Ill Wind

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Casey linked the two handcars with a pin and slid them along the track to show how easily the old vehicles moved. “We could be there in a week,” he said.

  “Is that an optimistic estimate?” Henrietta asked.

  “It’s just the one I’m counting on,” Casey answered.

  They loaded up the handcars, tying down the carefully wrapped smallsats and their supplies for the trip. Once everything was secure, they climbed onboard the lead car.

  “This really is crazy,” Todd said again. “Dr. Soo said we’re carrying a metric ton of satellites!”

  “So what?” Casey said. “Let’s shove off before somebody sees us.” He stood with his back to the wind, facing east. He gripped the metal push bar. “How are your hands?”

  Todd faced him, taking the opposite end of the seesaw bar. “Don’t worry about it. How’s your back?”

  “Are we going to talk or go?”

  Todd grasped the bar. “On three: one… two… three!” Together, they began to push.

  Up and down, slowly at first as the linked cars moved forward, picking up speed. Up… down… up… down… Finally, as they gained momentum, they could feel the movement, see the rails slide by beneath them.

  “We’re heading out,” Casey shouted.

  Todd said, “I’ve got this sudden urge to sing ‘I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.’”

  Simultaneously, Henrietta Soo and Casey Jones shushed him. Todd threw his back into the pumping.

  The two handcars moved on into the night bearing the solar smallsats and three passengers. Todd could hear only the sound of the steel wheels humming along the track.

  Chapter 63

  “The NSA team is here, Mr. President,” Franklin Weathersee said, rapping on the door to the oppressive, lonely room.

  Jeffrey Mayeaux grumbled to himself as he sipped then put down his drink. Let’s pass a good time! Two shots of old bourbon, neat. His wife would be sleeping by herself in a different suite down the hall, so at least Mayeaux had that much peace. Now that her social life had fallen to pieces, she had started wanting to spend time with him again, and he didn’t like the change of pace. One more mess to cope with. He’d just gotten undressed, ready for bed, when Weathersee came in to announce the meeting. What good did it do to be in charge of the goddamn country if he had to cater to everyone else’s schedules?

  Weathersee’s face was outlined with deep shadows thrown from the single low-wattage bulb hanging from the ceiling. Mayeaux could see two Secret Service agents standing just outside the bedroom door.

  “Thanks, Frank. I was getting sick of relaxing after a whole five minutes or so. You wouldn’t want to spoil me.”

  “No I wouldn’t, sir,” Weathersee said without so much as cracking a smile.

  Before communications had been disrupted with the military bases, Mayeaux would have postponed the meeting until morning. Teach them all some respect. Lordy, he hated working by the dim light almost as much as he hated getting up early in the morning. But he grabbed his bathrobe and headed for the door. If they expected him to show up in a formal suit, they had their heads up their asses.

  The staff engineers had wired the elevators to work—but after what happened to that idiot Vice President in Chicago, Mayeaux never wanted to use an elevator again. He headed down the long two flights of stairs from the third-floor living quarters to the Oval Office.

  Because of the enormous effort required to generate electricity with the old steam-engine equipment hauled out of the Smithsonian, there weren’t many functional lights in the White House. Over three thousand military troops were devoted to collecting wood, stoking the fires, and running the converted steam-generators around the capitol city. Generously, Mayeaux signed an executive order directing most of the electricity to go to local hospitals, but the marginal remaining supply kept the main communication lines open.

  Mayeaux almost tripped on a rug in the dark. He cursed; if things got any worse, he’d have to cut a hole in the floors and install a fireman’s pole so he could whiz down to important meetings. Now wouldn’t that look presidential?

  The team from the National Security Agency met him outside the Oval Office. He noticed two women in the group, but was not impressed; they both looked hardened to their duties, not the least bit attractive. The job must be getting to me, Mayeaux thought bitterly. He ushered them into the office and got right to business.

  “I called you here to give me another perspective, cher. I’m not sure I can trust the bullshit my Joint Chiefs are feeding me. Don’t mince words—tell me what’s going on out there.”

