There Will Be War Volume VIII, page 26
Celia shrugged. “It would only concern brides. Jus primae noctis means the ‘right of the first night.’”
“Ah!” exclaimed the general sapiently.
“He would need a high rank,” she went on. “If we made him Lord of Barley Cross—?”
“Duke of Connaught would be more impressive,” snorted the general.
“I could fancy King of Connemara, meself,” the doctor mused.
“You can’t make kings,” pointed out the vet. “Thrones are inherited through the blood. But you can create a lord or a duke.”
“Let’s make him both,” suggested the general. “What the hell—they’re only titles!”
The military adviser woke up. “Hey, no way! If you make me boss—I’ve got to be a real boss!”
“For goodness’ sake, Patrick–!” began the doctor irritably.
“He’s right,” Kevin Murphy intervened. “We daren’t fool the village with a dummy lord. If we make Pat top man, that’s what he’ll have to be. And he can live up at his Fist and boss us for ever more.”
“That’s agreed, then,” said the doctor hastily. “When, and how, do we bring it off?”
“Soon as possible,” grunted the general.
“We need a peg to hang his promotion on,” sniffed the vet. “A victory of some kind—like Napoleon after Austerlitz.”
“Napoleon was emperor before Austerlitz,” corrected the schoolmistress.
“Would I crown myself?” queried Patrick O’Meara, betraying an acquaintance with recondite matters.
Denny Mallon tugged at his chin. “Perhaps you’d better go on that Tuam raid, Pat. But don’t get yourself killed! Come back victorious, and we’ll give you a triumph, like a Roman general.”
Larry Desmond slapped his knee. “Bedamn—I never knew I was acquainted with so many scholars!” He turned to the sergeant. “How would your Coldstreams react to that, Pat? From deserter to Lord of Barley Cross in a couple of leaps!”
Patrick O’Meara scowled. “Grenadiers, not Coldstreams,” he corrected. “And they’d still crucify me for it—but probably between a couple of rogues.” The military adviser stared pointedly at the general and the vet.
Celia Larkin stirred restlessly in her hospital cot. Memories were crowding in. She watched Patrick O’Meara’s tank return from the Tuam raid, and clank down Barley Cross’ main street with a load of exuberant soldiers, to halt before the Old Market Hall. She saw Andy McGrath, now trusted to drive, wave from the driver’s hatch under the big gun. She heard the cheers of the Barley Cross volunteers, as they shook their rifles to the applause of the crowd. And she saw Patrick O’Meara perched on the cupola of the Chieftain’s turret, face grave, as he waited for the planned ceremony.
Denny Mallon stepped forward.
Flinty Hagan, astride the gun barrel, beat him to the punch. “Hi, Doc! We’ve captured enough pills to cure the plagues of Egypt—and not a man among us so much as scratched!”
Denny Mallon swallowed his prepared text, and started over. He flourished a clenched fist. “Well done, Flinty! We’re proud of ye all!”
Larry Desmond pushed through the crowd to stand beside the doctor. The crowd fell silent, expectant. The general shouted, “We ought to promote Pat for this, Dinny!”
Denny Mallon shrugged. “We don’t need two generals.”
“Och—I mean higher than a gineral,” protested the old soldier. “He ought to be our top man, after today.”
Well coached, Tessie Mallon called, “Why not make him Lord of Barley Cross?”
Celia Larkin tried to echo her, in turn, but couldn’t speak.
An unexpected ally in the crowd yelled, “Pat O’Meara, Lord of Barley Cross!”
His soldiers on the tank took up the chant.
It was done before anyone could protest. Sergeant O’Meara was Lord of Barley Cross by popular acclaim.
He slid down from the turret, and spread his arms for silence. One by one, his men jumped down, surrendering the platform.
He said, “Fellow citizens—you have proved you can stand on your own feet! I’m willing to go on leading you, but it might not always be victories. I might ask you for sacrifices.”
“Ask away!” shouted his men, from the crowd, drunk with success.
