"Sons of bitches don't give up!"! Herbert yelled. Slowed because he had to do everything by hand, Herbert slammed the gas pedal down and spun the steering wheel to the left. Then he braced himself against the wheel with his left arm. Racing ahead, he quickly covered the fifteen feet which separated him from the van. He rammed the van's left rear fender. Metal twisted and screamed as they collided, the van was thrown forward, and Herbert swung his Mercedes into the street. Still pressing hard on the gas, he raced past the driver's side and sped ahead.

Traffic had now stopped well behind them and pedestrians were running away in all directions.

Then Herbert remembered the cellular phone. He scooped it up. "Mike, are you still there?"

"Christ, didn't you hear me shouting?"

"No. Jesus, now I got two continents mad at me!"

"Bob, what's--"

Herbert didn't hear the rest. He dropped the phone in his lap and swore as a tram turned onto the street in front of him. Speeding up, he swept around it, putting the tram between him and the van. He hoped the gunman didn't shoot the tram out of frustration and sheer cussedness.

Herbert retrieved the phone. "Sorry, General, I didn't hear that."

"I said what's going on?"

"Mike, I've got these lunatics with guns who decided we had to have our own private Grand Prix in Hanover!"

"Do you know where you are?" Rodgers asked.

Herbert glanced in his rearview mirror as the van screeched around the tram. "Hold on," he said to Rodgers.

He set the phone down on the passenger's seat and put both hands on the wheel as the van shot onto the road. As it raced after him, Herbert looked forward. Hanover was a blur as he raced onto Lange Laube, made a few quick turns, and was on Goethe Strasse. Fortunately, he realized, traffic was lighter than it might have been at this hour because people had stayed out of town during Chaos Days.

Herbert heard Mike Rodgers's voice coming from far away. "Shit!" he said, snatching up the phone as he sped ahead. "Sorry, Mike. I'm here."

"Where exactly are you?" Rodgers asked.

"I've got no idea."

"Can you see any signs?" Rodgers interrupted.

"No," he said. "Wait, yes." His eyes fixed on a street sign as it whipped past. "Goethe Strasse. I'm on Goethe Strasse."

"Hold on," Rodgers said. "We're bringing a map up on the computer."

"I'll hold on," Herbert said. "Man, I've got nowhere to go."

The van spun onto Goethe Strasse, clipped a car as it did, then accelerated. Herbert didn't know whether these jerks had some kind of legal immunity, zero brains, or just a lot of mad, because they obviously weren't giving up. He figured they were pissed because he was an American and a handicapped man, and he'd stood up to them. That kind of behavior simply could not be tolerated.