I. ARIZONA SUNSET

The battle was over. The hot afternoon sun beamed down on the dead and dying. In the cloudless sky overhead, buzzards circled lower and lower, in mute testimony to the carnage in the desert below. On the ground, little moved in the hot, still afternoon, save for the scurrying of an occasional scorpion and the cautious attempt by two roadrunners to reclaim the territory from which they had been abruptly displaced by the furious activities of two hours ago.

The fighting had been quick and decisive. Soaring Eagle's braves had been no match for the cavalry unit that had struck them. They had been vastly outnumbered, and their arms -- more bows than rifles -- were of little avail against the superior firepower of the enemy. Courageous though it may have been, the stand against the cavalry unit was but one more futile attempt to slow the relentless advance of the white man over the Indians' lands.

Soaring Eagle lay unconscious on the ground where he had fallen. He had been shot in the belly as he rode toward the attackers. In the fall from his horse, his head had struck the ground, rendering him instantly unconscious. Lying face up, gut-shot, head bleeding, he had been assumed dead or left for dead -- there having been little question of his eventual fate in either case.

As he gradually regained consciousness, he sensed the burning pain in his side. Semiconscious, his mind was a fuzzy blur. He sensed that something was wrong, and his mind attempted to focus on the hurt in his belly. He moved slightly, and groaned at the jabbing pain that resulted. Slowly, gradually, he fought his way back to consciousness. He remembered the battle. He opened his eyes. The bright light hurt, and he closed them again. He moved his hand down to his stomach, and felt the torn, bloody wound. His mind sickened in the knowledge that, gut-shot, he was doomed.

He lay there motionless for several minutes, his head still reeling, as he collected his thoughts. The battle was evidently over, he realized, the outcome apparent. The sun beamed down relentlessly on him; he was feverishly hot, and his throat was dry. He longed for water to slake his thirst, but he knew that none was to be had. Opening his eyes again, he turned his head to the left and then to the right to see where he was. Twenty meters to his right was a large boulder, shaded on the east side from the afternoon sun. He would crawl to the shade of the boulder.

As he started to move, he recoiled from a jab of pain in his stomach. He decided to stay where he was, but the pain gradually lessened, and he started again to crawl to the rock. After several resting spells he reached his destination, and lay in the relative cool of the rock's shade.

He knew that he was a dead man, and his thoughts turned to making peace with his maker. Feverish, weakened from his wounds and loss of blood, and exhausted from exposure to the hot sun and the crawl to the rock, his mind floated between consciousness and unconsciousness in the panorama of dreams of a dying man.

It was late in the afternoon when Daughter of the Moon and the other squaws and young boys reached the site of the battle. One by one, they found their husbands, fathers and sons. Most of the men of the village had been in the party, and none of the squaws was spared the grief of a lost husband or son.

Because the fighting had been extensive, it was some time before all of the warriors were located. Soaring Eagle was among the last to be found. Daughter of the Moon searched frantically for him among the dead. Was he here, or had he been taken captive, to be hanged by the long knives? She prayed that each brave they found was not hers, and yet she prayed that he was not captured either.

Finally, she found him, lying beside the large boulder. She rushed to him, and placed her ear to his chest. He lived! His life had been spared! Her joy at finding him alive was quickly quashed, however, at her realization that his wound was almost surely a mortal one. She clasped her arms around his unconscious body and, her face on his chest, broke down, first in tears, then soft moans, and then uncontrollable sobs.

She allowed her emotions only a brief release, however, for she knew she must get him back to the village. The available horses were few, and the others were using them to carry their dead to the burial ground. She needed a horse and travois to carry her husband back. She stood up and looked for her son, Night Hawk. Seeing him several hundred meters away, she called for him to come, that she had found his father.

Night Hawk raced to his mother, and, though she tried to restrain him, he was not to be comforted. Still a young boy, he had not yet learned the stoicism of the older men of the tribe.

"You must follow the other women to the burial ground, and bring back a horse and travois," she instructed him. "Hurry! It is almost nightfall. We cannot wait until morning, or your father will die. I will wait here with him until you return. Now go!"

Night Hawk took a last look at his father, and turned in the direction of the burial ground. He jogged slowly, since he knew that he would soon overtake the mourners on their way to the holy place.

Daughter of the Moon turned back to her husband. She dampened a cloth with water from the waterskin she had with her, and cleaned the wounds on her husband's head and abdomen. The cool water on his head roused him to consciousness, and he looked at his wife sitting next to him. His heart swelled that she should be with him in his last his last hours. He struggled to raise himself, but she urged him to be still.

"The others...," he asked, looking back in the direction of the main battle area.

Daughter of the Moon lowered her head and closed her eyes. He knew what her answer was.

"We cannot drive the long knives from our lands," he whispered, his voice hoarse and weak. They multiply like rabbits, and cover our land. Their warriors are many, and are not to be repelled." He paused, taking a series of short, shallow breaths.

"Rest, my husband. Night Hawk has gone for a horse," she comforted.

"I need no horse, for I am finished...."

"Do not talk, husband, you need to rest," she interrupted.

"No, wait, I must speak. Do not sorrow for our lost battle. For the Great Spirit appeared to me in my dreams, and has told me that we shall one day take our lands back from the white man. The Spirit will rain fire on the white man, and destroy all his villages. Our people will once again occupy the land which has been taken from us," he whispered, now gasping for breath, but unable to breathe deeply.

"Rest, husband," she urged, paying little attention to his words, alarmed at his loss of strength from speaking.

Having spoken his piece, he closed his eyes and slipped into unconsciousness once more. Holding his hand, Daughter of the Moon waited anxiously for Night Hawk's return. Darkness had fallen, and stars covered the sky. A blood-red full moon was rising in the east. In the distance, she could hear coyotes howling their mournful calls.

