Worlds in Chaos

by James P. Hogan

  “You’ll have to find somebody in there to tell you.”

  “Where do I park?” Sheila asked.

  One side of the cape rose as the gesture of a shaggy forelimb. “What are they gonna do, give you a ticket?” Sheila drove around into a service yard and found space among a jumble of vehicles and baggage carts around a side entrance. The captain detailed two of the Guardsmen to stay with the bus while he and the other accompanied the rest of the party inside.

  The scene inside the airport building resembled a refugee station—which in effect it was. People sat among piles of bags or huddled on blankets and sleeping bags laid out on the floor, some trying to calm cranky, overtired children, some managing to doze, others just staring blankly. There were lines at a number of the check-in desks, where hand-lettered signs identified parties being assembled and destinations. Regular schedules had been abandoned, and it seemed that which airline owned or was operating any particular flight no longer meant very much. The public address system endlessly paged names to call various numbers or meet other parties at stated places. As Keene watched, a woman with a clipboard waited while a group whose names she had called collected their belongings, and then led them away in the direction of the gates. Along the far wall, several dozen young children in wheelchairs, many of them cuddling toys, waited while a procession of nurses brought more in from a line of ambulances and buses drawn up under the canopy outside the main entrance. Keene swallowed a lump in his throat and looked away.

  Colby came back from the throng of people around the Information Desk, followed by a couple of uniformed police. “We follow these guys,” he told the others. Sheila and John fell in on either side of him, Keene and Charlie behind, the Guardsman and captain bringing up the rear. They passed a restaurant area where soup, sandwiches, and beverages were being handed out at a long table; a knot of people were sitting on the floor playing cards; a young man was playing a violin to a bar where there was no TV. Many of the faces had looked bloody, but closer up Keene realized that the streaks and blotches were red dust lodged in creases or mixed with perspiration, and skin sores angry from rubbing and scratching. There was little show of belligerence. The prevailing mood was tiredness, resignation, waiting.

  The Traffic Information Center turned out to be a large room off one of the side corridors, where a score or so of people were working at tables covered with papers piled among constantly ringing phones. An improvised wall board with information entered by hand showed traffic situations and projections, and an Army field telephone exchange had been installed at the rear with cables trailing out through a far door. In one corner was a coffee pot with a tray of plates containing remnants of bagels, muffins, and vending snacks. A line of tables across the near end of the room formed a counter barring off the rest of the area. Clerks at the front were trying to deal with a press of people jostling for attention, while others updated the board.

  “I always wondered what they’d do when all the computers went down at once,” Colby remarked, surveying the scene.

  One of the policeman called over a man in shirtsleeves and a headset and beckoned Colby forward. Colby identified himself and explained the situation. The man in the headset went away to consult with one of the others, who referred to a screen that evidently was able to report something, then called somewhere on a phone. He returned to the counter.

  “We have that flight logged, but it doesn’t look as if it’s here yet. The tower has instructions to clear it in, priority. I don’t know yet where it will be directed. We’ll put a call out when we know something more.”

  “You are aware that we’re on a presidential directive here,” Greene said, appearing irritated by what he seemed to take as perfunctory treatment.

  “Sir, if you were here under a directive from Jesus Christ, there’s nothing more I could do. When it shows up, we’ll let you know. A lot of flights aren’t making it.”

  “Ease up, Colby. They can’t wave wands. We’re just taking up space here,” Keene murmured. Mollified, Greene let himself be ushered out to the corridor. They walked back to a part of the main ticketing concourse, where more people with children and baggage were sitting along the walls. A sad-faced black woman was dispensing coffee and hot dogs from a snack bar that seemed to have run out of all else.

  “Are you people gonna need us for anything else?” one of the policemen asked.

  “I’d prefer it if you stick around,” Colby told them. “We may need directions where to go when the plane shows up.”

  “Could you guys use some coffee?” Sheila asked them.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Better make it all of us while we’ve got the chance,” Keene said.

  Sheila went to the counter and picked up a tray, John following to lend a hand. “How do we pay for this?” Sheila asked the black woman.

