“shaken” every time the radar picked up a flock of geese or an airliner passing overhead. Once they’d sealed Earth House because Lombard thought a group of hang gliders were enemy paratroopers. Still, Macklin would have to check it out. He motioned for Captain Warner to follow him, and then he told Schorr to dismiss the orientation after they’d gone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Macklin said into the microphone, “I’m going to have to leave you now to take care of a small problem, but I hope to see each of you later this afternoon at the newcomers’ reception. Thank you for your attention.” And then he stalked up the aisle with Captain Warner right behind him.
They drove back in the electric cart the way Macklin had come, Macklin muttering all the way about Lombard’s stupidity. When they went into the Perimeter Control Room, they found Lombard peering into the screen that showed the returns from the sky radar atop Blue Dome. Near him stood Sergeant Becker and Corporal Prados, both staring at the screen as well. The room was full of electronic equipment, other radar screens and the small computer that stored the arrival and departure dates of Earth House’s residents. On a shelf above a row of radar screens, a voice was blaring from a shortwave radio, almost obscured by the crackling of static. The voice was panicked, babbling so fast Macklin couldn’t understand what was being said. But Macklin didn’t like the sound of it, and instantly his muscles tensed and his heart began to pound.
“Move aside,” he told the other men. He stood where he could get a good look at the screen.
His mouth went dry, and he heard the sizzling of circuits in his own brain at work. “God in Heaven,” he whispered.
The garbled voice from the shortwave radio was saying, “New York got it… wiped out… the missiles are comin’ in over the east coast… hit Washington… Boston… I can see flames from here…” Other voices surged out of the storm of static, bits and pieces of information hurtling along the network of ham radio operators across the United States and picked up by Blue Dome Mountain’s antennas. Another voice with a Southern accent broke in, shouting, “Atlanta just went dead! I think Atlanta got hit!” The voices overlapped, swelled and faded, commingled into a language of sobs and shouts, weak, faint whispers and the names of American cities repeated like a litany of the dead: Philadelphia… Miami… Newport News… Chicago… Richmond… Pittsburgh…
But Macklin’s attention was fixed on what the radar screen showed. There could be no doubt about what they were. He looked up at Captain Warner and started to speak, but he couldn’t find his voice for a second. Then he said, “Bring the perimeter guards in. Seal the doorway. We’re under attack. Move it!”
Warner picked up a walkie-talkie and hustled off. “Get Schorr down here,” Macklin said, and Sergeant Becker-a loyal and reliable man who had served with Macklin in Chad-instantly picked up the telephone and started pressing buttons. From the shortwave radio a frantic voice said, “This is KKTZ in St. Louis! Calling anybody! I’m lookin’ at a fire in the sky! It’s everywhere! God A’mighty, I’ve never seen such a-” A piercing squeal of static and other distant voices flooded into the empty hole left by St. Louis.
“This is it,” Macklin whispered. His eyes were shining, and there was a light sheen of sweat on his face. “Ready or not, this is it.”
And deep inside him, in the pit where no light had shone for a very long time, the Shadow Soldier cried out with joy.
Nine - [Burning Spears]
10:46 A.M. Central Daylight Time
On Interstate 70,
Ellsworth County, Kansas
Twenty-four miles west of Salina, Josh Hutchins’s battered old Pontiac gave a wheeze like an old man with phlegm in his lungs. Josh saw the temperature gauge’s needle zoom toward the red line. Though all the windows were lowered, the inside of the car
They drove back in the electric cart the way Macklin had come, Macklin muttering all the way about Lombard’s stupidity. When they went into the Perimeter Control Room, they found Lombard peering into the screen that showed the returns from the sky radar atop Blue Dome. Near him stood Sergeant Becker and Corporal Prados, both staring at the screen as well. The room was full of electronic equipment, other radar screens and the small computer that stored the arrival and departure dates of Earth House’s residents. On a shelf above a row of radar screens, a voice was blaring from a shortwave radio, almost obscured by the crackling of static. The voice was panicked, babbling so fast Macklin couldn’t understand what was being said. But Macklin didn’t like the sound of it, and instantly his muscles tensed and his heart began to pound.
“Move aside,” he told the other men. He stood where he could get a good look at the screen.
His mouth went dry, and he heard the sizzling of circuits in his own brain at work. “God in Heaven,” he whispered.
The garbled voice from the shortwave radio was saying, “New York got it… wiped out… the missiles are comin’ in over the east coast… hit Washington… Boston… I can see flames from here…” Other voices surged out of the storm of static, bits and pieces of information hurtling along the network of ham radio operators across the United States and picked up by Blue Dome Mountain’s antennas. Another voice with a Southern accent broke in, shouting, “Atlanta just went dead! I think Atlanta got hit!” The voices overlapped, swelled and faded, commingled into a language of sobs and shouts, weak, faint whispers and the names of American cities repeated like a litany of the dead: Philadelphia… Miami… Newport News… Chicago… Richmond… Pittsburgh…
But Macklin’s attention was fixed on what the radar screen showed. There could be no doubt about what they were. He looked up at Captain Warner and started to speak, but he couldn’t find his voice for a second. Then he said, “Bring the perimeter guards in. Seal the doorway. We’re under attack. Move it!”
Warner picked up a walkie-talkie and hustled off. “Get Schorr down here,” Macklin said, and Sergeant Becker-a loyal and reliable man who had served with Macklin in Chad-instantly picked up the telephone and started pressing buttons. From the shortwave radio a frantic voice said, “This is KKTZ in St. Louis! Calling anybody! I’m lookin’ at a fire in the sky! It’s everywhere! God A’mighty, I’ve never seen such a-” A piercing squeal of static and other distant voices flooded into the empty hole left by St. Louis.
“This is it,” Macklin whispered. His eyes were shining, and there was a light sheen of sweat on his face. “Ready or not, this is it.”
And deep inside him, in the pit where no light had shone for a very long time, the Shadow Soldier cried out with joy.
Nine - [Burning Spears]
10:46 A.M. Central Daylight Time
On Interstate 70,
Ellsworth County, Kansas
Twenty-four miles west of Salina, Josh Hutchins’s battered old Pontiac gave a wheeze like an old man with phlegm in his lungs. Josh saw the temperature gauge’s needle zoom toward the red line. Though all the windows were lowered, the inside of the car
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