The Natotevaal Recruits. War Chronicle

Whitehouse approached the microphone as quickly as possible:
- Yes, hurry up. We will open the lower gateway.
German astronauts appeared in ten painfully long minutes.
Covers of cadmium suits were torn apart; glass of pressure helmets was smoke-stained, identification badges looked faded.
Their eyes were empty, staring at one point. Their faces looked like the astronauts have just returned from the underworld. There were four of them, Colonel von Conrad, Navigator Eichberger and board gunner Hoffman, who was laid next to the fourth, Matthias Leiseheld, whose body was inside a funeral package with a small black-and-red-and-yellow flag pinned to the chest.
He was killed when one of the missiles hit the emitter cupola.
- Well, what do we do now? - Eichberger asked gloomily.
- Allah Akbar. That's what. - Von Conrad looked up at his Navigator with his dull eyes, reddened from the capillary bleeding, and brushed the edge of his hand across his throat.
- There, there! We will show them! - Dybal said, forcing himself to smile and made a hand movement as if he closed the breech of an antique naval gun. – "Our proud ‘Varyag’ does not surrender and nobody asks for mercy...”
At this point from the utilization camera of sanitary block they heard blows of metal upon metal, buzzing of krypton cutter and already stifling air was filled with the smell of welding flux; Board engineer John Mackliff was in the process of making something:
- Hey, anybody! Come here quickly! – His excited voice pierced the silence.
Two German astronauts started moving, but Whitehouse stopped them and began to examine their wounds. Dybal went to see Mackliff, taking first-aid kit with him just in case.
But first-aid kit was not needed; Mackliff sent the navigator back with the task to rip off the heat sealing siding from the cooling compressor of the engine.
 Bandaging Eichberger’s hand and watching Dybal flying back and forth with thermal insulation mats, dragging a trail of debris and wiping sweat from his forehead, Whitehouse asked:
- What is going on there, Al?
- He didn't say. Probably afraid of the evil eye, but he looks determined. He is messing with the garbage bins.
Von Conrad caught a receiver with a ‘Jean Dupois’ label, which was hovering nearby and tuned in.
A familiar voice of the CNV commentator could hardly be heard due to constant noise:
-... that has forced the Countries of the Big Three to allocate additional seven billion dollars SGSA to the ‘TRANS-Selva’ state company, formed at a Congress of the South American Union in order to carry out the works on restoring forest belts along the left bank of the Amazon and its tributaries: Rio Negro, Mara;;n and Juru;. 
According to the statement of the UN Commission on controlling the spread of Equatorial deserts - CSED, the sands come with the speed of up to three miles per year. The Amazon, which has lost the Northern part of its water basin, is rapidly drying up. For the last six weeks the water level has reduced to two feet... Amazonia, the lungs of our planet, may die within a few years. The world community...- Von Conrad tuned in to another frequency.
- You are listening to the World sports radio... Hugo Stern is at the microphone. Listen to a brief news summary... The Norwegian football team, having defeated the footballers of French Canada, reached the final of the world championship ahead of time...Who will be their rivals in the finals? Is it going to be the National team of Wales or the Italians? Ring bike race in Tampa-Set is still going on. 
The unsurpassed Marc van Gal from Belgium has gathered seventy-six points in the standings and is leading... - von Conrad scratched his index finger on his grey temple:
- It is strange how they keep talking about this rubbish, but they do not say a word about the war...
- True - agreed Eichberger- If the Islamists had started another commotion, then all the channels would have been already broadcasting it; caution, nuclear alarm, and so on, without a break.
The Colonel nodded, feeling the bandage on his arm and at the same time squeezing raspberry jam from a tube in his mouth.
His eyes shone with the reflection of emergency lights, over the bridge of the nose deep wrinkles were ingrained, while he was eating, his lower jaw protruded like an excavator bucket.
- Hey, commander! Ronald! – Mackliff emerged from a sanitary unit. Everything is ready.
- What is ready? - Whitehouse had to step aside, and press his wet, sweaty back into a dead power distribution cabinet in order to let Dybal in. – What a crush!
- Well yeah, it is not a stadium, - confirmed Dybal, who was dragging a couple of reserve oxygen regenerators.
Flight engineer gleefully shook the working cutter, from which yellow flames were bursting out:
