SPDX-License-Identifier
CC-BY-SA-4.0

Terrorists

Ten days passed. Fuelling went smoothly, except that one time the plutonium tetrafluoride crystals stuck to the fill tube near the end and blocked it. The workers waited two hours, when enough had dissolved to open the tube. Then by sucking up and blowing out the molten salt they cleaned out the stuck plutonium, and by repeating this procedure after every vial they prevented further blockages.

The rod worths and reactivity coefficients were as calculated from theory. The delayed neutron fraction was two-thirds of a percent, much higher than the planned tenth of a percent, but that was because the fuel was not circulating and the bromine-88 fission product decayed where produced, in the graphite-moderated inner core. All systems were ready for the approach to critical the next day.

The Moris got settled in their new quarters, and they took the oath to protect the fuel the day after departure. Tamiko and Kenji got started in their jobs and school, and all four Moris put several hours each day into martial arts practice and into Loglan. Mrs. Mori sold Wind Two right off her wall, to a neighbor. Hiroshi found an important niche rewriting operating procedures and maintenance documentation. Hopelessly inadequate, he said. You'll blow yourselves up for sure if you rely on this crap. George, having written some of the procedures himself, thought Hiroshi was exaggerating somewhat, but he wisely realized that Hiroshi had more experience with screwed-up procedures than he did. In routine operations and particularly in emergencies, the more thinking you have pre-done and written down, the less you can forget or misjudge through fatigue or pressure of events.

Around about midnight of the tenth day out, Leo stood overhead, his tail partly covered by the full moon which lit up the station almost like day. A flotilla of shrimp on the continental shelf started creaking and clacking and, incidentally, illuminating the ocean for sonar. The station operator, routinely checking his displays, saw one faint blip dead in the water about ten kilometers away. Radar showed nothing. A submarine? The sonar's phased array included a sensor underneath the station that gave depth resolution, and the computer reported that the blip was at the surface. Suddenly it brightened — it was emitting sounds itself. The power spectrum said the sounds were from several high-speed propellers, and phase relations with the main blip showed that the propellers were leaving it at nine meters per second,

John Thompson to the control room, please. Emergency — John Thompson to the control room.

Half a minute later, John rushed in. What happened?

Look over here. We have company. The scope, turned to high magnification, showed a line of ten sources spread about fifty meters apart, just resolvable by the sonar. Then eleven, then twelve.

What is it?

A mother ship with radar and sonar cloaking is launching small boats, which are approaching us in a line — approaching fast. ETA in eighteen minutes.

Oh, crap. Are they coming directly towards us?

The operator entered commands on a keyboard. The display changed to show a box for the station, and the mysterious boats, still unresolved at that magnification. A line for their course neatly bisected the box.

Shit. Drop rods in the reactor. Sound the alarm. Turn on our radar transmitter; they already know where we are. John turned to the intercom. Emergency, hostile attack. Secure the area. Report to your stations. Horns wailed throughout the station, dumping sleepers out of bed, making workers on break spill their coffee, sending everyone scurrying into the halls. Husky teenagers raised the ladders and docks that allowed access from the water. Four teams broke out the recoilless rifles and ammunition, while the rest of the fighters took their automatic rifles. The doctor and the three nurses rushed to the infirmary. Mr. Tri dashed out to help the people select cover and to supervise the defense as the situation developed.

Not everyone fought. Children were instructed to put on small-sized steel helmets and get underneath or behind something that would stop bullets, like a table. At least one parent in each family stayed with the kids if they were young, or in older families like the Chous one parent had an inside duty station; Meiko's job was plotting courses off the sonar and radar.

George grabbed the walkie-talkie he kept in his room, his steel helmet, and his flak jacket. The hall warden for the first floor east rooms had already unlocked the arms closet, and George and Meiko took their weapons. They kissed, and Meiko ran off to the reactor building. George called John on the radio. What's going on?

Hostile attack, ETA 16 minutes. We see about twenty small boats, from the northeast.

George and Tri passed the word, and people chose their cover. The big flower pots had not been removed — they had multiplied, both because the residents needed soil for vegetables and trees and bright flowers against the gray concrete, and because the defenders needed the cover, even if attackers could use it too. But each pot had feet, not sitting on the floor directly, with enough clearance for a forklift, or for a bullet to harass someone's toes, if the shooter were familiar with the station.