[Abridgement 1.]

II. BOOM TOWN

First Verse:

In eighteen hundred and sixty one

Work on the railroad had just begun

Working on the railroad

Chorus:

Patsy atsy orey ay

Working on the railroad

Workers’ song, sung during construction

of the Union Pacific Railroad

Buzzard Flats, near the Arizona / Utah / New Mexico border…

Cal leaned a little further back in his chair. He was sitting on the front porch in his rocking chair, relaxing in the warm afternoon sun. From the rise on which the house was located, Cal could see off in the distance for kilometers. To his right, several kilometers away, he could see the taller buildings of the small town – village, actually – of Buzzard Flats. To his left, he could see the oilrig, pumping up and down at a slow tempo that matched the lazy afternoon.

Cal reached over and picked up his guitar. He looked down at his two dogs, Rover and Sport, lying at his feet.

“What would you like to hear, Sport?” he addressed the closer of the two dogs, in a conversation that was destined to be decidedly one-sided. Upon hearing his name, the dog raised his head and looked at his master, but realizing that he was to receive no further instructions, he laid his head back on the porch floor. “How about Ghost Riders? Naw, that’s too fast. Or maybe Streets of Laredo? Or how about Cool Water? Yeah, that’s it. Cool Water. Just right for a hot afternoon.

Cal strummed away on the beat-up steel-string guitar, singing every verse of the old-west ballad. As he sang, Rover rolled over on his back, in a futile attempt to get cooler in the hot afternoon. When Cal finished, he placed the guitar back on the low table beside him, and picked up his soft drink.

“Hey, Cassie,” he called to his wife, who was working in the kitchen. “When are we going to eat?” A few moments later, Cassie appeared at the screen door.

“What do you want, Cal? The water was running and I couldn’t hear you,” she said, talking through the door so as not to let any flies in.

“I wondered when we were going to eat,” he repeated. “I missed lunch while I was out today, and I’m starved.”

“Now Cal,” she answered, in a slightly scolding tone. “Supper won’t be ready for another hour or so. I’ve just put the beans on. Why don’t you read the paper?” she suggested.

“The mail’s late. I wonder what the problem is? Damn postal service. Seems every year they get worse. Only twice-a-week delivery service now. Before you know it, they’ll go back to general delivery, and drop rural delivery altogether.”

Just then, off in the distance, Cal spotted the trail of dust that in all likelihood meant the mail truck was coming. A few moments later, Sport raised his head and picked up his ears. The delivery box was open, and Cal had trained his two dogs to retrieve the mail.

As the truck drew nearer, he saw that it was indeed the mail truck, and he spoke to his dogs. “Go to it!” he urged, pointing to the truck.

It was no day for running, but the two dogs took off down the lane toward the mailbox. Cal leaned back farther in his chair, and placed his cowboy boots on the porch railing, crossing them as he crossed his hands behind his head. He smiled as he saw Sport reach the box first, as he usually did. The two dogs reached the box before the truck, and waited as the mail was placed inside. The dogs retrieved it, and trotted back up the lane to the porch.

Cal took the mail from the dogs, and patted them on their backs. “Good dogs,” he praised. Panting, they resumed their prone positions on the porch floor, in the shade of the large pots that rested near the steps.

The mail was about the same as ever. Two Federal Registers, two Commerce Business Dailies, a Time Magazine, two issues of the Wall Street Journal, and the local paper. As he decided which to read first, Cassie opened the screen door and stepped outside onto the porch. She had finished preparing the food, and was going to rest while it cooked.

“Whew!” she exclaimed. “It sure gets hot in there when I start to cook.”

Since the magazine and the Journal were already several days old, Cal settled on the local paper first. He opened it up and glanced at the headlines. He was electrified by what he saw.

“Hot diggity damn!” he exclaimed, in his West-Texas drawl. “Hot damn!” he exclaimed again, sitting up on the edge of his chair.

Cassie dropped her needlepoint to her lap, and looked over at him. “What is it, Cal? What’s going on?”

“Hot damn!” he exclaimed a third time. “The MX is coming to Buzzard Flats.”

“The MX? What’s the MX?” Cassie asked.

“The Maginot Line, Extended,” he joked, never missing for a moment an opportunity to kid. “Seriously, haven’t you heard? MX… Missile Experimental… the MX ballistic missile system! The system of intercontinental ballistic missiles that’s going to be built all over the Southwest. You know, the system that has the big circular railroad tracks.” Cal could see from her look that she evidently had not heard of the system, and he continued. “All along the tracks are missile sites, but only some of the sites contain missiles. A train keeps moving the missiles from site to site, so that the Russians don’t know which sites contain missiles. And there are so many sites that if they attacked us, they couldn’t destroy them all.”

“But Cal, won’t they see the train move the missiles, from their spy-in-the-sky satellites?”

“No, no. The train is always carrying something – either a ‘dummy’ missile or a real one. So even though they see it, they don’t know when a real missile is being moved.”

“So it’s coming to Buzzard Flats,” she asked. “What difference does that make?”

“What difference does it make? What difference does it make?” he repeated. “It means we’ve struck it rich. It’s bigger than the Alaska pipeline. It’ll cost billions! It’s like paving the streets or Buzzard Flats with gold!”

“But Cal. They’ll hire a big construction company to do all the work. How’s it going to help us?”

“Men, honey, men! The workers on the line. With tons of money to spend and nowhere to spend it. After working all day in the hot sun, they’ll want some rest, relaxation, and entertainment. Wine, women, and song! A cold beer, a good meal, a friendly poker game, and – most of all – female companionship!”

“Oh, Cal!” Cassie commented, disapprovingly.