- I melted thermal insulation from refrigerators on the internal surface of the garbage containers, fit a control panel in the automatic shields of aerodynamic braking and parachutes. I made the locks on the inside. Of course, I understand that sanitary rubbish container is not the most convenient means of transport in the world, but this is still a chance. So, you can put your suits on and occupy the best seats.
- You have gone nuts! What do the trashcans have to do with it? What is the remote control on the braking shields meant for? – Whitehouse could barely restrain himself, not to thrust a bunch of repair keys tucked under his arm at Mackliff. All this sounded too gibberish.
Flight engineer grinned, pulled out a crumpled paper from a pocket of his overalls, and gently tapped the pilot on his broad shoulder:
- Here is the calculation. If we release the braking shields five minutes forty-five seconds earlier, and at the same time open up the first couple of parachutes, the internal temperature in the containers can be held at the level of forty to fifty degrees Celsius. Plus our air conditioned suits which we will be wearing. The temperature will be quite permissible. The first couple of parachutes will burn up of course, but the main domes will still be there...
- All of us will not fit in there, - glumly said Whitehouse, reckoning something in his head.
- Why? Two containers are ready. One will carry the badly wounded, the doctor and supplies. All the others will fit in a second container. We will have to leave the deceased, though.
The Shuttle twitched and there was a grinding sound, all port windows were closed by the body of Islamist station; the Arabs docked to the ‘Independence’ side-by-side.
Eichberger grabbed Whitehouse by the sleeve of his overalls:
-We can wait no more, Herr Commander. They will be inside the Shuttle in half an hour. We have to make a decision. We either give up, discrediting ourselves, or turn on the system of self-destruction and attempt to escape in the containers.
At this time, Von Conrad, looking like a samurai, who was sentenced to death, took out a screwdriver from Eicherger’s pocket, and clasping it in his hand, turned to the airlock.
From the outside you could hear the sound of scuffling, soft footsteps on the shell plating, the hum of the cutters; Islamists began to open the airlock hatch, and ‘Independence’ was rapidly falling under the escort of enemy ships.
Whitehouse was trifling a piece of paper with Mackliff’s calculations in his hands, unseeing eyes looked at the lines of differential equations of eighth order while he listened to his inner voice, that always helped him out. When he was a kid, on his way back from Grandma Theresa he had turned to a totally strange yard and in a minute a war between clans of Stone and Ho Chi broke out in the Great Park. Afterwards the police up nine corpses of random passersby that had been pierced with holes from quick squirts from the pavement. 
And later, in Foot Strasse, at the training base of 51st wing of the U.S. air forces, where he did not make to after dismissal, because he got drunk in a pub just opposite the CPT base, at the same time, when his perfect all-weather interceptor with a pilot substituting for him was broken to pieces. And then, on the frontline in the center of besieged Ankara, when he and two rangers entered the rear of the command post of the 115th shock division of the Islamists, found themselves in the lair of the enemy, under the mass of concrete just a few minutes before a local nuclear attack...
Now, floating in zero gravity among the rubbish and garbage, under a luminous board showing 251 miles at perigee, he did not hear that inner voice, and therefore lingered.
- Hurry up, Ronny, don’t fall asleep, - Dybal startled him out of his apathy.
He and Eicberger were already fully clothed in suits and gently shoved Aydem into the suit.
The light blue emergency lights were slowly fading, giving deathly shade to faces of  feverishly working people, the altimeter was signaling monotonously, changing the decreasing numbers, heat sealing that was cooling off in the containers had a disgusting smell.
It was getting unbearably stuffy with every minute; without getting enough voltage, the respiratory mixture regenerators had stopped functioning.
The Arabs had already passed through the outer hatch of the airlock, and there was a sound of grinding diamond drills, that were exposing the first inner membrane.
Someone was rummaging in the engine compartment, having got in through the hole in the empty fuel tanks.
- Why the hell did you take «Coke», throw it out immediately. And what's this? Goose liver? Will do.  Dried rice? All right. Strawberry jam? Leave it to the Arabs. Chocolate? Suitable...- Whitehouse and Dybal loaded the second container with product packs and most valuable instruments.
Unconscious Hoffman was already inside with Eichberger, who was taking the load and arranging it in a form of small pyramids.