It was a long wait.

The radio hissed. George, John here. We have something weird. The radar image shows some kind of flyer rising from the boats. Two per boat, very small radar cross section. They stay in close formation. ETA three minutes; confirm twenty boats Oops, one of the flyers went in the water and we see it on sonar It floats. Good luck out there.

George called out, The attackers have small flyers. Watch the air. The word was passed, except small got lost by the time the message worked around to the other side The three minutes seemed even longer.

Automatic rifle fire swept the deck from at least ten weapons. Machine guns rattled from the boats. George spotted muzzle flashes in the air, moving slowly. He popped up over his flower pot, aimed quickly but carefully, and squeezed off a burst. He was rewarded with a scream of agony. An auspicious start. Slugs whined in his direction and he got down promptly. More defending fire, and a shower of warm, sticky liquid spattered on George, then a thud came from the overhanging second story walk. Legs clothed in pitch black hung down, and a black high-performance parachute settled in front of George's position, blocking his view. So that was the deal: two could play the parasail game. They would attack from the air, clear the deck, land, then what? George pulled hard on a shroud line and the body fell to the deck, where George quickly searched it, mindful of hostile fire. No explosives, just lots of ammunition. He reported his find, and went back to shooting down aerial targets.

A black shadow landed on the roof on the west side of the station. The coast was clear. The attacker, shedding his chute, dropped unseen to the walk below and kicked in the nearest door. He sprayed the room about chest-high — and found himself falling inward, turning, twisting. He lost the rifle. His right hand was in a vise, and his feet were in molasses. What was going on? As his eyes adapted from the moonlight he saw he had been accosted by a cute girl and her younger brother, to whom she was passing his rifle. Give me that, he ordered, and reached out his hand, almost shearing it from his arm despite her one-handed hold. He yelped in pain. He had to get back in control. He tried to reach his knife with his left hand, but she imperceptibly twitched — he didn't know she had felt his intention through the force, and had dealt with it the same way — and twinges of terror between radius and ulna paralyzed his whole body. Roy, take anything that feels valuable, he heard the doll-like voice say. Nightmare spider hands penetrated the recesses of his black coveralls. He felt his knife go, then the spare ammunition, the flashlight, then the radio. Searching for more. Hurry it up.

No more. What now?

I'm going to dump him.

We're supposed to stay in the room.

With him? Forget it.

You might get shot.

The fighting's all on the other side. I'll go fast.

He found his hand being carried rapidly out the ruined door, and he involuntarily ran after. He couldn't let his hand leave him behind, oh no! The brighter moonlight showed that the girl was wearing a flapping nightshirt with a picture of a raccoon and — yes — a steel helmet. This was insane. Down stairs, and she called, Prisoner coming, don't shoot! Then headlong to the rail and she threw his hand to the ocean. Necessarily he followed, turning over and over. He screamed on the way down, trying to wake from the nightmare. Whop! A belly flop from five meters is not advisable. The nightmare got worse after that, but at least his hand was free of that horrible, gentle grasp.

Bob Chou, alone in his room, was laying behind the overturned dining table, which was believed to be able to stop bullets. He wondered how bad the killing was going to be, and if he would be brave if he had to die. The shooting had no pattern and he could not tell which side was doing what, which made the waiting nearly unbearable. Suddenly a heavy slug slammed into the table, and Bob heard a grunt of pain, a clatter of something being dropped, and a heavy thud just outside the doorway. Sticking his helmeted head around the side of the table, he saw a figure writhing on the deck. Without thinking, Bob raced out the curtained door and dragged on the person's legs. The man was heavy! Something crashed on Bob's thigh, almost knocking him down, but he kept pulling and manhandled the person into the room and behind the table. Bob limped to his desk and got a flashlight. It was Ted Thompson! What was he doing running around? Bob pulled up Ted's bloody shirt and found two holes on Ted's belly, and one matching hole on the back. They did not smell good. What in hell should he do? There was surprisingly little bleeding, not rivers of blood like Bob expected to see. Step two, treat for shock. Bob pulled the blanket from his bed and threw it over Ted. He could do nothing more.

