"The planes," said Jeffrey. "They're still untouched. They anticipated something like this." He barked into the microphone. "All stations, ascending frequency!" he ordered, and turned to Hoshawk. "We don't know how effective this will be. It isn't as powerful as the static ranges. But—"
"It is! They've got the range!" cried Hoshawk.
Jeffrey looked. Near Albuquerque, New Mexico, a cluster of orange lights was being consumed by the purple glow. Jeffrey shot a glance at a dial. "All stations! All stations! Frequency seventy-two thousand, nine eighty. Emergency. Frequency seventy-two thousand, nine eighty."
And the purple glow rolled and spread and consumed Forgacs' bombers by the thousands.
At last Wadsworth looked at the Map, with nothing left but the dead embers of a mighty army.
Hoshawk shook hands with him and then looked for a place to sit down for a moment. "Sire," he said at last, licking his lips with the tip of his tongue, "if it isn't presumptuous, I'd stand the check for a dish of that new ice cream."
Jeffrey looked at him and smiled. "You'd better have one yourself."
Hoshawk's grizzled face was solemn. "I'm going to," he said.
