As the sun set behind the broken mountains, shadows extended across the valley like fingers of death toward the rebellious scientists. By this time tomorrow, Bayclock’s troops would have engulfed Lockwood’s group and reestablished order, at last.
* * *
In the radio trailer, Juan Romero concentrated on a circuit diagram he had sketched himself; he hoped it would improve the microwave satellite switching algorithm. Before the petroplague, intricate new designs had been constructed on workstations optimized for specific configurations. But the overrated software annoyed Romero—why spend so much time studying electrical engineering if you were just going to be a computer jock? He felt a rush of pride to see that he could still do a circuit diagram the old way, with a brain and a pencil.
Static clicks from the telegraph interrupted his thoughts. He grumbled about Bobby Carron picking the worst time to run a test from his observation balloon. Romero listened to the first few lines of code, and then his face tightened. “Hey, Spence!” His own hoarse voice surprised him.
Gilbert Hertoya trotted out of the blockhouse, ducking around an array of cables. “What you got?”
Romero glanced up, but continued relaying Bobby’s message to the microwave facility five miles to the south. “It’s Bayclock. He’s here already! Where’s Spencer?”
The short engineer blinked. “Oh, crackerjacks! He and Rita headed off for the microwave facility before dark. They should get there within an hour.”
“Bobby’s got Bayclock’s troops pegged at ten miles out. No solid count on the number, but there’s at least a hundred.” Romero felt panic clogging his voice. He tugged on his drooping moustache. “What are we going to do?”
“Do you think they’ll attack after dark? Can Bobby estimate how fast they’re moving?”
“Just a minute.” Romero tapped furiously on the switch. The telegraph line from the balloon came back to life. “They’re still coming down from the foothills. He estimates they’re traveling under three miles an hour.”
“Okay.” Gilbert set his mouth. “Keep relaying everything to the farm, and let me know when Spencer gets there. I’ll set the railgun up for a pre-emptive strike.”
Romero looked up at the other man. “You mean, go on the offense? Shouldn’t we give them a warning or something?”
“Ask them to surrender? Ha!” Gilbert’s face was grim and looked very old. “We’re not playing by parlor rules. Bayclock is the aggressor. Time to scare the hell out of him.”
* * *
The memory of the capacitor banks pre-firing on the first railgun test nearly smothered Gilbert’s optimism. Now that Bayclock’s army was breathing down their necks, he knew it could easily happen again. Or something even worse.
Gilbert refused to wait for Bayclock’s army to start shooting at them. The general was on the move, marching closer. As far as Gilbert was concerned, there was no point in negotiating—they hadn’t asked for the invasion force, had done nothing to incite the attack. But Bayclock had come strutting in, uninvited.
If some tin-pot Napoleon thought he could march down here with an army, Gilbert intended to send him back home with his tail between his legs. If the White Sands group lost their advantage of surprise, Bayclock could move his troops to safety and come at them from a different direction.
A cloud of metal shrapnel flying at five times the velocity of a bullet would surely demoralize Bayclock’s troops—especially coming from a bunch of supposedly defenseless scientists. If nothing else, the railgun would make the army wonder what else Spencer’s hot shots might come up with.
Arnie poked his head out from the launcher command post. “Ready for the bank to go hot, Gilbert.”
“Has the projectile been checked?”
Arnie sighed. “Twice by you and three times by us. We loaded Rita’s special shrapnel mix of chopped up razor blades, nails, and broken glass. If we pop it now, it should spread out to hit their camp. It won’t be pretty.”
“It’s not supposed to be pretty.” Gilbert looked around for Romero. “Heard from Spencer yet?”
The radio man shook his head. “The farm says they’ll contact us when he gets there.”
Gilbert thought fast. He had to go with it. Command decision. Spencer and his crew had been anticipating this moment ever since Bobby Carron had deserted and stayed behind.
