Michael McCollum - Duty, Honor, Planet.pdf - Michael McCollum - margozap

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.

Then he took a deep breath and knocked on the Commandant's door. A few seconds later he heard a

muffled order to enter. Stassel marched to the front of the Commandant's desk, snapped to attention,

and saluted. Heinemann was making notes on a yellow note pad and continued writing as Stassel held

the salute.

After a few moments, he put down the pen and looked up, his steel gray eyes more tired than Stassel

could remember having seen them before. The Commandant returned the salute and leaned back in his

chair.

"Have a seat, Friedrich. Smoke if you like."

Stassel was momentarily startled by General Heinemann's use of his first name. He had not known that

the Commandant knew it. He hesitantly took one of the gray UN issue chairs in front of the desk,

politely declining a cigar from the Commandant's humidor.

"How is your dear mother? It's been almost five years since I've seen her," Heinemann said, puffing a

stogie alight and blowing a blue cloud of smoke toward the ventilator shaft. "I'm afraid I have been

derelict in not visiting since your father left the service."

" Mutter is fine, Herr General."

"I served under your father inboard Graf Von Bismarck . Did you know that? I was his Executive

Officer and his friend."

"My father used to talk a great deal about his days in space aboard Bismarck, Herr General. He spoke

of you often, and only with highest regard."

"I was sorry to hear of his death last year, Friedrich. An accident on the autobahn is a tragic end for a

spaceman, no?"

"Yes sir. Most tragic."

"He was a good German, your father. In your great grandfather's time, that was a term of derision,

Friedrich. Did you know that? It has been men like Hans Erich Stassel who put some respect back into

the word Deutschlander . Why as late as fifteen years ago, a Luftwaffe officer could never have worn

black and silver. To do so would have been to invite comparison with Hitler and his maniac

Schutzstaffeln, the dread SS. Do you understand what a handicap we have had to overcome,

Friedrich? It was no easy thing to re-earn the respect of civilized folk after having lost it so thoroughly."

"Yes sir." Stassel wondered what the Commandant was getting at. The old martinet did not

usually give himself over to reminiscing. It was a bad sign.

The Commandant cleared his throat, and snubbed out the burning cigar, attacking it as if it were an

enemy. "I have orders, Hauptmann Stassel. You will report to the shuttle docking portal immediately

after your meeting with the Briefing Officer. There you will take the in-orbit shuttle to Peace Control

Satellite Alpha-Nine for duty until relieved. Your personal gear is already aboard."

"Alpha-Nine, Herr General? Robertson has Alpha-Nine on the duty roster next shift."

"Robertson is in the brig with Garcia. They got into a disagreement in the Lounge last watch and will be

cooling off for the next ten days or so."

"Robertson and Garcia? I can't believe it. What started it?"

"What else?" the Commandant asked, staring idly at the blue and white UN flag that decorated one side

of his office. His voice was weary with too much strain and work.

Stassel did not have to ask what he meant. Robertson was an American and Garcia a Mexican. Their

fight had started over the border crisis, of course. They were too good friends to let anything other than

women or politics come between them.

"It's getting bad, isn't it?" he asked.

Heinemann sighed. "Worse than you might think, Hauptmann. Even the ranks of the Peace Enforcers

are not immune to these internecine squabbles that have broken out all over the face of the Earth. If it is

not the North Americans against the South, then it is the Australians versus Indonesia, or Japan against

China and West Russia. I tell you the whole world is going to Satan in a hand trolley." Heinemann

glanced at the chronometer on the bulkhead behind Stassel. "The time is getting short, Hauptmann. You

still need to be briefed."

"Yes sir."

"Before you go, Friedrich. Do you know why I am picking you for this assignment instead of the backup

astronaut?"

"No sir."

"Because, like your father, you are a good German. And the world needs more of us. We know how to

follow orders without question. Few other people do. It is a much-maligned trait, Friedrich. The

Yankees and French are always making snide comments about blind Prussian obedience to orders. Do

not let them faze you. In the current situation, blind obedience to orders is the only thing that is going to

save us. I need men in orbit who can keep their heads and do their duty. Can you?"

