Unmarred and unchipped, the hauntingly melancholy face of Lincoln still gazed downward solemnly, into infinity.

60

General Higgins slammed the phone receiver into its cradle. It was his first show of temper. “We missed the spotter,” he said bitterly. “Our monitor units zeroed his location, but he’d flown the coop by the time our nearest patrol arrived.”

“Obviously a mobile unit,” said Timothy March. “With three out of four cars on the road carrying a CB radio, identifying the bastard will be next to impossible.”

“Our special-forces team and the city police are setting up roadblocks

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at key intersections around the Capitol area,” said Higgins. “If we can keep the spotter out of visual contact of his targets, he won’t be able to report range corrections to the ship. Then Fawkes will be firing blind.”

The President’s eyes were locked on the viewing screen, staring sadly at the enlarged satellite picture of the demolished Lincoln Memorial. “Shrewd planning on their part,” he muttered. “A few dead would mean little more than a newspaper headline to most Americans. But destroy a revered national monument and you touch everyone. Rest assured, gentlemen, by this evening a lot of mad Americans are going to seek a way to vent their anger.”

“If the next shell contains the QD …” Jarvis’s voice trailed off.

“It’s like playing Russian roulette,” March said. “Two shells fired. That means the odds are down to two out of thirty-six.”

Higgins looked across the table at Admiral Kemper. “What do you figure as the Iowa’s rate of fire?”

“The time span between shells one and two was four minutes, ten seconds,” Kemper answered. “Slow by half compared to former wartime efficiency, but respectable in view of forty-year-old obsolete equipment and a skeleton crew.”

“What puzzles me,” said March, “is why Fawkes is only using the turret’s center gun. He seems to be making no attempt to operate the other two.”

“He’s going by the book,” said Kemper. “Conserving his strength by firing one shell at a time for effect. He got lucky on the second shot and found his target. Next time he gets the range you can bet he’ll uncork all three barrels.”

The phone in front of Higgins buzzed. He picked it up, listened for a moment, his expression grim. “The third round is on its way.”

The satellite camera pulled back to show a two-mile radius around the White House. Everyone’s eyes roamed over the bird’s-eye view of the city, fearful that this projectile held the Quick Death organism while at the same time trying to guess which landmark was the target. Then came a geysering explosion that pulverized a fifty-foot section of sidewalk and two trees on the north side of Constitution Avenue.

“He’s going for the National Archives building,” the President said, a bitter edge to his voice. “Fawkes is trying to destroy the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.”