“—we’re being bombarded—”

Light fell through the clouds and expanded.

this is a war after all but we haven’t quite thought of it that way didn’t suspect they would do this to us

“Jenks…”

Jenkins hugged his wife. Hicks saw the flash of red and white, the lifting of a wall of water and rock, and the rush of a darkening shock wave across the lights of the city and houses on the hill. The window exploded and he closed his eyes, experienced a brief instant of pain and blindness—

On the last leg of the marathon drive into San Francisco, speeding down an almost-deserted 101 at well over the speed limit, Arthur felt a severe pain in the back of his head. He gripped the wheel tightly and pulled to a halt at the side of the highway, his body rigid.

“What’s wrong?” Francine asked.

He twisted around, threw his arms up on the back of the seat, and looked through the rear window of the station wagon. A hellish blue and purple glow was spreading to the north, above and beyond Santa Rosa and the wine country.

“What’s wrong?” Francine repeated.

He twisted around to face forward again, and leaned over the wheel to peer up at the skies above San Francisco and the Bay Area.

“More asteroids, Dad!” Marty cried out. “More explosions!”

These were a lot closer and a lot brighter, however, as sharp as blowtorches, leaving red spots in his vision. The Bay Area was still over twenty miles away, and these flashes were high in the night sky. Some kind of action, another battle, was taking place perhaps no more than a hundred miles above San Francisco.

Francine started to get out of the car but he stopped her. She stared at him, face twisted with fear and anger, but said nothing.

Four more high flares, and then the night returned.

Arthur was almost surprised to find himself weeping. His anger was a frightening thing. “Those bastards,” he said, pounding the wheel. “Those goddamn bloody fucking bastards.”

“Daddy,” Marty whimpered.

“Shut up, goddammit,” Arthur shrieked, and then he grabbed his wife’s arm with his left hand and reached for Marty in the rear seat with his right. He shook them firmly, repeating over and over again, “Don’t ever forget this. If we survive, don’t you ever, ever forget this.”

“What happened, Art?” Francine asked, trying to keep calm. Marty was screaming now, and Arthur closed his eyes in grief and sorrow, the anger turned inward because he had lost control. He listened to a few of the voices on the network, trying to piece things together.

“Seattle’s gone,” he said. Trevor Hicks, all the others.

“Where’s Gauge, Dad?” Marty asked through his tears. “Is Gauge alive?”

“I think so,” Arthur said, shaking violently. The enormity. “They’re trying to destroy our escape ships, the arks. They want to make sure there are no humans left.”

“What? Why?” Francine asked.

“Remember,” he repeated. “Just remember this, if we make it.”

It took him almost twenty minutes to become calm enough to pull back into the slow lane. San Francisco and the Bay Area had been adequately protected. Suddenly, and without reservation — without any persuasion whatsoever — he loved the Bosses and the network and all the forces arrayed to protect and save them. His love was fierce and primal. This is what a partisan feels like, watching his countryside get pillaged.

“They bombed Seattle?” she asked. “The…aliens, or the Russians?”

“Not the Russians. The planet-eaters. They tried to bomb San Francisco, too.” And Cleveland, which had survived, and Shanghai, which had not, and who knows how many other ark sites? A fresh shiver worked down from his shoulders to his sacrum. “Christ. What will the Russians do? What will we do?”

The car’s steering wheel vibrated. Above the engine noise, they heard and felt a shuddering groan. The rock-borne vibrations of Seattle’s death passed under them.

At two in the morning, Washington, D.C., time, Irwin Schwartz reached out for the urgently beeping phone from his office cot and punched the speaker button. “Yes?” Only then did he hear the powerful whuff-whuff of helicopter blades and the screaming roar of jet turbines.

It was the late night White House military staff duty officer. “Mr. Schwartz, Mr. Crockerman is being evacuated. He wishes you to join him on the helicopter.”

Schwartz had duly noted the officer’s reluctance to call Crockerman “President.” He was now strictly “Mr. Crockerman.” If you don’t act the office, you don’t get the title. “What sort of emergency?”

“There have been strikes on Seattle and some kind of action over Cleveland, Charleston, and San Francisco.”

“Jesus. Russian?”

“Don’t know, sir. Sir, you should get out on the lawn as soon as possible.”

“Right.” Schwartz did not even grab his coat.

On the White House lawn, dressed in the undershirt and pants he had worn as he slept, Schwartz ducked instinctively under the high, massive rotor blades and ran up the ladder, his bald head unprotected against the chill downdraft of spring night air. A Secret Service agent stood by until the hatch was closed, and then watched the helicopter lift away to take them all to Grissom Air Force Base in Indiana.

The staff officer and a Marine guard hugged Crocker-man’s sides, the Marine carrying the “football” and the staff officer carrying a mobile data and command center — MODACC for short — hooked up to the helicopter’s communications system.

There were three Secret Service agents aboard the craft, as well as Nancy Congdon, the President’s personal secretary. Had Mrs. Crockerman been in the White House, she would have been evacuated as well.

“Mr. President,” the staff officer began, “the Secretary of Defense is in Colorado. State is in Miami at a governors’ meeting. The Vice President is in Chicago. I believe the Speaker of the House is being airlifted from his home. I have some information regarding what our satellites and other sensors have already told us.” He spoke louder than he needed to over the engine noise; the cabin was well insulated.

The President and all the others aboard listened closely.

“Seattle is gone, and Charleston is a ruin — the strike appeared to be centered at twenty klicks out in the ocean there. But our satellites show no missile launches from the Soviet Union or any fish at sea. No missiles at all were detected coming from the Earth. And apparently some sort of defensive system came into play over San Francisco and Cleveland, perhaps elsewhere as well…”

“We don’t have that kind of defense,” Crockerman said hoarsely, barely audible. He fixed his eyes on Schwartz. Schwartz thought he looked two days dead at least, eyes pale and lifeless. The vote to impeach had taken the last bit of starch from him. Tomorrow would be — would have been — the beginning of the Senate trial on whether he would stay in office or be removed.

“Correct, sir.”

“It’s not the Russians,” observed one of the Secret Service agents, a tall black Kentuckian of middle years.

“Not the Russians,” Crockerman repeated, his face taking on some color now. “Who, then?”

“The planet-eaters,” Schwartz said.

“It’s begun?” the young Marine lieutenant asked, gripping the briefcase as if to keep it from flying away.

“God only knows,” Schwartz said, shaking his head.

The MODACC beeped and the staff officer listened intently over his sound-insulated headphones. “Mr. President, it’s Premier Arbatov in Moscow.”

Crockerman stared once again at Schwartz for a long moment before reaching for the mike and headphones. Schwartz knew what the stare meant. He’s still the Man, damn us all to hell.