  The team leader, a middle-aged woman who wore no makeup at all and let her hair fall loose to her shoulders, pushed a large sheet of cardboard across his desk. She had fastened white sheets of paper to the stiff backing, drawings of the downtown Washington area. The woman pointed at the Mall extending two miles from the Washington Monument to the Capitol building.

  “We’ve finished installing the underground Extreme Low Frequency antennas, Mr. President. In addition, there are five shortwave antennas around the White House.” She pointed to various locations on the drawing.

  One of her aides handed her a sheaf of papers. “The ELF antenna has already raised communication with six Trident-class submarines, still underwater and still unaffected by the plague, as far as we know. That leaves ten subs unaccounted for, and three confirmed missing after the plague. We assume they have been destroyed, probably because their watertight seals were breached, but it’s not a foregone conclusion.”

  “Destroyed?”

  “Yes, sir. They either surfaced and the petroplague infiltrated their systems, or they were so close to the mix layer, the petroplague got to them that way.”

  Mayeaux glanced over the material. Page after page of handwritten code appeared on the pages, with elaborate decoding inked in by hand after each line. Even the decoded material seemed a jumble of nonsense.

  “So, can we still communicate with the surviving nuclear submarines? Can I issue them new orders?”

  She nodded. “That’s right, sir. At least to a fair fraction of them. We’re still attempting to raise those assigned to ocean areas in electromagnetic voids, but we should have confirmation in a week.”

  Mayeaux pushed the papers back. “What does the Navy think about this?”

  The team chief spoke slowly. “We haven’t seen their complete analysis, Mr. President. Our instructions were only to collect unbiased communications traffic.”

  Mayeaux thought it over for a moment. So far none of this new information conflicted with what his military chiefs had told him, but he still wasn’t convinced he had the whole story. He made a mental note to have Weathersee scare up a new list of advisors he could trust. “Okay—next topic. What’s the status of those out-of-touch military bases? Are you doing any better than the Joint Chiefs in raising them?”

  The NSA staff exchanged glances. The team chief cleared her throat. “No, sir, we have not. We’re working closely with our military counterparts out in the field, and we have not yet been able to reestablish communication.”

  Mayeaux shook his head. He knew he should have gulped down the rest of that damned drink before coming downstairs. “What about the communities outside the bases? Are they responding at all?”

  “Well, sir, about the only thing we have are reports of looting and out-of-control fires in the larger cities: Philadelphia, Chicago, Dallas, and Denver.”

  Mayeaux looked up from his desk. “What happened to LA? That was a hot spot before.”

  “That’s a problem, sir.” She shuffled through her papers again, but he could tell she was just avoiding his gaze. “We think perhaps another organization should handle this—”

  “I’m sick of doubletalk,” Mayeaux growled, flicking his glance to skewer every person in the room. “I asked a question—give me the fucking answer!”

  The NSA team chief continued. “Los Angeles refused to establish martial law, sir. We have word from the city’
s mayor that they are considering seceding from the nation. They do not want to participate in conscription activities or food taxation. The mayor has ordered breaking open all military stockpiles of food to the populace at large. From what we can tell, the military in the Los Angeles area is cooperating with this action, directly countermanding your orders.”

  She stacked her papers neatly. “The last we heard was a call for action to help some sort of expedition going to New Mexico from the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. It wasn’t clear what was going on, but the New Mexico connection may be a symptom of breakdown in martial law across the country. JPL has commandeered Caltech’s Emergency Network Radio node and they also refuse to cooperate with FEMA or any other emergency agencies. They are apparently behind this expedition.”

  Deep resentment ran through Mayeaux. He had to push with a crowbar to get anyone to tell him bad news. Did they really fear him that much, or were they crawfishin’ around the issue?

