By noon the next day, the convoy was approaching the North Carolina state line.

The area around the north side of the border looked as if it had been hit by a massive hurricane. The forests had been flattened by army bulldozers; low spots had been filled in, earthwork barriers had been built. Behind them, the army had placed artillery pieces and missile launchers; a formation of tanks stood on either side of I-95, ready to greet the convoy. The highway itself was not blocked at the border, but it was closed off ten miles north.

The south side, by contrast, had not been touched. The sprawling tourist complex known as "South of the Border" had been temporarily abandoned, but otherwise it looked like it did every other day, the huge sombrero tower shining in the sun and the giant statue of their mascot, "Pedro," smiling down at his domain. Nothing moved anywhere. Knowing, if not from personal observation then from the incessant news reports, that a massive conflict was about to take place here, all the residents had fled.

On the north side, half a mile up from the border, General William Hammerhill stood atop a lookout tower and gazed down the highway through his binoculars. By then, the lead trucks in the convoy, now using all four lanes of I-95, were just coming into view. Ahead of them was a little cluster of about eight cars and vans. "I cannot believe," he said, "that they're behaving so stupidly. You'd think Admiral Hansen would have given them some advice!" He shook his head. "I certainly expected better. Their ground forces are supposed to under the command of a National Guard officer named Miller. We must not have quality officers in the Guard these days." He lowered the glasses and glanced at his aide. "What's the word from the eastern and western divisions?"

"No activity," the aide reported. "They haven't seen a thing. The sent up some helicopters, and they did not get challenged by Navy jets. They haven't seen any. And they don't see any army."

"Huh! Maybe Hansen's come to his senses. A little late, I'd say." He raised the binoculars again. The trucks were still coming. "Can they really expect," he asked rhetorically, "to roll in here and overwhelm tanks and artillery with handguns?" He let the binoculars hang from his neck and walked around the tower, looking up at the skies. "No jets here either," he murmured. "Navy or Air Force."

"Something's not right." the aide said.

The General seemed to consider this for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't think so. Their strength is in their numbers. I think they must be planning to try to close with us, try to use those numbers to best advantage. They're taking a chance, hoping we won't open fire on them from a distance. That's why the jets haven't hit us already. They don't want the shooting to start until they're pouring in here."

"Seems like a dangerous plan," the aide offered.

The General chuckled. "And so it is!" He peered through the binoculars again. "That truck there, on the far right--black Kenworth tractor. Isn't that the one intelligence identified as Abbot's command headquarters?"

"Yes, sir."

"Be nice," he clipped, "to take her alive. Hand her over to the President as a gift." He looked now without the binoculars. "Send out a general order," he said. Artillery battery Delta, Tank group Charlie, Tank group Zebra. At a range of one-quarter mile, fire on those cars and whatnot leading the big trucks. When they stop, target a line down that highway, starting 500 yards behind the trailers."

"Yes, sir."

"Let's get a chopper up, too. Try to see what's going on behind those trucks. If he should get challenged by aircraft, tell him to get his butt down fast."

"Yes, sir."

The General picked up his binoculars again. Silently, he watched. The trucks came on. Very soon now, he told himself. Very soon.

Then he heard the artillery go off, followed quickly by the tanks firing. Hoping they'd done the targeting well, he watched eagerly. Explosions lit up the scene in front of him, bright white blasts followed by red-tinged black clouds. For a moment he could see nothing.

"Sir?" the aide said.

"Yes?"

"Uh, sir, the chopper is up there now--and he says there isn't anything behind those four trucks."

Frowning, the General turned to him. "What?"

"Those four trucks, and the cars leading them--that's all there is."

"Can't be. Tell him to look again." He looked through the binoculars again. The targeting, he noticed with satisfaction, had been done perfectly. Craters had been blasted in the highway, pieces of the cars and vans were scattered everywhere, and the cabs of each of the trucks had sustained major damage. But the trailers looked intact. He could not, however, see beyond them.

It didn't matter anyway, he told himself. This wouldn't look bad, this would look like restraint. Blasting the trucks to pieces would have seemed like overkill.

"Sir?"

"Yes?

"The chopper pilot verifies. The rest of the column is not back there. He says he thinks he can see them back in the distance. But they're headed the other way."

The General sighed. "Very well. Order cease fire. Then get satellite recon on the horn."