“We’ll do it all! I can see it now!” he swept his arms across the horizon in the direction of Buzzard Flats. “The Golden Nugget Café… the Silver Dollar Saloon… the Paradise Lounge and Motel… we’ll have a chain of them, near every MX site! A complete, integrated service system – we’ll serve the worker from the time he hits town till he stumbles back to work in the morning.”

“But Cal,” Cassie continued with her skepticism – Cal was obviously off on another of his hare-brained schemes and she was playing the devil’s advocate – “won’t he just eat at the construction site?”

“Hey-ell no,” he retorted, in his drawl. “For one thing, the food won’t be any good. More importantly, they won’t allow women on the site. We’ll have such a large covey of girls that he won’t be able to stay away.”

“But Cal,” she continued, “prostitution is illegal in Arizona.”

“Honey, the citizens of the state will love us for what we’re doing. They know that on any project like this, it’s either hookers or their daughters who provide female services to the men. You know – just like around any military base. They know that any twenty-one-gear-old stud is going to have some fun, one way or the other. Hell, if we didn’t provide the girls, the local church ladies’ group probably would – without talking about it, to be sure. Anything to protect their daughters. No there won’t be the least resistance on the matter of girls,” he concluded. “Anyway, prostitution’s legal in Nevada.”

“What about Utah, Cal? You know how religious those Mormons are,” Cassie asked, still skeptical.

“Hell, Utah will be our biggest state. To keep the workers off their daughters, they’ll pass a one-day automatically expiring marriage law, if they have to. You just don’t realize the social impact of injecting thousands of hungry males into conservative-rural areas. Besides, prostitution is always biggest where religion is strong. The only way you can keep a girl a virgin is to have plenty of whores around for the sons. There’s no way the LDS church is going to allow tens of thousands of raving sex maniacs to be turned loose on their flock.”

“I guess you’re right, Cal,” Cassie agreed.

“Money – the men will be itching to spend it. These construction projects in remote areas pay fabulously well. Common laborers on the Alaska pipeline were making twenty and thirty thousand dollars a year, with no place to spend it. We’ll set up the world’s largest auto/truck distributorship. We’ll sell them pickup trucks, sports cars, recreational vehicles, motorcycles, airplanes – the whole bit.” Cal sat back in his chair, drunk with his vision of things to come.

“I can see it all – we’ll sell them everything. MX Drugs – a full-service drug/department store. We can even have our own labels – MX Beer… MX Cigars… MX Chewing Tobacco… MX Cola. We’ll need a holding company – MX Industries, Limited.”

“Oh, Cal, you’re being silly!” Cassie laughed.

“The hell I am!” he protested. “What I’ve mentioned is just the tip of the iceberg. I haven’t been reading all those Commerce Business Dailies (CBDs) and Federal Registers all these years for nothing. The Federal Register tells all about the federal giveaway programs – grants – and the CBD advertises all the federal contracts. For every dollar we rake in from the private sector, we’ll make three of four more from Uncle Sam. To begin with, the federal government will finance the whole deal. Because of the boom/bust impact of the project on nearby towns, no respectable bank will take a mortgage on the buildings we’ll put up. So we’ll qualify for a Small Business Administration (SBA) loan. Next, the government has a rule that all large contractors have to spend ten percent of large contracts on small business subcontractors. As a local firm, we’ll get the state legislature to make sure we get our ‘fair share.’ That’s ten percent, right off the top.”

“Gosh, Cal, it does sound like there will be some good opportunities developing.”

“Good god, you haven’t seen anything yet. Every federal agency has research and evaluation funds for projects that relate to the impact of the MX project. For example, we’ll get a grant from the Economic Development Administration to study boom towns, a grant from the Department of Education to set up bilingual education programs for the workers’ kids, a grant from the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission to study employment of minorities on the MX construction project, a grant from the Department of Transportation to investigate alternative uses of the MX railroad after the system becomes obsolete in a few years, a grant from the Department of Agriculture to study the impact of the developed infrastructure on farming…”

“Hold on, Cal,” Cassie protested. “Things can’t be as rosy as you paint them.”

“Oh yeah? There’s a law that says all these programs have to spend one percent of their budgets on evaluation – that’s in addition to the countless millions they spend on research. Furthermore, they actually have to give much of the money away, in the form of grants, whenever the primary recipient of the work is a group other than the government itself – they can’t even let competitive contracts for it!”

“Did you read all this in the Federal Register, Cal?” Cassie was struck by his wide knowledge of federal programs, and his evident conviction.

“You know it. The government publishes everything that’s going on in the Federal Register.”

“But what happens when the MX system is finished, and everyone leaves? We’ll be right back where we started.”

“The hell we will!” Cal retorted. “The gravy train’ll have just begun. When the project is under way, all sorts of social problems will emerge, and we’ll set up firms – ‘providers,’ they call them – to address those problems. The Public Health Service funds Alcoholism Treatment Centers, Mental Health Centers, Maternal and Infant Care Centers, Migrant Workers’ Centers, Community Health Centers, and Family Planning Centers. We’ll provide ‘free’ transportation (paid for by Uncle Sam, of course) as part of an outreach program to get the workers to our centers – by the way, our auto firms can sell transportation vans to the providers. We can operate all these centers while the MX project is under way. Then, when it’s over, a whole new set of social problems will arise – and a whole new set of federal programs will take over, when the income levels of the people left behind drop. For example, the social services programs will pay for providers to provide alcohol and drug abuse counseling, services to unwed mothers, adoption services, and interpersonal relations counseling. The Department of Labor will fund training centers and job referral centers for the unemployed. Our day care centers will care for children while the women are in training. We can then hire the women back to run the centers. The Department of Agriculture will need a distribution agent for its Food Stamp and Women and Infant Children programs. The…”

“Okay, Cal, okay. I see what you mean. But one man can’t do all that. No way,” Cassie observed.

