Ill Wind Part 40

The catapult smashed forward with the sound of an explosion, slamming against the front barricade and hurling its payload in an arc toward the encampment.

Oblivious below, Bayclock's a.s.sault team followed some sort of signal and trotted out on horseback, bringing rifles to bear. They rode toward the base installation where Bobby's balloon was tethered. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were going to shoot down the balloon!

On the far side of the camp, the great ma.s.s of loose metal crashed into the ground, splattering outward. Through a spygla.s.s, Romero could see that the catapult shot had taken out two small tents and a supply wagon, belching a cloud of dust and sand into the air. People scrambled around like stirred-up hornets.

"Good shot!" Romero cried. "Let's try to step up the ranging just a bit and hit them in the center of camp. We've got only a couple more shots. Once they figure out where we are, they'll come after us, and we'll have to abandon ship."

As the gang that couldn't shoot straight worked at cranking down the catapult again-this time with much more enthusiasm and cooperation-Romero heard a volley of sharp, distant rifle shots. The group of riders approached the observation balloon and fired repeatedly at the gondola, the balloon itself, and the tether cable. The tiny form of Bobby Carron ducked down to the protection of the flat aluminum gondola.

"Ready!" one of the old men shouted. "Look out, Mr. Romero!"

The catapult slammed forward again, sending another payload of iron pieces toward the scrambling expedition force, but this time the debris pummeled the desert a hundred feet short of camp.

Below, General Bayclock's soldiers began to figure out where the catapult shots were originating.

Bobby's balloon had obviously been hit by dozens of direct shots and began to drift wildly on its tether rope. The hand-sewn seams of the parachute material, never meant to take such stress, began to split apart. The colorful sack sagged as it deflated. After another round of rifle shots, one of the marksmen was either extremely skilled or extremely lucky. The tether rope snapped, and the balloon began to move.

The third catapult shot also missed. A group of Bayclock's soldiers pointed toward Romero's position and spread out into the foothills toward the location of the medieval weapon.

"Here they come. We've got to get to safety!" Romero shouted. "Time to retreat!"

As they fled into the tangled foothills, he looked down at the great basin to see Bobby Carron's balloon drifting free and falling toward the ground as the general's men each dropped to one knee and fired their rifles.

Spencer hunched over the tangled circuit board, breathing on it, fanning it with a sheaf of papers, and trying to use his own panic to speed the calculations. Some of the soldered connections had begun smoking, and the batteries were nearly drained. "Come on!" he muttered.

Heather stood behind him and rubbed his shoulders, but she said nothing. It had taken several hours longer than he had expected, and now morning light shone into the blockhouse. Bayclock's troops were already on the move.

He and Heather had needed to recompile half an hour's worth of work when Spencer discovered a sign error he had made with his pencil-and-paper calculations. The bandaged circuit board seemed to be struggling to hold on just long enough to complete the binary instructions before it overheated and dumped everything.

"It'll work," Heather whispered. "It will."

As if to spite her, the home-made circuit board showered sparks in a ma.s.sive breakdown. Smoke billowed from a dozen different connections.

Spencer tried to think of a way to douse the fire, but it made no difference. All the calculations were already lost into the ether. The cathode-ray tube displaying the trudging progress of the calculations went dark.

Spencer slumped in his chair and refused to scream. They had already uplinked the instructions to increase the transmitted microwave power by a factor of four; but without the targeting information, the extra radiation would fall uselessly on the microwave antenna farm again, not on Bayclock's new position. Spencer could never get the circuit board up and running again in less than two days.

Bayclock would have taken over the entire facility long before then.

His hopes for the satellites, the solar-power farm, and the future itself had just gone up in smoke.

Chapter 72.

The hot-air balloon plummeted toward the rugged ground. Bobby Carron gripped the sides of the aluminum gondola and held on for his life.

Air gushed from rips in the colorful parachute sacks, holes torn open by rifle shots and split seams. One of the bullets had made a crater-like dent in the basket, and Bobby was lucky he hadn't been shot. That relief was only temporary, though, because he was going to crash any second.

The severed anchor rope dangled on the ground as the balloon drifted across the landscape, heading straight toward Bayclock's troops running to intercept him. A few more gunshots broke the air, and Bobby ducked. He saw another bullet punch into the deflating sack of the balloon, but he heard other shouts, people yelling at the riflemen to hold their fire.

