“They land either north or south of the James, but not right on us,” said the corps commander, “we’ve gotten that far.”
“Right. Now, if they have landed south of the James, my professional recommendation is to pull back across the James and wait for support. Maybe do some things with the bridges and the floodwall on that side, in the way of sucking them in, but basically the south side is open terrain and you’ll just have to sit on this side and pound them with artillery. On the other hand, if they land on the north side we probably have the time to implement the fire-trap plan. If we get started right away.”
“You already said it is pointless if they don’t land between the Potomac and the James. It might not even work if they land north of Fredericksburg,” argued the City Engineer. “In that case, I don’t think we could get the support of the owners of those facilities for the demolition work.”
“We don’t need it,” pointed out the corps engineer. “Necessary defensive works under the emergency war provisions. We have eminent domain.”
“That could be tied up in court for days,” bemoaned the mayor.
“They can apply for just reparations,” said the corps commander, “but that is all.”
“Yes,” said Keene, “that has all been covered in the PDC program. The private owner just does not have a leg to stand on if the property falls under the heading of necessary defensive structures as defined by the area commander, which is General Keeton,” he noted, gesturing at the Corps Commander at the head of the table. “He can order it with no debate now or in the future, if he, in his sole opinion, feels it militarily justified.”
“On the other hand,” noted General Keeton, with a frown, “we will absolutely require the help of the entire civilian populace. We cannot afford to antagonize the city and certainly not its leaders,” he concluded, gesturing at the mayor and the engineer. “We will need your complete and undivided support.”
“Do we really have to destroy Schockoe Bottom?” asked the mayor, plaintively. “It’s an eyesore and a crime zone, but there’s a lot of history there.”
“Mr. Mayor,” said Mueller gently, “whether today, or in the next year, a whole new book in the history of Richmond is about to be written. The only question is whether there will be anyone to write it.”
The mayor looked at the city engineer, who shook his head in resignation. “I still say we could have circumvalleted the entire city.”
“Maybe we could have,” nodded Keene, “but we’re out of time and it would have thrown away our best terrain features. There is no way, in Fortress Forward, to save the city as a functioning entity. Rather, the idea is to absolutely screw the Posleen while retaining the historic core.”
The corps commander nodded. “Correct. Mr. Mayor? Mr. City Engineer? I need your active support in this. Are you with us?”
The mayor nodded his head. “Yes, yes.” He looked at the engineer, who nodded his own head mutely. “Yes, we are.”
“All right,” said the corps commander turning to the corps engineer, “initiate Mr. Keene’s plan, modifying as you see fit while staying within the overall plan.”
“What do we call it?” asked the Chief of Staff.
“How ’bout Operation Abattoir?” joked Mueller.
“Actually,” said the corps commander, who had planned more than one antiarmor defense against aggressor cavalry forces, “I prefer ‘Operation Big Horn.’ ”
The military guys laughed while the civilians looked confused. “Why Big Horn?” asked the mayor.
“First you suck ’em in…” answered Mueller in explanation.
“Then you blow the shit out of ’em,” finished Ersin with eyes as dead as a shark’s.
“Gentlemen,” said Sergeant Folsom, poking his head in the room, “you might want to start a feed; the computers are about to give final projections on Posleen landings.”
For the past hour the newsmen had been giving almost continuous live reports but, except for the narrowing of the potential landing ovals, it had been much of the same. It amazed the CNN producer that anything could be so terrifying and boring at the same time.
Argent got up and stood in front of the American flag that had been procured from a nearby general’s office, preparing to say his piece as the technician checked the live feed from the defensive computers again. All of the ovals were discrete, now, and the Atlantic oval, with the exception of an attenuated end that made it look like a comma, had shifted almost completely away from the European continent. It appeared the Europeans were going to sit this one out.
“In three, two, one…”
“We have just been informed that the defensive system computers are about to determine the final Posleen objectives. As we have been telling you, until the Posleen globes definitively commit to a reentry trajectory, the landing areas remain only possibilities. Now, however, there are signs that the Posleen are about to commit to definite targets.
“They have had one orbit of the world, under fire from the available Fleet Fighters, as has been reported from Palo Alto, and by now they must have picked their targets.” At a call from the producer he hastily finished, “We now cut to the live feed from the defensive computers…”
And Colonel Robertson leaned towards the wardroom TV, taking a pull on his pipe…
And Little Tommy Sunday stopped packing his war bag and turned to the radio in his room…
And Lieutenant Young stopped compulsively reviewing demolition plans…
And General Keeton turned away from the mayor and towards the TV in his office…
And throughout the world, people stopped whatever they were doing, pulled over in their cars or set down their burdens and waited for the American Defense Command, or Russian Army Headquarters, or Japanese Defense Forces Headquarters or Chinese Red Army Headquarters, to place the seal on their fates, whether for good or ill.
“The ovals are shrinking rapidly now,” continued Argent coolly. “So we are going to zoom in on the American landing. I’ll keep you updated on the other zones and when the final points are determined we will zoom back out and note their particular areas.
“We can definitely say, at this time, that there is little or no chance of a landing in Australia, South America, Central America, Europe or Russia. There is very little chance of a landing in the Midwestern United States. It mainly looks like West Africa, India or Bangladesh, Coastal Northern China, the Eastern United States and somewhere around Uzbekistan or Turkmenistan.
“The ovals are shrinking. The American oval is centering on the eastern seaboard between Philadelphia and… somewhere in central South Carolina. Getting smaller…”
The oval abruptly collapsed and turned a complete malignant red. “The area is now centered on Washington, D.C…” he continued with a note of strain building in his voice as cold adrenaline jetted into his stomach…
And shifted south…
“Richmond, Virginia…”
North and smaller…
“Washington…”
And finally centered between the two, straddling a river. It began to pulse an evil crimson, the vague outline of a city on the computer-generated map in the center like a pupil. Argent just paused for a moment, shocked by the evil icon blazing out from the console.
“The target,” he paused for a moment to compose himself, “the target, ladies and gentlemen, is Fredericksburg, Virginia.”