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video photography was seemingly from a helicopter, apparently using zoom lenses from a distance, the sound pickup was on the ground, with the infantry.
    Then there was another sound, the growing sound of helicopters. Their threat, their promise, drew his attention from the gunfire. Then a camera showed them coming, a flight of five, lean and not very large. As they approached the ridge, four of them veered and began to circle it at a little distance. The fifth moved nearer, and he could hear a bull horn of some kind calling on the paras to lay down their weapons, and file down the ridge with their hands on their heads.
    It had only begun to repeat the message when a rocket struck its lightly armored side. The craft staggered, then veered away, still flying. The others didn't hesitate; they came in shooting, releasing searing flights of antipersonnel rockets, while their chain guns ripped the fabric of morning. The rockets tattooed the forest then, the upper ridge slopes, throwing debris. The attack continued for perhaps half a terrible minute before the choppers withdrew.
    The cameras didn't show the result—limp bodies, wounded prisoners. The photography, Haugen thought, must be military; the intent was not to shock but to sober, and to demonstrate that the government was in full control. He felt effectively sobered indeed. The network commentary was brief; there'd been several significant fights between military units and backcountry paras.
    There'd also been a siege, of "La Raza" paras who'd captured and fortified a country jail in rural New Mexico. There was no footage of the firefight, but a silent camera, after the fact, showed the heavily pockmarked building, and inside, rooms shattered by rockets and grenades, large bloodstains on the floor. Most of the seventeen paras there had died. The military force had been a national guard company whose troops were also from northern New Mexico.
    Interesting, Haugen thought. It was as if people were reacting against the destructive violence of the few, even when the few were their own. Perhaps most of them were ready to try keeping the machinery going, trying to survive.
    Coverage had shifted to central L.A. when the phone buzzed. Haugen touched a key to cut the sound volume from the TV, then answered the phone. His secretary's voice issued from the speaker.
    "Mr. Haugen, there's a General Cromwell for you on line one."
    A puzzled frown touched Haugen's face. "Thanks, John, I'll take it." He hadn't seen Jumper Cromwell for—it had been three years in September. He touched the blinking key, and the general's face appeared on the phone screen. "Good morning, Jumper. What can I do for you?"
    At his end, Cromwell was renewing his image of Haugen's face: broad, with high strong cheekbones, a wide mouth with the thin lips of age. The nose was somewhat flattened and slightly crooked, probably a souvenir of some long-ago brawl.
    "It is a pretty good morning here at that," Cromwell answered, "compared to the last couple. Arne, can you fly to Washington today? If I send a plane for you."
    "Fly to Washington? What for, Jumper?"
    "It's confidential. I can't tell you over the phone."
    "Umh! How long would I be there?" Haugen's mind was reviewing his plans for the week as he asked.
    "Maybe a day, maybe longer. Depends on what you decide to do after we've talked."
    He wouldn't be asking me if it wasn't damned important—to him anyway. Haugen told himself. And for a day or two...
    "Sure. I can do that. I suppose that'll be from Duluth International?"
    "Right. I'll have you picked up at the Air National Guard Office. Just make yourself known to whoever's in charge. Or if there's any problem about getting there, I can have you picked up at home or your office."
    "No. I'll have someone take me."
    "Good. It's—what? Eight twenty-five there now?"
    Haugen glanced at the clock. "Right."
    "It's about a two-and-a-half-hour flight for the plane I'm sending, and it'll leave here in about an hour. Then