The loose metal gondola lurched as the balloon tipped and continued falling. The hibachi full of glowing coals spilled over, dumping hot charcoal along the floor that skittered and smoked. One ember burned Bobby's leg; he swatted at it, almost losing his grip. The smoking coals spilled over the side.

He ducked as the bottom of the gondola smashed into an outcropping of rock, knocking him hard into the side of the aluminum basket. He hit his head. Blood streamed down his cheek. He blinked to bring vision back into focus, ready to get up and sprint for safety.

The gondola struck the ground again, dragged along as the last remnants of hot air tugged the deflated balloon sack. The gondola tipped over, scooping up loose sand and dirt, until the balloon snagged on a thicket of scrub brush.

Bobby scrambled to keep his balance, but the gondola spilled him into a tangle of guide ropes, parachute fabric, and hot embers. The metal basket tumbled to a halt next to him.

Bobby coughed and tried to get to his knees. He sensed no spears of pain from broken bones, but his entire body throbbed. He clawed at the gondola ropes, trying to pull the parachute fabric away from his face.

As soon as he stood up and pulled himself free, blinking in the bright light, he saw two of Bayclock's hors.e.m.e.n pull up on either side of him. Three riflemen on foot came running after. Bobby looked around for a place to hide, to make a stand-but he had no weapons. He had no choice but to hold up his hands.

Puffing with exertion, Sergeant Catilyn Morris ran up to him with a rifle in hand; she smiled smugly when she saw him. Two other soldiers pointed their rifles at Bobby. The hors.e.m.e.n stood on either side to make sure he couldn't escape.

Sergeant Morris's face was flushed and streaked with dust. Her short blond hair was tangled with sweat. "Welcome home, Lieutenant. General Bayclock will be very pleased to see you."

Under the morning sun, Connor Brooks drove the three horses and the wagon full of solar-power satellites toward the military settlement. He had watched Bayclock's troops from his small camp for the past two days, until at last he figured out why they were there. He decided that Bayclock must want the stolen smallsats very badly right around now, and he should be willing to pay.

Connor had not built a fire for fear that his camp would be spotted, but he slept comfortably, wrapped in Henrietta Soo's thermal blankets. He had washed the blood from his hands and changed clothes. He ate well from the stolen supplies in the wagon bed.

But his injured face ached like a son of a b.i.t.c.h.

He could see only blurry red fuzz out of his left eye, and his torn cheek and forehead throbbed like a disco rhythm made with ice picks. He had managed to wash his injuries from the shotgun backfire in a stream, but he knew they might get infected, and he didn't relish the thought of the pain increasing. G.o.d, what he wouldn't do right now for a handful of aspirin! Extra strength.

As he drove the horses toward the camp, a handful of armed guards came out to meet him. "Freeze, toadface!" one said, leveling his rifle. "Who are you?"

Connor raised a hand in a wave or a salute, or perhaps just a gesture to show that he was unarmed. He pulled the horses to a stop near the tents, sleeping bags, and supply stations.

"I need to see whoever's in charge," he said hoa.r.s.ely. His words clawed through a larynx bruised when b.u.t.thead Uma tried to strangle him. He gestured back toward the wagon. "Tell him I've got something those solar-power people want very badly."

"Wait here," said the guard.

Connor stood with his hands above his head. The three horses nickered, sniffing other horses with Bayclock's troops. Connor wanted a cold drink, but the two guards watched his every move in sour silence. Even though he had come with a nice offer, they seemed to regard him as some kind of vermin caught in a rat trap. Typical, he thought.

Finally, flanked on either side by an armed escort, a burly tough-looking man stumped across the camp toward Connor. He had bristly dark hair and a gimme-no-s.h.i.t expression.

"I'm General Bayclock," he said, "commander of these troops. What have you brought for me?" Unspoken but visible on his expression was a threat. If you're wasting my time, I'll strip you naked and make you run through a cactus field. If you're wasting my time, I'll strip you naked and make you run through a cactus field.

Connor tried to turn on the charm that had always served him so well, though he didn't know how much charm he had left with a mangled face and a bruised voicebox. "Good to meet you, General," he said. "My name is Connor Brooks-"

"I don't give a d.a.m.n who you are and I'm sure the h.e.l.l not happy to meet you. Now cut the bulls.h.i.t-what do you want?"

