“What about shooting it down?”
“It’s too high up, sir, prepared to achieve geosynchronistic orbit in … forty-nine minutes now.”
“So you’re telling me you put the damn thing up there and there’s not a damn thing you can do to get it back under control?”
“Sir, we may have put the satellite up, but someone else has got control of it now.”
“We have forty-nine minutes left to mission activation,” Raulsch said into the microphone which channeled his voice throughout the huge control room. “All personnel begin engaging final control tests.”
On the electronic aerial map before him, the single light representing the aluminum reflector flashed over the center of the United States.
“Prepare to jettison protective cone,” said Raulsch.
“Ready, sir,” responded a technician.
“On my mark … now.”
A single button was pressed. Twenty thousand miles above the surface of the Earth, the top part of the satellite launched to replace Ulysses jettisoned and fluttered into space, a fact recorded by a series of green lights in the command vault.
“Prepare to open reflector,” Raulsch ordered next.
“Ready, sir,” followed another technician.
“On my mark … now.”
This time a series of switches were flipped. In outer space, the exposed aluminum spread out to the sides like a fan, a full seventy yards across at its widest point, its precise angle of tilt controlled by the preprogrammed targeting computer.
General Raskowski sat in his elevated chair just behind Raulsch’s station, observing it all the way a father might the birth of his first child. His attention focused primarily on the flashing lights which indicated the preprogrammed selection of targets. Before him, on a small control desk, was a single black button. As soon as the reflector achieved orbit, he would press it and the beam in Pamosa Springs would begin to fire. The initial strikes would center on the eastern seaboard, starting with Washington. In a matter of a few short minutes, nearly forty million people would perish. Black carbon dust would swirl over vast metropolitan graves, soon to encompass the entire dying nation. He shifted impatiently in the stiff confines of his uniform, stopped from enjoying these final moments by concern over the whereabouts of McCracken and Tomachenko. They were out there, aware of what he was about to do, and until he at last depressed the black button he would not feel safe.
“Forty-seven minutes until system activation,” announced Raulsch.
Natalya’s vans made great time through the night from Winterthur to Zurich, but late-night road construction had shut down all three lanes on her side of the road. Natalya felt the grip of frustration. She breathed rapidly, fought to steady herself. The road was a sea of headlights, shining ahead into the murk for as far as she could see. On the other side of a six-inch median strip, sparse traffic moved in the opposite direction. She reached over for her driver’s shoulder.
“Cross it!” she ordered.
“We’ll be going in the wrong direction. No turnoffs for—”
“Cross it and go in the right direction!”
The man looked at her only briefly before turning the lead van’s tires over the strip and against the flow of oncoming traffic, with the other van close behind.
It had been over thirty years since Sheriff Junk had lobbed grenades, and these felt totally different from any he had handled way back then. He was glad they were lighter because had they been too heavy the best he’d have been able to manage was three before his arm went. His first two lobs were right on target in the abandoned freight yard and the next four almost as good. Troops crumbled from left to right; the rest scattered in the direction of the town instead of offering resistance. Heep scrambled back for his rockets.
McCluskey, meanwhile, met no resistance at all. The soldiers on the hillside seemed numbed by inactivity and they fell like the targets in a shooting gallery. Dog-ear loved the feel of the M-16. Its gas-propelled shells made it a breeze to control. No kick whatsoever. He’d read all about the problems with the M-16, how the gas got stuffed up somehow and the thing would jam or misfire. Well, this one was behaving just fine, thank you.
He had taped a pair of clips upside down against each other, so when it came time to reload, a quick snap in and out and he would be ready to keep firing. A second or two was all it took but even that was too long, for it allowed a soldier who had found his rifle along with his senses time to put a bullet in Dog-ear’s side followed by a second which grazed his head. Dog-ear gritted the pain down long enough to sight down on the bold gunman and send a dozen bullets in his direction. Enough found him, the rest Dog-ear saved for those soldiers searching futilely for cover.
The pain had him down by the time the second clip was exhausted but, lying prone, he managed to snap a fresh one home and maintain his vigil. He could forget all about joining the others in town but, what the hell, you can’t have everything.
From his position of cover in Pamosa Springs, Blaine had no way of knowing just how successful the efforts of Dogear and Sheriff Junk had been. He knew little for sure until the Laws rockets started jetting in. From his doghouse, he couldn’t see the immediate blasts, just the smoke, debris, and flames kicked up in their wake. Four came in rapid succession, a pause, and then two more blasts on Main Street itself. Perfect!
Blaine saw Paz’s soldiers spilling into the street, firing their rifles blindly through the showering debris. The three soldiers charged with guarding the church’s rear, though, held their positions stubbornly, only their eyes cheating around the corner.
Move, Blaine urged them silently. Move!
He had hoped to avoid using his rifle on them for fear the resulting clamor would drag reinforcements to the area. But if he timed the shots with the backlash of the rocket explosions, the rest of Paz’s men would never hear them. Blaine estimated the angle involved. From his present position, he did not have a clear shot at the soldiers as they were standing. And there was the fuse line that needed to be severed to be considered as well. A rush into the open was called for. Three men to cut down before they got him or, worse, managed to set off the plastique….
McCracken timed his charge into the street for the next rocket blast which came fifteen seconds later and hurled blasted debris high into the air. He rushed forward and sideways, directly into the line of possible fire from the church guards and did not fire himself until he was sure he had them. The guards saw him but took too long to react. Blaine hit his trigger and rotated the barrel of his gun. All three crumbled. One dropped to the base of the steps and two spilled down from the porch. Blaine pulled the fusing down toward him and snapped it with his teeth. The wire dug into his lip but with the explosives disabled the blood didn’t faze him.
McCracken lunged up the steps and crashed his shoulder against the door, turning the knob as he did. The door was locked and took his charge without so much as giving. Blaine heard heavy boots clacking down the side street adjacent to the church and reached back for his rifle.
For his part, Sheriff Junk figured his depleted supply of Laws rockets signaled it was time to turn the remaining ones on the primary targets composing the artillery battery on the western edge of town. The firing of the rockets had become routine. It was the numbness of his ears that bothered him along with a stiffness in his arms and shoulders he fought down. The range to the battery was longer, but Junk was expecting no problems. He adjusted the range meter accordingly and raised another of the disposable bazookas over his shoulder.