What would it be like to attack this place? Laura could imagine angry, hungry rioters with their pathetic torches and Molotov cocktails—wandering under those towers like mice under furniture. Unable to find anything their own size—anything they could touch or hurt. Growing frightened as their yells were answered by silence—beginning to creep, in muttering groups, into the false protection of the rocks and trees. While every footstep sounded loud as drumbeats on buried microphones, while their bodies glowed like human candles on some gunner’s infrared screens....