Ill Wind (67 page)

Gilbert tore his concentration away from the fight and looked into the sky. He had no way of telling accurate time, but the sun stood at about noon, and the Seven Dwarfs would orbit overhead any moment now.

He lay by the wreckage of the railgun. In the explosion, the capacitors had ruptured and the banks of storage batteries had burned. During the day of waiting and recovery, Arnie had lovingly disconnected and removed the blackened shapes. Given time and resources, they could repair everything—but it did not look like the general would give them the opportunity.

Every day at noon, though, when the Seven Dwarfs passed over the White Sands antenna farm, the solar energy beamed down to the collectors was distributed through the repaired power grid, charging up caches of batteries to run
various equipment
. A direct power line ran up to the EM launcher to charge the batteries for the railgun, but now those batteries had been destroyed and the ruined capacitors taken off-line.

The solar smallsats didn’t know that, however. They would continue to beam their power, and the electrical lines would run the current up to the railgun facility. Disconnected from any source, the cable would become a live wire for the twenty minutes that the satellites passed overhead transmitting their energy.

A live wire
.
As everyone watched the fistfight, Gilbert Hertoya took the disconnected cable, praying as he touched it that the deadly current wasn’t already flowing. No guard watched him closely, with both of his legs heavily bandaged.

Gilbert dragged himself to the metal superstructure of the railgun. He jammed the end of the wire into the steel base, then backed away—ignoring the sharp darts of pain jabbing his legs in a thousand places. He collapsed back on the dirt, trying to keep from passing out.

From the other side of the group of buildings, Arnie saw what Gilbert had done, and his eyes widened. Gilbert winked and crossed his fingers. In response, Arnie crossed his fingers, too.

Bayclock attacked Bobby again, and the fight went on.

#

Seven hundred kilometers overhead, seven satellites flew in a constellation of four planar orbits, inclined at 45 degrees from the equator. Tiny solar-electric thrusters boiled plasma off their electrodes, keeping the satellites positioned in orbit, cancelling perturbations caused by gravitational variations in the Earth’s crust.

The satellites updated their position using the military’s still-functioning Global Positioning Satellites, making necessary corrections. Each smallsat carried a tiny atomic clock, attuned to the energy of a certain fundamental transition frequency to know
when
they were. Isolated from the events taking place below, the satellites functioned as programmed.

One minute before noon, Mountain Standard Time, the lead satellite swung its gimboled antenna toward the horizon. Energy collected by the array of inflatable solar-cell panels was converted into electricity, which trickled into the transmitter.

The satellites silently began to irradiate the microwave antenna farm at White Sands.

#

Connor Brooks was within two hundred yards of the edge of the antenna farm when he heard sparks jumping from the metal poles of his backpack. The sound scared him—it was if he had fallen into the middle of a huge popcorn popper.

At the same instant, his head began to grow hot.
Very hot.
The thermal blanket felt as if it had suddenly turned into napalm. The searing fabric pressed down upon his skull, across the back of his neck. Only seconds earlier, he had enjoyed the relative coolness of being shielded from the sun, but it now felt like molten lead.

Connor screamed and tore at the metal-backed cloth. But already the fabric smoldered. The metal snapped and popped in an inferno of blue sparks; the poles on his backpack burned hot-iron slices into his back. Acidic smoke billowed out; even the metal eyelets on his boots crackled with tiny arcs of flame.

The pain went on and on. Connor fell to his knees, clutching at the melting blanket that spread over his head, over his skin.

In a final effort, Connor tried to pry the covering from his scalp, but his fingers refused to respond, turning into burned, bloody stumps by the boiling metal. Sparks continued to crackle in a cocoon around him. He screamed, and hot arcs lanced from the fillings in his teeth.

The pain
. . .
wouldn’t
. . .
stop
. .
. .

#

Seven hundred kilometers above the Earth, the second satellite locked on and started to beam its microwaves down to the target.

Five others waited patiently behind for their own turns.

