Hartmann was not grinning now. His features were hard, somber. He was sitting behind his desk in the Oval Office, looking down at the papers he held in his hands. After a moment of silence, he raised his head slowly, and his dark eyes looked straight out into the living rooms of a nation.
My fellow countrymen, he said gravely, tonight our nation faces the most serious crisis in its long and great history. Approximately one hour ago, an American air force base in California was hit by a violent and vicious attack
THE FIRST CASUALTY was a careless sentry. The attacker was quick, silent, and very efficient. He used a knife. The sentry died without a whimper, never knowing what was happening.
The other attackers were moving in even before the corpse hit the ground. Circuits were hooked up to bypass the alarm system, and torches went to work on the high electric fence. It fell. From the darkness, more invaders materialized to move through the fresh gap.
But somewhere one alarm system was still alive. Sirens began to howl. The sleepy airbase came to sudden, startled life. Stealth now useless, the attackers began to run. Towards the airfields.
Somebody began to fire. Someone else screamed. Outside the main gate, the guards looked in, baffled, towards the base. A stream of submachine gun fire took them where they stood, hammering them to bloody death against their own fence. A grenade arced through the air, and the gate shattered under the explosion.
THE ATTACK WAS sudden, well-planned, and utterly ruthless, Hartmann told the nation. The defense, under the circumstances, was heroic. Nearly one hundred American servicemen died during the course of the action.
THE POWER LINES were cut only seconds after the attack got under way. A well-placed grenade took out the emergency generator. Then darkness. It was a moonless night, and the clouds obscured the stars. The only light was the flash of machine gun fire and the brief, shattering brilliance of the explosions around the main gate.
There was little rhyme and less reason to the defense. Startled by the sirens, troops scrambled from the barracks and towards the gate, where the conflict seemed to be centered. On either side of the fence, attackers and defenders hit the ground. A searing crossfire was set up.
The base commandant was as startled and confused as any of his men. Long, valuable minutes passed while he and his staff groped for the facts, and tried to understand what was happening. Their response was almost instinctive. A ring of defenders was thrown around the Command Tower, a second around the base armory. Other men were sent sprinting towards the planes.
But the bulk of the troops were rushed to the main gate, where the battle was at its fiercest.
The defenders brought up heavy weapons from the base armory. The shrubbery outside the base perimeter was blasted by mortars, blown apart by grenades. The attackers hidden position was systematically pounded. Then, behind a wall of smoke and tear-gas, the defenders poured out of the gate, washed over the enemy positions.
They found them empty, but for corpses. The attackers had melted away as suddenly as they had come.
An order for search and pursuit was swiftly given. And just as swiftly rescinded. For over the machine gun fire and the explosions, another sound could now be heard.
The sound of a jet taking off.
THE ATTACKERS CONCENTRATED most of their forces against the main entrance of the air base, Hartmann said. But for all its fierceness, this assault was simply a diversion. While it was in progress, a smaller force of attackers penetrated another part of the base perimeter, beat off light resistance, and seized a small portion of the airfields.
The Presidents face was taut with emotion. The goal of the attack was a squadron of long-range bombers, and their fighter escorts. As part of our first line of defense to deter Communist aggression, the bombers were on stand-by status; fueled and ready to take off in seconds, in the event of an enemy attack.
Hartmann paused dramatically, looked down at his papers, then back up. Our men reacted swiftly and valiantly. They deserve only our praise. They retook several planes from the attackers, and burned down several others during takeoff.
Despite this courageous resistance, however, the attackers put seven fighters and two bombers into the air. My fellow countrymen, both of those bombers were equipped with nuclear weaponry.
Again Hartmann paused. Behind him, the Oval Office background dissolved. Suddenly there was only the President, and his desk, outlined against a blank wall of white. On that wall, six familiar sentences suddenly appeared.
Even while the attack was in progress, an ultimatum was sent to me in Washington, Hartmann said. Unless certain demands were met within a three-hour deadline, I was told, a hydrogen bomb would be dropped on the city of Washington, D.C. You see those demands before you. He gestured.