"Yes, sir." The aide gave the order, then made the call. After a moment, he looked up. "Sir? Satellite recon says the main body of the convoy stopped twenty miles back down the road. It also says the convoy seems to be breaking up."

"Breaking up?"

"Yes, sir. Groups of vehicles going off in different directions." The aide stopped and frowned. "It also says the Jimmy Carter and the rest of Hansen's task force is headed up Chesapeake Bay. At full speed."

"What?" The aide repeated it. "Let's get down there," the General growled. "And send a team to check out those trucks. I want to know who was in them!" He descended the tower quickly, followed by the aide; both got into a waiting car and, at the General's command, drove down the road toward the smouldering trucks. The team beat him there by seconds; at the edge of the craters he called for the car to stop. Getting out, he stood watching while his men investigated the trucks.

After a few minutes, a Lieutenant came back to brief him. "Something's strange, sir," the young man said. "The truck cabs are wrecked but not destroyed. Sir, there are no drivers in them."

"What?"

"No drivers. We don't see any evidence of human remains from the cars and vans, either."

"But--how can that be? They were driving along the damn road!"

"I don't know yet, sir."

"Damn!" He scowled. "Let's go. I'm going to walk down there myself."

"Sir, that's not advisable, we haven't checked the trailers yet."

"Why not?"

"They're locked, sir."

"Shoot the damn locks off!"

"Yes, sir."

With a long stride, the General walked around the craters and down to the trucks. Men with fire extinguishers had eliminated the danger of fuel explosions; other soldiers, a lot of them, stood around with rifles at the ready. Cautiously--but aware that he was being filmed by an Army photographer whose signal was being relayed back to Washington--he approached the remains of the black Kenworth. The driver's side door was open; he looked inside.

No driver. But he did see, almost immediately, a belt drive attached to the steering wheel. Servo arms on the accelerator, brake, and clutch. Another on the gearshift. A TV camera with a fat wide-angle lens sitting up atop the back of the driver's seat.

Remote controlled. He sighed. They'd been baited; there was, he was quite sure, no one at all in the trailer, much less Melanie Abbot.

"General Hammerhill," a voice said. "What a prize."

He jumped back; a couple of soldiers standing nearby came running. "What?"

"Oh, I'm not here, General. I'm forty miles away, actually. I can see you with the camera. Our system is still working. Let me show you." The motor operating the steering wheel came to life, and the wheel moved back and forth a little.

"Who are you?" the General snarled.

"Doesn't matter. A member of Melanie's army. But my name, in case you care, is Al Calder."

"What did you hope to accomplish with this silliness?"

"Sort of a test, General. Would you fire on cars and trucks just coming up the road toward you? We wondered. Personally I'm not surprised that you did. After all, I have come across your name--in the lists of those getting payoffs from Washington."

"I do not know what you are talking about," the General replied stiffly. He heard several gunshots but ignored them. The soldiers shooting off the lock, he assumed.

"Yes, you do. But it doesn't matter, not now." There was a little pause. "Oops. My back sensor just went off. Guess your boys have the back doors open. Well, I'll wait just a minute here. You really should know, and personally I want to see the expression on your face."

"What the hell are you babbling about?" the General snarled.

Just then, a soldier came running up from the back of the truck. "Sir! Sir! You need to go back, quick!"

"What? What?"

"The trailer! It's full of ordnance, sir! And it looks like there's a remote detonator!"

His eyes widening, the General looked back at the TV camera. "You knew we wouldn't hit the trailers..."

"And you'd try to take Melanie alive, for a nice public burning at the stake. We figured, yes. In fact Melanie ordered us not to set off the bombs if you simply stopped the convoy by blocking the road. But you fired on it, and I personally am not sorry about that. You're maybe a little too predictable, General." The voice laughed. "Good-bye, General."

The explosion that took place a second later dwarfed the ones that had stopped the column. The ground shook; many of the earthworks the army had so painstakingly constructed were partly blown away. At South of the Border; giant Pedro leaned, rocked, wobbled, and finally fell over onto his smiling face. As the shock wave hit the tower it went down, but the concussion caught the huge sombrero, lifted it, and sent it sailing like a frisbee. Several seconds later, a rain of debris, some of it flaming, began; pieces of trucks and military equipment came crashing down everywhere. In front of one of the tanks, a burnt piece of uniform, an epaulet with four stars attached, fell to the ground.

It still had part of a shoulder attached to it.