He grinned. “I know what you can do—I trained you!” He waved his arms. “I mean every man and woman in Barley Cross!”
“Ask!” they yelled back.
He stared down at them. They fell silent. He said, “You win—I accept the honour. I hope you won’t be–”
His words were drowned by a roar of approval. There hadn’t been a day like this since Barley Cross reached the quarter finals in the All-Ireland Hurley Championship.
Mick McGuire, miller and distiller, lost his head. “Into Mooney’s with ye all!” he called. “The drinks are on McGuire!”
Celia Larkin watched, dry-eyed. She had lost him now. Pat O’Meara belonged to the village.
He caught her eye, and grinned. He pulled a pair of leather gloves from inside his flak jacket. “A lady left these in my turret. I carried them into battle, like a knight’s favours. I hope she’ll leave them with me, to bring us luck in the future.”
She recognised her best navy-blue gloves. She flushed. The new Lord of Barley Cross was tucking them back inside his jacket. Celia Larkin abandoned modesty. Placing one foot on a towing eye, she gripped the lamp bracket, and pulled herself onto the armoured deck.
She held out a hand. “I’ll take one of those, my lord.”
He gave her the glove. Bending forward, he whispered, “Goodbye, Cee.”
She took the glove. Mouth quivering, she kissed him on the cheek. “Wish you good luck.”
Briefly, his arms tightened around her. She heard the crowd’s applause. He murmured, “I’ll need it. Especially with that idea of yours.”
She said, “You’ve won the women’s hearts already. There’ll be a queue.”
He turned to wave to the crowd. “It’s not them I fear—it’s their husbands. I’m training them to be killers!”
One last memory to torment a failing mind. A church bell tolling in the night. Celia Larkin throwing a mac over her nightdress, hurrying through dark streets to O’Meara’s Fist. The shuttered front door wide open, an oil lamp flickering in the hall. And the Lord of Barley Cross lying on the bottom stair, head cushioned by a servant’s jacket.
When Celia entered, Michael stepped back. “Don’t try to move him, ma’am.”
She bent over him. Patrick O’Meara was still conscious.
“Pat—it’s me, Celia.”
He recognised her, and smiled. “I went dizzy on the top step. I think my back’s broke.”
Footsteps were pounding up the hill outside. She said, “Hold on, Pat! Denny’s coming. He’ll help you.”
His eyes rolled. “I’m not sure I can wait that long, alanna. Hold my hand.”
She took his cold fingers between her palms. Tears blurred her sight.
He whispered, “I never loved anyone but you, Larkin.”
She held his hand until they took him away from her.
In her hospital cot, Celia Larkin wondered if it had all been worth while. She had given him up, so they could make a tyrant out of him. And they had repeated their presumption with poor Liam McGrath. Then, through the open window she heard the shouts of children at play—children no one had ever expected to see. The sounds were vindication enough. If she had her chance, she would do it all over again, willingly.
In her mind, she heard the phantom voices of Larry Desmond, Kevin Murphy, Denny Mallon, and Pat O’Meara grunting in agreement, as was often their wont.
“Amen… amen… amen… AMEN!”
Triggerman, by Jesse F. Bone
Editor’s Introduction
Sometimes in these days of high technology we forget about the men behind the weapons. There are times when the “The Triggerman” may prove to be more crucial than the weapons he controls.
Triggerman
Jesse F. Bone
General Alastair French was probably the most important man in the Western Hemisphere from the hours of 0800 to 1600. Yet all he did was sit in a windowless room buried deeply underground, facing a desk that stood against a wall. The wall was studded with built-in mechanisms. A line of twenty-four-hour clocks was inset near the ceiling, showing the corresponding times in all time zones on Earth. Two huge TV screens below the clocks were flanked on each side by loudspeaker systems. The desk was bare except for three telephones of different colors—red, blue, and white—and a polished plastic slab inset with a number of white buttons framing a larger one whose red surface was the color of fresh blood. A thick carpet, a chair of peculiar design with broad flat arms, and an ashtray completed the furnishings. Warmed and humidified air circulated through the room from concealed grilles at floor level. The walls of the room were painted a soft restful gray, that softened the indirect lighting. The door was steel and equipped with a time lock.