"Uh, yes, sir." Connor wet his lips with a thick tongue and spoke fast. "I got my hands on a bunch of technical equipment on its way to the solar-power farm you have under siege. I thought it might be worth something to you." He raised his eyebrows, knowing he must look hideous with his scabbed and gashed face.

"What kind of high-tech equipment?" Bayclock said, suddenly interested but still challenging him. "Where did it come from?"

"Well, I have ten satellites back here in the wagon. They were made at the Jet Propulsion Lab and they were being brought cross-country to White Sands."

The general's dark eyes lit up. "Are you part of this Pasadena expedition?" He seemed ready to pounce.

"I, uh . . . acquired it from them," Connor said. "The expedition was trying to slip these satellites in past your troops. So I brought them here."

"Satellites? The JPL expedition just carried a bunch of satellites out here?" Bayclock look at him, incredulous.

"That's all."

An officer standing next to Bayclock asked, "How many were there in the party?"

Connor shrugged. "Two, three maybe."

A murmur ran through his staff. Bayclock looked unconvinced-and p.i.s.sed off. "Show me."

A minute later, Bayclock ran his hands over the nearest sealed canister. His officers poked around the devices, rapping on the metal cases. They all seemed astonished by the discovery.

Connor positioned himself next to the general. "I thought you might be willing to make a decent trade, sir. These are exceedingly valuable satellites, as I'm sure you know. Priceless, in fact. I'd like a few of your revamped weapons-say, six rifles-and some supplies." He touched the stinging injuries on his face. "And some minor medical attention. As you can see, getting these satellites wasn't all that easy."

Bayclock's expression was hard. He spoke in a low tone, but it looked like it took an effort to keep his voice under control. "I represent the United States of America, and we do not barter while under a declaration of hostilities. Under direct presidential order, I am authorized to simply take what I need. By delivering these satellites to me, you've done service to your country. You should feel proud about that."

Outrage boiled in Connor at the att.i.tude of this b.u.t.thead general. "That isn't exactly what I had in mind." His stomach knotted. "If that's your att.i.tude, General, then I'll just take my satellites and go, thank you."

He stomped off to the wagon, hauling himself up on the buckboard. f.u.c.king a.s.shole f.u.c.king a.s.shole! He yanked the reins to turn the three horses around. Connor was amazed at the speed with which five rifles were suddenly pointed at him. "What the h.e.l.l is this?" he sputtered.

"This is martial law, Mr. Brooks," Bayclock said. "We'll see that you get medical attention, as you requested, and a position in the supply corps. We need every person we can get in our fight against the solar-power station."

Connor felt betrayed and appalled. Worse yet, he felt like an idiot.

A tall thin man came up to Bayclock, obviously a civilian, with wire-rimmed gla.s.ses, a weak chin, and a large Adam's apple.

Bayclock spoke bitterly, as if unhappy about the satellites. "Dr. Nedermyer, this man has brought us ten solar-power satellites from JPL. They are now in our possession, and we don't need to worry about Dr. Lockwood getting his hands on them."

Nedermyer came forward to peer over the side of the wagon. "I thought there was some kind of large expedition carrying them."

"This is it," said Bayclock. "And that's all they carried. I want you to draft up a notice to be sent by courier to Lockwood and his little rebels. Tell them that unless they surrender immediately, starting tomorrow morning we will take one of these satellites and smash it to pieces in their full view. We'll destroy one every two hours until they surrender. If this technology means so much to them, let's just see how much of it they'll let go to waste."

Connor couldn't believe his ears; the bespectacled civilian looked incredulous. "But General, you can't do that! These satellites can't be replaced. We don't have the facilities to fabricate any more. These are precious items-and if you destroy them, you defeat the entire purpose of our expedition!"

Bayclock's face turned the color of clotted blood, and he turned slowly toward Nedermyer. "The purpose of this expedition, Doctor, is to quash an insurrection. These satellites are toys, conveniences. We can survive without them. We cannot cannot survive without order and a rule by law. If a few metal tanks must be dented to accomplish that, then so be it." survive without order and a rule by law. If a few metal tanks must be dented to accomplish that, then so be it."

The b.u.t.thead general turned back to Connor and pointed for him to get back down off the wagon, Two of the guards took hold of the horses. "Sergeant, take the wagon and animals to the logistics group. You, Brooks, will help the supply personnel for tomorrow's a.s.sault. You've just joined the army."

