Doyle’s recently-appointed second-in-command, Major Hanford, had apparently witnessed the call to Doyle from J. Hale Reagan on a separate screen, and now said, frowning, “What will happen if Mr. Krojac and his people just ignore the warning?”
“Then I’ll stop them by force.”
“But I understand Interstellar Construction alone is worth eighty billions. Krojac is supposed to have friends at the top in Planetary Development Authority, the Space Force, and the Government itself. This business on Marshak must be important for him to be there in person. What will happen if he creates a situation where we have to kill him to stop him?”
“Then we’ll kill him.”
Hanford blinked. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”
Doyle leaned forward, his expression alert. “What do you mean?”
Hanford hesitated, then said smoothly, “A man like Nels Krojac can do a lot to help or hinder an officer’s progress in the service. This is plain realism.”
Doyle stared at him. “I could find a better word for it than ‘realism.'”
“Of course, what I mean—”
“The most polite word for it would be ‘opportunism.’ ”
Hanford stiffened. “Look here. I must—”
“A more accurate word might be ‘cowardice.’ ”
“Wait a—”
“But I think ‘bribery’ is probably the best word for it.”
Doyle narrowly watched the succession of shades of color pass over Hanford’s face. “How is it that you’re so well informed about Mr. Krojac’s finances, Major?”
“They’re a matter of common knowledge.”
“Probably they are, among the man’s retainers. But how do you know?”
Hanford opened his mouth, and shut it again without saying anything.
Doyle said quietly, “Don’t favor me with any more worldly wisdom. Just see to it that you obey orders.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hanford.
At that moment, the communicator buzzed, and a shrewd-looking individual, who introduced himself as a member of the Krojac Enterprises legal staff, put it to Doyle that on the basis of a careful study of the underlying intent of the relevant regulations, Article 12 could not be invoked.
Doyle disagreed flatly.
At once, a bluff friendly fellow named Root came on the screen and explained, man-to-man, that Interstellar Construction would be “over a barrel” if they couldn’t start work the next day. “Nels signed the contract to care for these transient colonists on the clear understanding that the planet’s classification would be favorable, and would be completed in good time. But this fellow Lindell is dragging the thing out to the limit, and now we’ve got definite reason to suspect that he’s hooked in with S. and O. Enterprises, and is stringing this out just to make trouble. Why, the average planet would have been classified over eighteen months ago!”
Doyle listened patiently, then pointed to Article 12, which required him to back up Lindell.
Root explained that their legal counsel had found that Article 12 actually didn’t apply.
Doyle quoted Article 12 verbatim, and it was obvious that it did apply. Root shrugged and stated that he was no lawyer.
When Doyle got through with Root, two of Interstellar Construction’s legal staff came on the screen side-by-side at the same desk, and while one talked, the other studied Doyle’s reaction. Speaking alternately, so that neither one actually committed himself, they put across the impression that a high-paying executive job awaited Doyle if he saw reason, while if he didn’t, they would bring him to court on the charge that he had been bribed by a competitor. Moreover, any attempt to block Interstellar would fail. If necessary, Nels Krojac himself would lead his men to work, and the Space Force would never dare try to stop such a prominent, highly-placed man. Moreover, the only way to stop Mr. Krojac and his men would be to fire on them, and the Space Force would scarcely fire on unarmed humans.
Doyle stated coldly that it was his duty to enforce Article 12, and he would enforce it.
Another call came in immediately. A former Space Force officer smiled from the screen, and, in the guise of friendly disagreement with Doyle’s interpretation of Article 12, got across a clear picture of just how well Nels Krojac could reward a man who got him out of a tough spot. While this was going on, Doyle scribbled a note to his communications officer, who announced, when the next call came in, that Squadron 2337 was now moving into a potential war zone and would henceforth maintain complete communicator silence.
By now, the routine report of the situation to Space Force Headquarters had been routinely acknowledged, and initial plans had been made for what should be a simple routine operation. But by now, Doyle was none too sure there would be anything simple or routine about it.
