“Not yet, but very soon. Unless you have some more data for me, I’ll give them their final instructions right away on Circuit A.”
“No, sir, you might as well go ahead.”
When Circuit A was reported back as ready, Ardmore cleared his throat.
He felt suddenly nervous. “Action in twenty minutes, gentlemen,” he started in. “I want to review the main points of the plan.’
He ran over it; the twelve scout cars were assigned one each to the twelve largest cities, or, rather, what was almost the same list, the twelve heaviest concentrations of PanAsian military power. The attack of the scout cars would be the signal to attack on the ground in those areas.
The scout cars, with one exception, were poised even as he spoke, in the stratosphere over their objectives.
The heavy projectors mounted in the scout cars were to inflict as much quick damage as possible on military objectives on the ground, especially barracks and air fields. Priests, being nearly invulnerable, would supplement them on the ground, as would the projectors in the temples. The “troops” made up from the congregations would harry and hunt. “Tell them when in doubt to shoot, and shoot first. Don’t wait to see the whites of their eyes. The basic weapons are good for thousands of activations without recharging, and they can’t possibly hurt a white man with them. Shoot anything that moves!
“Also,” he added, “tell them not to be alarmed at anything strange. If it looks impossible, one of our boys is responsible; we specialize in miracles!
“That’s all — good hunting!”
His last precaution referred to a special task assignment for Wilkie,
Graham, Scheer, and Downer. Wilkie had been working on some special effects, with Graham’s artistic collaboration. The task in battle required a team of four, but was not a part of the regular plan. Wilkie himself did not know just how well it would work, but Ardmore had assigned a scout car to them and had given them their head in the matter.
His striker had been dressing him in his robes as he spoke. He settled his turban in place, checked his personal pararadio hook-up with the communications office, and turned to say good-by to Kendig and Thomas.
He noticed a queer look in Thomas’ eyes, and felt his neck turn red.
“You want to go, don’t you, Jeff?”
Thomas did not say anything. Ardmore added, “Sure — I’m a heel. I know that. But only one of us can go to this party, and it’s going to be me!”
“You’ve got me wrong, Chief — I don’t like killing.”
“So? I don’t know that I do, either. Just the same I’m going out and finish Frank Mitsui’s bookkeeping for him.” He shook hands with both of them.
Thomas gave the signal of execution before Ardmore reached the PanAsian capital city. His pilot set him down on the roof of the temple there after the fighting in the capital had commenced, then gunned his craft away to take up his own task assignment.
Ardmore looked around. It was quiet in the immediate neighborhood of the temple; the big projector in the temple would have seen to that. He had seen one PanAsian cruiser crash while they were landing, but the speedy little scout car assigned to that task he had not been able to notice.
He went down inside the temple.
It seemed deserted. A man was standing near a duocycle car parked garagelike on the temple floor. He came up and announced, “Sergeant Bryan, sir. The priest — I mean Lieutenant Rogers — told me to wait for you.”
“Very well, then — let’s go.” He climbed into the car. Bryan put his little fingers to his lips and whistled piercingly.
“Joel” he shouted. A man stuck his head over the top of the altar.
“Going out, Joe.” The head disappeared; the great doors of the temple opened. Bryan climbed in beside Ardmore and asked, “Where to?”
“Find me the heaviest fighting — or, rather, PanAsians, lots of them.”
“It’s the same thing.” The car trundled down the wide temple steps, turned right and picked up speed.
The street ran into a little circular parkway set with bushes. There were four or five figures crouched behind those bushes, and one sprawled prone on the ground. As the car slowed, Ardmore heard the sharp ping! of a vortex rifle or pistol — he could not tell which — and one of the crouching figures jerked and fell.