The exact location of the room and the Center that served it was probably the best kept secret in the Western world. Ivan would probably give a good per cent of the Soviet tax take to know precisely where it was, just as the West would give a similar amount to know where Ivan’s Center was located. Yet despite the fact that its location was remote, the man behind the desk was in intimate contact with every major military point in the Western Alliance. The red telephone was a direct connection to the White House. The blue was a line that reached to the headquarters of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and to the emergency Capitol hidden in the hills of West Virginia. And the white telephone connected by priority lines with every military center and base in the world that was under Allied control.
General French was that awesome individual often joked about by TV comics who didn’t know that he really existed. He was the man who could push the button that would start World War III!
French was aware of his responsibilities and took them seriously. By nature he was a serious man, but, after three years of living with ultimate responsibility, it was no longer the crushing burden that it was at first when the Psychological Board selected him as one of the most inherently stable men on Earth. He was not ordinarily a happy man; his job, and the steadily deteriorating world situation precluded that, but this day was a bright exception. The winter morning had been extraordinarily beautiful, and he loved beauty with the passion of an artist. A flaming sunrise had lighted the whole Eastern sky with golden glory, and the crisp cold air stimulated his senses to appreciate it. It was much too lovely for thoughts of war and death.
He opened the door of the room precisely at 0800, as he had done for three years, and watched a round, pink-cheeked man in a gray suit rise from the chair behind the desk. Kleinmeister, he thought, neither looked like a general nor like a potential executioner of half the world. He was a Santa Claus without a beard. But appearances were deceiving. Hans Kleinmeister could, without regret, kill half the world if he thought it was necessary. The two men shook hands, a ritual gesture that marked the changing of the guard, and French sank into the padded chair behind the desk.
“It’s a beautiful day outside, Hans,” he remarked as he settled his stocky, compact body into the automatically adjusting plastifoam. “I envy you the pleasure of it.”
“I don’t envy you, Al,” Kleinmeister said. “I’m just glad it’s all over for another twenty-four hours. This waiting gets on the nerves.” Kleinmeister grinned as he left the room. The steel door thudded into place behind him and the time lock clicked. For the next eight hours French would be alone.
He sighed. It was too bad that he had to be confined indoors on a day like this one promised to be, but there was no help for it. He shifted luxuriously in the chair. It was the most comfortable seat that the mind and ingenuity of man could contrive. It had to be. The man who sat in it must have every comfort. He must want for nothing. And above all he must not be irritated or annoyed. His brain must be free to evaluate and decide—and nothing must distract the functioning of that brain. Physical comfort was a means to that end—and the chair provided it. French felt soothed in the gentle caress of the upholstery.
The familiar feeling of detachment swept over him as he checked the room. Nominally, he was responsible to the President and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, but practically he was responsible to no one. No hand but his could set in motion the forces of massive retaliation that had hung over aggression for the past forty years. Without his sanction no intercontinental or intermediate range missile could leave its rack. He was the final authority, the ultimate judge, and the executioner if need be—a position thrust upon him after years of intensive tests and screening. In this room he was as close to a god as any man had been since the beginning of time.
French shrugged and touched one of the white buttons on the panel.
“Yes, sir?” an inquiring voice came from one of the speakers.
“A magazine and a cup of coffee,” said General French.
“What magazine, sir?”
“Something light—something with pictures. Use your judgment.”
“Yes, sir.”
French grinned. By now the word was going around Center that the Old Man was in a good humor today. A cup of coffee rose from a well in one of the broad arms of the chair, and a magazine extruded from a slot in its side. French opened the magazine and sipped the coffee. General Craig, his relief, would be here in less than eight hours, which would leave him the enjoyment of the second best part of the day if the dawn was any indication. He hoped the sunset would be worthy of its dawn.
