Warren’s voice cut in. “Have you seen any bodies?”
The reporter nodded. “Yes. Many of them. Some have been horribly mangled by the fighting. More than one hundred men from the base, I’d estimate. And about fifty Alfies.”
“Have any of the attackers been identified?” Warren asked.
“Well, they’re clearly Alfies,” the reporter said. “Beards, long hair, A.L.F. uniforms. And many had literature in their pockets. Pamphlets advocating the Six Demands, that sort of thing. However, as of yet, no specific identifications have been announced. Except for the air men, of course. The base has released its own casualty lists. But not for the Alfies. As I said, many bodies are badly damaged, so identification may be difficult. I think some sort of mass burial is being planned.”
“Deke,” said Warren, “has there been any racial breakdown on the casualties?”
“Uh—none has been released. The bodies I saw were all white. But then, the black population in this area is relatively small.”
Warren started to ask another question. He never finished his sentence. Without warning, the picture from California suddenly vanished, and was replaced by chaos.
“This is Mike Petersen in Washington,” the reporter said. He was awash in a sea of struggling humanity, being pushed this way and that. All around him fights were in progress, as a squad of Special Urban Police, in blue and silver, waded through a crowd of resisting Alfies. The A.L.F. symbol was on the wall behind Petersen.
“I’m at A.L.F. national headquarters,” he said, trying valiantly to stay before the cameras. “I—” He was shoved to one side, fought back. “We’ve got quite a scene here. Just a few minutes ago, a detachment of Special Urban Police broke into the building, and arrested several of the A.L.F.’s national leaders, including Douglass Brown. Some of the other people here tried to stop them, and the police are now trying to make more arrests. There’s been—damn!” Someone had spun into him. The cops were using clubs.
Petersen was trying to untangle himself from the battle. He looked up briefly and started to say something. Then something hit the camera, and suddenly he was gone.
REYNOLDS WAS VERY much conscious of being alone. He was at 60,000 feet and dropping rapidly, ripping through layer on layer of wispy cloud. In an empty sky. The Alfie was somewhere below him, but he couldn’t see it yet.
He knew it was there, though. His radarmap was acting up. That meant a scrambler nearby.
His eyes roamed, his thoughts wandered. It was one on one now. There might be help. Bonetto had radioed down when they first sighted the bandits. Maybe someone had tracked them. Maybe another flight was on its way to intercept the bomber.
And then again, maybe not.
Their course had been erratic. They were over Kentucky now. And they’d been up high, with scramblers going to confuse radar. Maybe their position wasn’t known.
He could radio down. Yes. He should do that. But no, come to think of it. That would alert the Alfie. Maybe they didn’t know he was behind them. Maybe he could take them by surprise.
He hoped so. Otherwise he was worried. There were only two missiles left. And Reynolds wasn’t all that sure that a Vampyre could take an LB-4 one on one.
Loose facts rolled back and forth in his mind. The lasers. The bomber had a big power source. Its laser had a range nearly twice that of the smaller model on the Vampyre. With a bigger computer to keep it on target.
What did he have? Speed. Yes. And maneuverability. And maybe he was a better pilot, too.
Or was he? Reynolds frowned. Come to think of it, the Alfies had pretty much held their own up to now. Strange. You wouldn’t think they’d be so good. Especially when they made elementary mistakes like forgetting to throw in their scramblers.
But they had been. They flew almost like veterans. Maybe they were veterans. Hartmann had discharged a lot of A.L.F. sympathizers from the armed forces right after his election. Maybe some of them had gone all the way and actually joined the Alfies. And were coming back for revenge.
But that was three years ago. And the LB-4s were new. It shouldn’t have been all that easy for the Alfies to master them.
Reynolds shook his head and shoved the whole train of thought to one side. It wasn’t worth pursuing. However it had happened, the fact was the Alfies were damn good pilots. And any advantage he had there was negligible.
He looked at his instruments. Still diving at 40,000 feet. The LB-4 still below him somewhere, but closer. The radarmap was a useless dancing fuzz now. But there was an image on the infrared scope.
Through the eyeslit, he could see lightning flashes far below. A thunderstorm. And the bomber was diving through it. And slowing, according to his instruments. Probably going to treetop level.
He’d catch it soon.
And what then?
There were two missiles left. He could close and fire them. But the Alfie had its own missiles, and its laser net. What if his missiles didn’t get through?
Then he’d have to go in with his own lasers.
And die. Like Dutton.
He tried to swallow, but the saliva caught in his throat. The damn Alfie had such a big power source. They’d be slicing him into ribbons long before he got close enough for his smaller weapon to be effective.
Oh, sure, he might take them, too. It took even a big gas dynamic laser a few seconds to burn through steel. And in those few seconds he’d be close enough to return the attentions.
But that didn’t help. He’d die, with them.
And he didn’t want to die.
He thought of Anne again. Then of McKinnis.
The Alfies would never reach Washington, he thought. Another flight of hunters would sight the LB-4, and catch it. Or the city’s ABMS would knock it out. But they’d never get through.
There was no reason for him to die to stop the bomber. No reason at all. He should pull up, radio ahead, land and sound the alarm.
Thick, dark clouds rolled around the plane, swallowed it. Lightning hammered at the nightblack wings, and shook the silver missiles in their slots.
And Reynolds sweated. And the Vampyre continued to dive.
“THE QUESTION OF what President Hartmann meant when he promised to treat the A.L.F. like traitors has been resolved,” Ted Warren said, looking straight out of millions of holocubes, his face drawn and unreadable. “Within the last few minutes, we’ve had dozens of reports. All over the nation, the Special Urban Units are raiding A.L.F. headquarters and the homes of party leaders. In a few cities, including Detroit, Boston, and Washington itself, mass arrests of A.L.F. members are reported to be in progress. But for the most part, the S.U.U. seems to be concentrating on those in positions of authority with the Community Defense Militia or the party itself.
“Meanwhile, the Pentagon reports that the bandit planes that the A.L.F. is accused of taking have been tracked over Kentucky, heading towards Washington. According to informed Air Force sources, only one of the hijacked bombers is still in the air, and it is being pursued by an interceptor. Other flights are now being rushed to the scene.”
Warren looked outcube briefly, scowled at someone unseen, and turned back. “We have just been informed that the White House is standing by with a statement. I give you now the President of the United States.”
The image changed. Again the Oval Office. This time Hartmann was standing, and he was not alone. Vice-President Joseph Delaney, balding and middle-aged, stood next to him, before a row of American flags.
“My fellow patriots,” Hartmann began, “I come before you again to announce that the government is taking steps against the traitors who have threatened the very capital of this great nation. After consulting with Vice-President Delaney and my Cabinet, I have ordered the arrest of the leaders of the so-called American Liberation Front.”