His hands tied behind him with rough rope, Bobby Carron stumbled across the uneven desert. Two hors.e.m.e.n rode on either side of him, two walking guards behind him and one in front. He had to push himself to keep the pace set by Sergeant Morris.

He tried to remember the time he had spent in survival training, escaping from a mock prisoner-of-war camp. The training had been held in a jungle, and it wasn't meant to be used against his own military. Before they had come within a half of a mile of Bayclock's camp, Bobby realized he was completely out of ideas to escape. He had nothing up his sleeve, no tricks to pull. He saw no way out.

And Bayclock considered him a traitor. Under combat conditions the general might put a service pistol to Bobby's head and pull the trigger himself, without the drawn-out niceties of a court martial.

Bobby was satisfied with how much he had helped Dr. Lockwood and the others at the solar-power farm. He recalled his days as a Navy fighter pilot stationed at China Lake. He remembered that last cross-country flight with Barfman Petronfi. Just trying to reach a nice, long R&R in Corpus Cristi where they would sit on the beach, eating shrimp and looking at bikinis. . . . .

The outskirts of the military camp were a bustling confusion of campfires, tents staked out against the day's heat and the night's chill, supply wagons next to unloaded crates. Refurbished rifles stood racked and stacked where soldiers could grab them in a moment's notice.

The troops watched the prisoner arrive. Bobby looked around, trying to make eye contact, trying to recognize anyone from Kirtland Air Force Base-but that wouldn't help. He really only knew Sergeant Catilyn Morris, but she gave him nothing but scorn.

Sergeant Morris led them directly to the general's command tent. Someone must have warned Bayclock, because the general stepped outside to watch them approach. He recognized Bobby immediately.

Bayclock's face was frigid, and his eyes held a firestorm of anger. "Well, if it isn't our turncoat lieutenant." He nodded to Morris. "Good work, Sergeant."

"He was manning their balloon, sir," she said. "We shot it down and took him prisoner."

"The balloon?" Bayclock said, raising his eyebrows. "Of course, that's a good job for a fighter pilot, isn't it?"

Bobby said nothing.

"You're still on active duty, Lieutenant-or have you forgotten the code of military conduct?"

Bobby maintained his silence, watching the general play the waiting game. No one spoke, but Bobby could feel the tension rising, the general becoming impatient.

Bayclock said, "But then you're no longer a real real fighter pilot. A traitor and a deserter is not the type of man any flyer would want on his wing. No wonder your aircraft crashed, Lieutenant. Is that why your wingman died-did he crash while you were trying to save your own b.u.t.t?" fighter pilot. A traitor and a deserter is not the type of man any flyer would want on his wing. No wonder your aircraft crashed, Lieutenant. Is that why your wingman died-did he crash while you were trying to save your own b.u.t.t?"

Bobby clenched his jaw, aching to retort, but he kept quiet.

Bayclock startled Bobby by stepping forward and slapping him across the face. "You're not fit to be a pilot, much less an officer."

Bobby's eyes blazed. He remembered Bayclock's office, all the diplomas and lithographs of aircraft. He knew he had found exactly the right b.u.t.ton to push.

"You're still fighting the last war, General. The system has changed," he said in a low voice. "Before the plague hit I was flying fighters for my country-while you were flying a desk. desk."

Bayclock looked ready to explode, but somehow he contained himself. His hands clenched, as if trying to grasp a cutting reply, but he turned and glared at the other soldiers. "Bind the prisoner and send a general notice to all troops. This traitor and deserter will be executed at dawn. We'll hang him from a utility pole."

Connor sulked. The camp medic had dabbed stinging antiseptic on his facial wounds and bandaged them up, but the medic couldn't say whether Connor would lose his eye. His sight would be permanently damaged for certain.

They fed him a meager meal of c.r.a.ppy food. He would have been better off eating his own supplies, but that b.u.t.thead Bayclock had callously commandeered Connor's stuff for his own people. "That's my food," Connor thought. "I came into camp with open hands offering a deal-and they ripped me off!"

But then, why was he surprised? Connor had gotten the short end of the stick all his life. Sometimes he wondered if he had a sign painted on his back that said Screw me-I don't mind. Screw me-I don't mind.