"What?" Melanie cried.

"I said, we're under attack," Miller told her breathlessly. "Damn it, we overlooked something. Those Green Berets and Rangers, commando raids are their specialty. They're hitting the back of our column in three places. Two on our flanks and one right up our butt."

She glanced at Harry. As they both well knew, there was a large military truck back there, almost at the very end of the long column, which was being used as a command communication center. Inside were Rachel and Eileen, along with Captain Garner, eight survivors of the Preserve, and several Navy communications experts.

"I thought," Harry said, his tone mild but his voice betraying strain, "that we had a group of SEALs covering our rear."

"We do," Miller said. "And they've turned away the attack at the rear, the com truck is okay, no casualties back there." He fell silent as both Melanie and Harry breathed sighs of relief. "I'm getting more reports in now," Miller went on, listening to his headphones intently. "They hit the middle of the line twice, both times from roadside woods. Hit-and-run tactics, they left in a squadron of small fast helicopters, flying low. First one wasn't too bad, thirty-five casualties on our side, six on theirs. Second was further back where people were less alert and it was rough. We lost fifty, they lost only two."

"Eighty-five to eight is still damn bad," Melanie growled. "Let's get the word out to the troops--speed it up. They're trying to slow us down, and we can't let them do that. Get the word out for people to be aware of the possibility of these hit-and-run attacks along the column, especially when they're passing by woods and other cover. And tell the Navy pilots to be on the lookout for groups of those little helicopters, we won't be using 'em and they can assume they're Green Berets or Rangers on a commando raid." She paused, looking down at the moving column. "By the way, does anyone know if Fred Lufkin made it through the day?"

"He did," Dave called from further back in the aircraft. "He's still out front, still leading the way."

She smiled. "He's a survivor too," she commented. "That's our pace car. Contact him and tell him we want to be at the Beltway within fifteen minutes max!"

Within seconds after she'd given the command she saw the lead truck speed up somewhat. Within ten minutes, the Washington Beltway was already in sight--at least from Melanie's helicopter--and contact with the soldiers set to defend it was just minutes away. In several places alongside the interchange, plumes of smoke were rising; these, Miller said, were the results of air strikes that had taken out a couple of tanks and artillery pieces and a unit set to fire mortars. This, however, did not mean there wasn't going to be any fighting at all. Across the highway stretched several parallel lines of paratroopers, ready and waiting to challenge the advance into the city. Many of them were not even trying to take cover. Like British Redcoats of old, their front line was arrayed in triplicate, prone men ahead of kneeling men with men standing behind them. There were others, though, who had set themselves up alongside the highway, ready to catch the front of the column in a crossfire.

As before, it began with the launch of several RPGs from the soldiers. Knowing what those smoke trails meant, the two most-forward groups--a large group of students and one of the groups Melanie had started calling "locality" groups--immediately split off the road in opposite directions and began running forward. She saw Fred stop his truck and leap out, running for cover, carrying his rifle--the students that had been riding in back were already gone. One after another, vehicles stopped and people spilled out of them. The next group back, another "locality" group with some heavily-armed National Guardsmen mixed in, also left the road. By the time the RPGs arrived, there was almost no one left for them to kill, only a couple of stragglers--although several trucks were destroyed. At the same time, the National Guardsmen returned the attack in kind, sending a barrage of their own RPGs over the advancing civilians' heads.

At the same time, the two front line groups rushed on. These were fresh fighters; those who had been in the hard battles earlier, including the group Joan had been a part of, had been moved further back to allow them to rest. The "locality" group, their women dressed in the standard shorts and T-shirts, was the first to come within rifle range of the soldiers as they collided with those who'd taken cover just off the road. The paratroopers opened up on them, and the whole front line, twenty men and almost as many women, went down. The others pushed on, firing back, and the soldiers started falling as well, in almost equal numbers. That forced them to start backing away toward the larger mass of soldiers blocking the road. In this group, Melanie saw several examples of wounded men and women struggling to their feet and forcing themselves on ahead while others came up behind them, and, using their bodies as shields, fired over their shoulders or around their sides. Few of them lasted long, but they gave their comrades a slight advantage, which in these close fights could mean everything.

On the other front, the students did a little better. Not as tightly packed as the others and moving faster, they did not lose nearly as many in that first volley. Melanie watched the "first-wave" sort itself out and saw this group, mostly women, hurl themselves at the soldiers, firing their rifles wildly. A number of them fell; one short-haired and big-breasted blond seemed extraordinarily tough, the soldiers had to shoot her at least ten times before she finally went down. These soldiers also fell back, trying to join the main group, but the students closed on them very rapidly, and soon enough the bayonets were coming into use again.

A svelte redheaded girl with very white skin was the first student Melanie saw take a bayonet, a soldier driving it into her solar plexus as she rushed toward him, the shock causing her to drop her weapon. Almost exactly as Jamie had done earlier, she grabbed the barrel of his rifle and pushed herself on toward him, keeping him off-balance and driving the blade deeper into her own body. A small-breasted and strikingly pretty girl with dark hair cut in bangs raced up and shot him, but she almost immediately took a bayonet herself, between her ribs. She did not drop her rifle, though, and she was able to shoot and kill this man as well. Meanwhile, the slender redhead, whose attacker had pulled out his bayonet in falling, staggered onward. She was bayonetted again, just above her groin, and again she grabbed the barrel of her attacker's rifle and pushed herself toward him. The dark-haired girl, blood streaming down her side, was right at her side, and she shot this man as well. The redhead fell to her hands and knees, bumping into a soldier who turned and stabbed his bayonet into her side--only to be immediately shot by the dark-haired girl. As the dying redhead sank to the ground, two soldiers, almost simultaneously, plunged bayonets into the dark-haired girl's belly. Like her companion she pushed herself forward onto the blades, but she still did not drop her rifle and she managed to shoot one of these new attackers. As he fell, a third soldier drove a bayonet into her chest under her breast, and finally the rifle fell from her hands. The previous attacker snatched his bayonet out of her belly and then immediately drove it back in; but with the last of her strength she threw herself forward a final time, keeping the blades deep inside herself and keeping both soldiers off balance long enough for her companions to move in and kill them both. Melanie shook her head as the dark-haired girl finally fell. The pair of them had, in effect, accounted for seven of the enemy.

