Ill Wind Part 35

He held his hands in mock apology as he stepped toward Rita.

"Hold it right there, you uncouth, smelly excuse for a pilot," said Rita. She c.o.c.ked back her arm. "One more step and you're dead, zoombag."

Bobby sprang forward and grabbed her by the wrist, yanking her to the edge of the vat. "Okay beanpole!" He picked her up and heaved her headfirst into the fruity mixture. "Now who's calling a Navy aviator a 'pilot'?"

Spencer's body ached from riding back and forth: railgun launcher, microwave farm, and the encampment for the crowd of Alamogordo ranchers and townspeople. Too many things still needed to be done, and General Bayclock could arrive within a week-if he was coming at all.

The Alamogordo city council had a.s.signed nearly fifty people to prepare a site where the coalition of ranchers, businessmen, and city workers would establish their defenses. Spencer had insisted that the encampment be far enough away from the circular expanse of whiplike microwave antennas to avoid danger from the smallsat power beaming every day at noon.

Now he sat beside a small cookfire outside the command trailers. Rita joined Bobby and Gilbert as they formulated plans for the next day; she made an extra effort to sit by Bobby, Spencer noticed, who seemed too accommodating when she motioned for him to scoot over to give her more room.

Rita turned to the side and spat some of her last tobacco. "If Bayclock has a couple hundred soldiers, there's only one direction he can come-north. I rode out west today, and the Organ Mountains are too d.a.m.ned rough for an army to negotiate."

"Could he approach on the other side of the mountains and circle up from the south?" said Gilbert.

Bobby shook his head. "Bayclock isn't going to be interested in surprise. I'll bet he doesn't expect much resistance from a few wimpy scientists. He plans to strut in here, puff out his chest, and ask us to hand over the keys."

Spencer grunted. "Then he's in for a shock." The others gave a nervous chuckle. "How are the other defenses coming?"

"Railgun test in three days," said Gilbert. "We'll try to calibrate the range. And the big catapults are almost complete. They can throw a hundred pounds of rocks half a mile. That'll add to Bayclock's misery."

"Good," said Spencer. "Any luck with the citrus explosives?"

Bobby rocked back on his heels and tossed a small stick into the fire. "Last week we located a couple hundred crates of oranges and lemons decaying at the depot in Holloman Air Force Base. One of the local businessmen remembered delivering a batch right before the base closed down; a wagonload more is due in from the surrounding groves. Rita's, uh, coordinating coordinating the extraction and it looks like we can start mixing the stuff by day after tomorrow. If Romero can get the catapults ready, we can try the first test after Gilbert's calibrated the railgun." the extraction and it looks like we can start mixing the stuff by day after tomorrow. If Romero can get the catapults ready, we can try the first test after Gilbert's calibrated the railgun."

"Good. What about the gunpowder?"

Bobby shook his head. "The p.i.s.s detail-er, I mean the 'saltpeter resource group'-has already done their part, and we've made plenty of charcoal. But we're having trouble finding enough sulfur to make it worthwhile. It would take a month to ride over to Silver City and back, where they've mined gobs of the stuff. We're lucky to have any gunpowder at all for the rifles."

"Everybody keep thinking," said Spencer. "I hate these one-point solutions. We're just begging for something to go wrong at a bottleneck." He felt a cramp in his leg as he stood. "Let's get back to work. Sleep in shifts. We're running out of time."

As he bent to ma.s.sage his calf, he watched Rita and Bobby head out side by side. He didn't know why, but he felt a pang of loneliness. He remembered Sandy, the dark-haired girl who had rescued him from a life of nerd-dom back in high school; as he turned back to work, he wasn't sure she had entirely succeeded.

Juan Romero surveyed the crowd of old farts by the catapult and suppressed a sigh. It wasn't much of a fighting force, but all the men and women who could shoot or ride were training with Bobby Carron, learning details of guerrilla warfare. The few aviation-trained volunteers took turns in the lookout balloon; others had evacuated to Cloudcroft in the mountains.

That left Romero's catapult group. Forty-two members of the "gang that couldn't shoot straight Forty-two members of the "gang that couldn't shoot straight," he thought. Why do I feel like this isn't such a good idea? Why do I feel like this isn't such a good idea?

