“Uh-oh,” Morgan said from the window behind us. “We’ve got-”
The rest was drowned out in the dense roar of helicopter rotors. Standing up to look out through the eastern windows, I caught a glimpse of a dark airborne shape as it hurtled toward the cupola. I instinctively ducked as the helicopter growled over the roof; the entire tower seemed to shudder. When it was gone, I uncovered my ears and raced to the opposite side of the observation deck.
Morgan was crouched next to a western window, peering at the street through his nightscope. As I knelt on the other side of the window, he passed the scope to me and pointed downward. I cautiously raised my head to the windowsill and pressed my right eye against the scope.
Through the green-tinted artificial twilight, I could see two Piranhas coming off the I-44 ramp and rolling down Grand Avenue. Just in front of them was a trio of faster-moving Hummers, their headlights casting foggy- looking halos until they were simultaneously extinguished just before they passed in front of the reservoir. The last Piranha in the column swerved to the left and halted in the center of the street, blocking Grand Avenue; the other armored car trundled to a stop directly in front of the park, while the three Hummers jumped the curb, barreled across the sidewalk, and disappeared under the trees left and right of the tower.
“Oh Jesus, oh Christ,” Morgan was muttering. “We’re really screwed now …”
I got up from the window and ran over to the south side of the deck. Peering through the nightscope, I could see the helicopter that had just passed over the tower: an OH-6A Cayuse, a tiny gunship painted with the ERA logo, an IR scanner fixed to the front of its bubble canopy. It had established a low orbit directly above the reservoir, apparently performing recon for the mission.
Down on the ground, I could make out one of the Hummers coming to a stop behind the German-American memorial. Its doors opened and four ERA soldiers leaped out, hugging their G-11s against their flak vests as they dashed for cover behind the bronze nude, cumbersome night-vision goggles suspended in front of their eyes below their helmets.
Another helicopter roared past the tower, a little farther away this time but nonetheless louder. I raised the scope and caught the second chopper in its lens: an Apache, identical to the one that had stalked me earlier this evening, except for one chilling difference-this one had two racks of Hellfire missiles slung beneath its nacelles.
“How the hell did they find us?” I yelled.
“I was afraid of this.” Payson-Smith was still seated in front of the computers, feverishly typing on the keyboard of the one on the left. “It was only a matter of time before they managed to trace our phone link to the nets,” he said, “but I rather thought we’d be out of here before they figured out where we were. I guess I was wrong …”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Keeping low, I dashed back across the room. Morgan was huddled on the floor away from the windows, his knees drawn between his arms, his shoulders visibly trembling; the man was having a full-blown panic attack, but I didn’t have time to hold his hands. I kneeled by one of the western windows and peered down at the park again. Two ERA troopers were standing over the teenager who had tried to mug me earlier; he lay facedown on the ground, his hands locked together behind his head, the barrel of a Heckler amp; Koch pressed against the back of his neck. One of the troopers finished twisting a pair of plastic handcuffs around his wrists, then they hauled him off the ground and hustled him toward the Piranha parked on the street. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about getting mugged when I left here.
If I left here.
“Talk to me,” Richard snapped. “How many soldiers are out there?”
I scanned Grand Avenue and the front of the park, but I couldn’t see any other soldiers. “At least a platoon,” I replied. “Maybe more. Can’t see ’em, though … most of ’em have taken cover. The ones I spotted were wearing night goggles.”
“Uh-huh. Vehicles?”
“Two LAVs, three Hummers. The choppers are a Cayuse and an Apache … and I hate to tell you this, but the Apache’s carrying missiles.”
“Oh, really?”
“Oh, really.” I paused, then added, “If you want any good news, though, it looks like they’re taking prisoners. They just nailed our friend Skippy down there.”
“Very good. I hope they find a nice little cell for him.” Richard’s fingers were tapping nonstop at the keyboard; his face, backlighted by the faint blue glow of the computer screen, was taut with concentration. “Won’t do us much good, though, I’m afraid. If they get us now, they’ll put us away where the sun doesn’t shine. They won’t let-”
The rest was submerged beneath the roar of one of the helicopters coming in for another low pass.
I looked through the window again, just in time to peer directly into the canopy of the Apache as it slowed down to hover less than fifty feet from my window. For a moment I thought it was going to attack; the gunner had a clean line of fire through the windows for the chopper’s 30-mm chain gun. Through the nightscope, I could see the pilot and copilot; the helicopter was so close that, if the window had been open, I could have taken a rock and bounced it off the armored glass.
But the chain gun didn’t move on its mount beneath the cockpit. Instead, the TADS/PNVS turret mounted at the chopper’s nose rotated toward the tower. As I watched, the man in the rear seat looked my way. He grinned broadly, raised his left hand, and pointed his forefinger straight at me:
I pointed back at him, he nodded his head, then the chopper lifted away once again and sailed away over the trees. “We have met the enemy,” I said once the noise subsided, “and he’s a smartass.”
“Why don’t they just rush the tower?” Morgan muttered. He was still cowering next to the wall, his arms wrapped around himself as if they would protect him from caseless 34-mm shells. “If they’ve got us surrounded, why don’t they …?”
“Because they’re probably unsure how many people are in here.” Payson-Smith’s voice was emotionless, as matter-of-fact as if he was discussing a moot intellectual point. “After all, we’re the renegade mad scientists out to blow up the world. For all they know, we’ve got an entire army holed up in here. Only an idiot would mount a frontal assault if he didn’t know what the odds were, now would-”
“But we don’t have an army!” I snapped at him, frustrated by his objectivity. “We don’t got so much as a spit wad and a rubber band, and that Apache’s carrying tank busters!”
He was too cool to be insane. Something was going on over there.
I scurried across the deck and knelt down next to where he was sitting. The search-and-retrieve program had vanished from the screen, replaced by long lines of LISP program code I couldn’t read.
“I’m explaining things to Ruby,” Richard said. “She knows a little of what’s going on, but she needs a little human intuition right now.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “We’re working on something, but we need some time. If you’ve got any ideas how to-”
An amplified male voice through a megaphone from somewhere down below. Payson-Smith’s hands froze above the keyboard as we both raised our heads.
“Now there’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one,” Richard said dryly.
“Right.” Payson-Smith bent over his keyboard again and continued writing cybernetic cabala.
“Oh, my!” he exclaimed. “He sounds rather forceful, doesn’t he?” He shook his head. “Typical-”
“Goddammit, Dick, you can’t let ’em do this!” Jeff Morgan scrambled across the floor toward us. “C’mon, it’s not that important! Just … let’s just give up and let ’em take us downtown. If we cooperate-”
“Shut up, Jeff.” Payson-Smith shot a dire look at him; Morgan fell silent again, and Richard glanced back at me. “I need another few minutes here,” he went on. “As I was saying, if you’ve got any ideas how to hold them off