Most of you have seen them before. Some call them the Six Demands, he continued. Im sure you know them as well as I. They call for an end to American aid to our struggling allies in Africa and the Mid-East, for the systematic destruction of our defensive capacities, for an end to the Special Urban Units that have restored law and order to our cities, for the release of thousands of dangerous criminals, for the repeal of federal restrictions on obscene and subversive literature, and, of coursehe flashed his famous grinfor my resignation as President of the United States.
The grin faded. These demands are a formula for national suicide, a recipe for surrender and disgrace. They would return us to the lawlessness and anarchy of a permissive society that we have left behind. Moreover, they are opposed by the great majority of the American people.
However, as you know, these demands are vocally advocated by a small and dangerous minority. They represent the political program of the so-called American Liberation Front.
The background behind Hartmann changed again. The blowup of the Six Demands vanished. Now the President sat before a huge photograph of a bearded, long-haired young man in a black beret and baggy black uniform. The man was quite dead; most of his chest had been blown away.
Behind me you see a photograph of one of the casualties of tonights attack, Hartmann said. Like all the other attackers we found, he wears the uniform of the paramilitary wing of the A.L.F.
The photo vanished. Hartmann looked grim. The facts are clear. But this time the A.L.F. has gone too far. I will not submit to nuclear blackmail. Nor, my fellow countrymen, is there cause for alarm. To my fellow citizens of Washington I say especially, fear not. I promise that the A.L.F. pirate planes will be tracked down and destroyed long before they reach their target.
Meanwhile, the leaders of the A.L.F. are about to learn that they erred in attempting to intimidate this administration. For too long they have divided and weakened us, and given aid and comfort to those who would like to see this nation enslaved. They shall do so no longer.
There can be only one word for tonights attack. That word is treason.
Accordingly, I will deal with the attackers like traitors.
* * *
IVE GOT THEM, McKinnis said, his voice crackling with static. Or something.
Reynolds didnt really need the information. He had them too. He glanced briefly down at the radarmap. They were on the edge of the scope, several miles ahead, heading due east at about 90,000 feet. High, and moving fast.
Another crackle, then Bonetto, the flight leader. Looks like them, alright. Ive got nine. Lets go get em.
His plane nosed up and began to climb. The others followed, behind and abreast of him in a wide V formation. Nine LF-7 Vampyre fighter/interceptors. Red, white, and blue flags on burnished black metal, silvery teeth slung underneath.
A hunting pack closing for the kill.
Yet another voice came over the open channel. Hey, whattaya figure the odds? All over theyre looking. Betcha it gets us promotions. Lucky us.
That had to be Dutton, Reynolds thought. A brash kid, hungry. Maybe he felt lucky. Reynolds didnt. Inside the acceleration suit he was sweating suddenly, coldly.
The odds had been all against it. The kid was right about that. The Alfie bombers were LB-4s, laser-armed monsters with speed to spare. They couldve taken any route of a dozen, and still make it to Washington on time. And every damn plane and radar installation in the country was looking for them.
So what were the odds against them running into Reynolds and his flight out over northern Nebraska on a wild goose chase?
Too damn good, as it turned out.
They see us, Bonetto said. Theyre climbing. And accelerating. Move it.
Reynolds moved it. His Vampyre was the last in one arm of the V, and it held its formation. Behind the oxygen mask, his eyes roamed restlessly, and watched the instruments. Mach 1.3. Then 1.4. Then higher.
They were gaining. Climbing and gaining.
The radarmap showed the Alfie positions. And there was a blur up ahead on the infrared scope. But through the narrow eyeslit, nothing. Just cold black sky and stars. They were above the clouds.
The dumb bastards, Reynolds thought. They steal the most sophisticated hunk of metal ever built, and they dont know how to use it. They werent even using their radar scramblers. It was almost like they were asking to be shot down.
Cracklings. Theyre leveling off. Bonetto again. Hold your missiles till my order. And remember, those big babies can give you a nasty hotfoot.