 Mackliff and von Conrad dragged Aydem:
- Step aside we are going to ship the commander.
- The most interesting fact is that he will not fit in there. He will have to fly in our container. See how many things we have got? And we cannot put Hoffman in a different position. You do not want to tie his knees to the chest while he is unconscious. – Whitehouse froze with a box of rice in his hands and a blank face.
- Meanwhile Dybal leaned over the hatch to Eichberger’s container, turning his shoulder timer to him:
- Hey, man, if you do not want us to be blown apart by a couple hundred miles, then listen carefully and memorize. Let’s check the time first. It is fifteen forty - forty one- forty two- forty three on my timer ...
- Have you managed to set the time? Good for you.
So, you must reset the timer at start, and when it comes up to twenty-seven minutes fifteen seconds, you press that button there below the elbow. Shield braking will open and the parachutes will shoot off.
It will shake, but not much. Then you can relax.
All the rest will be done automatically. If we do it synchronously, we will land within half a mile from each other. If not, then much further. Yes, there is one more thing. If at landing a ‘010’ symbol appears this will mean you have landed on water. Do not unlock the hatch in any case, and turn on the beacon immediately. Got it?
- All right. God bless us! We are 99% dead already. Therefore farewell. - Eichberger crossed himself and closed the glass of his pressure helmet.
Von Conrad helped him lower the heavy round hatch:
- Goodbye. But still you should sit back. Just in case we get lucky.
When there was a click of internal bolt, still warm from Mackliff’s design tweaks, flight engineer sighed with relief:
- Seems that it worked. Let us hope that design of our capsule will not fail us either, - he was looking for something wooden to knock three times against the evil eye by the Russian tradition, which he remembered all of a sudden.
He did not find anything wooden, of course, so he spit three times over his left shoulder, and climbed in the container.
- Yo, damn mechanic, what is that hissing sound? – Whitehouse asked warily; he could hardly settle between Dybal and the colonel.
-Oh... I opened a goodbye helium tank, - said Dybal and listened to the whistling sound, as if overheated steam burst out from a kettle. He added with a wry grin:
-That will be a nice big blow when self-destruction is triggered. The "Green ones" will definitely enjoy it.
The Arabs were creaking with their diamond drills in the airlock, exposing the inner flap; liquid helium was hissing, flowing like a mist; self-destruct timer was buzzing; an alarm sound was roaring at regular intervals and dispassionate voice in the headsets repeated:
-The station is ready to explode. Three minutes left...
- The station is ready to explode. Two minutes forty-five seconds left.
- Batten down the window, Al. Automatic start will set off in a minute, - snapped Whitehouse and rolled down the glass of his pressure helmet.
Dybal quickly pulled the cover and spun the bolt wheel:
- Farewell, father "Independence" and mother life!
Pressurized helmet lights illuminated the inner parts of the container; astronauts were cramped like canned sprats.
They could not even stir; there was no question about it.
All they could was to move their hands a little that have been prudently placed in front of the dashboards of their spacesuits.
Von Conrad was either whispering something quickly, or praying, or piling up one of his creepy complex abuse.
Dybal was trying to blow away a chewing gum wrapper from his nose; which had somehow gotten under the glass of his pressure helmet.
Nervously biting his lip, Mackliff was holding his index finger on the timer reset button, looking steadily at his shoulder altimeter which was showing 213 miles at perigee:
- Oh, come on, respond, you damn automatics!
- Station is ready to explode in two minutes fifteen seconds...
- Well, there it goes!
- One minute forty-five seconds.
- What is it, Mackliff! Have you forgotten to turn on the sluice valve?
- Station is ready to explode in forty-five seconds.
- It is not possible! We have already passed the estimated 205-mile mark. It just can’t be true! I'm sorry, guys ... - Mackliff suddenly felt like his flesh was being separated from the bone, and the brain was being smeared over his cranial vault.
He was so pressed into the titanium boarding that his guts seemed glued to the spine. Before he sank into the blackness, through his headset he could hear Whitehouse gnashing his teeth and roaring throatily:
- It has worked, damn it, that fucking piece of iron!
Thirty seconds after the ejection of containers, "Das Rein" and "Independence" along with two docked Islamist ships became a swollen fiery yellow ball and then turned into a firework of molten metal.

