Presidente Argusto stood in his command center watching his air armada leave to destroy the combined armies of el norte, and wished he were in the lead bomber group. He stood with his hands behind his back, hair black as Monterrey crude. The war board was a mass of blinking red lights, wave after wave of red lights moving slowly toward the border. Nine hundred and fifty-seven red lights, nine hundred and fifty-seven combat airplanes, long-range and short-range bombers, fighters and electronic-jamming jets, each one linked to the command-and-control system buried deep in the heart of the Cerro San Rafael Mountains in Coahuila.
It had taken three years to dig the base out in secrecy-a futile hunt for silver, the locals thought-while the world assumed the base was being built under the foothills outside Tenochtitlan. A typically cautious move on the part of Argusto, who believed that great risks could be undertaken only after great preparation. He had mortgaged his nation's economy to pay for the air armada and the command center that ordered them into battle-money well spent. With that air armada he had wrested the Panama Canal away and the rich oil fields of the Isthmus. Soon he would replant the Aztlan flag on the lands of the north, lands that had once belonged to the Mexicans.
The lights on the war board blinked steadily, a soothing consistency as his planes raced across the dry landscape of Arizona, New Mexico, California, Texas, more squadrons taking off across the Gulf, wave after wave of titanium warbirds on their way toward targets in the Belt-power plants and population centers, military bases and manufacturing plants-bringing pain and destruction to el norte. A lesson about to be taught, a hard lesson that would not soon be forgotten.
Argusto rocked gently on his high heels, surrounded by technicians and generals, utterly alone with his dreams and ambitions.
Situated on an outcropping of red sandstone in the Sonora Desert, the Old One's small technical team picked up the first wave of Aztlan's armada moments after takeoff. Dietrich and his band of programmers immediately beamed Leo's encryption-busting equation into the onboard computer of one of the lead planes.
A simple operation. The proper vector, the proper sequence, a momentarily open door…and it was done, the results irrevocable. The team could disappear, be taken out by a cluster bomb, or be chopped to pieces by angry villagers wielding hoes…it didn't matter. Dietrich looked directly into the rising sun, tears running down his face from the harsh glare. In thirty-seven minutes, inshallah, the world would change.
Emilio Guzman watched the Queen Mary explode as he banked over Long Beach harbor, the tourist attraction splitting in half before slowly sinking into the filthy water. He would have liked to compose a rhyme to salute his first strike, but his mind was whirling, fear nosing around the edges of his consciousness.
All the years spent pretending to be a loyal subject of Aztlan, the tests passed, the clearances breached. Paradise better be everything it was cracked up to be. He smiled as Rosario, the squadron leader, directed them to take out the offshore oil rigs, Guzman following the command instantly, his afterburners briefly kicking in. A beautiful plane. A beautiful day, the sky the same deep blue as the Pacific, a perfect circle, no up, no down.
He had broken network security twenty-nine minutes ago, at precisely 6:58 A.M., right after takeoff, closed it up three seconds later. Just as the Old One had ordered. A brief enough interval that the command center monitoring the armada would consider it a simple electromagnetic glitch. Short enough to be undetected, long enough for the Old One's code-breaking program to be inserted into his onboard computer. A Trojan horse instantly sent to the command center in the constant back-and-forth between them. The program was already doing its mischief, transferring command to the Old One. In eight more minutes, command authority would shift abruptly from Argusto to the Old One. He only wished he could be there to see El Presidente's face.
Guzman hadn't asked what the Old One would do once he had control of the armada. He didn't need to. He was only grateful that the Old One had waited until Aztlan had drawn first blood, so that Guzman had gotten to utilize his hard-won skills. Doubtless the Old One had his reasons for waiting…to give time for the whole armada to be in the air, or to inflame el norte. It didn't matter. Only this moment mattered.
Eight minutes. He sped over the waves toward the offshore oil rigs, wondering as he often did what Paradise would be like.
Amir ushered President Brandt into the emergency elevator of the palace as the air-raid warnings sounded, a metallic bleating that could wake the dead. He gripped the president's shoulder, practically had to hold the coward up. In his ear he could hear his father coolly giving orders to the Fedayeen ringing the capital, then switching over to coordinate the defense of the other major cities. The doors closed and the floor seemed to fall away with the speed of their descent.
"Amir, has the president been secured?" said General Kidd.
"Almost, Father."
"Do your duty, my son."
"Always, Father." Amir broke the com-link as they descended farther underground.
The president clutched at Amir. "You said we would be safe."
Amir watched the levels whirl past on the digital readout.
"You assured me that Aztlan's planes would never reach us," said the president, voice cracking. "You…you gave me your word."
The elevator stopped with a slight bump. The doors hissed open.
Amir stepped out first into the bunker. "Everything's under control, Mr. President."
Sarah held Michael's hand as they filed down to the basement with Spider and his family, feet scuffing on the wooden steps. "It's going to be okay," she said.
Michael looked up at her, kept walking.
She should have taken Colarusso up on his offer and sent Michael to stay in Wenatchee with Marie and the girls. She had told herself that the war might be avoided, some last-minute diplomatic agreement, a postponement of hostilities. But it was her own selfishness that kept him here, her not wanting to be separated from her son.
Michael squeezed her hand. "Don't worry, Mom."