  “You might as well just take ’em. I don’t know what else to do with it.”

  They stood around, like everyone else—waiting. Sheila and John found a couple of vacated chairs. Colby stood to one side, talking with the Guard captain. Charlie Hu leaned back against the wall and sipped his coffee. Keene moved over to the policemen. “How bad is it getting to be out there?” he asked them in a low voice.

  “It’s a mess, but still pretty orderly,” one of them answered. “Most people are trying to do the right thing. They’re not panicking yet.”

  “You figure it’ll get worse, eh?”

  “Oh, while there’s somebody to tell them what to do, and they’ve still got food and gas and electricity, to a lot of them it’s still just an adventure. When stuff starts running out and they realize it isn’t a game anymore, that’s when it’ll get ugly.”

  “We’ve been lucky down here so far,” the other cop said. “There were some big falls north of San Francisco and farther on up the state. They’ve got blocked freeways up there. Lotta cars hit right out there on the road.”

  Two middle-aged ladies came over and drew the policemen away to ask them about something. Keene moved over to join Charlie. “You know, we only just met, and you’re already beginning to amaze me. You’re actually managing to look serene. What’s the secret?”

  Charlie smiled distantly. “Well, you know how it is. Inscrutable Orientals and that kind of thing.”

  Keene drank from his coffee cup. “So which particular brand of inscrutability are you from? Chinese?”

  “Taiwanese, actually. But I was born in Carson City, Nevada.”

  “So . . .” Keene frowned, wondering how best to put it. “This business up the coast. You know things are going to get worse. Traveling might soon get really problematical. You don’t have someone somewhere that you should . . . You know what I’m trying to say.”

  Charlie smiled again, this time cynically. “Well, yes, there is a Mrs. Hu. However, relationships are not exactly, shall we say . . . exemplary. She disappeared off to LA a week ago, I think to see the boyfriend. Anyway, I haven’t heard from her since. Which is all a long way of saying, you don’t have to worry about it.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Look, I—”

  “No, it’s okay. Thanks, I appreciate the consideration.”

  Sheila got up and left them—out of sensible anticipation, she said—after noticing that the line from the ladies’ room was backed up into the concourse. Colby wandered away along the side of the concourse, stood looking around for a minute or two, then came back. “If LAX is anything like this, they could easily miss them,” he said to Keene. Keene could only shrug.

  Cavan had told them that Washington was arranging for Fey and Tyndam to be watched when they arrived at Los Angeles, but not apprehended. Beckerson’s flight was routed to Edwards AFB, situated in the high desert above Palmdale—reinforcing Keene’s belief that the regional command center was somewhere under the mountains in that direction. However, the plan could be to divert the flight to join up with Voler’s group, wherever it was, perhaps collecting Fey and Tyndam from Los Angeles on the way. Alternatively, another airc
raft could be waiting at Edwards. Various possibilities existed as to how they might all get together. The hope was that observing how Fey and Tyndam were met and in which direction they were taken might provide further clues as to what might be expected at Vandenberg.

  One of the cops left to make a circuit of the concourse. Sheila came back.

  Charlie Hu returned from a newsstand with a week-old copy of Time, which he proceeded to thumb through sitting on the floor with his back to a wall. The front cover showed a picture of Athena rounding the Sun with the caption: why the doomsayers are wrong.

  And then public address announced: “Colby Greene, contact Traffic Information Center. Mr. Colby Greene from Washington. We have flight information for you.”

  Everyone hastened back to the room with the phones and the wall board. The same clerk that Colby had talked to before told them, “It should be landing now—a Cessna Caravan, flight code MU87. Board out on the tarmac. They’re bringing it right up to the door. Go to Gate 3 and wait at the top of the stairs leading down to the outside access door. Somebody will meet you there.” He handed Greene a pass. “Gate-area access is being controlled. You’ll need to show this.”