“You’re right. We’ve got to pull the family back together in order to take full advantage of this gold mine. Let’s see. I have to call Ralph – he’s got an MBA from the Harvard Business School – and Harry – his degree in law is from the University of Pennsylvania – and then there’s Roger – he’s running a small bank in Waco – and Dan – he’s conducting social research projects at UCLA – and…”

“Okay, Cal, dinner’s ready.” Cassie rolled her eyes, as she got up and went inside to serve their dinner. Cal was obviously off on another major project. Last year it was a high-efficiency external combustion engine, and the year before that a commodity mutual fund. From the oil well, they had a comfortable source of income, and they could certainly afford the investment of time, effort, and limited dollars. But all those giveaway programs he was talking about had nothing to do with the government. Oh, well, she reflected, better having him spending time on another hare-brained scheme such as this than chasing women down at the local saloon. And it might just pay off – millions had been made from crazier ideas. As she poured his glass of tea, she heard him on the telephone in the other room.

“Hello, Ralph? Cal here. How’re you doing these days? Hey, that’s great! Say, Ralph, I’ve got this great business opportunity opening up, and I knew you’d be interested…”

“Cal…Cal! Dinner’s served,” Cassie called. But she knew he didn’t hear her, and she sat down to the first in the beginning of a new series of late or missed suppers.

Late in the evening, just before turning in, Cal and Cassie were sitting on the porch. Cal had his feet propped up on the porch railing.

“Are you tired, Cal?” Cassie asked.

“No, just thinking,” he replied. He reached for his guitar.

“Call,” Cassie began, “you’ve said a lot about how the MX will help the local economy, but what about its original purpose? Will it work? Will it protect us from the Russians?”

“Hell no, it won’t work! Doesn’t have a ghost of a chance. It’s too ‘soft’ – the Russians can easily blow the sites to bits. Also there are far cheaper ways of achieving a better second-strike capability. You know, don’t you, that even if the MX works the way it’s supposed to, it doesn’t really ‘protect’ us. The whole point to the system is to make sure that we have enough missiles left to blow the Russians to bits, if they attack us first.”

“You mean that it doesn’t protect us at all if the Russians actually decide to attack?”

“No way – it’s a ‘deterrence’ system, not a defense system. All we get for our hundred billion dollars is the satisfaction of blowing those dog-damned commie bastards off the map, after they blow us off the map – posthumous gratification, you might call it. Hmmm… now that I think about it, that might not be such a bad idea after all.”

“Gosh, Cal, that seems like an awful lot of money to spend just for revenge, if we’re dead anyway.”

“Damn straight! That’s why I don’t mind cashing in on it – making a little jack. One good boondoggle deserves another, I say.”

As they talked, Cal had been strumming a few chords on his guitar. “You know, I’ve got a great idea for a song. Listen to this.” He sat up on the edge of his chair, both feet on the floor. He began strumming his guitar, and, to the tune of The Rock Island Line, sung:

“Well, the MX Line is a might good road,

The MX Line is the road to ride,

It don’t carry cattle and it don’t carry coal,

But we don’t mind, ‘cause it’s lined with gold.”

“Oh, Cal,” Cassie laughed. His good humor was contagious. At times, he was so funny. As he started the second verse, Sport rose to his feet and walked over to Cal’s chair, and started to howl, evidently at a coyote in the distance, but seemingly in concert with Cal. The scene was a riot – Cal singing The MX Line, tapping his foot on the porch in tune with the music, Sport howling. This should be an interesting year.

When he finished singing, Cal chuckled to himself, and placed his guitar back on the table. “Hot damn!” he exclaimed, slapping his knee. “Now, where did I put those federal grant application forms?”

III. THE FASTEST GUN IN THE WEST

The Sun and the Eagle as victors shall appear

A vain response to the vanquished shall be assured

Armaments shall increase

Peace shall be achieved by threat of Destruction

Nostradamus I:38

A weapons proving ground in southwestern United States…

“Mr. President, I believe you’ll be very impressed by our demonstration today,” General Smith began. “This operational test of the laser array represents the culmination of a concentrated ten-year program to develop an electromagnetic radiation (EMR) beam of sufficient power to destroy enemy missiles.”

“I’m looking forward to the demonstration, General,” the President replied. “For years, the possibility of developing a ‘death ray’ laser was dismissed as extremely remote. Could you review for me how you accomplished this seemingly impossible task?”

“Well, Mr. President, there were numerous difficulties to be overcome, but there were two major ones: aiming – which consists of positioning, steering, and tracking – and power. First – and this was the major problem – was the difficulty in aiming the laser beam at a fixed point. Even if we knew exactly where we wanted to aim it, background vibration caused the beam to jiggle slightly. Over short distances, this presented no problem, but over distances of hundreds of kilometers, the beam scanned an area of a meter or more. The intense energy of the laser beam can cause little damage, however, unless it is concentrated on a point, or at least a very small area. If a laser beam rapidly scans a large area, it is no more harmful than a beam of noncoherent light of the same power shining on the same area. For example, aimed at a diamond at close range, a relatively low-power laser beam can cut through it in just a few microseconds. Aimed at the moon, however, the same laser beam would –until now – scan an area of several square kilometers, totally dissipating the incredible destructive force of the beam that is so apparent if it is concentrated on a single point. So spread out, the beam would now be no more destructive than a comparably-powered searchlight aimed at the moon from a few kilometers above its surface.”

“Well, how did you solve the aiming problem?” the President asked.

“Through three related developments. First, we perfected the scanning maser interference radar, which could measure the position of incoming reentry vehicles (RVs) to accuracies of one part in a million. For example, we could pinpoint an RV five hundred kilometers away to an accuracy of less than one-half meter. Such high accuracies are not at all necessary for search/detection radars, or even for crude tracking radars such as those used to support a missile-based anti-ballistic missile system. They are absolutely essential, however, for the high-precision tracking required to place a laser beam on target.”