Bob's leg ached; he turned the light on himself. Oh, God, he had been shot! Right through, and blood flowing out both ends! He pressed on the front hole, and all the blood went out the back. He tried to press both holes, and he couldn't walk and the blood oozed through his fingers. Am I going to die, he thought. He felt panic rising. Calmness. Think of cool water, of the White Tree. Silver moonlight shone through the open curtain, and Bob took strength from it. He took off his belt with its Velcro closure, tossing the loincloth toward his hammock, and wrapped the belt twice around his thigh. Too long! He tied several knots in it, then wrapped again and pulled it tight over the holes. Thank God, the blood was held inside. How much had he lost? The problem in shock is loss of blood volume. He scuttled to the sink as fast as he could, and mixed a cup of his wound-washing solution; he grabbed the box of sodium bicarbonate from the cabinet under the sink and, guessing the amount, poured a little in. He forced himself to drink it all, and then he crept under his blanket, now thoroughly stained with two people's blood, and waited for that which was to come.

A bat-themed fighter landed on the roof of the apartments at the end of the station. All defenders were on the first level, not comprehending the details of the aerial assault. The attacker, shedding his chute, wriggled to the second floor balcony and kicked in the nearest door. He sprayed the room about chest-high, and was greeted with a masculine roar which cut off suddenly as a slug clanged on steel. He announced in his most menacing tone, Don't move or I'll blow you in half! He took out his flashlight and shined it at the terrified breathing. There was a slant on the floor on his back, and cowering under the table were three more slants, a woman, a boy and a girl. They would do.

Hiroshi!, the woman cried, and lurched toward the one on the floor. He put his foot in her face and dumped her over sprawling. Out the door to the left, all of you, and no false moves! They emerged onto the walkway. He carefully checked both ways for opponents as he came out, but he was cut down by two defenders cloaked in black pieces torn from a parachute, who stood at the first floor railing, nearly invisible against the black ocean background.

The firing was nearly continuous, and every ten or fifteen seconds Bob heard the whomp of one of the recoilless rifles firing at the attackers' boats which, if they were not hit, invariably rattled out a withering hail of heavy machine gun fire. But as time passed — Bob could not count it in minutes, but it seemed a long time — the firing became more sporadic. He counted to ten - eleven - twelve - an assault rifle stuttered. Next he got to twenty. When sixty seconds passed with no sounds, Bob struggled to his feet. Oh, his leg was sore! At the door he called out, Ie cnire Stress does strange things to a mind; English would have been a better choice.

Loi .i ie nitru tu

Recognizing the voice, Bob replied, Ted Thompson is hurt bad. Is it safe to take him to the infirmary?

The fighter yelled, Mr. Chou, OK to take wounded to the infirmary?

Rescue wounded, but watch for snipers. Bob's spirits lifted; his dad was OK.

Sit tight, kid. I'll get a stretcher and another guy. Or, can you carry one end?

No.

The two men carried Ted, and Bob limped behind. Bob counted five black-clad corpses on the grey concrete, and none of his friends. He prayed that Ted would be all right.

At the infirmary Dr. Margolis and the three nurses were sitting on their chairs in nervous anticipation, and they seemed almost relieved to see a customer. Belly wound? How many more coming?, asked the doctor.

The bearer answered, Bob is the only one I heard call for help. Some others were hit but I guess it was like arms and helmets. We got off easy.

If he's bleeding I think we had better get on it right away. You guys go back and look for wounded. Phone over here before you bring a person in — tell everyone to do that. The doctor and Ruth Baker carried the stretcher into the operating room, and the other two nurses followed. They transferred Ted to the table, stripped him, and tossed his clothes out the door. Dr. Margolis told Bob, I don't like to be uncaring, but Ted needs us now and you have to wait. Would you please put those clothes somewhere, and close the door? And answer the phone when they call. Take off that thing and put a proper bandage on your leg. There's gauze in the cabinet.

It was bleeding a lot.

It's probably clotted by now. If it bleeds again, tie the bandage very tight, but otherwise make it loose.