Years earlier, Gilbert had been yanked from his work at the Sandia National Lab, sent over to the Middle East as a military consultant during the first Gulf conflict. He had left Cynthia and the kids behind in Albuquerque, unable to tell them what he was doing—much the same way he had left them in Alamogordo during the past few weeks. He hadn’t protested then because he believed in his work. And now, he had never felt stronger about anything in his life. Spencer’s solar power farm must not fall into the hands of a military dictator.
He drew in a deep breath. “Okay, charge the banks. Launch on my count.” He twisted his head. “Romero! Get an updated range from Bobby.”
“Right.”
Gilbert scrambled over a thigh-thick cluster of cables to position himself at the railgun’s crude rangefinder—optics from a high-powered rifle juxtaposed with a protractor and a plumbline. Within seconds Romero relayed elevation and landmark information.
Grunting, Gilbert reached up to rotate the unwieldy device with the hand crank. When the starlit peak across the valley was in sight on the crosshairs, he elevated the long metal railings until the plumbline registered the correct position. “Talk about spit and chewing gum,” he muttered.
“Bank’s hot, Gil. Your call.”
Gilbert eyed the crosshairs one more time, then gently moved away from the device. He slapped Romero on the back. “Get some cover.” He nodded at the tech in the control room. “Light it!”
“Roger!” Arnie yelled into the blockhouse. “Hit it!”
Fifty feet away from the railgun, Gilbert turned to watch. He saw a weirdly ionized ball shoot the length of the rails, sparking across the gaps as the heavy shrapnel projectile accelerated upward. He had never seen a nighttime launch, and it looked beautiful.
Then a blinding flash erupted from the capacitor building. The sounds of the railgun and the capacitor exploding hit him at the same time.
Gilbert felt the pop of the shock wave as the dynamic overpressure hit. He started running toward the railgun, not knowing what had happened. A secondary explosion came from the capacitor building. “No, dammit!”
He barely saw the fragment of metal spinning toward him as it hit him in the knees. He fell, trying to pummel the ground with his fists as he passed out.
* * *
General Bayclock rode at the front of the army advancing toward the microwave farm, accompanied by Sergeant Morris and Dr. Nedermyer. Five security policemen on horseback surrounded him. Behind him and spreading out like a wedge, rode his two colonels and their respective groups of soldiers.
The troops marched on foot, weary but excited to be finally reaching their destination. They had lost five horses early in the trek during the raid from the pueblo dwellers, but the general had commandeered other mounts from ranches on the way.
Bayclock still thought of himself as a Wing Commander, and his two groups made up the remainder of his military command. The lines of communication were short, and he had no doubt they would easily take the solar-power facility.
But Bayclock remembered from National War College that overconfident troops were easiest to overcome; he did not want his troops to fail because Lockwood’s people put up an unexpected fight. Yet it was hard to take the group of scientists seriously. He had not yet decided how lenient he would be with them when it was all over.
Bayclock turned to Sergeant Catilyn Morris, intending to call the troops to a halt when he first heard the sound—like a million angry insects suddenly buzzing, filling his head.
Sharp, startled screams broke the air. His people dropped, horses bellowed then whinnied in pain. All around him, the peaceful desert seemed suddenly to
spew forth a plague of locusts, hard projectiles pattering the ground and whizzing through the air. The screaming buzz seemed to go on and on.
Bayclock pulled his horse around—two security policemen behind him fell on the ground; one writhed, the other lay motionless. Beside them, a horse struggled, trying to get back to its feet and leaving splashes of blood on the white gypsum sands.
Just as suddenly as it started, the deadly rain stopped. The night sky continued to fill with yells of terror.
Bayclock yanked his rifle from its holster. “Sergeant, get my staff up here!”
“Yes, sir!” Sergeant Morris pulled her horse around and galloped back into the starlit night. Bayclock turned in his saddle and yelled at the security policemen. “You, man—help your buddy! You others post a guard in a semicircle. Speed out!”
Chaos overwhelmed the night as the sounds of panicked troops scrambling to follow orders mixed with moans of pain. Bayclock held his rifle on his knee, trying to drive a wedge through the darkness with the sheer force of his anger. What in the living hell just happened?