The General paused for a moment to clear his throat, and continued. “As the second of the three related developments, we perfected an electronic beam steering mechanism, or ESM, which enabled us to place the laser beam right on the target. A mechanical steerer simply cannot steer a laser beam at long distance. Even when it is carefully aimed on a stationary target, it may miss the target by tens of meters. Also, it simply cannot move in the essentially ‘continuous’ fashion required to track a fast-moving object at long distance. With the ESM, the laser beam can be placed right on the RV and kept on it, even though it is moving at high speed. The ESM is so sensitive, in fact, that it can be used to compensate for the ‘jiggle’ associated with background vibration and atmospheric interference as well. To summarize, with our high-precision radar, we know exactly where an RV is, and with our ESM, we can place the beam right on target,” the General explained.

“I thought that vibrations and atmospheric interference were essentially random,” stated the President. “How does the electronic beam steering mechanism overcome these problems,” the President asked.

“Well, Mr. President, that brings us to the third development – tracking. As long as digital tracking systems were used, at sampling rates that did not saturate the processing capabilities of the tracking computers, the vibrations, refractions, and interference did appear essentially random. With the perfection of the analog continuous-feedback tracker, however, the random component of the jiggle was reduced dramatically. That is, the level of the noise in the system was substantially reduced. In effect, the analog tracker enabled the beam steerer to compensate for the jiggle and for much of the refractive and frequency distortions of the atmosphere. About the only noise that remains follows from the fact that there is a slight delay from the time that the beam leaves the ground until the reflected signal is received back. The old digital correlation and tracking systems, based on high-compute algorithms such as the Kalman-Bucy filter, are used only for rough positioning of the laser tube in the approximate direction of the income RVs.”

“Well, tell me, why are so many laser guns used in the laser array?” the President asked, pointing in the direction of the array. “Why not just use one big gun?”

“Well, sir, that brings us to the second major problem we faced – power. Actually, there are two reasons for the multiplicity of guns. First, each gun is set at a different frequency, in order to bombard the target with energy across a good portion of the EMR spectrum. By the way, each gun has its own independent analog tracker,” the General added. “Second, although we have made tremendous strides in the development of high-power lasers, the maximum unit we have been able to develop to date is a one-megawatt unit. In order to fuse RVs and vaporize decoys, we need a one-gigawatt beam. Hence, at the current time we have an array of 1024 independent guns, each of one-megawatt power.”

“Do you mean to say that a full gigawatt of power is bombarded on the RV?” the President asked, quite surprised.

“By the time the RV is three-hundred kilometers from here, yes. At that distance, ninety-five percent of the energy of the composite beam is centered in an area of one square decimeter – about the area of an incoming warhead, head on. At farther distances, the cross-section of the beam is, of course, larger,” the General added.

“One gigawatt of power,” the President repeated. “That’s enough power to run a large city. Where do you expect to get the power to run this machine?” queried the President, his eyebrows raised in skepticism.

“Two sources,” the General responded. “First, we have plans to develop a series of fission reactors, one for each array emplacement. These fission reactors will be replaced by fusion reactors – ‘no-waste,’ or ‘clean’ reactors – as son as the technology is available on a large-enough scale. For the time being, however, we are planning to use the commercial power grid. Since each array will be located near a major city, the power will be available. We are setting up a system that will shunt all of the city’s power to the array, in the event of an attack.”

“I see. Well, I guess that answers all of my questions. Let’s get on with the test.”

“Well, Mr. President, we have actually arranged for a series of three demonstrations,” the General began.

“A full-length feature presentation,” the President joked.

“Yes, sir,” the General responded. “First, we have set up three one-inch thick plates on a high tower several hundred meters from here. One plate is steel, one ceramic, and one high-melting-point plastic. The array will be beamed at the plates, with sufficient beam movement, or ‘jiggle,’ that the beams scan a one-square-decimeter area on the plates. We will fire the beam at the plates for a mere fraction of a second. You can see what happens, with these field glasses,” he added, handing a set of binoculars to the President. “Okay, Major, begin the countdown.”

The Major began, “Ten, nine, eight… three, two, one, fire!”

As the President watched, he saw what appeared to be an explosion in the center of the plates. Not a sound issued from the laser array before him, but a moment later the loud report caused by the instantly vaporized material reached the platform. When the smoke cleared, he saw a baseball-sized hole in the center of the plates. The President was clearly impressed.

“Good god,” he gasped. “That power’s incredible. I can scarcely believe my eyes. But what about the beam? Doesn’t it travel on, after it has hit the plates? What if there’s an airliner passing by?” he asked.

“Well, in the demonstration you just saw, much of the energy was absorbed in vaporizing the materials. Moreover, since in this test we are jiggling the beams by a great deal, the cross-section of the beam widens rapidly, so that it is essentially harmless by the time it reaches commercial air space,” the General explained.

“For the next demonstration, sir, train your glasses on the landing strip to the east of us.” The General pointed to their left. “We’re going to fire twenty jet drones across our field of vision. They will have expended their fuel by the time they reach us. The drones have been constructed as approximate replicas of several known types of nuclear warheads. Watch what happens as the drones soar past us.”

Once again, a countdown was initiated. The drones took off, climbing at a forty-five degree angle into the air to their left. As they passed in front of the observers, all twenty of them disintegrated in violent and fiery explosions. The suddenness of their destruction and the shock of the multiple explosions startled the President. “I thought you said they would be out of fuel,” he asked, surprised.

