Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (5 page)

One of the analysts back at the Pentagon had even gone so far as to speculate that the scientists and engineers at Los Alamos were responsible. One theory had it that someone was digging a massive burial ground for the nuclear materials known to be at the lab.

But that concept had quickly been shot down. There were less than 100 pounds of fissionable material in all of the laboratory’s sprawling infrastructure, and that wouldn’t require such a big hole.

Grissom didn’t know who was running the show down in the valley, but he was reasonably sure it had nothing to do with nukes. The involvement of Los Alamos scientists was still a possibility, but the PJ had his doubts.

Forcing his mind to refocus on the job at hand, the operator began quietly circling the camp, eyes and ears prying the darkness, searching for any sign of trouble. “Don’t let curiosity kill the PJ-cat,” he whispered.

Hack wanted to keep the drone above the intruders and observe the encounter in real time, but that was impossible. The terrain between the pueblo and the valley was too difficult for the hunting party to make good time, especially in low light conditions, and his batteries were limited.

Sighing at the flying machine’s power indicator, he punched a series of buttons and ordered the drone home.

“I know you all want to watch, but my machine is out of juice,” he explained to the gathered onlookers. “The hunting party will bring the girl back, I’m sure.”

“You’ve helped beyond measure,” replied the uncle, placing a reassuring hand on the inventor’s shoulder. “Would you like any food or drink while we wait?”

“No thank you, I’m fine.”

The crowd milled around for several minutes, Hack catching bits and pieces of the low conversations while he waited. Everyone was clearly keyed up, the family members of the hunting party both proud of their kin’s participation in the rescue, and worried at the same time about their wellbeing.

At no time did the toymaker detect any hesitation or second-guessing of the project. Hack was unsure if the locals just hadn’t put two and two together… or if he was just paranoid.

This is all related
, he thought.
There’s no other reason for military men to be in that area. Somehow, they’re on to us.

Someone pointed skyward, and then the drone was hovering overhead. Without Hack touching the tablet, the flying robot began its descent into the middle of the square.

After his toy had landed, Hack performed a quick check-over of his device and then returned it to his car. All along, his Apache shadow loomed close by.

“There’s nothing more for us to do now but wait,” he informed his bodyguard. “I want to stay here and talk to the hunting party when they return. If they capture any of the strangers alive, I want to speak with them as well.”

Apache Jack grunted, “They won’t take anyone alive, Grandfather. You know that. Still, it will be good to see the girl reunited with her family.”

Hack nodded, knowing his companion’s words were accurate. The local tribes had stopped taking any prisoners long ago. They would, however, bring back the equipment and personal effects from the bodies, and that might help explain the purpose of the strangers’ trip. The guard sensed his apprehension. “You are troubled, Grandfather. Is there something else?”

“I don’t like military men spying on the project,” Hack replied. “If there is any government presence remaining in Washington, they’re not going to like what we’re doing. I’ve long hoped our joint venture would be completed before anyone discovered our handiwork.”

“More than any white man since your kind came to our lands, you have helped the people, Grandfather. From my brothers the Mescalero in the south to the Navajo in the west, the nations are uniting behind the project. Our time has come. It’s our turn, and nothing is going to stop us.”

Hack didn’t respond at first, moving to lean against the hood of his cart. He’d heard similar words from several of the local leaders, and in a way, they were right.

It had all started innocently enough.

Given the success of his drones assisting with security and the hunts, he’d been experimenting with equipping the metal hawks with ground-contouring radar.

He’d earned the handle “Hack” back in the early days at the Skunk Works, quickly developing a reputation for “hacking” together solutions using existing hardware and software. The name had stuck, and besides, he thought it sounded far better than “Ruben,” the name given by his mother.     

Using scavenged components from a police radar gun and old cell phones, he’d been “hacking” together a device that would provide detailed mapping of the surrounding territory. If they were to survive long term, the tribes were going to be forced into large-scale farming.

That plan required tillable land, water for irrigation, and manageable overland routes to plant and distribute the harvest.

His hack had worked, downloading detailed terrain and elevation data into one of the inventor’s more powerful computers.

Hack could still remember the day it had dawned on him that the valley was ripe for irrigation. He’d been studying the high output, agricultural regions, such as those in California and Texas, and discovered the surrounding desert was geographically predisposed for just such a project. But where to find that much water?

The answer was obvious – the Rio Grande River.

Flowing from north of them in Colorado, the Rio Grande wasn’t much more than a broad stream as it passed through Santa Fe and flowed south where it eventually formed the border between Texas and Mexico.

Hack quickly discovered that the limited water supply was partly due to the waterway’s split just north of the valley. There, the Pecos River branched off, taking a separate route toward central Texas. The two rivers eventually met again along the Mexican border before flowing into the Gulf of Mexico at Brownsville, Texas.