Seventeen of the group must be eighty years old, and the rest looked like they would be more at home in a library, squinting through c.o.ke-bottle gla.s.ses. Well Well, Romero thought, running his palms over his face to slick down his long mustache, if life gives you limes, it's time to make margaritas if life gives you limes, it's time to make margaritas. He chuckled at that. He really enjoyed playing Pancho to Spencer's Cisco Kid, overdoing the stereotyped Mexican much the same way a cartoon Frenchman wore a beret and slapped his forehead with a 'Sacre Bleu!' Romero hoped Spencer knew it was a joke.

He stepped up to the ten-meter-long bar cannibalized from the sc.r.a.ps of the railgun launcher. Ropes dangled from the bottom of an oversized bucket bolted to one end; a set of heavy-duty springs from disa.s.sembled truck shock absorbers hung on a rotating base anch.o.r.ed to the other end, weighted down with concrete blocks. Buckets of rusting sc.r.a.p iron made indentations in the white sand.

Romero clapped his hands to get their attention. "All right, listen up!" He pointed to three old men standing in front. "Grab onto the rope and c.o.c.k back the lever. The rest of you, stand back. Remember, there's only one of these catapults, so if you get in the way and splatter yourself all over the workings, we'll lose our heavy defense."

No one laughed at the joke. If he didn't explain, the safety lesson would be lost. "You three-be careful no one's in your line of fire. The rest of you got that?"

The three old men strained against the ropes as they dug their heels into the loose sand. The metal arm of the catapult came back, groaning at the limit of its flexibility, until it lay quivering, parallel with the ground.

He held up a hand. "Do not let go of that rope!" Romero scrambled beneath the catapult arm. Reaching up to the base, he connected a hook around the lower part of the arm to secure it. "Okay, keep the rope taut, just in case, while I load the bucket." let go of that rope!" Romero scrambled beneath the catapult arm. Reaching up to the base, he connected a hook around the lower part of the arm to secure it. "Okay, keep the rope taut, just in case, while I load the bucket."

Romero and three helpers struggled with sc.r.a.ps of iron, dumping them into the oversized bucket. Satisfied, he stepped back and nodded to the boys. "Okay, release the lines-slowly!"

Shooing them away from the coiled weapon, Romero gathered the gang around him. Perspiration ran down his face. "That's all it takes, ladies and gentlemen. Remember, don't let go of the ropes until the safety hook is on."

A feisty-looking woman with white hair sticking from under ten-gallon hat held up her hand. "Son, how do we shoot this thing?"

"Rotate the base to aim the throw. Unfortunately, the distance varies with the weight of the projectile, so our range is always going to be a rough guess. When the catapult is in position, the trigger is that line that runs from the hook."

"Can I try it?"

Romero said, "Satisfy your curiosity now, rather than waste time in battle." Ducking under the catapult arm, he picked up the trigger line, then walked back to the elderly woman.

"Now, if you're frightened, I can help you. All it takes is a quick pull-" He hadn't finished his sentence before the woman viscously yanked back the line.

The catapult slammed forward and banged against the restraining bar in front. Seventy pounds of rusty bolts, twisted nails, sharp cutting pieces of metal flew in a low arc like a cloud of bees. The team watched the metal disperse until they lost sight of it; seconds later, it rained down in a cloud of dust a football field wide, kicking up debris as though an invisible warplane had strafed the desert floor.

The old woman cackled. She clenched both fists above her head in triumph. "Ha! Just let those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds try and get through that!"

"Bank's going hot," Gilbert Hertoya said at the railgun controls. "Charging capacitors!"

"Notify Bobby-we're ready for ranging."

Spencer put a finger in his ears to m.u.f.fle the sound in case one of the capacitors pre-fired and caused a catastrophic failure. It was another weak point in the defense-they were using research research apparatus for weapons, and no one seemed concerned but him. Even though this was a full dress rehearsal, things still hadn't come together. His stomach was sour with worry. apparatus for weapons, and no one seemed concerned but him. Even though this was a full dress rehearsal, things still hadn't come together. His stomach was sour with worry.