Meanwhile, the third group containing the National Guardsman had gone right down the center and, after suffering significant losses from the first volleys from the organized lines, rapidly closed on them. These people were acquitting themselves just as well as the students had, and in many cases in pretty much the same manner. The idea of acting as a living shield after one was wounded seemed to have taken hold strongly in these groups. Melanie watched one brown-haired woman, shot in the chest, spin around and throw her arms around the neck of the man behind her. Almost carrying her the man continued to advance, shooting around her body while bullet after bullet tore into her back.

Under this sort of pressure, the soldiers started falling back quickly. This battle did not last long at all; less than fifteen minutes later the soldiers were in flight back toward the center of town. After a few minutes of reorganization--those groups that had been in this battle moved back and fresh ones came forward, and wrecked vehicles had to be moved off the highway--the column started up again.

The Washington Beltway, the last known major obstacle to the city, had been crossed. At Melanie's command, the helicopter drifted along just above and to the right of the lead truck, which was moving again.

"I wonder," Melanie said, "where those Green Berets have gone? I thought they'd try to hit the line again--try to slow us down some more..."

"I dunno," Miller told her, "but the battles like the one we just fought, they're over. The Marines, six divisions of them, are just about to enter the city from the south. They expect to link up with us in about twenty minutes or so."

Melanie started to tell him to get in touch with them and tell them to hold their position, that she and her troops were doing fine on their own. But, before she spoke, she reconsidered. She had been sending her people to their deaths by the thousands, simply because they had no other way to fight. To tell the Marines to stop meant there might be more of those--smaller in scale, but similar--with hundreds more dead. Your pride, she told herself, is hardly worth that. "Wonderful," she answered aloud. She smiled. "Tell them we'll be looking for them."

"They're wanting to know what you want them to do," Miller went on. "You're in command, of course. The Colonel I'm talking to wants to send his congratulations for the way you conducted your campaign, and he wants me to tell you how impressed they are with the courage of your troops."

She felt a warm glow. "Yes, of course. Thank him for me, please. And tell them they can take the front of the column, put a couple of divisions there. The others to merge in at intervals, we want to give our civilians a presence in the entry. For posterity, I'm assuming they're done fighting."

"Understood." He relayed the message, then closed the connection. At that point the helicopter rose abruptly; Melanie looked to see why and saw some high-rise apartment buildings ahead, the pilot was just going up enough to safely avoid them. As they passed beneath and behind them, he started dropping down again. During the rise and fall he'd also, perhaps inadvertently, sped up a bit, so that now they were leading the front of the column by a few hundred yards.

As they descended, none of them noticed that they were dropping down right into an position the Green Berets had established, apparently to ambush the front of the column.

Immediately, the soldiers on the ground opened fire on the helicopter. The pilot swore and started pulling up again; Melanie had just a glimpse of the Green Berets rapidly breaking their position--logical, since the element of surprise was now gone.

Then she and everyone else in the ship was tossed to the side as an explosion shook the rear end of it.

"Stinger!" the pilot yelled. "We've been hit, I'm losing the rear rotor, I've got to put it down!"

The aircraft started turning. Melanie struggled to her feet and, fighting the list of the deck and the swinging motion, fought her way back to the cockpit. The helicopter was losing altitude rapidly, and it was headed the same direction the Green Berets had taken.

"Not that way!" she screamed.

"Sorry ma'am, got no choice," the pilot clipped as he fought the controls. "I can't tell her which way to go anymore, she's going her own way. All I can do it pick a soft spot!"

"Damn!" Melanie heard Harry yell. Then the helicopter lurched to the side and she lost her balance. With alarming speed, the aircraft came on down; Melanie had visions of them crashing right into the high-rises they'd just passed. From the floor, she saw Dave and Mitch frantically sending out SOS signals from their stations in the middle of the craft.

The pilot managed to miss the buildings; he found some sort of open park or grassy area and dropped the helicopter down into the middle of it. It was a rough landing; the wheels gave way as it struck the ground too hard. It rolled over onto its side, the rotors hitting the ground and breaking apart.

Harry looked up from the floor. "They say," he noted, "that any landing you can walk away from is a good one. I guess that makes this a good one."

"Everybody out, quick," the pilot said, leaving his seat. "Can't guarantee the fuel won't ignite."

He did not have to say more. No one seemed injured; with the pilot in the lead, all of them headed for the rear exit, the only one not either pressed into the ground or accessible only by climbing.

Just before they got there, though, the door popped open. Melanie, who was right behind the pilot, stopped short--as did he. Both of them were staring down the muzzles of submachine guns. Guns held by Green Berets.

"Get your hands up," one of them, apparently an officer, said. "And come on out. You are now our prisoners."