“Very well, sir,” Salvatore said, with the air of a professor explaining a simple truth to a backward pupil, “let us examine your scenario step by step and see where it leads us. As the Russian fleet steams slowly up-channel, in column formation because of the relative narrowness of the channel, and at respectable intervals to maximize the impact of the naval display on the spectators, the Texas breaks out of its basin. It-”
“That’s right,” Forte said, warming to the sight in his mind’s eye. “It cuts its mooring lines, and backs down into an interval in the line of Russian ships. Then it takes off at high speed-how fast that will be we still don’t know-and starts weaving among the slow-moving Russian ships. This calls for an extraordinary degree of maneuverability, by means also under discussion. But the Texas’s high speed, its cutting in and out among the Russian ships, firing blanks and making a terrific din, are going to spook the Russians into firing back and sinking the ship pronto.”
“Why?” said Salvatore mildly.
“Why what?”
“Why are they going to fire back?”
“Because we’re shooting at them, of course.”
Salvatore coughed politely. He was a small, self-effacing man, dressed neatly in striped seersucker suit and a bow tie. His hairline mustache, smooth black hair, and Latin good looks were reminiscent of the 1920s gigolo, but his great romance was with weapons even more lethal than women.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Forte, but your knowledge of surface warfare seems to date from World War II, if you will pardon my saying so. You see, these days a ship’s commanding officer doesn’t observe smoke issuing from enemy gun barrels, then immediately order his own to commence firing. First of all, he would be astounded, and certainly amused, to see anything as archaic as a naval cannon shooting in his direction. What his reaction would be when no explosion followed is difficult to predict, but I would assume that he- even a humorless Russian-would consider it a species of joke. Ordinary guns are too slow, too puny, to be a factor in today’s warfare, you see. In any case, he would not order his own weapons to commence firing on the basis of visual evidence.”
“And why not?” said Forte, his eyes narrowing.
“Because, had any projectile been fired, he would have a report of its origin, azimuth, and point of impact almost instantly from his radarmen, who are charged with tracking flying objects so that they can compute the trajectories of their own missiles to silence the batteries that fired at them. The Russian captain, lacking such a report, would check to see why he didn’t receive it. The answer would come forthwith: because no projectile had been fired. In such a case, Mr. Forte, do you think that the captain would fire upon the Texas? Or would he, rather, conclude that he had, for whatever reason, been subjected to a series of realistic sound effects?”
Forte growled something unintelligible. He didn’t like being made a monkey of by a young twerp, especially in front of dozens of assorted staff, who were carefully avoiding his eye while they waited to see whether reason or pride would triumph.
In the winter of his life, Gwillam Forte had learned that pride, like summer, goeth before the fall.
“Very well, Mr. Salvatore, what do we do-spit at them?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Just a little, mind you. You are the prime contractor for Elbows, and-”
“Now hold on a damned minute,” Forte said, starting out of his chair. “We’re not putting any Elbows on the Texas. Get that straight. Those gadgets are still in the Top Secret category, and even if the U.S. government permitted us to use them-which they wouldn’t- I’d refuse. I want the Russians to sink the Texas, not vice versa.”
Forte sat down, agitated by the thought. He had allowed Sunshine Industries to bid on and accept the contract for the electron-beam weapons before he realized just how destructive the things could be. In the testing cells, one of the circuit breakers failed at peak strength, and the beam had drilled a hole forty centimeters through the concrete protective shield and severed a technician’s arm before they could shut down main power. And that had been only the first of a series of mishaps. Elbows made him nervous, and the less he had to do with it, the better.
“The scenario, as you’ve outlined it, Mr. Forte,” Emilio Salvatore was saying, “leaves few alternatives to Elbows.”
“No soap.”
“If you’ll kindly let me explain,” the little Italian said with sudden asperity, “you’ll understand what is involved.”
Forte nodded curtly. He’d been made a fool of once; there was no reason to compound the folly.
“Real projectiles and missiles are excluded, for reasons we both know and appreciate. What does that leave us? One: lasers, which are relatively ineffective in the dense atmosphere. Two: proton guns, which the Russians possess, but on which we are only now making a beginning. Three: electron weapons, which we have fully developed.”
Forte started to speak, then thought better of it. He sat back in his chair and moodily nibbled his artificial right index finger.
“Electron weapons are, as you know, quite lethal at short ranges. With sufficient power, they become correspondingly lethal at longer ranges. Now, Russian particle detection sensors are pretty well developed, but their instrumentation aboard ship is not integrated to the same degree as ours.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means, one device discriminates the bearing of the beam, but another one entirely then locks onto the beam and calculates its strength. A third computes the range. It does this by measuring the width of the ‘hole’ that is burned through the air by the beam. Theoretically, this hole is of uniform width, from muzzle of the electron gun to target-that, after all, is the rationale of the weapon: an intense concentration of electrons along a single axis. In reality, the second-generation Elbows SII manufactures still has not been able fully to reduce the shotgun effect-that is, the beam spread-to zero. Therefore the farther the beam travels, the wider the ‘hole’ it burns in the atmosphere. The path is thus conical, not cylindrical, although the flare can be measured in angstrom units per meter. So you see, by measuring the width of the ‘hole,’ you can compute the range. That’s simple enough, isn’t it?”
Gwillam Forte said he understood, which indeed he very nearly did.
“Well, then,” said Salvatore, smiling, “let’s put one of your Elbows aboard the Texas and see how it works. As it passes the target ship, it shoots a stream of electrons. The beam, if focused correctly at a sufficiently close range, would burn a hole right into the Russian ship. But we deliberately leave the beam not focused. The shotgun effect is pronounced. The scattered electron beam burns no holes through anything, though it would give you a hell of a suntan, I’ll admit. But notice, the power is the same, and the Russian detection apparatus registers that the incoming beam is at full strength and from such and such a direction; both these data are entirely accurate. Simultaneously, the third detection apparatus measures the range of the enemy ship by computing the width of the electron beam. The beam is degraded, wide; therefore the computer-which assumes the beam is focused-comes up with a much longer range-say, three thousand meters instead of three hundred-for the American ship. Are you with me, Mr. Forte?”
“Sure.” Forte nodded.
“Of course you are. Now, then, all three data are transmitted to the bridge instantaneously. They tell the captain that a lethal charge of particles, from such and such a direction, is being directed at his ship. The range is still too great, however, for the beam to do any great damage.
“Now, the captain sees the Texas with his own two eyes, and his eyes tell him that it is closer-a lot closer-to three hundred meters than the three thousand the range finder reported. And it is firing a lethal beam at his ship. Something’s wrong, but what? Either his radar ranging device is haywire or the focusing element on the Elbows firing at him is out of adjustment. He knows instantly that the radar report is wrong-his eyes tell him so. But, on the other hand, the spread of the enemy beam cannot be ignored. Why would an enemy deliberately fire an ineffective beam? Therefore, he reasons-and all this goes through his head in a split second-the enemy will quickly see that its beam is not having the desired deadly effect, and will adjust the beam’s spread to zero, at which instant the Russian ship will be incinerated or cut in two.
“The Russian captain must act, and act at once, to save his ship. He’ll order his own proton guns into action, and worry about second thoughts at some future date. Ecco! The Texas, hit by dozens of proton guns, goes to the bottom. Mission accomplished.”