Gilbert jerked a thumb at Rita by the control blockhouse twenty yards away. She knelt next to Romero, who was relieved to be back from his hours with the catapult team. The two busily worked a makeshift telegraph connected to a severed telephone line. Wires, a small speaker, a battery, and a couple of resistors with a switch completed the apparatus.

Two days ago, the dead telephone line had run along Route 57, as useless as a magic wand in a science lab. Rita had supervised tearing the wires down from the utility poles, and now one end was connected to Romero's telegraph machine; the other ran to Bobby Carron's observation balloon a thousand feet in the air.

The short scientist dug an elbow in Spencer's side. "Think she's worried about Bobby up there?"

"The way they've been acting, you'd think the petroplague removed their libido inhibitors. No wonder the other ranch hands are sulking around and not getting their work done."

Gilbert threw Spencer an exaggerated glance. "You aren't jealous are you?"

Spencer dropped his hands, totally shocked. "What, jealous about Rita? Rita?" He had never even looked at Rita that way. After years of working together, she was just "one of the crew" to him.

"Whatever," Gilbert said, "but personally, I think you 'doth protest too much.'"

Spencer snorted and looked away. "I'm not even remotely jealous."

"Right."

"I'm not!"

Gilbert raised an eyebrow.

Spencer started to speak, but stood quiet for a long minute. "It's just that Rita is the last person I'd expect to see getting dopey over someone. I guess I was starting to feel lonely myself." He smiled wearily. "Looking for that girl with the sunburned nose, I guess. Too many Beach Boys songs."

Gilbert smiled. "No problem, old man. I miss my own family, and they're just in Alamogordo."

Arnie yelled from the blockhouse. "Charging complete. Five seconds!" They put fingers in their ears, antic.i.p.ating the sound.

A loud crack crack sizzled through the confined chamber. Spencer tried to follow the five-pound sabot as the railgun accelerated it down the tracks in a blurred streak. He smelled metallic ozone from where the plasma armature ionized the air. sizzled through the confined chamber. Spencer tried to follow the five-pound sabot as the railgun accelerated it down the tracks in a blurred streak. He smelled metallic ozone from where the plasma armature ionized the air.

"There it hits!" Gilbert pointed downrange. Spencer had to squint to see the dust kicked up where the wide-area munition pummelled the desert.

Rita waved from where she and Romero squatted by the telegraph. She slapped the radio man on the back and straightened, then pointed up in the air to Bobby's balloon. "From Bobby's guesstimate the projectile hit five miles away and spread out in an elliptical area fifty by twenty yards. If the metal bearings separated like we think, everything in that area should be shredded like mozzarella cheese on a pizza."

Spencer brightened. "Get the results a.n.a.lyzed by tonight's tech meeting." He shook his head as Rita threw him a snappy salute. She's totally lost it She's totally lost it, he thought.

But Gilbert looked dismayed when Spencer returned to the railgun. The small engineer had a foot up on the base of the gun, reaching up to run a hand along the railing. Scorch marks marred the surface of the once-gleaming metal.

Spencer frowned. "What's the matter?"

Gilbert shook his head. "We shorted out some capacitors. Unless we get this whole rail replaced, we'll be up a creek."

"But you've got miles of railing to work with."

"That's not the problem," said Gilbert. "Yeah, we can replace the railing, but we have to take the whole friggin' railgun apart to do it-and that that will take nearly five days." will take nearly five days."

Spencer tried to sound upbeat. "You can do it-"

Gilbert interrupted irritably, "Don't you understand? Even if we get the railgun fixed, that doesn't mean it'll work again. What's to prevent the same thing from happening?" Gilbert turned to the blockhouse. "I can't believe I wasted the last three weeks and damaged our satellite launcher for one shot!"

Spencer started after the man, but stopped. It had had been three weeks, and what did they have to show for it? The railgun worked, but it might have fired its last projectile. The citrus explosives were still not finished; and their only defense besides the Alamogordo townspeople was a medieval catapult! been three weeks, and what did they have to show for it? The railgun worked, but it might have fired its last projectile. The citrus explosives were still not finished; and their only defense besides the Alamogordo townspeople was a medieval catapult!

It chilled him. Maybe Bayclock would laugh at them after all.

Chapter 67.