Ted had a nasty set of holes. One went through from front to back — a fifty caliber slug. The other bullet had stopped just before hitting Ted's left kidney. Fortunately only the small intestine seemed to be involved, but the intestine is coiled and each wound penetrated it in several places. Nurse Baker threaded a tube down Ted's windpipe and fed in nitrous oxide and oxygen.

Dr. Margolis sliced open Ted's belly and began by pouring in warm saline, then sticking a suction tube down to the bottom to flush out most of the spilled intestinal contents. Then, starting with the jejeunum, he brought thirty centimeters of the small intestine out the hole. No damage. He dusted it liberally with moxalactam, stuffed it back in, and pulled out the next section. A hole, but isolated. He stitched it up and went on to the next part. It was slow work. After ten segments and three hits, the phone rang.

Infirmary, Bob Chou here. How bad is he? OK, I'll tell the doctor.

What's the situation?

Otis Brownston got hit in the head, the jaw and the shoulder. They're bringing him over.

Oh, crap! I knew this would happen. We have a problem. If I let Otis wait, he will probably die, but I don't want to leave Ted laying around open either. Ruth, can you finish Ted?

Yes, but not alone, and you need two people to help on Otis.

Maybe one person could time-share. Or … Bob, can you help Ruth put Ted back together? You have to stand for maybe an hour, and I don't know how you would react to surgery …

Despite his injury, Bob jumped at this chance. If Mrs. Baker tells me what to do, I can do it. When my leg gives out you can go to sharing a nurse. Bob was thinking about a career in medicine, and recognized probably his only opportunity to find out what this part was really like, as opposed to what you see in movies. Also there would be limitless possibilities to tease Ted. Finally, he instinctively knew that trust holds a community together, that people trusted each other to help in need, and that to preserve that trust he was expected to help until he dropped, or until Ted was fixed, whichever occurred first.

Get a gown and hat from the cabinet. See them? And shoe covers, or bare feet are OK if you don't care what you step on. Then scrub with a brush — they're in the drawer above, in paper envelopes, precharged with soap. Come in when you're done Gloves are in here.

Can I bring this stool to sit on?

Good idea. Bring it in now before you scrub.

Bob carried it in and took a quick look at the surgery. Yuck! It smelled like shit, which was not surprising given the nature of the wound. But it wasn't any worse than frog or fish guts. How would Ted feel about all this afterward? Thinking about him as a friend rather than as a piece of meat was definitely a mistake — Bob began to sweat and shake. He got out, scrubbed, and at the same time calmed himself. Relax the toes, the legs, …

As Bob finished scrubbing, Otis arrived. In here, put him on the table, said Dr. Margolis. Ruth and Bob, it's your show. Now let's get Otis stripped and intubated and shaved. Oh, that looks awful. Feed some plasma into him; the shock is profound. There's too much fluid around his brain. I'm going to get the drill and let it out. Dr. Margolis and the two nurses got busy trying to save the young man, while Ruth and Bob did the easier job on Ted.

Hold the intestine, please, Bob, while I stitch it up. Bob quickly got used to touching his friend's raw edges, and learned where to get more sutures and other supplies. There were several double holes but no mangled sections that had to be cut out. Nurse Baker and Bob got the rest of the small intestine checked and repaired in half an hour, finding the smaller bullet folded in a bruised section of mesentery. They closed Ted up in another twenty minutes. This was none too soon for Bob, whose leg felt like someone were beating it with a sledgehammer.

Bob, would you get a blanket we can put over Ted? Oh, you poor thing, Ruth exclaimed as she saw him limp painfully. Go lay down on one of the beds. I'll get the blanket.

From the other table Dr. Margolis gave a dejected sigh. He stopped breathing again. I think Otis has had it. There's just too much damage, too much edema, too much shock, and he would be just a vegetable even if we could reverse the shock and edema. He's dead.

Bob lay on the bed and cried. Shared pain and struggle brought people together, but when friends were killed, or mutilated, the bond was made from bile in the throat. For a while Bob completely lost his balance on the force, and abjectly whimpered.