“They were, sir. The explosions you saw were caused by the pressure of vaporized internal components. The devices exploded in a faction of a second before the metal shells would have vaporized. Note that each drone received only one-twentieth of the total array output,” the General remarked.

The President was awed. The sheer power of this device was shocking. “This device is incredible!” he marveled. “General, I’m impressed! But you said that there were to be three demonstrations. What’s next?”

“The final test is planned for after dark. Between now and then we’ll have dinner, and describe the system in more detail.”

It was shortly after nine o’clock in the evening when they reassembled on the observation deck. The President had been briefed on the final test. Fifty ballistic missiles were to be fired simultaneously toward impact points on a circumference of radius twenty miles from the observation deck, from five firing ranges located about eight hundred kilometers away. Each missile would contain ten multiple independently targetable reentry vehicles (MIRVs) and ten balloon “decoy” RVs. After separation of the MIRVs, the cluster of RVs would be surrounded by a large “chaff” cloud consisting of millions of metallic needles. The RVs on the same missile would be cross-targeted to different points on the target circle. The laser array was to destroy all thousand RVs before they came within two hundred kilometers of the test site.

At the appointed time, a countdown was initiated. A set of television monitors had been placed on the observation platform, in order to view the blast-off of the fifty missiles. At zero hour, the sets displayed some of the missiles taking off. A large map screen had been set at the rear of the platform. Each RV was represented by a point of light on the screen.

Within a minute, all of the missiles had disappeared from sight on the television screens.

“Quite an impressive salvo,” the President commented, as the last of the missiles disappeared from view.

From a computer monitor, a major continued a description of the progress of one of the missiles. “Missile 37 has just cleared the atmosphere, sir,” he reported.

The President glanced into the night sky. He had been briefed on what would happen, but not on what he would see.

“The engine’s just been cut on 37, sir. It’s in free flight on a ballistic trajectory,” he added.

“How fast is the missile going, Major?” the President queried.

“It’s going about 30,000 kilometers per hour, sir.”

The President glanced at the green computer screen, which depicted the velocity of Missile 37.

“MIRV separation has just occurred,” the major said. “You should be able to get a good picture of what’s happening now on the map screen.”

The President glanced at the large illuminated screen, which displayed a map of the surrounding portion of the southwestern US. The major was right. The points of light were now moving well away from their starting points, and several of them were splitting slightly apart into multiple paths of light, as each MIRV, headed in a slightly different direction.

“In an actual attack, the attacker would probably hit each target with RVs from different missiles. We’ve simulated that here by our firing missiles from several different directions, with RVs aimed at different points on the target circle,” the General explained.

“What about the number of missiles being targeted here?” the President asked. “Is this typical of an actual attack?”

“Fairly typical for a large city,” the General responded, “but not for a military target. For a military target, the enemy would probably send two fairly high-yield warheads, such as two five-megaton warheads, against the target. The main point to our test today is the fact that it is virtually impossible to saturate this defense system, even if a large number of small RVs is deployed.

“I take it that the laser array makes our terminal interceptor missiles obsolete,” the President asked.

“No, not really,” the General replied. “They’re still useful for remote targets that do not have available or justify the installation of a high-power electricity generation plant, and are unlikely to be targeted with a large number of warheads. Even so, laser arrays located near our borders will still be used to ‘burn off’ decoys at a considerable distance so that they do not saturate the point-target trackers.”

“The RVs have passed their zeniths, and are headed down now,” the major reported. The map screen showed that the missiles were about halfway toward their target.

The President watched the map screen. The lines of light were converging rapidly toward the center of the screen.

“Watch the array, sir,” the General nudged the President’s arm, and pointed him toward the laser array before them. The array was well lit up, and the President could see the guns start to move, in concert. For about five seconds, they swiveled quickly and silently back and forth. Then, they stopped.

“Well?” the President asked. “What happened? Why’d it stop? I didn’t see anything.”

The General laughed. “Look at the screen, sir.” The President turned toward the map screen. The map was blank; there were no longer any traces on it. Instantly, the impact of what he was seeing – or rather not seeing – struck him. The test was over. The RVs had all been destroyed.

“Good grief!” he exclaimed. The impact of the demonstration was magnified by the absence of noise and light that contrasted this demonstration with the two earlier ones. “I’ve got to hand it to you, General. You’ve developed what appears to be the ultimate defensive weapon against the threat of the intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM).”

“Don’t thank me, sir. Credits go to the scientists and engineers of the US military-industrial complex, and to Congress for having the foresight to commit the massive R&D funds which the system development cost.”

“What do you view the impact of this device will be on the balance of power between the US and Russia?” the President asked the General.

“Sir,” the General responded, and then paused, as he weighed the import of the system’s introduction. “Sir, in my estimation the US once again has a ‘first-strike’ capability.”

The Press Secretary interrupted. “What do you mean, General? We could always strike the Russians first. And besides, this is strictly a defensive weapon. What does it have to do with offense?”

The General laughed at the Press Secretary’s naïveté regarding strategic nuclear warfare, and explained. “A ‘first-strike capability’ doesn’t mean just that we can strike first. Obviously, anyone can do that. What it means is that, if we do strike first, our attack is so devastating, or our defense so effective, that we would receive little or no damage from the enemy’s counterattack. We had such a capability in the fifties and early sixties, when the Russian nuclear delivery system was primitive. We could easily destroy them in our first strike, and they could not inflict any significant level of damage on us in return. All that changed, however, when Russia’s nuclear capabilities finally caught up with ours. Through the late sixties and seventies, we passed through an era of ‘mutual assured destruction’ (MAD), or ‘mutual deterrence.’ Both sides realized that no matter how massive their first strike, the enemy could retaliate with a counterattack of massive destruction. Until now, it was impossible to develop a high-reliability ballistic missile defense. The variety of RVs and penetration aids could outsmart or overwhelm the processing capabilities of virtually any contemplated system. The last serious – or should I say foolish – attempt was the Safeguard anti-ballistic missile system, dismantled in 1976. The laser array and its associated hardware and software components represent the solution to the heretofore unsolvable ballistic missile defense problem.”