He heard horses come up behind him, and he made out the forms of Sergeant Morris and Colonel David. The colonel held his injured left arm against his side.
“Report!” snapped Bayclock. “What have you got?”
Colonel David shook his head, coughing. “Nothing definite, sir. I don’t know how many people I’ve lost. We’ve got a shitload of injuries, everything from impact wounds to shatter fractures. I haven’t seen anything like this since the fragmentation weapons used in the Gulf.”
“Those daisy-cutters were dropped by B 52s, Colonel—have you heard any planes around here lately?”
The colonel shook his head; Sergeant Morris suggested tentatively, “Maybe the scientists have mortars, sir.”
Bayclock glared. “Daisy-cutters are five-hundred-pound bombs, Sergeant! I’ve brought them on my own missions. Now shut the hell up while I speak with my staff.”
Sergeant Morris grew tight-lipped. “Yes, sir.”
Bayclock turned back to the colonel. “Where’s Nachimya?”
“He bought it, general. He was twenty yards away from me when he died. Large wound through the trachea.”
“Who’s his second in command?”
Colonel David shook his head. “Major Zencon took off after some of the troops, sir. It was clear they were deserting.”
“Why didn’t he shoot the bastards? He has standing orders to shoot deserters!” Colonel David remained silent and closed his eyes. “Answer me, Colonel!”
Sergeant Morris answered quietly, “Major Zencon apparently deserted as well, sir. Colonel David couldn’t shoot them because of his own injury. We’ve probably lost a quarter of our troops already.”
The general yanked the bridle on his black gelding. The horse reared up, but Bayclock wrested control back. “Sergeant Morris, round up my security guard. Anyone who isn’t injured is to bring the highest-ranking officers to me, ASAP! Their orders remain unchanged—deserters will be shot. We will fall back and regroup until we learn more about the surprise defenses the scientists have set up for us.”
“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Morris turned her horse and stopped. “General, look!”
Bayclock muttered an oath. In the distance a fire blazed at the base of the electromagnetic launcher. It looked as though a bomb had devoured the entire facility, and fingers of flame licked the sky.
* * *
“Halt, who goes there!”
After the long, relaxing ride to the microwave facility, Spencer’s first thought was that someone must be playing a joke. Upon seeing the glint of two rifle barrels, his second thought was to answer as quickly as he could. “It’s Spencer—don’t shoot!”
“Rita Fellenstein,” said Rita beside him, just as quickly.
The gun barrel wavered, then dropped as a twangy voice said, “Yeah, it’s Spence. Darn—I thought we’d get to shoot our first live ones.”
Spencer kept his hands up, still unsure of what was going on. “Uh, can you tell me—” And then it hit him. “My God, Bayclock is here already!”
The voice in the darkness turned grim. “Things are going crazy back at the EM launch site. You’d better hurry into the microwave trailer for a report, pronto.”
Spencer didn’t reply. He kicked his mount with his heels, urging the horse to a gallop. Rita charged along beside him, her Australian hat flopping back against her neck.
When they reached the blockhouses, Spencer listened without a word as he was brought up to date. The technician at the telegraph unit spread her hands. “Romero managed to keep us updated in real time, up until the railgun fired.”
“Are you sure the railgun blew up?”
The tech shrugged. “Who knows? That’s what it looked like.”
Rita leaned forward. “What about Bobby?”
“I don’t know. We can’t see the balloon, but that doesn’t mean anything. He could be down to refuel.”
Spencer clenched his jaw, furious with himself. If only he had waited another hour at the launcher before returning! He tried to calm down; he needed to think clearly. Except for Rita, his closest advisors had been at the ill-fated railgun site.
“So what do we do?” said Rita. “Have we lost our long-range strike capability?”
“That pretty much goes without saying,” said the technician.
“Then we’re up a creek,” said Rita. “Bayclock’s boys can be here in three hours if they want!”
“If that’s the case,” said Spencer, “there’s nothing more we can do.” Come on, he thought. What happened to the whiz kid? The going got tough, and now he’s supposed to deliver.