Soon after Bob and Ted were evacuated to the infirmary, George reached the same conclusion as Bob: that all the attackers were either dead or swimming in the ocean. He called out, Anyone see any attackers? The word was passed around the station, and all groups of fighters called back, Nothing. Search the place, George cried, and the station forces rose like shadows. Some checked the courtyard, while some snuck up the stairs and checked the second floor balconies and roofs. Other teams went over the reactor containment building exterior, and a large detachment carefully but rapidly searched the junkyard. Nothing. The reserves — children, mothers, the elderly and handicapped — emerged from their refuges and gathered in the courtyard. Hiroshi Mori, holding his splitting head and supported by Kenji and Barbara, staggered down the stairs. Other wounded people gathered round and an impromptu first aid clinic was set up. Some of the wounds were bloody but none was as bad as Ted's. Someone told them of the operation going on, so people decided to stay where they were. Check in with your hall wardens, please, said George with his bullhorn. Let your hall wardens know you're OK.

Then the more somber burdens were carried in. One young lady and what was left of her baby. She had picked the wrong time to stand up when the attacker burst in the door. Then two fighters; nobody had seen them fall.

Meiko came running from the reactor building. George! Are you all right?

Fine. I didn't get hit. What do you have?

Here's a list of everyone in the control room. Seven boats are going back to the mother ship, and three are drifting near here.

Tri walked up and heard the news, and recommended: Go after the mother ship with recoilless rifles, and use their boats. Ours are too slow and they could shoot us up.

George responded, We'd better do it fast. They might attack again with something different. Meiko, see how Bob is, then go back to the control room; we'll need you to plot our boats' courses.

Hey, everybody, look what we've got! A trio of teenagers had triumphantly entered the scene leading, like a lamb to slaughter, a once-proud attacker, black-clad, hands tied, feet hobbled, and with a dog leash and choke chain around his neck.

String him up!

Let's cut off his balls!

George cut off the cruel suggestions. Bring him here. He will be treated in a civilized manner, and I will decide — tomorrow — what to do with him.

He was brought. What did you think you were going to accomplish by attacking us?

We were going to take hostages and force you to give us your plutonium.

Out of the reactor?

Out of your safe. You have it all in a safe.

Wheels turned in George's head. The NRC had been given the original schedule, which allowed two weeks of tests and corrective actions before any fuel was loaded (over Hiroshi's objections). But the second steam generator had fewer leaks than expected and the tests had been finished early, so loading started when the fuel was delivered. George alertly changed subjects: And what would you have done with the fuel?

Demonstrate what nuke power is really about, scumbag. San Onofre is conveniently on a military base and next door to all those rich exploiters in San Clemente. A bomb in the spent fuel pool would really shed some light on the nukes.

Even given the fuel, it is not all that easy to make a bomb. But a critical assembly could easily be built which would release enough fission products as it melted or vaporized, depending on the precision of construction, to make a real mess. Also, the public wouldn't know the difference between a critical assembly and a bomb, unless they had seen a nuclear bomb first hand. The terrorists' plan was a good one.

George wanted some information on an additional topic. He ordered, Get him out of here!

You won't last the night, polluter!

I seem to have lasted better than your, um, colleagues.

You haven't seen nothing yet.

Like what?

I won't tell you, asshole. Go ahead, torture me. I won't tell you.

Take him away. And get that mickey-mouse rope off him; there are handcuffs in Mr. Tri's room. The attacker was dragged off ranting about impending doom. George took him seriously.

He called, Gato, quickly! There are three boats drifting out there. Take some help, with guns, and bring them to the dock. Refuel them. Gato dashed off. Dave! Manuel! Get your recoilless rifles in those boats. Tie them in so if the boat capsizes we don't lose them. Where the hell is Alvin? Go out to the mother ship, stand off beyond machine gun range, and blow it out of the water.

Where is it?

Northeast. We'll guide you by radio. Also, watch out; they still have seven boats. Hurry; I expect another attack of some kind. Dave and Manuel raced to get their weapons and to find their helpers.

Meiko ran up. George, I can't find Bob, and the room is splattered with blood!

George's heart sank. Hall wardens, who is missing?

Your Bob. Otis and Lee Brownston. Ted Thompson; the others are accounted for. All the Moris. We're over here! Why didn't you check in? Larry Borkof He's dead. Ted and Bob are in the infirmary. Also Dr. Margolis and nurses Davis, Milchak and West.

George's heart lurched. How are Bob and Ted?

