It was sound mathematically calculated to shatter the nerves of the crowd. Pitch, rhythm, intensity, had been computed by Crawford Bell's machine. Even MacFarland felt hysteria creep up his back.
Its emotions shattered by the women, the money and the sound, the crowd lost its slight discipline and its great motivation. The people staggered under the triple psychological punch.
Sabo's personnel carriers swept forward and threw a cordon of men around the left of the crowd. The convoy raced toward the airport.
MacFarland could see the airport through his binoculars. The helicopter still marked them with its light, but the crowd was a long way behind.
"Cigarette?" Crawford Bell asked.
"No thanks. I'm keeping my mask on."
The psych technician started to take off his own mask, then changed his mind. "They're probably feeling desperate. This is when I'd start using gas."
"It's eleven fifteen. We'll be at the airport in ten minutes." His eyes narrowed. "They must have something left."
The night wind made him shiver. He adjusted the heating unit in his tweed jacket. When he looked up, he saw the lights of the runway. Then he saw the white dome of the terminal building. Before the airport fence and the airport gate, a line of men stood shoulder to shoulder.