#

Todd and Rita galloped in on either side of the base camp near the burned-out railgun facility, yelling their loudest battle cries. Todd set the spring-loaded timer on his crude grenade canister and lobbed the explosive toward a supply tent.

The Air Force men saw what he had thrown, and they scrambled in the opposite direction. Some ran for their rifles, but most ducked for cover.

Rita Fellenstein headed them off from the other direction, tossing another grenade in among the campfires. Following closely behind, the ranch hands fired their own rifles and shouted.

One colonel stood in the middle of it all, with a wounded arm in a sling, staring at Todd and the other riders. Very carefully, the colonel tossed his own rifle to the ground.

Bayclock’s other troops, as if waiting to surrender, took this as a sign of permission. Other explosions erupted from the citrus-based explosives. Gunfire rattled around the hills, but nobody seemed to be shooting
at
anything.

Todd had intended only to ride in, cause damage, panic, and confusion, make the troops scatter, then hit the road as fast as possible to hide in an overgrown arroyo.

Rita pulled up beside him, and they stared as more and more of the soldiers either ran or tossed down their weapons.

“Now what do we do?” Todd asked.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Rita shrugged. “We didn’t plan on
winning!
”

#

Carrying their white flag like a shield, Spencer and Heather were escorted up to the main buildings of the railgun only moments before the first explosions and gunshots broke out in the camp below them.

Heather gripped his hand hard enough that her nails bit into his skin. Spencer felt himself trembling, knowing he was crazy even to be making this attempt. He tried to keep a straight face, although his guts had tangled into knots.

The first thing he noticed near the control building was the fistfight between Bobby Carron and the general. A small group of Bayclock’s soldiers had formed a ring around the combatants, like gamblers watching a cockfight. But they did not cheer, simply watched the pummelling in silence.

Spencer’s attention was yanked like a metal filing to a magnet when he noticed the noose hanging from the utility pole—and the bloated body of a strangled Lance Nedermyer tied to the creosote-smeared wood.

“Oh, Lance!” Spencer said, and his breath went out of him. Even his cocky plans evaporated in his mind. If Bayclock could do this to one of his own supporters, then he would have no qualms about slaughtering Spencer or Rita or anyone else who dared to defy him.

Lance Nedermyer had been a real pain most of the time, but he had a good streak in him—a streak that Lance
himself
tried to extinguish. Maybe that good streak had been his downfall while trapped in Bayclock’s hell.

Farther down the long rail launcher, he heard the first shouts of Todd’s charge as they struck the base camp. Gunshots. Explosions. Several of the spectators ran off to see the attack, while others seemed afraid of leaving Bayclock’s side.

Bobby Carron and Bayclock rolled around on the ground, pounding each other with fists. The general clawed the back of Bobby’s head, attempting to grab his hair. Finally, he dug his fingers into Bobby’s ear until it bled. Bobby cried out and smashed his forehead down on the general’s skull, butting him viciously.

Blood poured out of Bayclock’s nose and sprayed in red foam every time he took a heaving breath. Bobby hammered the general’s side with his sharp elbow; Bayclock bit and grabbed, sinking his teeth into Bobby’s shoulder.

With a scream, Bobby tore himself free and scrambled away. Bayclock climbed to his feet and charged, but Bobby met the attack with a double blow to the general’s stomach, making him stumble back toward the railgun launcher. Bayclock’s eyes were bloodshot and his skin looked like a cube steak. Bobby didn’t look much better, but he remained on his feet as the general wobbled and fell to his knees in the dirt.

Todd and Rita rode into the area, with a tall solemn-looking colonel striding between them. The colonel cradled his wounded arm as he absorbed the situation, then he took another step toward the beaten Bayclock.

“General . . . “ he hesitated, but Bayclock did not acknowledge him. Colonel David didn’t seem to care.

“It’s over, General.” The colonel flashed a glance behind him to Spencer standing with his white flag. “I believe these gentlemen are in a position to discuss terms.”

