Ill Wind Part 26

Jackson and Daphne Harris, Doog, and the rest of the wacked-out commune had welcomed him and Iris in, giving them an old trailer to stay in. Todd was still embarra.s.sed to be living with Iris without being married, but neither Iris nor the hippies seemed to care; it just didn't fit in with the other women Todd himself had known, who either jumped from bed to bed or were dying to get married. But he stuck to his guns, insisting he would move out as soon as another place became available. He'd promised to take her away from Stanford, which he'd done, but he had not demanded to sleep with her as some kind of reward.

Iris accepted his companionship at face value, and from the other bed in the trailer she talked to him far into the night when he just wanted to go to sleep. During the day, when he didn't think she was looking, he admired her pet.i.te figure, her dark almond eyes, and her jet-black hair. Iris seemed to have the energy of two people coiled inside her wiry body. He'd learned not to underestimate her. He felt his attachment running deeper, so deep that it frightened him.

But he didn't want to just stay here and settle down. Todd found himself growing restless, wanting to do something more than mundane ch.o.r.es. He still felt responsible for the whole mess they were in-if he hadn't been so eager to spray Alex's darned bugs. the petroplague would never have happened. To soothe his own restlessness, he took long rides on the horses, ranging far from the commune when the goofb.a.l.l.s at the commune drove him crazy.

He had appointed himself liaison between the Altamont colony and the remnants of the Livermore Lab on the other side of the range, where the once-large government research laboratories still had a few programs cobbled-together and sc.r.a.ps of barely functional equipment. Following the road, Todd reached the crest of the hills and headed west toward the city of Livermore to see if the labs had come up with anything new.

Thanks to her small and agile body, Iris Shikozu got the a.s.signment of climbing the windmill masts to replace rotors as they burned out. With her toolbox stuffed in a canvas backpack between her shoulders, Iris clambered up the metal rungs to reach the top where the three-bladed aluminum wind turbine hung frozen, rattling in the breezes.

The windmill rows looked like a giant field of metal cornstalks on the hills. The wind gusted, making the mast rattle. Iris had to hook her arm through the rung to steady herself.

"Hang tight up there," Jackson Harris called from below. Iris glanced down to see him cup his hands around his mouth. He said something else, but the wind s.n.a.t.c.hed away his words.

It didn't matter; she knew what she was doing. Reaching the top, she secured herself and unslung the backpack to find a screwdriver so she could unfasten the metal housing covering the wind turbine's rotors. She had done this a dozen times before.

On the hills below, Doog and a couple of the refugee city kids amused themselves by tossing rocks into a gully. Doog always seemed to find simple things to keep himself preoccupied. Work usually wasn't one of them.

Iris succeeded in removing the bolts from the housing and lifted up the protective metal. The lightweight aluminum blades were shaped to catch the wind from any direction; a vane at the rear helped to align them in the proper direction. The blades spun, turning a rotor that generated electricity. But without petroleum lubricants, the rotors burned out; and Iris had to keep replacing them. Back at the commune, Daphne Harris and some of the Oakland kids spent hours tediously rewrapping copper wire along the rotors.

As Iris removed the repaired rotor from her backpack to exchange the burnt-out one, she paused a moment. She was engrossed in her work, finding happiness in the aftermath of the petroplague, content in a way she had never experienced before. She felt at home.

It was very different from the life her parents had pushed her to pursue-to be the front runner in the rat race, to work sixty hours a week, to focus her goals on being the best best, on getting ahead. Iris was normally high-strung, always on the move-but she was learning that it was okay to be different. She liked these simple comforts.

And she liked being with Todd.

She caught Todd looking at her many times when he thought she wouldn't notice. Even when they were together he still seemed to long for her like some unreachable object. He was so clean-cut and straightforward; it calmed her to believe he had no private agenda, that he wasn't after her for any reason other than herself. In his puppy-dog way, Todd couldn't hide anything; subtlety was not his strong point, but she found it kind of sweet.