“Wait a minute, General,” the President interrupted. “I have a hard time believing that any system is invulnerable.”

“You’re quite right, sir. For any given defensive or offensive system, it is possible to develop means to overcome it. That’s why the ‘arms race’ has continued throughout all recorded history, and will continue forever. These developments, however, take time and effort. Historically, a radical advance in new technology – a technological breakthrough, such as is represented by the laser array – is usually good for at least five years. In this case, since the system is robust against every single penetration measure conceived and developed over the past two decades, I would predict that we have an assured defense for at least ten years to come.”

“Fantastic!” the President exclaimed. “This opens up a whole new era in international relations and foreign policy. Obviously, we would be foolish to let the political potential that this military advantage gives us go unrealized. When will the system be fully operational?”

“Within a year. Compared to missile-based defense systems, the full-scale production costs of the laser array system are remarkably low. The major requirement of the system that could potentially be very costly is the massive electrical energy it demands, and this requirement can be met at no cost simply by tapping the existing commercial power network.”

The President turned to his press secretary. “Set up an appointment with the Secretary of State. We’ve got to completely reassess our foreign policy, and make it consistent with this mammoth change in the balance of power.” He turned to the General. “By the way, General, we’d better reevaluate our first-strike offensive strategies. A first-strike capability isn’t much without a set of procedures to actually implement it.”

“Yes, sir!” the General replied. “I’ll set up a meeting with the NORAD people right away.” The Commander in Chief was obviously pleased with the system and the General relished this moment of triumph.

“By the way, what are the implications of this system to our present deterrence systems, such as the MX system?” the President asked.

“They’re even more important now, sir. Militarily and politically, a first-strike capability gives us a tremendous advantage. When the Russians learn that we are developing such a capability, they might be tempted – were it not for our second-strike capability – to initiate a preemptive first strike right away, before our system is fully operational. Our MX system and the other second-strike or counterattack systems deter them from doing this. In other words, our assured-destruction second-strike systems become even more important when we achieve a first-strike capability. It’s also interesting to note that once the laser array system is ready it will increase the likelihood of survival of our second-strike systems, thereby enhancing their effectiveness.”

“Excellent! You know, this gives me just the leverage I need to get Congress to expand the MX system to several other rural states. There has always been a question whether the system could in fact withstand a Russian first strike, and hence Congress was reluctant to spend money on it. Now, I can visualize our expanding the system to rural areas all over the US, not just in the Southwest.”

“General,” the President continued, “I’m really proud of the new system. It represents a turning point in the history of the US. Confident of our military superiority, we can once again assume a dominant role in world leadership. Our grandchildren will look back on this day as a great one in our history.”

“Yes, sir!” the General replied, smiling broadly.

As they walked back into the control tower, the moon was just rising in the east. Thirty kilometers south of the test site, on a large boulder in a draw leading into a narrow valley, a coyote was howling at a blood-red moon.

IV. STARTING OVER

In the Chiapas Highlands, Mexico…

Juan Carrera and his wife were having a quiet supper alone together. The children were away for the evening, and she had decided that tonight should be a romantic evening. Juan had been away for part of the week, and had just returned that afternoon. She had put on a sheer white dress – his favorite, she believed – and had put her hair up in a special arrangement, just for him.

The sun had set about half an hour ago, and the Milky Way’s bright stars had blanketed the sky overhead. They were having their dinner in the atrium, next to the pool. This was her favorite place in the villa. It was the innermost section of the villa, surrounded on all four sides by the rooms of the villa. The atrium was quite large, and consisted of three sections, all open to the sky. The central section was a bath – actually, a swimming pool – along the lines of the baths found in the villas of ancient Rome, but larger. It was basically rectangular in shape, but with quarter-circles at each corner. Along each of the two longer sides of the pool were six fluted columns, with Doric capitals. On the west side of the bath was an open area that was set in light beige marble. They usually had out-of-door receptions in that area. On the east side was an open area that was planted in zoysia grass. It was generally used as a children’s play area, but this evening it was the setting for their dinner.

The atrium was surrounded on all four sides by the rooms of the two-story house. A balcony with a wrought iron railing surrounded the atrium at the second story level. On the ground level, the atrium was circumscribed under the balcony by a slate walkway. Beyond the walkway were the walls of the first floor – solid glass panels, with a marble walkway on the other side. Beyond the interior marble walkway were the doors leading to the various rooms of the house. On the south side of the atrium, the area beyond the glass door/wall was quite large; this was the formal reception area of the house.

María had just served each of them a glass of red wine, and lit the candles on the table. The evening was quiet, save for the droning of the cicadas and the calls of some parrots off in the distance. Both she and Juan were in a pleasant, relaxed mood, and their conversation flowed smoothly. Juan told her about the business he had conducted in Puerto Madero. Through the courses of the supper, the conversation turned from business, to the children, to plans for a foreign vacation next winter. The children had never been to a cold climate, and they discussed the possibilities of a ski trip to Canada or to Switzerland.

At the end of the meal, Ramón served them each a glass of Kahlua. Ramón had situated himself on the north balcony, and was playing some soft Spanish songs on his guitar. In the quiet of the evening, Juan looked thoughtfully at this beautiful woman at the other side of the two candles. He was very much in love with his wife. Not only was she beautiful, poised, and articulate, but she was kind, gentle, and a good mother.

At the end of the meal, she and Juan sat quietly, looking at each other. She was cooling herself with a hand fan. The evening was unusually hot, and the drinks had warmed her further.

