The Best Military Science Fiction of the 20th Century (44 page)

“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.

R
EYNOLDS 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.

“T
HE 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.”

Hartmann’s dark eyes were burning, and his voice had a marvelous, fatherly firmness. Delaney, beside him, looked pale and frightened and uncertain.

“To those of you who have supported these men in the past, let me say now that they will receive every safeguard of a fair trial, in the American tradition,” Hartmann continued. “As for yourselves, your support of the so-called A.L.F. was well-intentioned, no matter how misguided. No harm will come to you. However, your leaders have tonight betrayed your trust, and your nation. They have forfeited your support. To aid them now would be to join in their treason.

“I say this especially to our black citizens, who have been so cruelly misled by A.L.F. sloganeering. Now is the time to demonstrate your patriotism, to make up for past mistakes. And to those who would persist in their error, I issue this warning; those who aid the traitors in resisting lawful authority will be treated as traitors themselves.”

Hartmann paused briefly, then continued. “Some will question this move. With a legitimate concern for the American system of checks and balances, they will argue that I had no authority for deploying the Special Urban Units as I have done. They are right. But special situations call for special remedies, and in this night of crisis, there was no time to secure Congressional approval. However, I did not act unilaterally.” He looked towards Delaney.

The Vice-President cleared his throat. “President Hartmann consulted me on this matter earlier tonight,” he began, in a halting voice. “I expressed some reluctance, at first, to approve his proposed course of action. But, after the President had presented me with all the facts, I could see that there was no realistic alternative. Speaking for myself, and for those Cabinet members who like me represent the Republican Party, I concur with the President’s actions.”

Hartmann began to speak again, but the voice suddenly faded on the holocast, and a short second later, the image also vanished. Ted Warren returned to the air.

“We will bring you the rest of the President’s statement later,” the anchorman said, “after several special bulletins. We have just been informed that all 32 A.L.F. members of the House of Representatives have been placed under arrest, as well as two of the three A.L.F. Senators. S.U.U. national headquarters reports that Senator Jackson Edwards is still at large, and is currently being sought after.”

Warren shuffled some papers. “We also have reports of scattered street-fighting in several cities between the S.U.U. and the Community Defenders. The fighting appears to be most intense in Chicago, where Special Urban forces have surrounded the national center of the A.L.F.’s paramilitary wing. We take you now to Ward Emery, on the scene.”

The image shifted. Emery was standing on the steps of the new Chicago Police Headquarters on South State Street. Every light in the building behind him burned brightly, and a steady stream of riot-equipped police was hurrying up and down the stairs.

“Not quite on the scene, Ted,” he began. “Our crew was forcibly excluded from the area where the fighting is now in progress. We’re here at Chicago Police Headquarters now, which you will recall was the focus of the battle during the 1985 riots. The local police and the Special Urban Units are doing their planning and coordinating from here.”

Warren cut in with a voice-over. “What precisely has taken place?”

“Well,” said Emery, “it started when a detachment of Special Urban Police arrived at Community Defender Central, as it’s called, to arrest Mitchell Grinstein and several other organization leaders. I’m not sure who opened fire. But someone did, and there were several casualties. The Community Defenders have their headquarters heavily guarded, and they drove back the S.U.U. in the early skirmish that I witnessed. But things have changed since then. Although the local police have cordoned off a large portion of Chicago’s South Side and excluded me and other reporters, I now understand that Grinstein and his Militiamen are holed up inside their building, which is under S.U.U. siege.”

He looked around briefly. “As you can see, there’s a lot of activity around here,” he continued. “The local police are on overtime, and the Special Urban Units have mobilized their entire Chicago battalion. They’re using their regular armored cars, plus some heavier weapons. And I’ve also heard reports that something new has been deployed by the S.U.U.—a light tank with street tires instead of treads, designed for city use.”

“Are all the A.L.F. forces concentrated around Grinstein’s headquarters?” Warren asked.

Emery shook his head. “No, not at all. The ghettos on the South and West sides are alive with activity. The local police have suffered several casualties, and there’s been one case of a squad car being Molotov-cocktailed. Also, there are rumors of an impending A.L.F. counterattack on Police Headquarters. The building is symbolic to both sides, of course, since the renegade local Militiamen seized and razed the earlier building on this site during the 1985 fighting.”

“I see,” said Warren. “The A.L.F. is known to have active chapters on several college campuses in your area. Have you gotten any reports from them?”

“Some,” Emery replied. “The police have been ignoring the campus chapters up to now, but we understand that a strong force of Liberty Troopers moved in on the University of Illinois’ Chicago campus in an attempt to make citizens’ arrests. Some fighting was reported, but resistance was only light. The students were mostly without arms while the Liberty Troopers, of course, are a paramilitary force.”

“Thank you, Ward,” Warren said, as the image suddenly shifted. “We’ll be back to you later for an update. Now, we will continue with the rest of President Hartmann’s most recent statement.

“For those who just flicked on, the President has just ordered the arrest of the A.L.F. leaders. This move was made with the support of the Vice-President, and thus presumably with the support of the Old Republicans, the President’s partners in his coalition government. It’s an important shift on the part of the Old Republicans. Last year, you will recall, Hartmann’s efforts to pass his Subversive Registration Bill were thwarted when Vice-President Delaney and his followers refused to back the measure.

“Since the Liberty Alliance and the Old Republicans, between them, command a majority in both houses of Congress, Delaney’s support of Hartmann guarantees Congressional approval of the President’s actions tonight.

“And now, the rest of the Presidential message…”

T
HERE WERE HILLS BELOW,
and dark forests in a shroud of night. And the only light was the sudden jagged brilliance of the lightning. But there were two thunders.

One was the thunder of the storm that churned above the forest. The other was the thunder of the jet, screaming between the stormclouds and the trees and laying down a trail of sonic booms across the landscape.

That was the Alfie. Reynolds watched it in his infrared scope, watched it play at Mach 1, slip back and forth over the barrier. And while he watched he gained on it.

He had stopped sweating, stopped thinking, stopped fearing. Now he only acted. Now he was part of the Vampyre.

He descended through the stormclouds, blind but for his instruments, lashed by the lightning. Everything that was human in him told him to pull up and let something else take the Alfie. But something else, some drive, some compulsion, told him that he must not hang back again.

So he descended.

The Alfie knew he was there. That was inevitable. It was simply holding its fire. As he was holding his missiles. He would save them until the last second, until the Alfie lasers were locked on him.