Rita turned toward the blockhouse door with a determined look on her face. “I’ll take a couple of ranchhands and scout out Bayclock’s position. We can take along some of those citrus-oil explosives and lob the army a couple of nasty presents. Psych warfare. If we leave now, we can get there and back before dawn. We’ll stop by the launch site to check things out on the way, and send somebody back if the telegraph isn’t up when we get there.”
Spencer felt as if he had been hit over the head with a bagful of Higg’s bosons. He shook his head. “I don’t know—”
“I wasn’t asking permission, Spence,” said Rita. “Why don’t you just go do something you do best—like double the output power from those microwave satellites? Keep yourself busy and out of the way.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Spencer stood grim-faced as Rita swung a long leg over her horse. Her saddlebags were packed with explosives, pyrotechnics, and ammunition. Two ranchhands accompanied her, both grinning nervously as she leaned over to spit a tiny wad of chewing tobacco before setting out.
“See you in a couple of hours.” She leaned over and pecked Spencer on the cheek. “If you get a hold of Bobby, tell him I’m on my way.”
“He’ll be happy to know that.” Spencer slapped her horse on the flank. “Get going—you’ve got a job to do.”
“Make sure the catapult operators are ready for the morning light,” Rita called. “They might look like they’re over the hill, but they know what they’re doing. Just ask Romero.”
Spencer watched as Rita and her two companions rode off into the darkness. He stared until they faded from sight. He sighed, then turned back to the microwave trailer when he heard a voice calling him.
“Quick! We captured two people coming in from the west.”
A chill ran down Spencer’s back. Oh great, he thought. Nobody around here has any military savvy, and we’ve just captured our first prisoners of war?
He jogged down the dusty path, nearly stumbling over ruts in the darkness. On the old road to the microwave farm, Spencer met a guard walking behind two people—both quite tall, a man and a woman, their hands behind their backs. Even in the starlight Spencer could see the man wore a cowboy hat, and the woman tied her long hair in a pony tail. They didn’t look like what he expected of Bayclock’s troops.
The guard
said, “Hey, Spencer, come see what we’ve got here.”
The prisoner’s voice had a strong cowboy twang. “Are you Dr. Lockwood? Am I glad to see you!”
“I bet you are. Who are you?”
The cowboy pushed himself forward, ahead of the guard. “I talked to you on the shortwave. I’m Todd Severyn. From the Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena.”
Chapter 71
Rita Fellenstein stood in the stirrups, craning her neck to spot the glow of Bayclock’s campfires. For once she was thankful for the petroplague, since the general had no access to infrared goggles or other high-tech nighttime defenses. At least she didn’t think so.
Even better, his troops were not familiar with the landscape.
Rita intended to use her advantage to the max.
The two ranch hands started to whisper, but Rita put out a hand for silence. So far, she had spotted no roving patrols, but she didn’t put it past Bayclock to send out random point squads.
Still without word from the damaged railgun site, Rita rode with the ranch hands and looped south, coming in from behind the camp. Bobby Carron had told her about the “check six” nomenclature of fighter pilots to guard their rear at all times, but he thought the general might not apply that on the ground.
She really liked Bobby. It was good to finally have a guy stand up and spar with her instead of awkwardly shuffling his feet like the ranch hands did. But Bobby had nothing to do with her raid now. She pushed thoughts of him out of her mind.
Out of the corner of her eye, Rita caught a glimpse of a man on horseback in the encampment; beyond, she saw the glow of several fires masked by low dirt berms dug by the weary soldiers.
Rita patted her saddle and withdrew three cans of Bobby’s citrus-based explosive. She secured her rifle at the back of the saddle and whispered back at the other ranch hands. “Don’t get too close or stay too long. We just want to goose ‘em. Ka-boom!” Rita flicked the reins and clucked. “Let’s go!”
Their mounts stormed toward Bayclock’s encampment. Rita bent low on her horse. With the heels of her boots, she urged her horse to a gallop.
Ill Wind Page 43