"Hey, you gonna daydream up there all afternoon?" Jackson Harris shouted up at her.

Iris quickly stripped out the old rotor and placed it in her backpack, then installed the new one. Clambering down the metal rungs, she overheard Harris and Doog talking.

"I sure wish we had some music during all this. That's what I miss the most. Who'd have thought the Grateful Dead would finally die?" Harris kicked a stone into the gully.

As she stepped down the last rungs from the windmill mast, Iris remembered all the CDs she'd loved to play. The hardest things to live without were coffee and rock 'n roll. She dropped to the gravel pad around the mast and turned to Harris and Doog.

"I miss the music too," she said. "So what are we going to do about it?"

Todd Severyn rode his horse through the gates of the Livermore branch of Sandia National Laboratory. Spirals of razor wire crowned the tall fences, but the guard station sat empty. n.o.body bothered to impose security anymore. Most of the lab facilities were broken down and unoccupied, but some of the researchers still came in to work, while others camped out in RV trailers in the parking lots.

For a month or so the teams had banded together, frantically trying to find some way to eradicate the petroplague; but as equipment broke down, computers malfunctioned, and the entire complex collapsed, most of them had given up hope. A few still continued plugging away to come up with innovative solutions.

Todd tied Stimpy up front to the bicycle rack and went inside the admin building. The lobby area for welcoming visitors had been turned into a command center. The bright and cheery PR posters for America's national labs had been replaced by a large map of the United States studded with colored push-pins.

One of the administrators, Moira Tibbett, stared at the map with a sheet of paper in hand. She wore a dressy cotton outfit. Tibbett glanced at a list of locations on the paper, fingering a push-pin. She squinted at the map like an entomologist about to spear a specimen, then jabbed in the push-pin.

"More stuff for the Atlantis Network?" Todd asked. He poured himself a gla.s.s of warm sun tea; it tasted good.

"Yeah. Three more stations came on-line this week. For a political dumping ground, FEMA is doing a pretty good job tracking these enclaves and linking us together." She thrust another push-pin into a different location.

Todd lifted his eyebrows; her former disdain for the Federal Emergency Management Agency had come around a hundred and eighty degrees. "So what's new this morning? Give me some news I can take back to the colony."

"Well, locally the usual stuff is happening," Tibbett said. "The Livermore city engineers are trying to make sure people have access to enough water. We have a whole lot of problems with just our sewage system. The fire patrols are more organized, but we've been lucky so far. And it's same-old same-old on the food story."

Todd nodded. At 50,000 people and somewhat isolated, the city of Livermore was probably the right size to weather the petroplague: not so big that it had no way of getting its own supplies, yet large enough to have an infrastructure with some chance of functioning.

"What's new on the big board?" Todd asked, gesturing with his chin toward the wall map. Tibbett withdrew a push-pin and stabbed another set of coordinates, this one in Missouri.

"Kind of ironic actually. Spencer Lockwood at the solar antenna farm in White Sands, knows that the remaining smallsats he was supposed to put into orbit are sealed in launch canisters at the Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena. He's rigged up a way to launch the satellites out in New Mexico, but he can't get his hands on them."

Todd scratched his head where the cowboy hat had pushed his brown hair into strange twists. He didn't know whether to be skeptical or amazed. "We can't even get our sewer systems running, and this guy wants to get a satellite into orbit?"

Tibbett's face looked carved out of stone. "Twenty satellites, actually. But if Lockwood says he can do it, believe him. I gave him a tour here not long ago. He's a real hot-shot."

Todd looked at the map, saw push-pins in New Mexico at the White Sands missile range, another one near Los Angeles in Pasadena. He began to imagine grand schemes, a great expedition across the Southwest hauling the satellites from Pasadena across Arizona into New Mexico. A regular wagon train to the stars!

But it would never come to pa.s.s. He said goodbye to Moira Tibbett and headed home to Iris.

Chapter 55.

