“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 tonight’s attack. That word is treason.
“Accordingly, I will deal with the attackers like traitors.”
“I’VE GOT THEM,” McKinnis said, his voice crackling with static. “Or something.”
Reynolds didn’t 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. I’ve got nine. Let’s 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 they’re looking. Betcha it gets us promotions. Lucky us.”
That had to be Dutton, Reynolds thought. A brash kid, hungry. Maybe he felt lucky. Reynolds didn’t. 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 could’ve 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. “They’re 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 don’t know how to use it. They weren’t even using their radar scramblers. It was almost like they were asking to be shot down.
Cracklings. “They’re 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 wasn’t 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 he’d 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. They’d catch them long before Washington. And then?
Reynolds shifted uneasily. He didn’t want to think about that. He’d never flown in combat before. He didn’t 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 he’d 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 shouldn’t have bothered him. He knew it might happen when he enlisted. But it was different then. He thought he’d be flying against Russians, Chinese—enemies. 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 weren’t 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 weren’t talking politics.
And sometimes even when they were. The Six Demands weren’t all that bad. He’d 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 he’d chickened out and pulled the lever for Bishop, the Old Democrat. No one on the base knew but Anne. They hadn’t 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.
Bonetto’s crackling command smashed his train of thought. “Look at that, men. The Alfies are going to fight. At ’em!”
Reynolds didn’t 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, Continental’s 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 President’s 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. You’ll 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 party’s political leaders?”
The reporter paused and looked thoughtful. “Well, it’s possible, Ted. But not likely. The kind of assault that the President described would require too much planning. I’d think that the whole party would have to be involved in an effort on that scale.”
“What reasons would the A.L.F. have for an action like this?” Warren asked.
“From what the President said, a hope that a nuclear threat would bring immediate agreement to the A.L.F.’s Six Demands would seem to be the reason.”