The Best Military Science Fiction of the 20th Century (42 page)

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.

O
F 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.”

Warren was insistent. “Yes. But why should the A.L.F. resort to such an extreme tactic? The latest Gallup poll gave them the support of nearly 29% of the electorate, behind only the 38% of President Hartmann’s Liberty Alliance. This is a sharp increase from the 13% of the vote the A.L.F. got in the presidential elections of 1984. With only a year to go before the new elections, it seems strange that the A.L.F. would risk everything on such a desperate ploy.”

Now the reporter was nodding. “You have a point, Ted. However, we’ve been surprised by the A.L.F. before. They’ve never been the easiest party to predict, and I think—”

Warren cut him off. “Excuse me, Bob. Back to you later. Correspondent Mike Petersen is at the A.L.F.’s national headquarters in Washington, and he has Douglass Brown with him. Mike, can you hear me?”

The picture changed. Two men standing before a desk, one half slouched against it. Behind them, on the wall, the A.L.F. symbol; a clenched black fist superimposed over the peace sign. The reporter held a microphone. The man he was with was tall, black, youthful. And angry.

“Yes, Ted, we’ve got you,” the reporter said. He turned to the black man. “Doug, you were the A.L.F. presidential candidate in 1984. How do you react to President Hartmann’s charges?”

Brown laughed lightly. “Nothing that man does surprises me anymore. The charges are vicious lies. The American Liberation Front had nothing to do with this so-called attack. In fact, I doubt that this attack ever took place. Hartmann is a dangerous demagogue, and he’s tried this sort of smear before.”

“Then the A.L.F. claims that no attack took place?” Petersen asked.

Brown frowned. “Well, that’s just a quick guess on my part, not an official A.L.F. position,” he said quickly. “This has all been very sudden, and I don’t really have the facts. But I’d say that was a possibility. As you know, Mike, the Liberty Alliance has made wild charges against us before.”

“In his statement tonight, President Hartmann said he would deal with the A.L.F. as traitors. Would you care to comment on that?”

“Yeah,” said Brown. “It’s more cheap rhetoric. I say that Hartmann’s the traitor. He’s the one that has betrayed everything this country is supposed to stand for.
His
creation of the Special Suuies to keep the ghettoes in line,
his
intervention in the South African War,
his
censorship legislation; there’s your treason for you.”

The reporter smiled. “Thank you, Doug. And now back to Ted Warren.”

Warren reappeared. “For those of you who have flicked on late, a brief recap. Earlier this evening, an American air base in California was attacked, and two bombers and seven fighter planes were seized. The bombers were equipped with nuclear weaponry, and the attackers have threatened to destroy Washington, D.C., unless certain demands are met within three hours. Only an hour-and-a-half now remain. Continental News will stay on the air until the conclusion of the crisis…”

S
OMEWHERE OVER WESTERN
I
LLINOIS
, Reynolds climbed towards ten, and sweated, and tried to tell himself that the advantages were all his.

The Rapiers were good planes. Nothing with wings was any faster, or more maneuverable. But the Vampyres had all the other plusses. Their missiles were more sophisticated, their defensive scramblers better. And they had their Vampyre fangs: twin gas-dynamic lasers mounted on either wing that could slice through steel like it was jello. The Rapiers had nothing to match that. The Vampyres were the first operational Laser/ Fighters.

Besides, there were nine Vampyres and only seven Rapiers. And the Alfies weren’t as familiar with their planes. They couldn’t be.

So the odds were all with Reynolds. But he still sweated.

The arms of the V formation slowly straightened, as Reynolds and the other wingmen accelerated to come even with Bonetto’s lead jet. In the radarmap, the Rapiers were already on top of them. And even through the eyeslit he could see them now, diving out of the black, their silver-white sides bright against the sky. The computer tracking system was locked in, the warheads armed. But still no signal from Bonetto.

And then, “Now.” Sharp and clear.

Reynolds hit the firing stud, and missiles one and eight shot from beneath the wings, and etched a trail of flame up into the night. Parallel to his, others. Dutton, on his wing, had fired four. Eager for the kill.

Red/orange against black through the eyeslit. Black on red in the infrared scope. But all the same, really. The climbing streaks of flame that were the Vampyre missiles intersecting with a descending set. Criss-crossing briefly.

Then explosion. The Alfies had rigged one of theirs for timed detonation. A small orange fireball bloomed briefly. When it vanished, both sets of missiles were gone, save for one battered survivor from the Vampyre barrage that wobbled upward without hitting anything.

Reynolds glanced down. The radarmap was having an epileptic fit. The Alfies were using their scramblers.

“Split,” said Bonetto, voice crackling. “Scatter and hit them.”

The Vampyres broke formation. Reynolds and Dutton pulled up and to the left, McKinnis dove. Bonetto and most of his wing swung away to the right. And Trainor climbed straight on, at the diving Rapiers.

Reynolds watched him from the corner of his eye. Two more missiles jumped from Trainor’s wings, then two more, then the final two. And briefly, the laser seared a path up from his wingtips. A futile gesture; he was still out of range.

The Rapiers were sleek silver birds of prey, spitting missiles. And suddenly, another fireball, and one of them stopped spitting.

But no time for cheering. Even as the Rapier went up, Trainor’s Vampyre tried to swerve from the hail of Alfie missiles. His radar scrambler and heat decoys had confused them. But not enough. Reynolds was facing away from the explosion, but he felt the impact of the shock, and he could see the nightblack plane twisting and shattering in his mind.

Reynolds felt a vague pang, and tried to remember what Trainor had looked like. But there was no time. He twisted the Vampyre around in a sharp loop. Dutton flew parallel. They dove back towards the fight.

Far below a new cloud of flame blossomed. McKinnis, Reynolds thought, fleetingly, bitterly. He dove. The Alfies got on his tail. The goddamn Alfies.

But there was no way to be sure, no leisure to consider the question. Even a brief glance out the eyeslit was a luxury; a dangerous luxury. The infrared scope, the radarmap, the computer tracking systems all screamed for his attention.

Below him, two Alfies were swinging around. The computer locked on. His fingers moved as if by instinct. Missiles two and seven leapt from their launchers, towards the Rapiers.

A scream sounded briefly from his radio, mingled with the static and the sudden shrill cry of the proximity alarms. Something had locked on him. He activated the lasers. The computer found the incoming missile, tracked it, burned it from the sky when it got within range. Reynolds had never even seen it. He wondered how close it had come.

A flood of bright orange light washed through the eyeslit as a Rapier went up in flame in front of him. His missile? Dutton’s? He never knew. It was all he could do to pull the Vampyre up sharply, and avoid the expanding ball of fire.

There were a few seconds of peace. He was above the fight, and he took time for a quick glance at the infrared. A tangle of confused black dots on a red field. But two were higher than the rest. Dutton; with an Alfie on his tail.

Reynolds swung his Vampyre down again, came in above and behind the Rapier just as it was discharging its missiles. He was close. No need to waste the four missiles he had left. His hand went to the lasers, fired.

Converging beams of light lanced from the black wingtips, to bite into the Rapier’s silver fuselage on either side of the cockpit. The Alfie pilot dove for escape. But the Vampyre minicomputer held the lasers steady.

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.

T
ED
W
ARREN 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.