  “Mais, let me tell you something. This crap has gone too far. It’s going to stop, right now. I didn’t ask for this damned responsibility, but I will not be remembered as the man who allowed the United States to fall apart.” He turned to Frank Weathersee. “Pull the Joint Chiefs in here, right now. I want more information, and if they give you any grief in return, throw their asses out. Period.”

  Weathersee stiffened. “Very well, Mr. President.”

  Mayeaux was on a roll now. Sometimes it felt damned good to kick some butt. He hunched over the table, talking rapidly. On reflection, he thought he sounded very presidential. “That expedition to New Mexico. Are they spreading this call for secession? Did they instigate this damned mess in LA? Who was that general I met at Kirtland a few months ago, on my way to Acapulco—” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember.

  “Bayclock, sir.”

  “That’s right. Have the Chiefs warn General Bayclock there’s some sort of traitor movement heading his way. He seemed like a down-to-earth man. Make sure the general understands that everyone must support him, nip this thing in the bud, all that rah rah stuff. This might be the test for keeping anarchy in check.”

  Weathersee looked unconvinced. “Yes, sir, traitor movement. Any other items the Joint Chiefs should work on?”

  “So far we’re nothing but a voice over a radio to these people. We don’t have any way to back up our threats.” He set his mouth. “Make sure the Vice President has this information at the Naval Observatory. And have the Chiefs draw up a plan to make an example of… something—if LA is going to try to secede, maybe they need a knock on the head to set them right.”

  He steepled his fingers. “Take a lesson from history. Abraham Lincoln took that step. He threw most of the Baltimore businessmen and newspaper editors in jail when they wouldn’t support him. Sure taught them a lesson!”

  “What do you propose, Mr. President?” Weathersee said.

  He glared at his Chief of Staff. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe take out Catalina Island with a nuke. We’re in touch with the subs again, after all.”

  Weathersee stood tall, his arms at his sides, as he looked at Mayeaux. “If you’re going to take a lesson from history, sir, perhaps you should remember what happened to President Lincoln. I just thought I should remind you of that.”

  Chapter 64

  “Hey, Lieutenant,” Spencer asked, “what do you know about military intelligence?”

  “Military intelligence? That’s how I remember the definition of the word ‘oxymoron.’” Bobby Carron looked up from untying the tentlike sun-screen at the blockhouse corner. The sun had set over the Organ Mountains, and already the high desert air took on a chill. “Me, I just flew fighters—you know, grapefruit and peas.”

  “Grapefruit and peas?” Spencer made a disgusted grimace. “Is that what they feed you guys?”

  Bobby laughed. “No, sir. It’s just what they say about us fighter pilots. Balls the size of grapefruits, brains the size of peas.”

  “I see.” Spencer chuckled. “Come on inside the trailer. You’re the only military type around here. You might be able to figure this out.”

  “Right.” Bobby left the cords dangle from the sprawling sun-screen tent made of parachute silk. To keep the bunkers cooler during the hottest part of the day, Spencer’s group had obtained some surplus fabric in Alamogordo. Stenciled on the parachutes were the words HOLLOMAN AIR FORCE BASE, taken from the closing of the base a few years earlier. After high evening winds had torn away the last sun-screen, taking down the parachute had become Bobby’s nightly ritual.

  Bobby followed Spencer inside the trailer, where Juan Romero listened to the voices coming over the static-filled speaker, pursing his lips in a confused frown that made his black moustache stick out at the sides. Electronic equipment lay on the tabletops, cannibalized for parts used in the makeshift radio. Romero rolled his eyes at the signal. “Everything’s encrypted.”

  “…Niner niner rog. Turtle mound advised of bandit watch.” Other nonsensical phrases jabbered over the channel.

  Spencer watched Bobby Carron as the Navy pilot digested the cryptic information. “Any idea what they’re saying, Lieutenant?”

  “I recognize some code words,” Bobby said, frowning as he concentrated. “Maybe they can’t get their regular encryption gear working.” He stared at the makeshift equipment as if in a trance. Spencer said nothing.