Ted is hurt bad, shot in the stomach. Bob was shot in the leg, but he was walking.

Has anyone seen Otis and Lee?

Silence.

Who's their hall warden? Go look for them. I'm afraid of a missile attack, so I want everyone below decks. Wounded who can do with first aid, go below. Those who can't, someone help them to the infirmary. George was thankful to see all the wounded head for the stairs Then a cry rang out. Help! Stretcher up here, quick!

George shepherded his flock to the relative safety of the industrial basement, got Otis carried to the infirmary, and sent three recoilless rifle teams against the enemy in captured boats It was a juggling act, one which a good administrator handles well. But there were other balls tossed in that an administrator rarely has to deal with.

George, I'm going to the infirmary to check on Bob.

Meiko Chou, get to your post! If he's walking around he can't be too bad, and if he's thinking about us, which I doubt, he can ask the guys who took Otis. I want you safe inside, and we need you to plot courses.

What do you mean, he isn't thinking of us? He's a good kid.

He's a kid, not a parent. He's probably either fussing over his wound, whatever it is, or fussing over Ted or Otis. Now scram. Get to your post in the control room. I'm busy. She scrammed.

Dave Rottbaum, Carol Keller and Gato Rodriguez, piloting the captured boat, skimmed northeast across a sea that reflected the moonlight in sparkles and glimmers. The brisk salt air quickened their lungs, and their wills were steeled against the foe by the muffled drumroll of the six-cylinder outboard engine, its shiny new casing now scored and lead-splashed. Motors have no loyalty; they work for anyone, when and if they choose. Guns are the same. The recoilless rifle and its ammunition box were leashed to the gunwale with rope, lest they escape if the boat lurched.

Come around five degrees east, said the radio. Do you see them?

Not yet, replied Carol. Any welcoming committee?

No small boats, and the mother ship is dead in the water with engines off.

Roger, out. They sped on.

Dave, looking ahead, spotted a light on the horizon that was not a star, and at the same time the radio squawked: Numenor to Sharks. You've got company, all seven boats coming straight for you. ETA 1.5 minutes. Spread out 100 meters apart.

They could see the enemy now, three boats coming straight at them, and two each at the other Numenor boats. Gato had played chicken before, but was more familiar with doing it in cars. Dave crouched in the bow, only his helmet and rifle sticking up, while Carol curled beside him, another shell in hand. He called to Gato, Three, two, one … Gato ducked his helmeted head to protect his eyes from the recoilless rifle's backblast. … fire! Kabloom! A burning wind washed over Gato and he jerked the steering to the left. The lead enemy boat erupted in fiberglass tatters and chips of Styrofoam. Look out!, cried Dave, swinging to face sternward, for the next two boats were piloted by sailors, not landbased juvenile delinquents, and even with an enemy they were following the rules of the road and passing on the port, that is left, side. Gato steered between them, barely making it behind the second boat while the third made wild evasive maneuvers. At least the enemy were too busy hanging on to fire their machine guns at point-blank range.

Gato turned back to the original course, Dave and Carol quickly got up from where they had fallen, and Carol reloaded the rifle. Dave carefully aimed at the second boat, which was throttled down the better to turn around, and blew it out of the water. But by the time Carol got another shell in, the third boat was far behind, though in hot pursuit The mother ship loomed ahead. No wonder it could hardly be seen on radar — it was a sailing ship, probably fiberglass with almost no metal aboard except weapons. But the weapons were not few. Before a lance of flame, an anti-tank missile rushed at them. Gato steered left, and the missile turned to follow: human-piloted, either wire-guided or riding a laser beam. Dave and Carol threw themselves in the bottom of the boat, cringing at anticipated pain and death. Gato, acting by instinct, cut power half a second before it hit; the boat suddenly slowed; and the missile buried itself in the sea not three meters ahead of them and exploded. The concussion lifted the boat and turned it completely over endwise, tossing crew and contents into the water. The violent wrench ripped out the transom and the engine vanished from sight.

Coming up for air, Dave saw their remaining pursuer shear off to chase a surviving Numenor boat. His face was lacerated and he felt a small metal fragment sticking out; it came out easily and he was surprised that it hardly hurt. Likely the pain would come later. Other than that he was undamaged except for bruises and for difficulty hearing. He saw Gato and Carol right the boat, which though cracked and minus the stern was still holding their weight. He swam over and crawled aboard.