"I think so, sir."

"So do I, Friedrich. You are your father's son. Now you had better see the Briefing Officer in

Compartment One-Twelve. You are minus minutes for that shuttle launch. They'll hold it if you're late,

but they won't like it."

"Thank you, Herr General."

Wing Commander Livingston was on detached service from the RAF. His powder blue uniform looked

out of place next to Stassel's silver and black. Stassel sat in an aluminum chair and took notes as

Livingston reeled off figures in his clipped, Oxford accent.

" … Your area of responsibility will include Longitudes 100 West to 120 West, Captain. Your satellite

will be in an alternating synchronous orbit with Beta-Nine, of course, and you will have prime

responsibility in the Northern Hemisphere during even watch periods and Southern Hemisphere during

the odd. Luckily, south of the equator there is only empty ocean between 100 and 120 West, so you'll

be able to get some rest.

"You are hereby directed to pay especially close attention to the situation around the US--Mexican

border..." Livingston looked up, the podium light casting shadows on his face. "Watch your ass on that

one, Fred. It is a tinderbox. The Mexicans are bound to try a raid between now and the Security

Council vote on Friday."

"I thought the vote would be Wednesday," Stassel said.

"Wouldn't bet on it if I were you, chap. Besides, I have Friday afternoon in the pool. So I can hope."

"How do you think the Council will vote, Livingston?"

"I'd say they will turn the resolution down flat. Too many people do not like the Yanks for it to pass.

They enjoy the sight of the Mex dwarf tweaking the Giant's nose, and they will vote against it just to keep

the pot boiling. However, to make sure, you can bet the politicians in Mexico City will try to score

another coup to intimidate the rest of the Council into voting their way. God knows it's easy enough to

do."

"And if the Mexicans keep it up?"

"Then it'll come to war quick enough. With Warren in the White House, it is practically preordained. He

barely scraped by last election with strong Ecocrat support. The Mex's are punching the Ecocrats right

where it hurts. Warren is going to have to act quickly or else lose his base of power. And if it comes to

war, you know what that will mean."

Stassel nodded.

It had started as an argument over import quotas on Mexican sugar beets. In the bad old days, nothing

would have come of it. The Mexicans would have complained to Washington, only to be ignored. A

storm of injured Latin pride would have boiled up in Mexico, but they would have been powerless to act.

However, the bad old days were long gone. Two things had occurred to permanently change the

balance of power in the world, and not necessarily for the best as far as the current situation was

concerned.

The first was the rise of the powerful Ecocrat lobby. Growing out of the environmental movement of the

late twentieth century, they were a power in every democracy in the world. In the US particularly, they

represented a large, powerful, and vocal voting bloc dedicated to the proposition that all things ecological

were sacred. They were one-issue voters, ready to kick politicians out of office en masse for the

slightest ideological impurity.

The second development was the formation of the UN Peace Enforcers following the twenty-day scare

of the Misfire War. The Peace Enforcers were a multinational force with a single mission: To stop any

aggressor who struck against any UN member state. Their unofficial motto was, "You start the war and

we'll finish it!"

In theory, any act of aggression by one nation against another would be met instantly by the orbital lasers

and Peace Enforcer fusion rockets. However, in practice there was a threshold level of violence, a

tripwire effect, below which the cumbersome Security Council machinery would fail to respond.

These two facts were the natural precursors to the current crisis on the North American continent.

Lone Mexican Air Force planes -- officially piloted by bandits and renegade officers -- had struck

north at a series of unusual targets designed to put intense pressure on the administration in Washington

in the sugar beet dispute. Instead of hitting cities or centers of military and industrial power with the

nuclear weapons Mexico was rumored to have, the planes struck against targets that the powerful

Ecocrat lobby considered irreplaceable national treasures.

Carlsbad -- where a single smart bomb had penetrated the visitor center and elevator shaft to

explode in the cavern below, causing massive destruction. And more importantly, sealing the caverns

for a hundred years due to radioactive contamination by the Cobalt 60 powder that had cladded the

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