Reynolds looked at the radarmap again. The Alfies were now flat out at about 100,000 feet. Figured. The LB-4s could go higher, but ten was about the upper limit for the fighter escorts. Rapiers. Reynolds remembered his briefing.
They wanted to stick together. That made sense. The Alfies would need their Rapiers. Ten wasnt the upper limit for Vampyres.
Reynolds squinted. He thought he saw something ahead, through the eyeslit. A flash of silver. Them? Or his imagination? Hard to tell. But hed see them soon enough. The pursuit planes were gaining. Fast as they were, the big LB-4s were no match for the Vampyres. The Rapiers were; but they had to stay with the bombers.
So it was only a matter of time. Theyd catch them long before Washington. And then?
Reynolds shifted uneasily. He didnt want to think about that. Hed never flown in combat before. He didnt like the idea.
His mouth was dry. He swallowed. Just this morning he and Anne had talked about how lucky he was, made plans for a vacation. And beyond. His term was almost up, and he was still safe in the States. So many friends dead in the South African War. But hed been lucky.
And now this. And suddenly the possibility that tomorrow might not be bright. The possibility that tomorrow might not be. It scared him.
There was more, too. Even if he lived, he was still queasy. About the killing.
That shouldnt have bothered him. He knew it might happen when he enlisted. But it was different then. He thought hed be flying against Russians, Chineseenemies. The outbreak of the South African War and the U.S. intervention had disturbed him. But he could have fought there, for all that. The Pan-African Alliance was Communist-inspired, or so they said.
But Alfies werent distant foreigners. Alfies were people, neighbors. His radical college roommate. The black kids he had grown up with back in New York. The teacher who lived down the block. He got along with Alfies well enough, when they werent talking politics.
And sometimes even when they were. The Six Demands werent all that bad. Hed heard a lot of nasty rumors about the Special Urban Units. And God knows what the U.S. was doing in South Africa and the Mid-East.
He grimaced behind the oxygen mask. Face it, Reynolds, he told himself. The skeleton in his closet. He had actually thought about voting A.L.F. in 84, although in the end hed chickened out and pulled the lever for Bishop, the Old Democrat. No one on the base knew but Anne. They hadnt argued politics for a long time, with anyone. Most of his friends were Old Republicans, but a few had turned to the Liberty Alliance. And that scared him.
Bonettos crackling command smashed his train of thought. Look at that, men. The Alfies are going to fight. At em!
Reynolds didnt need to look at his radarmap. He could see them now, above. Lights against the sky. Growing lights.
The Rapiers were diving on them.
OF ALL THE commentators who followed President Hartmann over the holo networks, Continentals Ted Warren seemed the least shell-shocked. Warren was a gritty old veteran with an incisive mind and razor tongue. He had tangled with Hartmann more than once, and was regularly denounced by the Liberty Alliance for his Alfie bias.
The Presidents speech leaves many questions still unanswered, Warren said in his post-mortem newscast. He has promised to deal with the A.L.F. as traitors, but as yet, we are unsure exactly what steps will be taken. There is also some question, in my mind at any rate, as to the A.L.F.s motivation for this alleged attack. Bob, any thoughts on that?
A new face on camera; the reporter who covered A.L.F. activities for Continental had been hustled out of bed and rushed to the studio. He still looked a little rumpled.
No, Ted, he replied. As far as I know, the A.L.F. was not planning any action of this kind. Were it not for the fact that this attack was so well-planned, I might question whether the A.L.F. national leadership was involved at all. It might have been an unauthorized action by a group of local extremists. Youll recall that the assault on the Chicago Police Headquarters during the 1985 riots was of this nature. However, I think the planning that went into this attack, and the armament that was used, precludes this being a similar case.
Warren, at the Continental anchordesk, nodded sagely. Bob, do you think there is any possibility that the paramilitary arm of the A.L.F. might have acted unilaterally, without the knowledge of the partys political leaders?
The reporter paused and looked thoughtful. Well, its possible, Ted. But not likely. The kind of assault that the President described would require too much planning. Id think that the whole party would have to be involved in an effort on that scale.