Gust Front

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 pla

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.»

CHAPTER 32

Fredericksburg, VA, United States of America, Sol III

1950 EDT October 9 th, 2004 ad

«Dependents are on their way in, Colonel,» said the supply officer, the S-4. The «Four» had taken over the job of Civil and Dependent Affairs; he was out of any other job. All the equipment and ammunition was issued and there wasn't going to be a resupply.

«For all the good it will do,» noted the Charlie company commander. «They're due to land in fifteen or twenty minutes.»

«None of that,» said Colonel Robertson. «We do what we can do, and all that we can do. The telemetry looks like the Posleen are going to be spread hither and yon. The probable landing zone stretches from over the Potomac in Maryland to Spotsylvania County. They seem to be spreading out to surround Fredericksburg and the area immediately around the township will be clear. Captain Avery,» he turned to the supply officer, «get the dependents who are under sixteen years of age headed into town with their available parent. That will give them a few more minutes. Who knows, the horse might still sing. Put the other ones to work.»

«Doing what?» the S-4 asked.

«Setting up our Go-To-Hell Plan. Captain Brown,» Robertson turned to the Charlie commander and began snapping out commands, rapier fast, «start entrenching around the city center, with outliers to the interstate but no farther.»