch. As he passed the disposal chute, he stuffed the utensils into its gaping

maw with a clatter of steel on steel.

The Commandant's office was ninety degrees spinward around the Station's rim from the officer's mess.

Stassel quick stepped his way around the rising curve of the Alpha Deck corridor, hurrying as fast as the

in-station traffic laws would allow. He chewed his lower lip and wondered about the summons as he

walked, mentally reviewing all of his activities for the last week. Had he committed an offense serious

enough to warrant being called on the carpet by the Commandant himself? Offhand, he could not think

of anything.

Of course, just because you did not know about it was no sure indication of a clear conscience as far as

General Heinemann, the Commandant, was concerned. More than one officer had walked jauntily into

Heinemann's office, only to emerge a whipped man. Rumor was that the Commandant could see through

steel bulkheads up to a centimeter thick. Stassel had no reason to doubt it.

Outside the Commandant's office, Stassel stopped to check his uniform in the mirror provided for just

that purpose. A blond young man with Heidelberg dueling scars around his scalp, a serious face, and

soft blue eyes that ill befitted a soldier peered out of the mirror at him. The picture was completed by an

asymmetric nose -- the result of ejecting from a burning plane at too high a speed in pilot training -- and a

spotless black and silver uniform. He carefully brushed a couple of imagined wrinkles from his tunic and

rubbed mirror-polished boots on pants legs for insurance.

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Michael McCollum - Duty, Honor, Planet

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