  Preceded by the two policemen, the party hurried through the departure concourse and through the check to the gates. There was a flight boarding at Gate 3 when they arrived. A girl with dusty, windblown hair and wearing a crumpled Delta uniform under a red-streaked raincoat led them past the slowly shuffling line and unlocked a door next to the jetway entrance. They went down two flights of steel-railed stairs to a lower space and across to a door, where the girl stopped to peer through a narrow window. “Your plane is just taxiing up now. We’ll give it a minute to make its turn.”

  Keene and the two leaving with him turned to face the others. There was a moment of awkward silence. Then John extended a hand and shook it with each of them. “Well . . . I guess this is it. Let’s hope it works out. Maybe we’ll . . .” He seemed to think better of whatever he had been about to say and left it unfinished.

  Sheila followed suit, shaking hands first with Keene and Colby; then, on impulse, she threw her arms around Charlie in a hug. Suddenly, she was crying. “Oh shit. . . . I can’t believe you won’t be there in your office tomorrow, Charlie, with everything back the way it was. Are we even going to see you again?”

  “They’re here. The door’s open,” the Delta girl informed them.

  Charlie released Sheila gently, and managed a smile. “All good things, you know. . . . It’s like Lan said yesterday, you do what you have to. Take care of her for us, John.”

  “You guys take care too,” the Guard captain said.

  The Delta girl opened the door, and immediately swirls of wind-driven dust spattered through. A boxy, single-engined craft, its airscrew still turning, was waiting in the shadow of the huge widebody loading from the regular jetway above. Colby wrapped his parka tightly about himself, held onto his hood, and ducked out into the swirling orange fog. Charlie followed, then Keene. “Good luck, whatever it is,” one of the cops called after them.

  Acrid fumes stung Keene’s nose as he followed the two hunched figures across to the plane. It had a fixed tricycle undercarriage. Military camouflage markings showed dimly in the lights from the terminal building. A shadowy figure was holding the door open below the high wing. Colby and Charlie climbed in, and Keene followed, assisted by a strong pull from above. “Lieutenant Penalski, Marines,” the figure informed them as the door closed. There were empty seats in the forward part of the cabin. Farther back, more figures in combat dress sat outlined vaguely in the semidarkness. “Which of you is Dr. Keene?” the lieutenant asked as the Cessna revved its engine and began moving again.

  “I am.”

  “Can we bring you up front, next to the pilot? They didn’t tell us much about the mission. You’re going to have to start filling us in right now. But there is some good news. We can forget the plan for going in flapping like a lame duck. It won’t be necessary. Somebody must have gotten through from Washington finally. We got cleared for Vandenberg just before we left.”

  “I warn you guys, it’s still gonna be a rough ride,” the pilot shouted above the engine noise. He flipped his mike switch. “MU87. Burbank, we’re ready for clearance, departing Burbank to Vandenberg, IFR, military priority.”

  “MU87, Burbank. ATC clears MU87 as file, SID departure runway one six. After takeoff, contact SoCal Control on three-ninety-seven point nine, or if unable, contact SoCal on one-twenty-five point four. We’ve been having trouble with higher frequencies. Contact Vandenberg approach on tower frequency one twenty-four point nine five. If contact lost, proceed with pilot’s discretion flight procedures. Vandenberg and flight service stations are notified via ground lines and will be listening.”

  “Roger, clearance.”

  “You guys sure you want to do this? It’s bad along them hills out there.”

  “Not a lot of choice here. Thanks again.”

  “Normally, I’d say have a good one.”

  The Cessna rolled forward a short distance and stopped while a dark, humpy shape, looking like a whale in the mists and the dark, passed across in front of them. Then the pilot got an okay from the tower to move out. Wind hit the tiny plane like a water wave as it emerged from the shadow of the terminal building, causing it to rock crazily. Keene hadn’t realized how much the wind had been rising. He had the feeling of being inside a kite that was likely to be snatched away at any moment. As they turned onto the taxiway, lights outside revealed at least three wrecked aircraft pushed off to the side. Two of them looked as if they had collided while maneuvering on the ground, their wings entangled.