The pregnant girl from Oakland gave birth to a baby boy in the middle of the afternoon. The young father hovered beside her in a panic throughout the ordeal, in deeper shock than the mother herself. He chewed the ends of his fingers and kept asking, "How long is this going to take? How long is it going to be?" The commune's three self-proclaimed midwives tended the girl.

When they finally brought forth the baby, everyone began cheering and singing in a way that embarra.s.sed Iris Shikozu. One woman ran out and hammered on the iron triangle that served as their dinner bell, raising such a celebratory alarm that several men came running in from the wind turbines.

While this baby was certainly not the first to be born in the Altamont settlement, it was the first since the petroplague. The midwives-all of whom had proclaimed the wonders of natural childbirth-used cool, dampened rags to wipe clean the mother and baby. The fifteen-year-old girl lay trembling and exhausted, holding the baby against her as the father stroked her forehead.

Iris sat down outside the small house and was glad no one had even asked her to boil water. She knew nothing about the birthing process.

Daphne Harris came up and extended a hand to pull Iris to her feet. "Come on, get off your b.u.t.t! There's work to do!"

"Gee, thanks for cheering me up," Iris said and brushed dry gra.s.s from her pants.

Daphne looked so healthy and full of restless energy that she practically glowed. Upon first arriving at the commune, Iris had liked Jackson Harris's wife immediately. Daphne appeared driven, consumed by an ongoing battle inside her; now that she had settled down, she seemed more at peace . . . but she still required some way to burn her restless energy.

"We need to clear some spots down by that cl.u.s.ter of live oak, then you can help me set up a few new tents. We got some more people showing up for the concert, even though it's still a month away."

Iris raised her eyebrows. "Musicians this time, or just spectators?"

Daphne shrugged. "I didn't interview them, girl! Some of both, I guess."

Once the announcement had gone out about their windmill-powered Labor Day rock 'n roll concert, people started trickling into the Altamont settlement. Jackson Harris let them stay, as long as they were willing to feed themselves and do work.

And Todd had been gone only a week.

Harris and Doog and a large group of the commune dwellers worked out at the Altamont Speedway, repairing bleachers, rigging wires, fixing the metal loudspeakers. Another group set about laying cloth-wrapped cable from the windmill substations to the sound system at the racetrack.

Daphne handed Iris a shovel, then took a long rake for herself. "The new folks will think it's romantic for about two nights to sleep out under the stars, then they'll want a tent. We'll need to dig a few more privies, too, but I'm I'm not doing that. We got plenty of hands around here to help out." not doing that. We got plenty of hands around here to help out."

Under the live oaks at the far end of the trailers, huts, and reinforced tents, Daphne began attacking the underbrush. She yanked twigs and tore loose gra.s.s to clear a firepit and to make flat foundations for new tents. Iris set to work with her shovel, chopping out heavy roots and removing stones.

"So, do you miss him?" Daphne said after a few moments.

Iris's instinctive reaction was to say "Who?"-but she knew that would be ridiculous. "A little," she admitted, trying to keep her voice flat and guarded.

"You gonna wait for him? Do you think he'll come back?"

Iris shrugged. She gripped her shovel and looked the other direction. She didn't want to meet Daphne's eyes.

Daphne said, "If you ever think that cowboy of yours ain't coming back, just let me know. We'll set you up with somebody. You notice all the other guys staring at you?"

Iris nodded. "Yes, I've noticed-and I don't think I'll need your help setting me up. Thanks, anyway."

Daphne was silent for a moment, then giggled. "Oh, I almost forgot! I got a message for you. Todd radioed from down in Pasadena. He got on the emergency short-wave network and talked to the Lab in Livermore."

Iris turned quickly, trying to hide her reaction, but she was too late. "What did he say?"

Daphne spoke with agonizing slowness. "Well, he sent a special message to inform you that he made it to LA just fine. They had some trouble with the train, but they're at the JPL now, making plans to head out with the satellites. He's gone that far-and personally, I'm surprised."

"Was there more?" Iris asked. "Did he say anything else?"

Daphne shrugged. "Probably, but it was an unspoken hint. He was talking to that Moira Tibbett, you know. That woman wouldn't know an emotion if it slapped her in the face!"

Feeling dizzy, her thoughts in turmoil, Iris plunged back into her work with the shovel.