Do we still have the rifle?, he asked loudly. Another missile leapt from the mother ship, but both remaining Numenor boats knew what to watch for, and twin artillery shells demolished the launcher and control apparatus. The missile dived into the sea and exploded harmlessly. Gato and Carol hauled up the recoilless rifle and the ammunition box — fortunately the rope had not broken. They couldn't move any more, but they could still shoot. Thank God the rifle had a mechanical firing pin, not an electric igniter as some did. Dave dumped the water from the barrel while Carol opened the breech to drain that end.

Kneeling in the flooded middle of the boat, Dave looked for a good target — and found one. All the fore rigging of the mother ship was removed, and a mean-looking missile, perhaps four meters high, was being prepared by frantic technicians. More missiles lay on the deck. Dave, unsure how the residual water would make the rifle jerk, aimed for the middle of the target. Kablam! The backblast was obstructed by the water and Dave was bowled over backward, ending up underwater in the center of the boat. But Carol managed to catch the rifle and keep it out of the water. The shell went high, striking the warhead of the missile, which erupted in a titanic explosion. The bow was blown off, and what remained of the mother ship sank like a stone.

Spluttering, Dave got his head above water. You did it! You did it!, shouted Carol as Gato dragged him up and pounded him on the back.

Did what? Got the missile?

Look! All Dave could see was the moonlit cloud of smoke. None of the mother ship remained. Wow!, he said.

The screams of engines brought them back to the tying up of loose ends. Quick, load me up, said Dave. No longer preoccupied with the main target, one of the Numenor boats was chasing a dismayed enemy who was steering from side to side, preventing good aim. But the tactic did not affect Dave, who was shooting crosswise to the boat's motion. Blam! It disintegrated. The other Numenor boat soon picked off its quarry and the engines wound down to idle.

Dave, Carol and Gato were rescued. As the two boats returned to Numenor, the crew bandaged each other, for everyone but Gato had gotten some kind of wound, though everyone had been able to keep functioning in the heat of battle.

By the time the boats got back, Numenor was jumping for joy. Already a keg was open and more were being brought. Different groups were singing the Numenor anthem, each in its own key and meter, while yet another group was wailing away on relevant sections of Aleksandr Nevsky. George tried to make a speech congratulating the returned warriors, but people thrust paper cups of beer on them and they drifted away either into the crowd or to the first aid station below.

But then George's radio crackled, Margolis to Thompson. Your son is going to be OK. If you can get some relief, it would help us if you would come down here and watch him.

What happened to him? Nobody told me.

He got shot.

Oh, my God! How bad?

In the abdomen, but no permanent damage. We'll kick him out of bed tomorrow.

George, you there? Permission to leave my post? I'm putting Soon Hyong Chee in charge.

Affirmative. Doctor, how's Bob?

That's some kid you've got — he saved Ted's life. We couldn't save Otis, but with Bob's help we gave Otis his best chance, We'll bring Bob with us; we're coming over there now to handle the less seriously wounded. Would you get them sort of organized?

Already done. What happened to Bob and how is he?

He got shot in the thigh. He's in a lot of pain, but it will heal with no problems. He looks a lot worse than he really is.

They brought Bob over on a stretcher. I could have walked, he said, but it would have hurt a lot and it wasn't worth it.

They set down the stretcher and Bob slid himself painfully off, ending up sitting on the deck with his back to the wall. Bob!, said Meiko, who sat down beside him and hugged him tight.

What happened to you, kid?, asked George. You look like you went through a meat grinder! Leg dragging and luridly bandaged; face, legs and sweater splotched and smeared with blood; bare ass on cold concrete; he was a sight to make any parent's heart quail.

Ted Thompson got shot right in front of our room. I guess he was carrying ammunition. I dragged him in, but I got shot too. I thought I was going to die, I was bleeding so bad, but I wrapped my belt around the hole and it stopped. Some guys took Ted to the infirmary, but when they brought in Otis Brownston there weren't enough people to work on both, so I had to help put Ted back together. I held stuff while Nurse Baker sewed it up. Ted is going to be OK.

