The lane ended and there was a wide open square. A few people were running towards the source of the smoke. There was a white church, and a cantina, and outside it a telephone booth. He looked at the sky. There was no sign of the gunship. He ran across the square to the phone booth. He grabbed the receiver, not knowing what sounds to expect; he stared stupidly at the coins, trying to match them with the slots, dropped them, picked them up, shoved in a few which seemed to fit, and started to dial the international number with violently trembling hands.
The black gunship appeared over the rooftops. There was a little dust storm as the pilot lowered himself into the square. Webb wondered if he would use the machine guns or the rockets. A telephone was ringing, a familiar sound, a final reminder of home in this distant and alien land.
The pilot was hovering now, about thirty yards away and six feet above the road, in the middle of the ochre dust. He was lining up in leisurely fashion, chewing gum. Noordhof, alive and well, seemed to be urging him on. Webb sensed that the pilot would use a rocket and wondered what his death would be like.
“Northumberland House,” said a well-bred female voice. The melon truck shot into view. The pilot, startled, tried to rise up, but the roof of the truck caught one of the runners and the gunship flipped over on to its back. Shreds of tarpaulin and melon showered into the sky.
“Ah, Tods Murray, please. This is Oliver Webb calling from Mexico.” Webb watched hypnotized as a melon approached from nowhere. It smashed into a corner of the phone booth, turning into a red mushy pulp and spraying shards of glass into Webb’s face. A helicopter blade was boomeranging high, high in the air. Its course was erratic and Webb saw it turn lazily and start to fall towards the phone booth. The truck stopped. Judy was out and running for her life, hair streaming behind her.
“Trying to connect you.”
There was a sudden Whoosh! and a ball of flame enveloped the truck; the blade had turned over and was picking up speed, plunging directly towards the booth. Webb dived out just as the blade sliced through it. Something sliced deep into his already injured thigh and he found himself lying on the dusty ground crying with pain. There was the smell of burning fuel and a pool of flame was spreading around from the remains of the gunship. Globules of blazing plastic were dripping down to the ground and the cockpit was filling with black smoke. The pilot seemed to be unconscious; Noordhof was upside down in his goldfish bowl, kicking desperately at a door with both feet.
The phone booth was a mangled wreck of glass and plastic, but the receiver was on the ground.
It still had its wire. Was it possible?
There was a surge of flame and heat, too hot to endure; one of Webb’s eyes was closing up with blood; machine gun bullets were beginning to bang like firecrackers; a pool of blue flame was spreading out from the machine. Webb crawled towards the receiver, willing himself not to faint. He put his ear to it. Big red ants were scurrying along in the dust, fleeing from the approaching flames. The telephone receiver was crackling. From the gunship came the ferocious roar of a missile exhaust rising in an unpredictable crescendo.
“Webb! Where the hell have you been? And what’s that noise? Are you at a carnival or something?”
In a bunker deep under a granite mountain, a handful of ordinary men were deciding the fate and future of life on the planet, in conditions of buckling emotional stress which guaranteed preconception, information overload, group-think, hallucination, delusion, cognitive distortion and old-fashioned stupidity.
The Secretary of Defense stood up. “Everybody stand away from the door,” he said loudly. “Mister President, gentlemen.” There was a stupefied silence, as if someone had pulled the pin of a grenade. Admiral Mitchell rose angrily but Grant waved him back down. Only Bellarmine and Grant remained standing, facing each other across the table.
“Mister President, sir. You are respectfully relieved of your post as Chief Executive and as Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces of the United States of America. This action is taken by myself and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. As of this moment General Hooper will direct military operations with myself as acting President. We have the gold codes.”
Grant’s face was grey. “The fairies run away with your brain, Nathan?”
“THREE MINUTES,” came from the next room.
“A detachment will be along to escort you from here in a few moments, sir. Meantime the Rock and the Communications Personnel are under our control, and we have a lot to do.”
“You’re under arrest, Bellarmine. Sit down.”
The National Security Adviser rose, white-faced and trembling. He virtually snarled: “If I had a gun I would shoot you. What is your authority for this outrage?”
A telephone near the back of the room rang and kept on ringing, cutting into the hush which had gradually blanketed the room as a stunned awareness of what was happening had spread. Someone lifted the phone and was talking urgently into it. Then the corporal was saying “Ah, it’s the Carl Vincent.”
“TWO MINUTES.”
“I’ll take it,” snapped Bellarmine.
“No. Put it through to the table,” said the President grimly. The corporal froze, as suddenly and completely as if he had turned to stone.
“Your authority?” Cresak barked.
“The Twenty-fifth. The President is refusing to defend this country when under mortal attack. He is failing to fulfil his Oath of Office and has therefore disqualified himself from holding that office.”
“You can’t make that judgement,” the Admiral snapped. “This is plain treason.”
“We’re zapped in two minutes and you want to assemble the Senate?”
“The Carl Vincent!” the corporal said, his voice coming out in a strangulated croak.
“I said give it here,” said Bellarmine, sweating. There was the brief, angry chatter of a gun. A cry of pain came from the other side of the door. Then there was a thump, and the sound of someone slithering down it.
“You heard me, soldier,” Grant snapped. “Through to the table, now!”
“ONE MINUTE.”
The corporal, breathing air in big gulps, turned to Wallis. “What’ll I do, sir?” he begged.
Hooper snapped, “Cut out the snivelling, boy. You heard. The President has been relieved of his command. You take your orders from…”
“Ignore that,” Wallis cut in. “Your supreme commander is the President. This is an attempted coup devoid of legal authority.”
“You treacherous bastard,” Bellarmine snarled.
The corporal, eyes rolling in his head, moaned, “Oh Holy Mother of God!”
“We’re losing Xochicalco!” Fanciulli shouted. “There’s a whole lot of static.”
A red light flashed over the oak door.
“Stay where you are,” the Secretary of Defense snapped. He strode to the door and flung it open. He recoiled in horror as the inert body of a Secret Service man fell back against his legs, a round, ruddy face staring upwards, prim round mouth half open, with a white shirt stained by a row of red patches. A young marine, breathing heavily, blood trickling down the side of his head, stepped over the body into the room and saluted the President.
“What’s going on here?” the President asked.
Hallam followed the marine in. His cheek was grazed and swollen. “We’re more or less on top of it, Sam. Somebody’s monkeyed with the switchboards but we’re working on it.”
“Oh Christ,” said Hooper. Bellarmine looked as if he was about to faint. He sank into his chair, burying his face in his hands.
“Sir!” Wallis shouted, leaning over a screen. “The Back-fires are twelve minutes from Canadian airspace. Eighteen still on a Kansas azimuth, two have broken away for Alaska, the Purdhoe Bay area.”