***

Exchange 2.

Digital Coded telegram VHN 11
confidential level: A. 
To the commander of the 156th squadron of 1U Fleet,
Yagd Colonel Kokum Yohoud.
Yagd Colonel!
I have to inform you, that by the end of 4725, Marr 24th from the beginning of Natotevaal, parts of the entrusted squadron have completely blocked the ball-sector A16N45 according to the scheme "The Net."

Patrols were placed at a distance of 5 Tohs.
All available lock scanners are thoroughly searching the sector and the adjacent space to detect the remains of yagdishvalder-42 and possible raiders of the Swertz empire.
The operation excludes:
- Yaggishvalder-15; convoy to Fort KK22 "Ihteneld-56-R" fortified zone of Stigmarkont. 
- The repair ships brigade 446 of the separate remount battalion. 
- 4 minesweepers: type "Ohayra" from units YAG-17 and YAG-32 that are undergoing preventive maintenance.
- Strategic reserve fuel tanker of squadron 156 SMI 443: propulsion engines overheating due to excess boost of mergasine.
Total engagement of forces of the 156th squadron is 89%

Natote!
00-30. 25 Marr A.C.
Executive Captain of the "Capture” operation,
Yagd Audun Eydlah.

***

Digital coded telegram OOE
Confidential level: A.
Fleet base Stygmarkont
Marr 25
Year 4725
From the beginning of Natotevaal.

Special Department Coordinator
Of the Foreign Intelligence Board
And Security Service of the 3rd Galactic directory.
An Inquiry regarding the destruction of YAG-42 
To: The Security Service Coordinator,
Marshal and Commander of Natotevaal,
Yagd TOTE YASCHEMGART
By the time of losing contact with yaggdishvalder-42 of the 156th squadron 1U Fleet of the 3rd Galactic Directory on Marr 15 a.c., it consisted of the following vessels:
- 1st class battleship "Marshal Tote” /flagship/
- 2nd class battleships "Kekvut”, "Maykopar”, "Rys”.
- Heavy cruisers "Jezera”, "Kahn Sorre”, "Krodis”, "Moztok”
- Minesweepers type "Ogayra" / total number of 13 /
- Patrols type "Zhevur” and "Yunus-5”/ total number of 15 /.
- Amphibious assault ships of the 1U Fleet tactical reserve which had a fully equipped "Blue Lightning" commando division with heavy weapons on board.
/ A total number of D-Sh bots - 7 /.
- The total number of support vessels: 34.
77 combat and transport vessels altogether.
Natote!

Coordinator of 00 FIB SS-3
Captain Commander
Yagd Don Aykorr.

***

Digital coded telegram VHN 13
Confidential level: A
To the commander of the 156th squadron,
Yagd Kokum Yohoud.
Yagd Colonel!

I bring to your notice that on May 26 a.c., having performed a thorough scan and trawling in sphere-sector A16N45; 69 flagship parts of YAG-42 and a large amount of debris and parts of sheathing, frames and engine-power plants have been detected.
The obtained black box of the 2nd class battleship "Kekvut” had been demagnetized, apparently as a result of the strong influence of residual annihilation radiation. BB’s of other vessels as well as log books, nautical books and computer terminals were not found.

Natote!

23-45. 26 Marr 4725
From the beginning of Natotevaal.