Outside of Albuquerque, concrete buildings and bunkers were set into the side of the hills-"Bayclock's Empire," as Navy Lieutenant Bobby Carron had come to think of it. Encircled by four metal fences, the 1000-acre Manzano complex had once served as a storage facility for nuclear weapons; now, Bayclock used the fortress-like bunkers as his headquarters.

The guards outside the chain-link gate popped to attention and threw him a salute as they waved him into the facility. He felt strange wearing an Air Force uniform.

Accompanied by escorts, Bobby hobbled up a series of stairs and entered a fortified building. Bobby gritted his teeth. His still-healing wounds sent tremors of pain through his body.

Concrete walls two feet thick, barred windows, and piles of useless electronic gear made the place seem like a twisted version of a medieval castle. Finally, he pa.s.sed two more guards standing like moat dragons outside Bayclock's office.

"Stand at ease, Captain."

At first Bobby didn't realize that Bayclock was speaking to him. In the sprawling office the general had commandeered, once-plush carpet edged up to dark wood paneling that had blistered as the glossy coatings had dissolved; military awards, lithographs of fighter aircraft, and school diplomas covered the wall.

"Please come in, Captain. Are you fully recovered from your injuries?" Bayclock waved Bobby into the secure office, then slumped in an overstuffed leather chair behind his desk. Narrow window slits barely lit the room.

Bobby stepped forward, stiff and formal as he remembered from his training at the Naval Academy. The memory of the curfew-breaking teenager dangling on the gallows still burned clear in his mind. "It's lieutenant, sir. Not captain. You didn't have any Navy uniforms I could wear."

Bayclock narrowed his eyes, then laughed. "That's right, Lieutenant. Calling you a captain is like promoting you three ranks! Never figured out why the military couldn't standardize the whole d.a.m.n rank structure." He motioned toward one of the chairs. "Go ahead, have a seat."

"Yes, sir."

Bobby had expected Bayclock to be some sort of ogre, hunched over his desk and ready to snap necks with his thumbs. Instead, the general had bright eyes, regulation-cropped dark hair, and an easy grace as he folded his hands in front of him. Bayclock held himself poised, continuously taking in his surroundings. It was obvious to Bobby that Bayclock had himself been a fighter pilot; but Bobby felt no rapport with the general. Bayclock inspected him closely. Bobby wondered how he would measure up.

Bayclock pulled a paper from the stack on his desk. He scanned it in the dim light and spoke without looking up. "I've kept up with your recovery, glad to see you're doing better. You've been briefed on the situation here-martial law and all that, by the President's order?"

"Yes, sir." How could he not not notice? notice? After seeing how the general dealt with unrest in the city, Bobby felt extremely uneasy just to be in the same room with Bayclock. After seeing how the general dealt with unrest in the city, Bobby felt extremely uneasy just to be in the same room with Bayclock.

"Some people are savages and want to steal everything in sight. My troops are stretched to the limit, Lieutenant. Every able-bodied person I have is trying to keep the peace in the city. I'm using military finance clerks as squad leaders, aircraft mechanics as forward observers. They serve according to their abilities, and they're doing a super job, but I can't ask them anything else."

"Yes, sir." Bobby sat straight in his chair, watching the general. So what's the point So what's the point? This isn't a social call.

Bayclock continued. "In addition to upholding the law, I've got to care for these people, keep the place going in the long run. That means coordinating food expeditions, fixing waterlines, staying in contact with the President in case orders change."

"So, are communication lines open?" Bobby must have sounded incredulous, because Bayclock snorted.

"The plague didn't affect the electromagnetic spectrum, Lieutenant, just oil!" Bayclock rocked forward and pushed the paper to Bobby. Bobby caught it as the sheet spun off the edge of the metal surplus desk. "In fact, we've intercepted some messages from White Sands coming across the FEMA emergency network."

Intercepted? thought Bobby, keeping a stone straight face. That was the most important thing he had learned in all his military training-how to smother his reactions. This guy sounded as if he was at war!