  “There’s worse moving in behind this,” the pilot told him, keeping his eyes on the shapes moving in the murk ahead. “Lotta boats in trouble out there. When it hits, everything’s gonna be shut down.”

  “How long have we got?” Keene asked him.

  “Hours . . . maybe.”

  33

  “Santa Barbara tower. Flight MU87 en route from Burbank to Vandenberg at three hundred feet south east, three miles. We’re going to fly right through your airspace just off the coast.” A burst of static punctuated with voice fragments filled the cabin. The pilot tried again.

  “Roger MU87. We were looking for you. What the hell are you doing up in this stuff? Over.”

  “We just can’t resist a challenge.”

  The cloud canopy above the Cessna was solid. Below, fingers of dark, coiling vapors blotted out and then revealed briefly the lights of the traffic on coast Highway 101 off to the right, beyond a line of breakers and beaches dimly discernible in the flickering of electrical light above the cloud. Sticky buildups on the wings, control surfaces, and windshield had made it impossible to clear the 3,000-foot hills inland, forcing the plane to head southwest along the Santa Clara Valley to Ventura, turning right to follow the coast from there. There had been several ominous thunks of hard objects hitting the structure, but nothing so far had penetrated the cabin.

  “Okay. Watch out for three radio towers along the water’s edge, two just as you pass us, one farther up. Altitudes are three fifty feet, and the position lights are out. What are you planning up ahead?”

  “Follow the highway on into Vandenberg.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it. In about twenty miles, the highway turns right and climbs through some twenty-eight hundred foot hills. Try following the railroad bed along the coast, around Point Conception to Point Arguello, where there’s a navigation light. From there, you should be able to contact Vandenberg. That would put you about seven miles south, in position for approach to runway one-six. The big launch complexes should stand out. We think they still have lights there.”

  “Thanks, Santa Barbara. Wilco.”

  “Caution, traffic climbing out of Santa Barbara airport. Heavy to severe turbulence at all altitudes in this region. We’re getting pilot reports of intermittent meteor strikes. Set your Vandenberg security transponder settings. Over.
”

  “We’ve been dinged by a couple of those rocks too. No serious damage. But we’ll be glad to get this thing on the ground.”

  “You must have some hot dates waiting up there.”

  At least, something appeared to be going right. Not only was the stricken-aircraft ruse unnecessary, but they would no longer be faced with the task of having to convince Lacey from a cold start. Of course, there still remained the possibility that Lacey could be part of the plot and was simply allowing them to fly on into the parlor, but it seemed remote.

  The dark mass of one of the drilling platforms off Point Conception loomed to the left. It was showing no lights or sign of life, and was being battered by heavy seas. The pilot was having to alternate left and right turns to try and gain some forward visibility.

  “I see it!” Keene said suddenly, peering through the right-hand window and gesturing as the yellow smear of Point Arguello’s beacon emerged from the unfolding muddiness ahead.

  “Vandenberg, MU87 is five south at three hundred feet en route Vandenberg, following railroad tracks.”

  Incredibly, a voice answered. “Roger, MU87. You’re expected. Barometer is twenty-nine point five-five and falling, visibility three hundred feet to occasionally zero, ceiling indefinite at around two hundred, gusting winds quartering from twenty-five to forty knots. If able, continue along tracks until you have visual. I don’t think you’re going to like this. Over.”

  “Not many options here. What aids do we have?”

  “ILS is out, and GPS is crazy. We’re having trouble with the VASI lights and runway lights. You should be able to see the launch complex towers; they’re still lighted. When they’re to your right, fly three-forty degrees for one minute, then start a right standard-rate turn to heading one-sixty-two. When you cross the railroad tracks, the runway is a half mile farther. Report abeam the launch complex. Over.”

  “Roger that.”

  The thought came to Keene out of nowhere that the spontaneous urge to help others just because they were also humans was what Sariena had been trying to explain all along. To the Kronians it was simply a natural expression of what being human meant. Why, here, did it always seem to have wait for a war or some kind of disaster? A pool of lights curdled together oozed through the darkness on Keene’s side of the plane; then another.