The Best Military Science Fiction of the 20th Century

by Harry Turtledove

  “Stay together!” Bonetto again. “They want us to break up. But we’re faster. We’ll take out one and catch the other.”

  They climbed. Together at first, side by side. But then one of the sleek planes began to edge ahead.

  “Dutton!” Bonetto’s voice was a warning.

  “I want him.” Dutton’s Vampyre screamed upward, into range of the bandit ahead. From his wings, twin missiles roared, closed.

  And suddenly were not. The bomber’s lasers burned them clean from the sky.

  Bonetto tried to shout another order. But it was too late. Dutton was paying no attention. He was already shrieking to his kill.

  This time Reynolds saw it all.

  Dutton was way out ahead of the others, still accelerating, trying to close within laser range. He was out of missiles.

  But the Alfie laser had a longer range. It locked on him first.

  The Vampyre seemed to writhe. Dutton went into a sharp dive, pulled up equally sharply, threw his plane from side to side. Trying to shake free of the laser. Before it killed. But the tracking computers in the LB-4s were faster than he could ever hope to be. The laser held steady.

  And then Dutton stopped fighting. Briefly, his Vampyre closed again, climbing right up into the spear of light, its own lasers flashing out and converging. Uselessly; he was still too far away. And only for an instant.

  Before the scream.

  Dutton’s Vampyre never even exploded. It just seemed to go limp. Its laser died suddenly. And then it was in a spin. Flames licking at the black fuselage, burning a hole in the black velvet of night.

  Reynolds didn’t watch the fall. Bonetto’s voice had snapped him from his nightmare trance. “Fire!”

  He let go on three and six, and they shrieked away from him towards the Alfie. Bonetto and Ranczyk had also fired. Six missiles rose together. Two more slightly behind them. Ranczyk had let loose with a second volley.

  “At him!” Bonetto shouted. “Lasers!”

  Then his plane was moving away quickly, Ranczyk with him. Black shadows against a black sky, following their missiles and obscuring the stars. Reynolds hung back briefly, still scared, still hearing Dutton’s scream and seeing the fireball that was McKinnis. Then, shamed, he followed.

  The bomber had unleashed its own missiles, and its lasers were locked onto the oncoming threats. There was an explosion; several missiles wiped from the air. Others burned down.

  But there were two Vampyres moving in behind the missiles. And then a third behind them. Bonetto and Ranczyk had their lasers locked on the Alfie, burning at him, growing hotter and more vicious as they climbed. Briefly, the bomber’s big laser flicked down in reply. One of the Vampyres went up in a cloud of flame, a cloud that still screamed upwards at the Alfie.

  Almost simultaneously, another roar. A fireball under the wing of the bomber rocked it. Its laser winked off. Power trouble? Then on again, burning at the hail of missiles. Reynolds flicked on his laser, and watched it lance out towards the chaos above. The other Vampyre—Reynolds wasn’t sure which—was firing its remaining missiles.

  They were almost on top of each other. In the radarmap and the infrared they were. Only in the eyeslit was there still space between the two.

  And then they were together. Joining. One big ball, orange and red and yellow, swallowing both Vampyre and prey, growing, growing, growing.

  Reynolds sat almost frozen, climbing towards the swelling inferno, his laser firing ineffectively into the flames. Then he came out of it. And swerved. And dove. His laser fired once more, to wipe out a chunk of flaming debris that came spinning towards him.

  He was alone. The fire fell and faded, and there was only one Vampyre, and the stars, and the blanket of cloud far below him. He had survived.

  But how? He had hung back. When he should have attacked. He didn’t deserve survival. The others had earned it, with their courage. But he had hung back. He felt sick.

  But he could still redeem himself. Yes. Down below, there was still one Alfie in the air. Headed towards Washington with its bombs. And only he was left to stop it.

  Reynolds nosed the Vampyre into a dive, and began his grim descent.

  AFTER A BRIEF station identification, Warren was back. With two guests and a new wrinkle. The wrinkle was the image of a large clock that silently counted down the time remaining while the newsmen talked. The guests were a retired Air Force general and a well-known political columnist.

  Warren introduced them, then turned to the general. “Tonight’s attack, understandably, has frightened a lot of people,” he began. “Especially those in Washington. How likely is it that the threatened bombing will take place?”

  The general snorted. “Impossible, Ted. I know what kind of air defense systems we’ve got in this country. They were designed to handle a full-fledged attack, from another nuclear power. They can certainly handle a cheap-shot move like this.”

  “Then you’d say that Washington is in no danger?”

  “Correct. Absolutely none. This plan was militarily hopeless from its conception. I’m shocked that even the A.L.F. would resort to such a foredoomed venture.”

  Warren nodded, and swiveled to face the columnist. “How about from a political point of view? You’ve been a regular observer of President Hartmann and the Washington scene for many years, Sid. In your opinion, did this maneuver have any chances of practical political success?”

  “It’s still very early,” the columnist cautioned. “But from where I sit, I’d say the A.L.F. has committed a major blunder. This attack is a political disaster—or at least it looks like one, in these early hours. Because of Washington’s large black population, I’d guess that this threat to the city will seriously undermine the A.L.F.’s support among the black community. If so, it would be a catastrophe for the party. In 1984, Douglass Brown drew more black votes than the other three candidates combined. Without these votes, the A.L.F. presidential campaign would have been a farce.”

  “How will this affect other A.L.F. supporters?” Warren asked.

  “That’s a key question. I’d say it would tend to drive them away from the party. Since its inception, the A.L.F. has always had a large pacifist element, which frequently clashed with the more militant Alfies who made up the Community Defense Militia. I think that tonight’s events might be the final blow for these people.”

  “Who do you think would benefit from these desertions?”

  The columnist shrugged. “Hard to say. There’s the possibility of a new splinter party being formed. And President Hartmann, I’m sure, will enjoy a large swing of support his way. The most likely possibility would be a revival of the Old Democratic Party, if it can regain the black voters and white radicals it has lost to the A.L.F. in recent years.”

  “Thank you,” said Warren. He turned back to the camera, then glanced down briefly at the desk in front of him, checking the latest bulletins. “We’ll have more analysis later,” he said. “Right now, Continental’s man in California is at Collins Air Base, where tonight’s attack took place.”

  Warren faded. The new reporter was tall and thin and young. He was standing before the main gate of the air base. Behind him was a bustling tangle of activity, several jeeps, and large numbers of police and soldiers. The spotlights were on again, and the destruction was clearly evident in the battered gatehouse and the twisted, shattered wire of the fence itself.

  “Deke Hamilton here,” the man began. “Ted, Continental came out here to check whether any attack did take place, since the A.L.F. has charged that the President was lying. Well, from what I’ve seen out here, it’s the A.L.F. that’s been lying. There was an attack, and it was a vicious one. You can see some of the damage behind you. This is where the attackers struck hardest.”

  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.�
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  “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.”

  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.”