"Somehow they've reestablished full electrical power down there, using it to run their water pumps. Water pumps! Do you have any idea how many of my people it takes to pump water up from this d.a.m.ned aquifer we're sitting on top of? That's a major part of that manpower drain I was talking about. People are getting away with murder because good military personnel are pumping water instead of patrolling the city.

"Now, White Sands is technically under my jurisdiction, and the President has reconfirmed it. We're all in this mess together, and if those wizards have managed to get back on their feet by producing electricity, then I need it."

Bobby Carron sat in his chair like a statue, ignoring the pain in his leg and ribs. Shadows in the room highlighted the intensity in Bayclock's face. He had seen a few squirrelly commanders before, but Bayclock seemed to think he was Napoleon of the Apocalypse!

"I can't trust any of the d.a.m.ned civilians to head up this expedition-the scientists at Sandia Albuquerque turned tail and deserted their labs at the first sign of a riot; my Phillips Lab troops aren't much better. I haven't been able to reach the enclave of researchers up at Los Alamos, and I've never trusted those bomb designers anyway. But down in White Sands they've made a little Atlantis for themselves."

The general cracked his knuckles one at a time. It sounded like someone snapping twigs-or neckbones.

"I need someone I can trust, Lieutenant Carron-an operator operator who's used to working alone and can function when things get tough. In short, I need a fighter pilot." Bayclock drew himself up, setting his mouth. "When I took this command, I saw it as an opportunity to instill some of the esprit that pilots have . . . you know, the sense of duty that comes from being in an operational fighter unit. These scientists and nonrated pukes have a warped sense of duty, more allegiance to their profession than to the overall mission." who's used to working alone and can function when things get tough. In short, I need a fighter pilot." Bayclock drew himself up, setting his mouth. "When I took this command, I saw it as an opportunity to instill some of the esprit that pilots have . . . you know, the sense of duty that comes from being in an operational fighter unit. These scientists and nonrated pukes have a warped sense of duty, more allegiance to their profession than to the overall mission."

Bayclock looked suddenly tired, as if the effects of his orders wore at him. "I don't know if it's a coincidence or not, Lieutenant. I just met you, but I know you wouldn't be flying fighters unless you had the right stuff, even if you did join the Navy instead of the Air Force." He smiled wearily.

"A colleague of mine once said, 'There's two types of people in this world: fighter pilots and weenies.' Well, I'm surrounded by weenies. What I need is a fighter pilot to head up an expedition to White Sands, then return here with a report."

Bobby tried to keep the astonishment off his face. The events of the past few weeks swam through his mind-waking up in the ravaged hospital, the execution of looters, seeing the full effects of the petroplague . . . . The general probably thought Bobby would be apprehensive about leaving the "security" of a city under martial law.

Bobby saw it as an opportunity to get away from this insanity, but he knew it would be the worst thing in the world for him to show his eagerness. He stood and reached across Bayclock's desk, extending his hand. "General, you've got your man. Where do I sign up?"

The horses kept to the side of Interstate 40 east out of Albuquerque, paralleling old Route 66 in the pa.s.s between the Sandia and Manzano mountains. The spongy asphalt highway was too soft to bear any weight, and the horses clopped along on the shoulder. Each rider carried several dozen liters of water along with their food rations.

Beside Bobby at the front of the five-person expedition, his a.s.signed escort-a stout, gruff sergeant named Catilyn Morris-had not spoken in an hour. Three scientists trailed behind-two from Sandia's Albuquerque Labs and one from the Air Force's Phillips Lab-who would study the White Sands power generators and take back whatever components the general might need in Albuquerque.

The horses walked through the pa.s.s. Boulders littered the sides of the barren hill, sloping up on either side like a giant brown funnel that had been cut in half and laid on its side. Although he had lived at barren China Lake for the past two years, Bobby still missed to the thick trees in Virginia where he had grown up, the ocean, and humidity. This seemed like an alien landscape.