  Three electric lanterns lit the control room against the darkness outside; they used solar power stored in batteries during the day’s transit of the smallsat cluster. A cool breeze swept through the door, bringing a sweet hint of yucca.

  Romero glanced at Bobby. “How can he understand what they’re saying when the static is this bad? Must be sunspots.”

  “Ever heard a pilot talk on the radio?” Spencer said. “You can’t understand a thing they’re saying until you do it yourself.”

  Bobby held up a hand. He spoke as if he were reciting a passage: “They’re saying something like: events have gotten out of hand. Take all actions necessary to ensure the continuity of—” He hesitated, then shook his head. “Damn,” he muttered, “Some of the stuff just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Go on,” said Spencer. He motioned for Romero to sit back down. Rita Fellenstein joined them from the back room. She had been making eyes at Bobby ever since he had arrived, much to the dismay of the other ranch hands.

  Three minutes passed before the mixed-up transmission stopped. Bobby scribbled in pencil on a small notepad. His forehead held a sheen of sweat.

  “As far as I can tell, General Bayclock has been ordered to occupy your installation at White Sands. He’s to show an iron hand. All assets of something—the California expedition?—are to be confiscated and turned over to the United States.”

  Spencer exchanged glances with Rita. “I hope that doesn’t mean the mission from JPL.”

  Bobby continued, “The general is authorized to use whatever force necessary to preserve the integrity of the United States.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” muttered Rita.

  “It means we’ve been declared open game, and this Bayclock clown can come and blow us away, man!” Romero stood up, knocking back his chair and flinging his long black hair out of his eyes like a dangerous bandit.

  “He’s crazy enough to do it, too,” Bobby said. “Your wagon train carrying the smallsats got out of the Los Angeles area just in time. The mayor of LA has taken over the national guard and is declaring southern California a free state. Bayclock wants to stop the JPL people from getting to you.”

  Spencer shook his head. “This is ridiculous. Does he think the expedition from JPL is some kind of armed force? How paranoid can he get?”

  Bobby said, “I know the general has been monitoring radio transmissions from White Sands—that’s how he discovered you have a working power station.”

  “Yeah, for all of twenty minutes a day,” said Spencer, “and a bunch of leftover battery power.”

  “That was enough for him to send m
e down here after you.” Bobby’s face tightened. “He’s serious about enforcing his martial law, and he must have gone nonlinear when you guys didn’t roll over and cooperate. He probably thinks the group from JPL is part of a conspiracy to subvert his authority. With the White House backing him, I bet he’s decided to make an example of us.”

  Romero laughed, but Bobby spoke in a level tone. “In Albuquerque, he was hanging teenagers for stealing cans of tuna or staying out after dark.”

  The trailer fell quiet. Bobby looked from person to person. Spencer placed a hand on his shoulder. “Look, why don’t you finish taking down the sunscreens outside. I’ll have Romero run through the FEMA frequencies and see if we can find any other information that confirms what we’ve heard.”

  Bobby stopped at the door. “You know, I’d feel a lot better if we could just see what that bastard Bayclock is going to do. I’d hate to have a few thousand fanatics sneak up on us without warning. No telling when he’ll make his move.”

  Spencer pictured the state of New Mexico in his head. “It’ll take him at least a week to get down here, even if he started today. I’ll notify Alamogordo. Maybe some of the ranchers can help us out. Give us quarter, if nothing else. We can get away.”

  “But that means abandoning the antenna farm, man!” Romero cried. “Spencer, you can’t do that!”

  “Maybe we can station lookouts on Oscura Peak, use smoke signals to warn us like we did for the substation test,” Rita suggested.

  “It would be more effective to have lookouts nearby,” said Bobby. “What would happen if the peak got socked in with clouds? Of if Bayclock decided to attack at night? What you need is a thousand-foot-high tower, or an airplane.” He grinned half-heartedly, his mind obviously elsewhere, as if knowing he would never fly again. “Nevermind. I’ve got to finish packing the parachutes.”