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the men from the observation post, but the three jumped from the van and ran for the central stairway.
    They didn’t quite make it.
    Valentine heard faint whooshing noises from behind, over the Doppler-effect sound of the quickly growing engine noise. The men flung themselves down, recognizing the rockets for what they were.
    The planes had aimed for the floor beneath theirs, as it turned out. Though loud, the only damage the explosions did was to their eardrums. A stray rocket struck their floor of the garage over at the other wing of the structure.
    The van caught some of the blast from below. Their carpeted cubbyhole tipped on its side, blown off its blocks.
    â€œLet’s see if the phone’s still working,” Valentine said.
    â€œWhat if they come around for another pass?” the Arkansan asked, teeth chattering.
    â€œThey’ve got to be out of fireworks by now,” Lewis said.
    â€œYou alright, old horse?” Valentine asked Ahn-Kha, who was inspecting his puddler.
    One business envelope-sized pointed ear drooped. “Yes. The sight may be out of alignment. I dropped it in my haste.”
    Back at the edge of the garage, in the shadow of a supporting column, Valentine gulped and met Ahn-Kha’s eyes before cautiously peeping over the edge of the parking lot wall and surveying the field. A beating sound had replaced the higher-pitched airplane engines.
    Helicopters!
    Gradually Valentine made out shapes through the obscuring smoke of still-burning jellied gasoline and the more recent rocket blasts. A great, sand-colored behemoth with twin rotors forward, and a smaller stabilizing fan aft thundered out of the west. Smaller helicopters flanked her, like drones looking to mate with some great queen bee.
    One of the little stunt planes flew in, dropping a canister near the holes. It sputtered to life on impact and threw a streamer of red smoke into the sky.
    Where’s the damn artillery?
    â€œField phone’s still good, Major,” Lewis said, extracting the canvas-covered pack from the van.
    â€œSpot for the artillery, if it’s available,” Valentine said, trying to give intelligible orders while racking his brain for what he knew about helicopter function. “Target that cherry bomb by the holes. And send Base Defense Southwest to Colonel Meadows.”
    â€œBase defense southwest, yes, sir,” Lewis repeated.
    Another plane roared by, seemingly inches from the garage, with a suddenness that momentarily stopped Valentine’s heart.
    â€œI do not like these airplanes,” Ahn-Kha said.
    Valentine watched the smaller helicopters shoot off more rockets, but these just sent up more thick clouds of smoke, putting a dark gray wall between the observation point and the holes.
    â€œIf we can’t see them . . . set up the puddler. Lewis, any word on the artillery?”
    â€œSounds like they’ve been hit too, sir,” Lewis said, taking his hand away from the ear not held to the phone.
    The twin-rotored helicopter blew just enough smoke away with its massive blades so they could get a quick look at it as it landed by the hole.
    â€œThat’s your target,” Valentine said. “See the smaller rotor, spinning at the end of the tail? Aim for the center of that.”
    Smoke obscured the quick glance, but Valentine had seen something emerge from the hole dug by the worm, a turtlelike shape.
    â€œOur mortars, anything, get it put down on that hole!” They can shoot a hundred shells a day into the Dallas works, but they can’t drop a few on Love Field .
    â€œNothing to shoot at, my David,” Ahn-Kha said, ears twitching this way and that, telegraphing his frustration. The Grog had his gun resting on his shoulder and its unique bipod. The gun muzzle was suspended by heavyweight fishing line from the bipod arching over it rather than resting atop the supports, allowing for tiny alterations and changes in direction, typical of creative