What kind of stuff?, asked Tamiko. The Moris, seeing Bob arrive, could not restrain their curiosity.

Guts. Tamiko regretted asking. What happened to you, Mr. Mori? Bob had seen the bandage on Hiroshi's head.

Kenji answered, The guy just shot Father! He didn't even say anything, just shot him! Kenji couldn't believe that even a villain could act so callous.

He wouldn't let me look at Hiroshi, added Barbara. Thank God he was only knocked out. His helmet saved him. The vicious brute kicked me away from him and forced us out the door at gunpoint, but somebody shot him.

Hiroshi finally got to answer, I don't remember a thing. I told you this place was going to be dangerous. What's the body count, George?

Five dead. One serious — Ted. I don't know how many other wounded — at least twenty, maybe thirty. Eighty attackers in the small boats, and at least ten or fifteen in the mother ship. One survived, and he walks the plank in the morning.

Dr. Margolis cut in. Mr. Mori, it sounds like you had a concussion. You should lay down now, and stay in bed at least through tomorrow evening. Fat chance, thought Hiroshi.

George, the wounded are below, right? We're going down to take care of them. Bob, thank you so much. You were incredible!

Aww … I hope anyone would have done the same for me.

Stay off that leg, and get some rest, and take the pills I gave you. Dr. Margolis and the three nurses hurried off down the stairs.

I hope I never have to go through that again, said Bob.

Don't count on it, kid, said Hiroshi, ominously.

Dad, the reactor wasn't hurt, was it?

It's fine. Yesterday, I mean before the attack, John called me; they found why the delayed neutron fraction was weird. We can take it critical tomorrow.

Great! May I watch? I mean, everyone is freaking out over me, and I thought maybe I could get a special privilege out of it.

George turned to Hiroshi. What does the NRC think?

The NRC has no jurisdiction. I think he's responsible enough, and he deserves it. Also, he seems to act like a good luck charm.

OK, you can watch, but you have to help by writing down data. You do deserve it, and I'm proud of you. But son, I agree with you; I hope anyone would do like you did if someone were in trouble.

A kid, growing up among active friends always ready to play a joke, learns to be aware of his environment. Bob spotted a small, brown, forlorn figure walking dazed in the shadows near the rail. Oh, no! Nobody remembered Lee! Over here! Lee, come here! Mom, please help me up.

Lee Brownston selected Meiko as a more logical destination, embraced her, and rained tears. He's dead! That man shot him. Daddy tried to protect me and all for nothing. He's dead!

There, there, you're safe now, said Meiko. What do you say to a girl whose father and only parent has just been brutally murdered before her eyes?

I got the bastard. I got him good. I threw him off the balcony. I heard his neck snap when he hit. I knew Daddy was dead when I saw… She burst into incoherent wailing again.

We tried our best to save him, said Bob. But it wasn't good enough. I cried too. Lee was not comforted in the least.

Bob asked, Dad, who will Lee stay with now?

I don't know. We will take care of her for tonight. I guess the fairest way is to ask everyone who is willing to take her to give me their name. Then I think Lee should choose one.

It's going to be rough, going into a new family.

I want my Daddy!, wailed Lee.

Meiko ordered, Come, Lee and Bob. I want you in bed.

Just a minute, please, Mom. I want to ask Mr. Mori something. Now we know for real what this project is costing, not just as a game like you said. Is it worth it?

You mean, because of Lee?

No, she can't go back. But the attackers will come again, and probably will do a better job next time. I talked real big to you about how great the project was, because it was good for me and I was selfish. So your family came and dragged you. I did wrong, didn't I?

Hiroshi thought about that a while. This kind of breeder reactor has a lot less potential for breeding bombs than other types. If we make it go, we likely save many lives. I don't like risking my family and myself for abstract good, but somebody has to do it, and I guess we're stuck. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I just hope you and your parents don't … He looked at Lee.

Thanks, Mr. Mori. Good night, Dad. Mom, can you kind of hold me up? It hurts. Bob's wound was oozing again.

Meiko Chou held the two children as they made their way home. Hiroshi and George watched silently as the setting moon reflected off the trail of blood and the trail of tears.