“Let’s swim,” Juan suggested. “The water will be cool.”

María was clearing the table. Juan called to Ramón. “Thanks for the music, Ramón. That will be all. Sra. Carrera and I wish to be alone.” He turned to María. “Thank you María, that will be all.” María and Ramón absented themselves, leaving Juan and his wife alone.

They walked to the pool. As they reached the south, shallow end of the pool, Juan grasped her left arm gently and turned her around to face him. He looked into her eyes, and she smiled back at him. He reached up and removed the two silver combs that held her shiny black hair in place behind her ears, and let her hair fall over her shoulders. He reached to her shoulders, slid the straps of her dress down her arms, and slipped the loose-fitting dress down over her body. She was wearing nothing else, and stood fully nude as the dress fell to her ankles.

She smiled at him, and unbuttoned his shirt. He slipped it off, and removed the rest of his clothes. Taking her hand, they walked together down the steps into the pool. When they reached the deeper section, she dropped his hand, turned over on her back, and floated on her back toward the far end of the pool, her head tilted back, fully submerging her hair.

Juan watched her swim. Her wet breasts reflected the pale moonlight as they reached her arms over her head. Near the far end of the pool, she arched her back and dived backwards into the water, turning a complete somersault underwater, swimming straight to the bottom of the pool where she curved back toward him. Swimming under the water, she reached the shallower portion of the pool where she had left him, and came to her feet in front of him.

Juan grasped her two arms in his hands, and stared into her eyes. “I love you,” he whispered.

“Oh, Juan. I love you so. I miss you so terribly when you’re gone. Don’t ever leave me.”

“Shhh,” he whispered, “I’ll never leave.”

[Abridgement 2. Here follows a tender love scene, between husband and wife.]

Two years later…

As he reached the car, Juan Carrera turned around and took a last look at the house. The sun had just risen, and its bright beams flashed through the trees, painting the house in a patchwork of light and dark splotches. There was a very light mist hanging over the ground, and he could see the rays of the sun cutting horizontally over the lane leading up to the house. The mist diffused the light, giving the whole scene a soft otherworldly cast. Just for a moment, he wondered why he was leaving this beautiful and tranquil place, but he quickly caught himself. The children would be up shortly, and he had no desire to go through last night’s goodbyes all over again. He stepped into the car and closed the door softly. The engine turned over a few times and started. He slipped into low gear and started down the lane.

As he passed by some of the countless thousands of coffee trees that had brought his family wealth through generations, he reflected on his current situation. He had just completed a three-year term as a member of the Chamber of Deputies – the lower house of the Mexican legislature. He could not succeed himself – even if he had wanted to – and his alternate was serving in his place for the next three years.

The year had been a rough one. His wife had died last spring, leaving him to raise four children – two girls and two boys. Granted, there was plenty of domestic help, but it seemed that no one could fully replace all of the caring, attention, and direction of a mother. It had hit the children pretty hard, but in the context of an extensive but closely knit family and home, they had adjusted to the new situation.

It seemed that the loss of his wife had hit him the hardest. At first he had thrown himself into his work. Lord knows there was plenty to do. With the maturing of thousands of new coffee trees, the family business had increased substantially. For years they had operated an export office in the port of Coatzacoalcos on the Bay of Campeche side of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. Two years ago, they had opened a small export office on the Pacific port at Puerto Madero, in the Gulf of Tehuantepec. Most of their coffee holdings were in the Chiapas Highlands, located midway between the two ports. With the increase in the world price of coffee, earnings from their exports had been high, and the capital required to increase the family’s plantings and promote the export office was quite adequate; business had flourished.

Perhaps because of the success of the family business, he had plenty of time to reflect on his loss. His father was still active in the business, and the demands the business placed on Juan were not heavy. He had grown more and more preoccupied with his situation, reflecting on where he was and where he was headed. Finally, in early summer, he decided that he needed a change to sweep him out of his general state of languor. He had contacted several universities in the United States, requesting a position as a visiting professor for a semester. He held a doctorate in agronomy from a highly regarded university, and he had anticipated no difficulty in landing a position.

Although several US universities had extended offers, he decided to spend the semester at New Mexico University, where he could teach a course in tropical agronomy. The other positions were interesting, but his background in tropical agronomy seemed to better complement the New Mexico program than the other two. Also, its proximity to his brother’s estate in Chihuahua would afford him an opportunity to spend some long-overdue time with his brother and his nephews and nieces.

Juan was leaving the highlands now, and passing through some of the more tropical areas of the Isthmus. His family owned some land in this region. There were a number of commodities in which the family held an interest – coffee, rubber, cotton, sisal, mangoes and livestock – but the major portion of their income was derived from coffee. Juan’s brother, Raúl, had managed their cattle interests for several years before taking over his uncle’s ranch in Chihuahua. Juan was not particularly interested in cattle, and after Raúl left, the size of the herds had gradually decreased.

Juan stopped briefly in Villahermosa to deliver some papers to a business associate concerning the disposition of their ownership shares in a sisal processing plant in the Yucatan, and continued on toward Coatzacoalcos. It was quite dark by the time he reached Coatzacoalcos.

Juan checked into a hotel near the center of town. After freshening up in his room, he headed for the lounge on the main floor. Although he was somewhat tired from driving, he was not sleepy, and he wanted to “unwind” for a while before going to bed. The hotel evidently was a fairly popular local spot, for there were a number of local people sitting in the lounge, in addition to the hotel guests. Juan took a seat and ordered a beer.

He glanced at the locals in the bar. He was struck by the “Americanization” of their clothing, and of the music that was playing. It seemed that the world’s dress was becoming a pair of blue jeans and a T-shirt with a motto on the front. He hadn’t noticed this so much down in Chiapas, but it was quite noticeable here in the north.