Cone’s expression never changed. “Many of the cities seethe with unrest. My security teams…the air in many of the cities is charged with explosive tension. I am not a military expert, but I’m certain the removal of cybertanks in certain metropolitan areas could allow the ignition of new rebellions. I’m concerned and wonder from which cities will you take the tanks?”
“That’s an interesting question,” said Hawthorne. “Which cities do you suggest?”
With an economical move of her right hand, Cone swept dark hair from her forehead. “If I may be blunt, from none of them, sir.”
Hawthorne felt the pressure build behind his eyes as he grudgingly accepted Cone’s analysis. Yes, he saw the argument and realized its truthfulness. Social Unity was like a balloon squeezed too hard. Soon it had to pop. If it did, mass chaos would grip Eurasia and Africa. The Highborn could walk in as occupation troops. Mankind would forever live as secondary citizens to the Master Race.
The pressure became physically painful so Hawthorne began to nod slowly. “It is a bitter task defending the indefensible. But we will not stop as long as there is breath in our bodies.”
He closed his eyes. He was so weary. Worse, he knew that his words just now had sounded pompous. What led dictators to utter such phrases? Hmm. Is this what the Shah of Iran had felt like before he fled from the Ayatollah Khomeini and the chanting mobs? Where could he run? The Shah had died soon after running. Standing and dying seemed infinitely preferable to running and dying like a coward.
Hawthorne’s eyes snapped open, and he scanned the field marshals and generals. In several he caught questioning looks. It confirmed in him the desire to die with a gun in his hand, firing at whoever came to take him down. Maybe that was too melodramatic, but it fit his growing certainty that he had two choices, and only two. Hawthorne stood up, his chair scraping the floor behind him. The time for hesitation or timidity was over. Wars led to brutality and to atrocities. And this was the most brutal war in history.
“Field Marshal Baines is correct…up to a point,” Hawthorne said, as he nodded at the squat commander. “We shall deploy troops around the cities and demand their surrender. Then we shall obliterate one of them with a rain of nuclear death and with however many city-busters are needed. After that, we shall call on the two remaining cities to surrender. If either fails to comply, we shall destroy the next one. Hopefully, in this manner, we shall save two cities and certainly one. Whatever else happens, however, we will crush this rebellion and return unity to our socially advanced state.”
“Have you made a decision on the cybertanks?” asked Cone.
“They will remain where they are,” said Hawthorne. “In this instance, the fusion weapons shall be our fist. The deployable troops will merely be the occupiers. Now—to other matters….”
-29-
“Sir,” said Captain Mune, “I highly recommend you take a different course of action.”
Five swift days had produced a change in Hawthorne. His shoulders still stooped and there was a blue tinge in the bags under his eyes, but his heart no longer thudded as if on the verge of a heart attack. It had been a long time since he’d been outdoors under the sun. It was a strange feeling, a good one.
The lanky Supreme Commander stood on the top of his APC. The heavily tracked vehicle was camouflaged green. Instead of benches for infantry, the inside of the armored vehicle held the highest-grade communication equipment on Earth. There were four other vehicles circling Hawthorne. One was a bio-tank with a silver-dome canopy. The other three were carriers. Fifteen bionic soldiers circled the vehicles, facing outward with their gyroc rifles.
The bionic soldiers, the vehicles and Hawthorne were in the hills around Beirut. They were presently parked under tall cedar trees. The wind ruffled the top branches. Below them in the valley by the blue Mediterranean Sea was the rebellious city. Tall buildings and masses of domes and glassy cubes made up the highest level of Beirut. Underground were another twenty-eight levels, holding nearly thirty-one million people.
Hawthorne’s heart turned cold then. “This is incredible,” he said. He stood on the APC, with hi-powered binoculars glued to his eyes. He scanned the city, at the mass movement in the streets. He saw people, hordes of people moving outward like a swarm of ants.
“I don’t know how, sir,” said Mune. “But they must know we’re here.”
Hawthorne lowered the binoculars. His face felt pasty and his heart began to thump. “How…how did they get out?” Then he shook his head. “No one is in control, or not in full control,” he said, answering his own question. “It’s a rebellion. The people are boiling up out of the lower levels.”
This was the chaos he needed to prevent in the rest of Eurasia and Africa. What would happen if the people boiled up out of the cities everywhere?
“We don’t have enough troops here, sir,” said Mune. “I suggest we move to a more defensible position.”
Hawthorne gulped for air as he lifted the binoculars and continued to scan Beirut. Keeping the billions of inhabitants in the kilometer-deep cities made control easier. The physical evidence was down there before him. How many troops would it take to control so much human mass? Sealing off a level
A bionic soldier popped his head out of the APC’s main hatch. “There is no answer to your ultimatum, sir.”
Hawthorne heard the words as he scanned back and forth. Look at all of them! They just marched out of the city. He adjusted the controls, zooming closer. This was laughable. Many held clubs or knives. What did they think they were going to do? Hawthorne cursed softly. They were so skinny, and they wore rags for clothes. Many were shirtless and about half of those he could see lacked shoes. Were all the cities on Earth like this? The idea was shattering, sobering and in the end, sickening.
“Shall I order Field Marshal Baines to repeat the ultimatum, sir?” the bionic soldier asked.
Hawthorne shook his head. Who was he to order nuclear devastation on these desperate people? Even though he kept the binoculars pointed at them, he closed his eyes. He knew then what the Shah of Iran must have felt. To have the force to annihilate and then to feel such pity—it could freeze a man. It could steal his resolve. Stand and fight to the end, bitterly, or run, or surrender to the Highborn.
“I’m killing a city to save Social Unity,” Hawthorne said bleakly.
“This is war, sir,” said Captain Mune.
“Is this war?” asked Hawthorne. When no answer was forthcoming, he opened his eyes and lowered the binoculars. The com-soldier and Captain Mune watched him. It was so easy to give advice, to urge a Supreme Commander to give brutal, soul-searing orders. But to be the man who had to give those orders, that was something else altogether.
Why had he insisted on witnessing the operation himself? Being outside felt good, that’s true. Is that what they felt down there? He hoped they felt the sun beating down on their faces and the cool kiss of the sea breeze. He hoped they smelled the clean air of Earth at least once. Maybe it was better that so many of them where already out of the levels.
“Order Field Marshal Baines to launch the missiles,” Hawthorne whispered.
“You have to come down, sir,” Mune said. “Otherwise the flash will burn out your eyes and peel off your skin.”
Hawthorne lowered the binoculars until they thumped against his chest. Feeling old, he headed for the hatch. The com-soldier already sat at his station. Hawthorne slid into his seat, turning on his screen. Captain Mune entered and closed the hatch. The main engines purred into life, and Hawthorne lurched in his seat as the tracks outside no doubt churned soil.
“I’ve sent the order, sir,” the com-officer said.
Hawthorne stared at his screen. All those streaming people outside would face the brunt of the missiles.
There! He saw one on his screen. It moved so impossibly fast. The missile zoomed downward. It zoomed toward the cluster of tall buildings, the domes and massive cube-buildings that had been the craze in this part of the world for the last ten years. He could imagine shocked faces looking upward. Would eyes bulge or mouths hang agape? Was there screaming, pushing, shoving and trampling? The missile flashed.
Hawthorne automatically counted the seconds. A thunderous boom crashed against the APC. He grabbed the