But what if the Pecos was damned and its flow diverted into the Rio Grande’s channel? There would be plenty of water to turn the entire valley green with crops. There would be more than enough food to feed the tribes.

He’d presented his idea gradually, talking with a governor here, an elder there. Would the Nations buy into such a project?

“We can establish one of the most productive, fertile regions in the world,” he explained at one council meeting. “We’ve all been living for years off the corn and wheat production from the Midwest. Since the collapse, that source is no longer available. Those fields may never be planted again.”

At one of the powwows, a group of dignitaries from the Hopi tribe was visiting. After the presentation, one of the foreign chiefs approached Hack and asked, “Do you have the tablet?”

“Sir? Do you mean a tablet computer?”

“No, I’m speaking of the tablet of prophecy. Are you the elder brother?”

Hack was puzzled, his bewildered expression answering the chief’s question. The old man was polite enough to explain, “My people were led into this world by two brothers. The younger, and his followers, stayed here in what is now called the Southwest. The older brother traveled east, into the morning sun. We believe that when it looks like our world is about to end, the older brother will return and save our people.”

Hack shook his head, “I’m just a man, sir. I may have a bit more knowledge than some other men, but I am flesh and blood, just like you.”

The chief was skeptical, giving Hack a slow look-over from head to toe, his eyes seemingly drawn to the inventor’s long white hair. Finally, in a low voice, he expanded, “Our prophecy calls the elder brother the ‘True White Brother.’ And you are very white.”

The old man then turned and pointed to the bright red drone Hack had brought along for a demonstration. “Our legend also states that the True White Brother’s followers will be red.”

“That’s just a coincidence,” Hack said, waving off the observation with a friendly gesture. “Red is my favorite color, so I paint many of my toys with the same pigment.”

“I see,” nodded the chief. “Thank you for your honesty, and thank you for helping the people. The lands of the Hopi are some distance away, but I will pledge our resources to this project if the local leadership decides to pursue your ideas.”

The chief started to turn away but then paused. Turning back he said, “Would several, hefty bulldozers and other earthmoving machines help?”

Hack’s eyes grew wide. “Yes, yes, they would help immensely.”

“Before the lights flickered out for the last time, our tribe was clearing land for a new construction project. The workers never returned for their machines, and they’ve been sitting still ever since. Some of our men wanted to take the fuel truck that sits at the location, but the council wouldn’t let them. I suppose, after all this time, we could make a claim and use it for such a grand purpose.”

The toymaker’s mind immediately began racing with options. Would the engines start? Would the diesel fuel be usable after sitting for months and months? Did he know enough to make them function?

A month later, work crews started showing up, surveying, placing stakes in the ground, and assigning local volunteers to various tasks.

As it turned out, the Hopi’s diesel fuel was worthless, nothing more than a tank full of lime green algae.

But Hack had another solution – wood gas.

The surrounding mountains were thick with forests. Wood was in plentiful supply. In less than a week, he had the first refinery producing fuel. A month later, using his model and scavenged parts, the methane-based gas was being produced in nearly every pueblo.

Soon there were giant bulldozers working alongside the legions of laborers. Shovels were in short supply, the demand forcing two raiding parties to enter the ashes of Santa Fe and Albuquerque to pillage hardware stores and warehouses for anything that would move dirt.

Hack was using every ancient engineering trick in the book to help move earth and build the infrastructure required to irrigate the valley. Water wheels, rail cars similar to those used in the early days of underground mines, and even homemade explosives were now common sights in the desert. 

Everyone began calling the project “Valley Green,” and the name was apt. They truly were going to turn the basin the color of emeralds.

Only once did Hack think about the impact on those downstream. If his scheme worked, both the Rio Grande and the Pecos rivers would cease to exist outside of New Mexico. One of the elders had family in Texas and voiced concern over their wellbeing if the river dried up completely.

“They can move here and enjoy a full stomach every day,” one of the governors responded. “They can come home.”   

Bishop’s hand was reaching for the bedside rifle before his mind could climb from the depths of REM-sleep. With a racing heart and unsure legs, Bishop swung his feet over the edge of the mattress, eyes probing the darkness, scanning for the threat.

“The camper is under attack!” his foggy mind was screaming.

But it didn’t make any sense. What kind of attack made such a roar? What kind of weapon sounded like a jet engine on the roof?

With rifle high and sweeping, he negotiated the narrow passage to the main salon. He was alone. There weren’t any bullets tearing through the trailer’s thin, aluminized skin. No explosions rocked his world.

“Is some piss midget landing an airliner on my RV?” was his next thought.

Padding to the door, Bishop cracked it open and had his answer. Hail.