Джек Макдевитт - Valkyrie

We still get together once a month at the VFW. We drink too much and play shuffleboard and leer at Bess and talk about the old days. And we always get around to how different things are now: everybody out for himself, everybody on dope. Kids today just aren't worth a damn and we all know it. God help us if we ever need them to defend the country. Brad Conner always makes the same remark: when the Russians land at Virginia Beach the only people out there to meet them will be us.

I get scared when I hear that. It's a joke that prompts laughter and raised glasses from Herman and Cuff and the rest. And a knowing wink from Bess. Because it's the truth, we would be alone. But nobody seriously believes anymore that the Russians might really come. Glasnost and all that.

Maybe. But somebody's coming. Unless whatever controls these things has changed its mind, they're coming.

I'm not like some of the guys, refusing to talk about the war, or even think about it. But I've never told anyone about what I saw the first night of the Tet Offensive, except occasionally when I've had too much to drink and nobody listens anyhow.

The attack caught me in Quangngai, in a downtown bar. I got out the back about the time a grenade came through a window. The streets were swarming with packs of armed men, some moving with military precision, others not much more than mobs. They shot down a few people for laughs. And they hauled a man out of a newspaper office and beat him to death, and then killed a woman who objected.Hard to tell whose side they were on. Not that it mattered. A Cobra ranged overhead early in the evening, spraying the attackers with heavy machine guns. But other than that, and a burned-out tank, I saw no sign of the Army.

The tank was in the middle of the street in front of a bicycle shop. The bicycle shop was pretty well blown apart too. I stood in the shadows and watched the tank smolder, until I realized I wasn't alone. Movement somewhere. Metal clicking softly. Get off the street: I climbed through the shattered front window into the shop, and crawled behind a counter, intending to wait things out. Nearby explosions shook dust out of the rafters. Squads of Cong riflemen appeared, and moved down both sides of the street. The fire glittered on their weapons. A few of them appeared on a rooftop opposite and set up a 50-caliber machine gun. The 50-calibers were heavy and loud, and they were hell on choppers.

The Cobra kept hammering away. Missile tracks raced toward it, wire-thin tracers hurtling over the city. The gunship dropped low, out of sight, and then rolled in,pumping rockets and 30mm shells into the clapboard streets. I heard screams.

A bright yellow moon, big and peaceful, floated over the scene.

They answered with the 50-caliber. The chopper veered off, and the street fell silent. Then it came back, running at roof top level. But Charlie must have got a couple more of the big machine guns up. They erected a goddam solid wall of steel and I wanted the chopper to back off, but he was committed by then so he kept coming and ripped by me, firing everything he had, churning down the center of the street, blowing dust in all directions.

Something hit it: it shuddered, and pulled up trailing smoke. Charlie kept firing. One of the rotor blades blew away. Moments later, the Cobra exploded.

Almost simultaneously, a brilliant white light erupted above the blast. It filled the sky, threw the street into sudden daylight, faded, and brightened again. I covered my eyes with my hands and cringed. For a moment, for a single bottomless moment, I thought: nuke.

It lasted only a few seconds. Then it was gone, and when I looked again, I saw only a blazing blue-white flare plunging down the sky. It was almost directly overhead.

Another gunship, maybe. Something.

The gunners concentrated their fire on it. A piece of the thing broke off, and spurted away to the southeast, in the direction of the Pacific. It might have been a rocket misfire.

The rest of the object continued to drop. It burned furiously, utterly silent.

But it wasn't quite falling anymore. Not under control, exactly, but it seemed to be slowing down. Leveling off. It drifted toward the rooftops, pursued by streams of tracers.

It sliced across the night, a brilliant cobalt star, and plowed into the roof of a four-story office building in the next block. The walls exploded, and the structure leaned toward the street, and collapsed. A cloud of gas and steam rose.

Fires broke out up and down the street. The gunners cheered.Windows in adjoining buildings let go like gunshots. Then, in the steam and smoke and rubble, I saw something moving.

A human figure.

A woman.

She stumbled out, clothes smoking, face and hair burned black. She staggered halfway across the street, and went down, one fist clenched in agony.

I looked at her, glanced back toward the shadows (filled with the dark figures of the Cong, just watching, not moving), and did the dumbest thing of my life: I ran into the middle of the street and charged toward her.

There was no point trying to keep close to the buildings. I was silhouetted against moonlight and fire no matter where I was, so I made what use I could of the tank. Charlie was slow to react: I covered about forty yards and got across the intersection before the first shot whistled over my head.

The woman looked up. She was afire: the flames ate at her clothing, enveloped her. She should have been rolling in the street, the night should have filled with her screams. Instead she only watched me come.

Charlie opened up in earnest. Bullets flew through the thick air, shattered wood, bounced off the tank, buried themselves in the street. One tore away a piece of my shoulder.

I ran with clumsy terror. The woman got up on one knee, took a deep breath, and struggled to her feet. She watched me come, eyes filled with pain.

Her jacket burst into flame. She ripped it off and hurled it away.

I stumbled toward her, lost my balance, ran a few more steps, arms and legs flailing, fell, rolled over, and came up in full stride. In all, it was a hell of a performance.

She shook her head no. And waved me away.

No time to argue. I plowed into her, knocking her over. But I kept going and got us both off the street and into a storefront.

She held onto a post, trying to steady herself. I'd got the fire out, but her clothes were steaming, and her face was scorched. She stared at me out of angry black eyes.

I kicked the door open. "Inside," I pointed into the store.

Her nostrils widened slightly, and I saw something that scared me more than all the goddam shooting: she smiled.

Then she stepped through. The interior was dark, illuminated only by spasms of firelight, slicing through a bank of cross-hatched windows along the front wall. We were in a big room, and shadowy objects hung from the ceiling. From the smell of things, it was easy to guess what. We were in a tannery.

"They'll be right behind us," I said, trying to see through to the back of the building. She rubbed a knee, and rotated one shoulder, wincing. I got the impression that I was looking up at her. Ridiculous. The flickering light distorted everything. "Are you okay?" I asked.

She looked through a window, and pointed out. The Cong were coming. I realized about then that I was leaking blood from my shoulder. My right sleeve was drenched, and I felt wobbly. She cast a long shadow. She was tall, taller even than I, which put her at six-two or -three. Slim. Athletic. Black hair cut short. And despite her size she was Asiatic.

I reached for her, intending to draw her away from the window, and make for the rear entrance. "Just go," she said. "I will be behind you." It was the precise accent of one who has learned English from formal instruction.