From pyramid!decwrl!labrea!rutgers!att!ihlpa!fish Tue Feb 21 09:02:38 PST 1989 Armageddon in Detroit (Part 1) [In the year 1998, one man fights the tyranny of the automobile...] --- A cold November rain beat against the window. The hour grew late. Yawning, I had set down my book and started off to bed when a knock came on the door. I warily crossed the room to peer through the door peep. It didn't look good. There were two grim-faced men in cheap suits outside. I caught a glimpse of more men in the grey uniforms of CFGM Security just on the fringes of the fish-eye view. This wasn't a social call. My 9mm Walther was in my right hand. My left rested lightly on a control panel next to the sill. I spoke into the intercom: "What can I do for you fellows?" "Spiro Bikopoulis?" "Yes?" "United States Secret Service. We'd like to talk to you." "I'm all ears." "Open the door, please" "I can hear you just fine." I saw the taller of the two men motion to the goons. Two of them came into view, ready to kick in the door. I threw a switch on the house's security controls. Instantly, a barrier slammed across the threshold of the front door, and the house shuddered as similar barriers simultaneously covered the remaining doors and windows. It was a metal-polymer laminate I'd developed during my years as a metallurgical engineer. Inch for inch, it was nearly twice as tough as armor plate, yet it weighed only a quarter as much. It, and the reinforced construction of my little ranch house would give me but a few minutes. If they'd come for the reason I suspected, they'd have brought some heavy firepower. I heard bullets thudding against the other side of the barrier. They would try a battering ram next, then explosives. I ran down to the basement. The sequence I'd set in motion upstairs had already opened the sealed door to the secret room I'd built five years ago. I threw aside my bathrobe and pulled on a rugged jumpsuit and mountain bike shoes that awaited there. A gunbelt and flack vest followed. I hopped on the black-anodized mountain bike and opened the heavy door to the tunnel that led down to the river bank, 300 yards away. The chill and dank air seized me as I entered. I paused inside and tapped out a code on the keypad just outside the door. It quietly closed behind me, and I knew I'd never see my little house again. The bike's powerful headlamp stabbed far into the darkness of the tunnel, and I sprinted hard into its depths. Halfway down the tunnel, I heard the muffled explosion behind. I had set the charges to gut the house without causing too much damage to the immediate area, or any innocent bystanders nearby. If, by chance, any of the goons had bashed or blasted their way inside, though, they were toast by now; those charges had been high-temp incendiaries. In any case, they would not follow through the tunnel. Opening the hatch at the tunnel's mouth, I was nearly overwhelmed by a rush of knee-deep water. The heavy rains had swelled the river beyond its banks. I tried to get the camouflaged hatch closed again, but it was hopeless, jammed with mud. The tunnel would be easily visible. Hoping to at least cover my tracks, I rode through the shallow water for perhaps 200 yards before climbing up from the bank. I rode along the river for another half mile before I saw the chopper. A powerful spotlight swept across the landscape, paused, and darted up and down the river bank in the direction I'd come from. They'd spotted the tunnel, no doubt, and were trying to decide which way I'd gone. The chopper turned to and headed my way. I offered a silent curse and took off at a right angle to the river, into the back of the railroad yard. I needed to get to cover fast. There! A freight train was pulling out of the yard, and I sprinted to match speed, pull alongside, and catch the open door of a boxcar. I struggled to get myself and the bike inside before the chopper spotted me. I didn't make it. The light played over the door and instantly returned. The powerful beam followed the boxcar, and I heard the chopper descending. I extracted a drab green cylinder from the mountain bike's heavily laden panniers, extended the fore and aft tubes, and took aim at the spotlight. A squeeze of the trigger and the LAWS rocket found its mark. The chopper exploded and a huge fireball fell from the sky. The train did not stop, but continued to roll out of the yard, picking up speed. It was evidently a robot locomotive, and it would not stop until it was programmed to do so. I didn't know where it was going, but any place was better than here right now. I closed the car's door and pondered my situation. In my bike's panniers and packs were my usual armament of a MAC-10, 12 grenades, a .44 magnum, and extra ammunition. But this particular bike had been especially prepared for this occasion. I also carried two, make that one, LAWS rockets, two satchel charges, and a sawed-off, 16 gauge pump shotgun. The rest of its cargo was less destructive, but perhaps more essential: Dry clothing, dehydrated food, $20,000 in small bills, some forged documents, and a pint of Jack Daniels. I cracked the seal on the last item and took one swig against the chill, replaced the cork, and set the bottle aside. This bike and the gear it carried were now all I owned, and I had to make the best of it. I had known they might close in on me some day, but I had to learn how. That and many other questions burned in my brain. But first, I needed to sleep. I would need a clear head in the morning, wherever I might be then. Where? * TO BE CONTINUED * -- __ / \ Bob Fishell \__/ att!ihlpa!fish