Bobby turned to the taciturn woman sergeant beside him. Catilyn Morris was a helicopter mechanic who had flown many times along the corridor to White Sands. Her blond hair was clipped short, accenting her stout frame and full hips. She stood no taller than five feet, but she rode high in the saddle, confident.

"Seems like we're making good time," Bobby said. "How long do you think it'll take to get to White Sands?"

Sergeant Morris didn't look at him as she answered; she kept scanning the road in front of them. "Depends."

"On what?"

"Lots of things."

Bobby felt a flash of annoyance. "Look, Sergeant, I don't want to play Twenty Questions-"

She interrupted him by holding up a hand. "Wait up." She slowed her horse and placed a hand against her revolver. It glistened from her cleaning, polishing, and refurbishing.

Bobby pulled back on the reins. He started to speak, then he glimpsed several figures scrambling down the sides of the hill. They were dressed in dusty jeans, threadbare shirts; some of them tried to take advantage of the brush cover, while others didn't care if they were seen. They all carried sticks, crowbars, or unwieldy knives. It took them only a minute to spread out in a line, blocking the highway fifty yards ahead. Bobby counted fifteen men. Half were teenagers.

"Hey, what's going on?" said Arnie, one of the scientists behind them. "What do they think they're doing?"

Sergeant Morris turned in the saddle. "It's your game, Lieutenant Carron. The rest of you keep quiet."

"Thanks," muttered Bobby. He left his rifle in the holster at the back of the saddle, not ready to pull it out yet.

One of the men stepped toward them. Bearded and balding, his patchy skin peeled from sunburn. The man stopped twenty yards away. He held a long iron bar like a swagger stick in his left hand. "Where you folks headed?"

Bobby wondered if the man was going to ask for a toll to use the road. He turned at the crunch of gravel and saw five more people come up behind them, blocking their return.

"White Sands. I'm Lieutenant Carron, representing General Bayclock at Kirtland." Maybe the general's bloodthirsty tactics would scare these people off.

"You're going the wrong way. White Sands is due south."

"So is Laguna Pueblo. We're respecting Native American land. There's been some trouble down there."

The man grinned. "Good for you, Lieutenant. Still, a long way to carry your own food and water. I don't think you're going to make it. Your horses would fare better here, I'm sure."

"We'll resupply at Clines Corners before turning south. The general authorized us to exchange some supply chits, redeemable at Kirtland."

"Redeemable at Kirtland?" The man roared as the rest of the group broke out in chuckles. "So Generalissimo Bayclock is going to let people walk into Albuquerque and pick up food? Well, then. You won't mind donating some chits to make sure you get through the pa.s.s? For protection, you understand."

Bobby drew himself up. This was weirdly medieval. "The chits aren't for pa.s.sage. We're an official military expedition, operating under martial law. I'll ask you gentlemen to allow us to pa.s.s, or face the consequences."

The men laughed among themselves. The bearded man stepped closer. "Maybe you didn't hear me, Lieutenant. I was asking for a donation. If you can include a couple of these horses, and some of your supplies along with the chits, we'll help you along." He spoke softly and stared at Bobby.

As he approached, he seemed to notice Sergeant Morris for the first time. His eyes widened. "So what are you, missie, his protection? You're probably worth more than a horse, aren't you?"

Sergeant Morris pulled out her revolver. The man grinned. "You military types haven't used those guns for a while, have you?" He puffed up as he walked, changing his path from Bobby to Catilyn. "What makes you so sure they'll work?"

Bobby raised his voice. "This is your final warning."

The man ignored him. He was within five yards when Sergeant Morris calmly brought the revolver up. She aimed at his crotch and glanced at Bobby; Bobby nodded, and she clicked off a round. The explosion of the gun echoed off the bare boulders.

The man grabbed at his groin and fell, screaming. The others in the mob stood in shock, uncertain what to do.