The Rapier exploded.
Almost simultaneously there was another explosion; the Alfie missiles, touched off by Dutton’s lasers. Reynolds’ radio came alive with Dutton’s laughter, and breathless thanks.
But Reynolds was paying more attention to the infrared and the radarmap. The radar was clear again.
Only three blips showed below him.
It was over.
Bonetto’s voice split the cabin again. “Got him,” he was yelling. “Got them all. Who’s left up there?”
Dutton replied quickly. Then Reynolds. The fourth surviving Vampyre was Ranczyk, Bonetto’s wingman. The others were gone.
There was a new pang, sharper than during the battle. It had been McKinnis after all, Reynolds thought. He’d known McKinnis. Tall, with red hair, a lousy poker player who surrendered his money gracefully when he lost. He always did. His wife made good chili. They’d voted Old Democrat, like Reynolds. Damn, damn, damn.
“We’re only halfway there,” Bonetto was saying. “The LB-4s are still ahead. Picked up some distance. So let’s go.”
Four Vampyres weren’t nearly as impressive in formation as nine. But they climbed. And gave chase.
TED WARREN LOOKED tired. He had taken off his jacket and loosened the formal black scarf knotted around his neck, and his hair was mussed. But still he went on.
“Reports have been coming in from all over the nation on the sighting of the pirate planes,” he said. “Most of them are clearly misidentifications, but no word has yet come from the administration on the hunt for the stolen jets, so the rumors continue to flow unabated. Meanwhile, barely an hour remains before the threatened nuclear demolition of Washington.”
Behind him a screen woke to sudden churning life. Pennsylvania Avenue, with the Capitol outlined in the distance, was choked with cars and people. “Washington itself is in a state of panic,” Warren commented. “The populace of the city has taken to the streets en masse in an effort to escape, but the resulting traffic jams have effectively strangled all major arteries. Many have abandoned their cars and are trying to leave the city on foot. Helicopters of the Special Urban Units have been attempting to quell the disturbances, ordering the citizens to return to their homes. And President Hartmann himself has announced that he intends to set an example for the people of the city, and remain in the White House for the duration of the crisis.”
The Washington scenes faded. Warren looked off-camera briefly. “I’ve just been told that Chicago correspondent Ward Emery is standing by with Mitchell Grinstein, the chairman of the A.L.F.’s Community Defense Militia. So now to Chicago.”
Grinstein was standing outdoors, on the steps of a gray, fortress-like building. He was tall and broad, with long black hair worn in a pony tail and a drooping Fu Manchu mustache. His clothes were a baggy black uniform, a black beret, and an A.L.F. medallion on a length of rawhide. Two other men, similarly garbed, lounged behind him on the steps. Both carried rifles.
“I’m here with Mitchell Grinstein, whose organization has been accused of participating in this evening’s attack on a California air base, and the hijacking of two nuclear bombers,” Emery said. “Mitch, your reactions?”
Grinstein flashed a vaguely sinister smile. “Well, I only know what I see on the holo. I didn’t order any attack. But I applaud whoever did. If this speeds up the implementation of the Six Demands, I’m all for it.”
“Douglass Brown has called the charges of A.L.F. participation in this attack ‘vicious lies,’” Emery continued. “He questions whether any attack ever took place. How does this square with what you just said?”
Grinstein shrugged. “Maybe Brown knows more than I do. We didn’t order this attack, like I said. But it could be that some of our men finally got fed up with Hartmann’s fourth-rate fascism, and decided to take things into their own hands. If so, we’re behind them.”
“Then you think there was an attack?”
“I guess so. Hartmann had pictures. Even he wouldn’t have the gall to fake that.”
“And you support the attack?”
“Yeah. The Community Defenders have been saying for a long time that black people and poor people aren’t going to get justice anywhere but in the streets. This is a vindication of what we’ve been calling for all along.”
“And what about the position of the A.L.F.’s political arm?”
Another shrug. “Doug Brown and I agree on where we’re going. We don’t see eye to eye on how to get there.”
“But isn’t the Community Defense Militia subordinate to the A.L.F. political apparatus, and thus to Brown?”
“On paper. It’s different in the streets. Are the Liberty Troopers subordinate to President Hartmann when they go out on freak-hunts and black-busting expeditions? They don’t act like it. The Community Defenders are committed to the protection of the community. From thugs, Liberty Troopers, and Hartmann’s Special Suuies. And anyone else who comes along. We’re also committed to getting the Six Demands. And maybe we’d go a bit further to realize those demands than Doug and his men.”
“One last question,” said Emery. “President Hartmann, in his speech tonight, said that he intended to treat the A.L.F. like traitors.”
“Let him try,” Grinstein said, smiling. “Just let him try.”
THE ALFIE BOMBERS had edged onto the radarmap again. They were still at 100,000 feet, doing about Mach 1.7. The Vampyre pack would be on them in minutes.
Reynolds watched for LB-4s, almost numbly, through his eyeslit. He was cold and drenched with his own sweat. And very scared.
The lull between battles was worse than the battles themselves, he had decided. It gave you too much time to think. And thinking was bad.
He was sad and a little sick about McKinnis. But grateful. Grateful that it hadn’t been him. Then he realized that it still might be. The night wasn’t over. The LB-4s were no pushovers.
And all so needless. The Alfies were vicious fools. There were other ways, better ways. They didn’t have to do this. Whatever sympathy he had ever felt for the A.L.F. had gone down in flames with McKinnis and Trainor and the others.
They deserved whatever they had coming to them. And Hartmann, he was sure, had something in mind. So many innocent people dead. And for nothing. For a grandstand, desperado stunt without a prayer of success.
That was the worst part. The plan was so ill-conceived, so hopeless. The A.L.F. couldn’t possibly win. They could shoot him down, sure. Like McKinnis. But there were other planes. They’d be found and taken out by someone. And if they got as far as Washington, there was still the city’s ring of defensive missiles to deal with. Hartmann had had trouble forcing that through Congress. But it would come in handy now.
And even if the A.L.F. got there, so what? Did they really think Hartmann would give in? No way. Not him. He’d call their bluff, and either way they lost. If they backed down, they were finished. And if they dropped the bomb, they’d get Hartmann—but at the expense of millions of their own supporters. Washington was nearly all black. Hell, it gave the A.L.F. a big plurality in ’84. What was the figure? Something like 65%, he thought. Around there, anyway.
It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be. But it was.
There was a knot in his stomach. Churning and twisting. Through the eyeslit, he saw flickers of motion against the star field. The Alfies. The goddamn Alfies. His mind turned briefly to Anne. And suddenly he hated the planes ahead of him, and the men who flew them.
“Hold your missiles till my order,” Bonetto said. “And watch it.”
The Vampyres accelerated. But the Alfies acted before the attack.
“Hey, look!” That was Dutton.