Rita leaped from her horse and ran to help Bobby up. Bobby swayed on his feet and flicked blood out of his eyes. Sweat ran in rivers down his exposed skin, and he shuddered like a shack in a hurricane. “That’s it, Bayclock. Your troops have caused enough damage.”

Bayclock collapsed, but Spencer saw that the man’s eyes were open and calculating. In the shadows by the railgun supports, he fished around on the ground. After a moment, he snatched up a hunting knife that lay beside severed strands of rope.

“I don’t surrender!” He lurched to his feet, brandishing the wicked-looking combat knife. Bobby stiffened; Rita tightened her grip on his arm. One of Bayclock’s men grabbed a rifle, but didn’t know what to shoot at.

The general turned, holding out the knife. Backing up, his arm brushed against the metal supports of the electromagnetic launcher rails. The live wire, disconnected from the battery banks and capacitors, dumped its electricity into the bottomless ground of the miles-long rail, waiting for a load.

Bayclock completed the circuit.

He froze as if caught in amber, then in an instant he seemed to go out of focus, with a million nerves in his skin suddenly misfiring, every strand of muscle fiber in his body scrambling. Sparks flew from the point of contact, and his skin blackened.

His mouth cracked open in a long silent scream, and then his lips curled away from his teeth. When General Bayclock finally fell to the white sands, his entire form steamed from the moisture boiling inside his body.

No one spoke for a long moment.

Finally, Colonel David turned to them all. He looked strong, even with his wounded arm in a sling. The other troops kept staring.

“The general is dead, as is Colonel Nachimya. This leaves me in command of the expeditionary force.”

 
He met Spencer’s gaze, Todd, Bobby and Rita’s. “We have a lot of details to discuss, you and I.”

Chapter 75

The breeze picked up in the late afternoon on Labor Day, rippling the golden grass along the Altamont Range. The wind-turbines, like metal flowers lining the hilltops, whirled around and around, generating a silent river of power that flowed to the speedway stadium.

At last, the great concert got underway.

Next to Jackson and Daphne Harris, Iris sat alone on her blanket, elbows on her knees. She had worked too hard to make this event a reality, and she didn’t want to miss a note. The fluttery feeling of anticipation in her stomach during the morning had disappeared, replaced by
a spreading
warmth of amazed relief. She looked around to see the same excitement in the eyes of the other spectators.

Jackson and Daphne Harris held each other close, as they stared at the band on the raised stage.

Iris and many others had forsaken the closer seats in the repaired bleachers to sit on the grass. She felt the lumpy ground beneath her, but it didn’t matter. Sitting on the grass for a rock n’ roll concert seemed perfectly appropriate.

The first band got a laugh and a resounding cheer by opening with their rendition of Jackson Browne’s “Running on Empty,” which they followed with other rock classics from the seventies, then a few folk songs that everyone knew. The murmur of the audience singing along as if in a trance sent shivers through Iris. The musicians used improvised musical instruments, and the songs didn’t sound much like what Iris remembered—but the sheer delight of
music
again was enough. The notes vibrated through the speedway’s metal loudspeakers, sounding tinny and muffled. Iris found it absolutely wonderful.

The crowd cheered, nearly loud enough to drown out the sound blasting from the improvised amplifiers the engineers had cobbled together. Iris couldn’t wait to see if they had indeed managed to build a working electric guitar. She knew the energy drain was stupendous, and they’d be lucky to finish the concert. But the wind kept blowing, the windmills kept turning, and the music kept blasting through the air.

The bands were a mishmash of musical talent that had arrived after hearing word of the proposed concert. Many of the musicians had played in bar bands around the Bay Area, working day jobs and performing on weekends. The only “professional” they counted among their number was the lead singer from Visual Purple, a late sixties alternative rock band, who had been stranded in San Jose during a rather unsuccessful attempt at a comeback tour. He had worked with the volunteer musicians, directing the others and getting upset when they spent more time tuning up than they did performing. But the singer’s rough voice wrapped itself around the lyrics of all the old classics, even two country & western hits, but he really began to shine when he managed to work in the few chart-scratching songs Visual Purple had released.