“They’re splitting.” A bass growl distorted by static; Ranczyk.
Reynolds looked at his radarmap. One of the LB-4s was diving sharply, picking up speed, heading for the sea of clouds that rolled below in the starlight. The other was going into a shallow climb.
“Stay together!” Bonetto again. “They want us to break up. But we’re faster. We’ll take out one and catch the other.”
They climbed. Together at first, side by side. But then one of the sleek planes began to edge ahead.
“Dutton!” Bonetto’s voice was a warning.
“I want him.” Dutton’s Vampyre screamed upward, into range of the bandit ahead. From his wings, twin missiles roared, closed.
And suddenly were not. The bomber’s lasers burned them clean from the sky.
Bonetto tried to shout another order. But it was too late. Dutton was paying no attention. He was already shrieking to his kill.
This time Reynolds saw it all.
Dutton was way out ahead of the others, still accelerating, trying to close within laser range. He was out of missiles.
But the Alfie laser had a longer range. It locked on him first.
The Vampyre seemed to writhe. Dutton went into a sharp dive, pulled up equally sharply, threw his plane from side to side. Trying to shake free of the laser. Before it killed. But the tracking computers in the LB-4s were faster than he could ever hope to be. The laser held steady.
And then Dutton stopped fighting. Briefly, his Vampyre closed again, climbing right up into the spear of light, its own lasers flashing out and converging. Uselessly; he was still too far away. And only for an instant.
Before the scream.
Dutton’s Vampyre never even exploded. It just seemed to go limp. Its laser died suddenly. And then it was in a spin. Flames licking at the black fuselage, burning a hole in the black velvet of night.
Reynolds didn’t watch the fall. Bonetto’s voice had snapped him from his nightmare trance. “Fire!”
He let go on three and six, and they shrieked away from him towards the Alfie. Bonetto and Ranczyk had also fired. Six missiles rose together. Two more slightly behind them. Ranczyk had let loose with a second volley.
“At him!” Bonetto shouted. “Lasers!”
Then his plane was moving away quickly, Ranczyk with him. Black shadows against a black sky, following their missiles and obscuring the stars. Reynolds hung back briefly, still scared, still hearing Dutton’s scream and seeing the fireball that was McKinnis. Then, shamed, he followed.
The bomber had unleashed its own missiles, and its lasers were locked onto the oncoming threats. There was an explosion; several missiles wiped from the air. Others burned down.
But there were two Vampyres moving in behind the missiles. And then a third behind them. Bonetto and Ranczyk had their lasers locked on the Alfie, burning at him, growing hotter and more vicious as they climbed. Briefly, the bomber’s big laser flicked down in reply. One of the Vampyres went up in a cloud of flame, a cloud that still screamed upwards at the Alfie.
Almost simultaneously, another roar. A fireball under the wing of the bomber rocked it. Its laser winked off. Power trouble? Then on again, burning at the hail of missiles. Reynolds flicked on his laser, and watched it lance out towards the chaos above. The other Vampyre—Reynolds wasn’t sure which—was firing its remaining missiles.
They were almost on top of each other. In the radarmap and the infrared they were. Only in the eyeslit was there still space between the two.
And then they were together. Joining. One big ball, orange and red and yellow, swallowing both Vampyre and prey, growing, growing, growing.
Reynolds sat almost frozen, climbing towards the swelling inferno, his laser firing ineffectively into the flames. Then he came out of it. And swerved. And dove. His laser fired once more, to wipe out a chunk of flaming debris that came spinning towards him.
He was alone. The fire fell and faded, and there was only one Vampyre, and the stars, and the blanket of cloud far below him. He had survived.
But how? He had hung back. When he should have attacked. He didn’t deserve survival. The others had earned it, with their courage. But he had hung back. He felt sick.
But he could still redeem himself. Yes. Down below, there was still one Alfie in the air. Headed towards Washington with its bombs. And only he was left to stop it.
Reynolds nosed the Vampyre into a dive, and began his grim descent.
AFTER A BRIEF station identification, Warren was back. With two guests and a new wrinkle. The wrinkle was the image of a large clock that silently counted down the time remaining while the newsmen talked. The guests were a retired Air Force general and a well-known political columnist.
Warren introduced them, then turned to the general. “Tonight’s attack, understandably, has frightened a lot of people,” he began. “Especially those in Washington. How likely is it that the threatened bombing will take place?”
The general snorted. “Impossible, Ted. I know what kind of air defense systems we’ve got in this country. They were designed to handle a full-fledged attack, from another nuclear power. They can certainly handle a cheap-shot move like this.”
“Then you’d say that Washington is in no danger?”
“Correct. Absolutely none. This plan was militarily hopeless from its conception. I’m shocked that even the A.L.F. would resort to such a foredoomed venture.”
Warren nodded, and swiveled to face the columnist. “How about from a political point of view? You’ve been a regular observer of President Hartmann and the Washington scene for many years, Sid. In your opinion, did this maneuver have any chances of practical political success?”
“It’s still very early,” the columnist cautioned. “But from where I sit, I’d say the A.L.F. has committed a major blunder. This attack is a political disaster—or at least it looks like one, in these early hours. Because of Washington’s large black population, I’d guess that this threat to the city will seriously undermine the A.L.F.’s support among the black community. If so, it would be a catastrophe for the party. In 1984, Douglass Brown drew more black votes than the other three candidates combined. Without these votes, the A.L.F. presidential campaign would have been a farce.”
“How will this affect other A.L.F. supporters?” Warren asked.
“That’s a key question. I’d say it would tend to drive them away from the party. Since its inception, the A.L.F. has always had a large pacifist element, which frequently clashed with the more militant Alfies who made up the Community Defense Militia. I think that tonight’s events might be the final blow for these people.”
“Who do you think would benefit from these desertions?”
The columnist shrugged. “Hard to say. There’s the possibility of a new splinter party being formed. And President Hartmann, I’m sure, will enjoy a large swing of support his way. The most likely possibility would be a revival of the Old Democratic Party, if it can regain the black voters and white radicals it has lost to the A.L.F. in recent years.”
“Thank you,” said Warren. He turned back to the camera, then glanced down briefly at the desk in front of him, checking the latest bulletins. “We’ll have more analysis later,” he said. “Right now, Continental’s man in California is at Collins Air Base, where tonight’s attack took place.”
Warren faded. The new reporter was tall and thin and young. He was standing before the main gate of the air base. Behind him was a bustling tangle of activity, several jeeps, and large numbers of police and soldiers. The spotlights were on again, and the destruction was clearly evident in the battered gatehouse and the twisted, shattered wire of the fence itself.
“Deke Hamilton here,” the man began. “Ted, Continental came out here to check whether any attack did take place, since the A.L.F. has charged that the President was lying. Well, from what I’ve seen out here, it’s the A.L.F. that’s been lying. There was an attack, and it was a vicious one. You can see some of the damage behind you. This is where the attackers struck hardest.”