The next day found Squadron 2337 off Marshak III, where an enormous globular ship followed the movements of the squadron with large fusion guns mounted in multiple turrets. An earlier call to Lindell had brought the information that Interstellar Construction was bringing down heavy earth-moving equipment, and showed no sign of paying the slightest attention to Doyle’s warning. When Doyle’s communications officer tried to contact the big Interstellar Construction ship, there was no response. About this time, a second ship appeared, orbiting the planet, with its guns swinging around to bear on the squadron.
Doyle, at the command console, briefly studied the screen, then hit a number of communicator studs.
“Gunnery officer: Destroy at once every gun that bears on the squadron. Communications officer: Order those ships to answer our call at once or be attacked as planetary raiders. Vulcan: Sow your heavy implant missiles for convergent attack on the larger of those two ships. Ranger: Sow your heavy implant missiles for parallel attack on the smaller of those two ships. Minotaur: Go down on Marshak III and set up defense of the PDA base against air or surface attack.”
As Doyle spoke, before him on the screen, the brilliant lines lanced out, the two attack-ships swung rapidly apart, and the armed transport dipped toward the planet. On the big globular ship, one of the guns glowed white in answer, and abruptly the whole section around that turret flared red, then white, and puffed out in shreds. All over the huge ship, there suddenly were dazzling spots of glowing red.
“Gunnery officer speaking, sir. All turrets bearing on the squadron have been burnt out. Minor resistance from the larger ship only, sir. No damage to the squadron.”
“Good work,” said Doyle. “If either of those ships turns to present undamaged turrets, destroy the turrets at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Vulcan C.O. speaking, sir. Heavy implant missiles sowed for convergent attack.”
“Implant your missiles.”
“Yes, sir.”
An instant later, the communications officer spoke up. “Sir, we have the captain of the Krojac Empire on the screen.”
“Put him on the auxiliary screen.”
A small screen to one side flared to life, and a slightly puffy man in a uniform covered with insignia, decorations, and gold braid cried out in mingled anger and disbelief. “Are you insane? Mr. Krojac will—”
From a separate speaker came a clear competent voice. “Vulcan C.O. speaking, sir. Heavy missiles implanted. The central section apparently contains an armored citadel. The rest is el punko junko. Shall we detonate, sir?”
“In ten minutes detonate all implanted missiles unless countermanded.”
“Yes, sir. Detonate all implanted missiles in ten minutes unless countermanded.”
On the small screen, the captain of the Krojac Empire cried out, “Good God! What are you doing?”
“Your ship has been implanted with heavy missiles, which will be detonated unless I countermand the order.”
From a separate speaker came another quiet competent voice:
“Ranger C.O. speaking, sir. Heavy implant missiles sowed for parallel attack.”
“Implant your missiles.”
“Yes, sir.”
On the small screen, the puffy face above the braid-encrusted uniform suddenly vanished. In its place appeared a broad-shouldered man with dark hair, massive chest, and hard blue eyes, wearing a dark dressing gown with a dragon design on the chest. He looked intently at Doyle, then suddenly grinned. “Tough, aren’t you?”
Doyle said coldly, “You have a little under eight minutes till the implants detonate.”
A clear voice spoke from a separate speaker.
“Ranger C.O. speaking, sir. Heavy missiles implanted. No armor on this ship, sir. Shall we detonate?”
Doyle glanced at a small round clock face where two long thin hands swung steadily around the dial.
“In seven minutes and fifty seconds detonate if not countermanded.”
“Yes, sir. Detonate in seven minutes and fifty seconds if not countermanded.”
Another voice spoke.
“Communications, sir. We have the captain of the Star Chaser—that’s the smallest ship. He wants to surrender his ship at once, sir.”
“Good enough. Tell him to disarm his men, assemble them in the entrance corridor, lock his undamaged turrets, and stand by for boarding.”
“Yes, sir.”
Doyle touched one of the switches on the console.
“Ranger.”
“Sir?”
“Countermand detonation order. Board, secure crew, and seize. That smaller ship has identified itself as the Star Chaser, its captain offers to surrender, and I have accepted. He is to disarm his men, assemble them in the entrance corridor, lock his undamaged turrets, and stand by for boarding.”