"Isn't it lovely?" The Old One stood in the rooftop garden of the New Mandarin Hotel, the cafe empty, chairs overturned in the patrons' haste to seek shelter. The streets below should have been packed with the morning rush, but instead they were deserted, the few cars abandoned. The security blimps ringed the central core of the city, gleaming in the sun. Out in the sound he could see ferryboats chugging full-speed to port. "We have the whole city to ourselves."
"Big fucking deal," said Gravenholtz. The view would have been better if Karla Jean was beside him, which was stupid-the woman had tried to kill him-but, he couldn't help himself. She had held out his last best chance for another life, but that chance was gone now, another lie, another betrayal. A hard rain was coming, a rain of blood loud enough perhaps to drown out the memory of her.
"It is lovely, Daddy." Baby gripped the Old One's arm. "I feel like you just gave me a present wrapped with a big red bow."
"It's not really for you, darling," said the Old One.
"I…I know that, Daddy… I was just saying-"
"Lester has more cause to bask in my favor," said the Old One, still watching the ferries racing toward shelter. "He brought me the relic."
"I would have brought you the piece of the cross if he hadn't stolen it," said Baby, hanging on to him. "I would have brought you Rikki too."
The Old One didn't look at her. "Yes, but you didn't."
Rakkim was about to board the plane to Seattle when the reader board at Las Vegas International Airport flashed ALL FLIGHTS CANCELED-due to a just-declared state of war between Aztlan and the North American Alliance.
The waiting line dissolved into a grumbling mass heading for the airport's bars and restaurants, but Rakkim didn't move, staring at the TVs, which had just started showing footage of a burning city.
Argusto bathed in the pulsing red lights of his air armada as they moved inexorably across the map. Los Angeles…its oil depots burning, black smoke blotting out the sun. Houston's antiaircraft defenses down, its financial district collapsed. The downtown core of Baton Rouge…gone. Each of them damaged, but not destroyed. Argusto's planes targeted critical installations that would do maximum military and psychological damage, but leave the essential infrastructure unharmed. He would need the bridges, dams and reservoirs once the Republic and the Belt surrendered.
He turned, hearing rapid footsteps.
General Sanchez, the computer scientist in charge of the command center, hurried over, a thin, gawky man with wireless spectacles and foul breath. "El Magnifico…" he panted, his hands clenching and unclenching.
"What is it?"
"There's a slight…anomaly with the system." Sanchez swallowed. "You should call back the armada."
Argusto stared at "General Chicken Neck," as his bodyguards referred to the man. "Don't be ridiculous. What sort of anomaly?"
"I'm-I'm not sure." Sanchez cracked his knuckles. "There seems to be…a breach of some kind. I can't tell if it's a systems error or an outside attack on the command center itself."
"Do we have control over my birds?"
"Yes…for the time being. But I'm concerned-"
"Go away and take care of the anomaly." Argusto turned back to the war screen. The third and fourth waves were approaching Dallas and Sacramento, Nashville and Atlanta, while the first two waves stayed over their initial targets, awaiting further orders. The final fifth and sixth waves had just taken off for Seattle and Portland and New Detroit, Richmond and Louisville.
"The anomaly is spreading exponentially, Excellency," stumbled Sanchez, tugging at his thin mustache. "That…that's what I'm most concerned with. Unless we recall the armada immediately-"
"Are you still here?" said Argusto, still watching the war screen.
Group leader Jaime Rosario felt his light attack bomber shudder as he fought in vain to override the computer. Upside down, he felt himself pressed back against the seat as the plane accelerated directly toward the earth. All manual controls were dead. Through the canopy he could see the city burning, palm trees ablaze. Los Angeles, City of Angels…fiery angels today. He could hear the voices of the rest of his squadron on the com-link as they struggled to regain control, men he had known for years, all of them working with a grim professionalism, their superb training evident in the calm determination with which they continued their efforts. Even Guzman, the new man, who regaled them with obscene limericks at breakfast. One by one their voices abruptly stopped, usually in the middle of a curse or a prayer. Guzman came on the link, the last voice now: "There once was a man from Veracruz-" A crackle, then silence. Rosario thought of cool water as the burning streets below rushed toward him.
"Do something!" Argusto shouted at Sanchez, voice echoing in the command center.
Sanchez threw up his hands. Dozens of technicians tapped away at their consoles behind him, trying to regain control. "It is too late, Excellency."
Argusto could see lights winking out all across the war board, dozens of red lights going dark as the planes crashed all across the map. He grabbed Sanchez and shook him. "Restore control dominance to the pilots then! You can do that, can't you?"
Sanchez shook his head. "I've tried. The system will not allow-"
"The system!" Argusto pushed him away, Sanchez tumbling to the floor. "I control Aztlan, not some system."
"Excellency…" Sanchez adjusted his glasses as he got slowly to his feet. "I must report…that is no longer the case."
Lights continued winking out across the board, dozens, hundreds, the pride of Aztlan splattered across the landscape of el norte.
Argusto heard mutterings from the officers, heard fear in their voices-not fear of him, which he was used to, but fear of the people, fear of the army and navy, which had been starved of money and manpower to feed the needs of the air force. An air force that until now had never known defeat. Argusto drew himself to attention, chest thrust forward, one hand on his sword, as the last of the lights blinked out.