He looked at the center clock. The hands read 0817…
At Station 2 along the Dew Line the hands of the station clock read 1217. Although it was high noon it was dark outside, lightened only by a faint glow to the south where the winter sun strove vainly to appear above the horizon. The air was clear, and the stars shone out of the blue-black sky of the polar regions. A radarman bending over his scope stiffened. “Bogey!” he snapped, “Azimuth 0200, coming up fast!”
The bogey came in over the north polar cap, slanting downward through the tenuous wisps of upper atmosphere. The gases ripped at its metallic sides with friction and oxidation. Great gouts of flaming brilliance spurted from its incandescent outer surface boiling away to leave a trail of sparkling scintillation in its wake. It came with enormous speed, whipping over the Station almost before the operator could hit the general alarm.
The tracking radar of the main line converged upon the target. Electronic computers analyzed its size, speed and flight path, passing the information to the batteries of interceptor missiles in the sector. “Locked on,” a gunnery officer announced in a bored tone, “Fire two.” He smiled. Ivan was testing again. It was almost routine, this business of one side or the other sending over a pilot missile. It was the acid test. If the defense network couldn’t get it, perhaps others would come over—perhaps not. It was all part of the cold war.
Miles away two missiles leaped from their ramps flashing skyward on flaming rockets. The gunnery officer waited a moment and then swore. “Missed, by damn! It looks like Ivan’s got something new.” He flipped a switch. “Reserve line, stand by,” he said. “Bogey coming over. Course 0200.”
“Got her,” a voice came from the speaker of the command set. “All stations in range fire four—salvo!”
“My God what’s in that thing! Warn Stateside! Execute!”
“All stations Eastseaboard Outer Defense Area! Bogey coming over!”
“Red Alert, all areas!” a communications man said urgently into a microphone. “Ivan’s got something this time! General evacuation plan Boston to Richmond Plan One! Execute!”
“Outer Perimeter Fire Pattern B!”
“Center! Emergency Priority! General, there’s a bogey coming in. Eastseaboard sector. It’s passed the outer lines, and nothing’s touched it so far. It’s the damndest thing you ever saw! Too fast for interception. Estimated target area Boston-Richmond. For evaluation—!”
“Sector perimeter on target, sir!”
“Fire twenty, Pattern C!”
All along the flight path of the bogey, missile launchers hurled their cargoes of death into the sky. A moving pattern formed in front of the plunging object that now was flaming brightly enough to be seen in the cold northern daylight. Missiles struck, detonated, and were absorbed into the ravening flames around the object, but it came on with unabated speed, a hissing roaring mass of destruction!
“God! It’s still coming in!” an anguished voice wailed. “I told them we needed nuclear warheads for close-in defense!”
More missiles swept aloft, but the bogey was now so low that both human and electronic sensings were too slow. An instantaneous blast of searing heat flashed across the land in its wake, crisping anything flammable in its path. Hundreds of tiny fires broke out, most of which were quickly extinguished, but others burned violently. A gas refinery in Utica exploded. Other damage of a minor nature was done in Scranton and Wilkes Barre. The reports were mixed with military orders and the flare of missiles and the crack of artillery hurling box barrages into the sky. But it was futile. The target was moving almost too fast to be seen, and by the time the missiles and projectiles reached intercept point the target was gone, drawing away from the fastest defense devices with almost contemptuous ease.
General French sat upright in his chair. The peaceful expression vanished from his face to be replaced by a hard intent look, as his eyes flicked from phones to TV screen. The series of tracking stations, broadcasting over wire, sent their images in to be edited and projected on the screens in French’s room. Their observations appeared at frighteningly short intervals.
French stared at the flaring dot that swept across the screens. It could not be a missile, unless—his mind faltered at the thought—the Russians were farther advanced than anyone had expected. They might be at that—after all they had surprised the world with Sputnik, and the West was forced to work like fiends to catch up.