Information Department
Under Special Section of FIB SS-3

***
To: Coordinator of 00 FIB SS-3
Captain Commander
Yagd Don Aykorr.

Reference
The commander of Yaggdishvalder-42, Captain GRAFOR Tertisote,
Born on Janu 14th year 4694 from the beginnings of Natotevaal. 
From the Three Greyhounds System, Planet Gammun, Klenvule.
 / Code 556749 /.
Mother: Daza Tantane, occupation 5564.
Home address: Klenvule, Captain Dema Highway, Building 99, compartment 588.
Father: Shtarp Tertisote, profession 69870.
He resides at the same address.
In 4707 Tertisote graduated from comprehensive school / Code 48769 / and entered the Yagd Kokum Yohoud Metropili Biological Technical College of 1U Fleet, specialty 487659. In 4712 he was called to active duty into the 44th military transport flotilla of the U Fleet, 1st Galactic directory.
Card record of Corporal G. is attached.
Having accomplished the VGF course in 4715, he was directed to the existing Fleet as assistant of the minesweeper Commander DTO-91. Qualification card of Corporal G. Tertisote is in the attachment. 
Cadet student’s book of the Galactic Fleet Military Academy and a record card of Lieutenant G. Tertisote are attached.
In 4720 he was promoted for military service and appointed commander of the heavy cruiser "Jezera” YAG-42 of the 156th Squadron of the 3rd Galactic directory.
He took part in the operation on lifting the siege of Stigmarkont, by storming forts "Ihteneld-21-M" and "Ihteneld-40-R."
For valor shown in the battle on the 11th Feran year 3722 in sphere-sector V44N01 / Blue Flex System / he had been honored with governmental awards - the platinum star of the 6th rate and the title of VGF captain.
On the 1st of Junna year 4724 he became commander of the YAG-42.
Being in command of a unit he proved to be a demanding leader, cautious and prudent navigator, good organizer and executed the combat missions accurately.
He is single and without children.
Interests: 67859, 17678, 58698 etc.
Trustworthiness: 7986
He was verified by the Office of SS Counterintelligence and has never been noticed in any suspicious activity.
Efficiency report is attached.
The central archive operator 
Sergeant Mara Shtatlidt.

***
Mackliff was laying face skyward and observing a bug that resembled a scarab; it was crawling onto the bridge of his nose and busily exploring dust adhering to the skin:
"Am I dead or alive?”
He deeply inhaled the dry, hot air.
The beetle in a panic fell to his shoulder, ran to a parched leafless branch of long withered bush and hid.
Only now the flight engineer felt like he was floating in a bathtub filled with something sticky and viscous:
- Good Lord, I am floating in my own sweat!
Feelings returned to him gradually.
The facial skin suddenly wailed with all its nerve endings: "Hide me! Cover me!" 
Right overhead like a white globe hung the sun, and it looked like it was gathering all its vigour to wither the astronaut.
He raised his disobeying hand to the face and cried out in pain: the skin was stinging and covered with scabs.
Overcoming the pain in his spine, Mackliff rolled onto the stomach, squelching salty moisture in the fabric of his tight suit, and realized that he was not wearing a heavy spacesuit, it was lying a few feet to the left, charred and pitiful, as if it was cut up with a knife.
- Well, I got really sunburned here, - he covered his head, with a scrap of some synthetic fabric, the first thing that came to hand.
He felt much better.
The astronaut slowly raised his head and froze in shock: in front of him, right behind the withered thorns of a lone bush stretched out the lifeless desert.
Flat as a table, without a hillock, without the slightest hint of dunes or ripples –and dazzling, as if it was glowing from within. Light drifting sand sometimes violated its complete stillness, and at the horizon, a lonely whitish cloud got lost in the sky, and was slowly washed away by a hot breath of scorching sand.
- Oh God! Where am I? I-aaah... – a yearning cry involuntarily escaped from his dry throat...
- Hey, why are you yelling? Do you think you are the only one who feels shitty? Ha ... Man, Dammit. Strike me dead... I still see you alive ... Stap my vitals... - a hoarse voice came from behind the pilot and a huge shadow loomed over Mackliff. Mackliff turned slowly, and behind Whitehouse, who also had no suit on; at a little distance, he saw the tilted container, halfway gone into the sand.
Dybal has been crawling around it on his knees, searching for something with his outspread fingers. 
Two motionless bodies lay in a meager shade of the container: the former commander of the space shuttle "Independence" Aydem and the former commander of the "armored car" "Das Rein" - Colonel Von Conrad.
- Well, I'm glad. I’m very happy ... You know, John, you have had a very restless sleep, actually. I covered you with a piece of the parachute, and you started jerking your little hands and feet and threw it off. That’s no good. So, old man, can you get up? – Whitehouse added seriously.
Mackliff struggled to his feet and tried to hobble towards the container.
His feet would not move.
If the dune did not have a slope, he would not even budge.
While he was moving towards the container, dismissing the help of Whitehouse, Dybal finally found what he was looking for – a binocular; and rapidly, for a man who has just darted down to the ground, got on top of the container nastily grinding the metal shield of his shoes on the black wall, which was still warm from the atmospheric heat. Scales of titanium ceramics burnt in the atmosphere flew from the 

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