Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

Outrage boiled in Connor at the attitude of this butthead general. “That isn’t exactly what I had in mind.” His stomach knotted. “If that’s your attitude, General, then I’ll just take my satellites and go, thank you.”

He stomped off to the wagon, hauling himself up on the buckboard. Fucking asshole ! He yanked the reins to turn the three horses around. Connor was amazed at the speed with which five rifles were suddenly pointed at him. “What the hell is this?” he sputtered.

“This is martial law, Mr. Brooks,” Bayclock said. “We’ll see that you get medical attention, as you requested, and a position in the supply corps. We need every person we can get in our fight against the solar-power station.”

Connor felt betrayed and appalled. Worse yet, he felt like an idiot.

A tall thin man came up to Bayclock, obviously a civilian, with wire-rimmed glasses, a weak chin, and a large Adam’s apple.

Bayclock spoke bitterly, as if unhappy about the satellites. “Dr. Nedermyer, this man has brought us ten solar-power satellites from JPL. They are now in our possession, and we don’t need to worry about Dr. Lockwood getting his hands on them.”

Nedermyer came forward to peer over the side of the wagon. “I thought there was some kind of large expedition carrying them.”

“This is it,” said Bayclock. “And that’s all they carried. I want you to draft up a notice to be sent by courier to Lockwood and his little rebels. Tell them that unless they surrender immediately, starting tomorrow morning we will take one of these satellites and smash it to pieces in their full view. We’ll destroy one every two hours until they surrender. If this technology means so much to them, let’s just see how much of it they’ll let go to waste.”

Connor couldn’t believe his ears; the bespectacled civilian looked incredulous. “But General, you can’t do that! These satellites can’t be replaced. We don’t have the facilities to fabricate any more. These are precious items—and if you destroy them, you defeat the entire purpose of our expedition!”

Bayclock’s face turned the color of clotted blood, and he turned slowly toward Nedermyer. “The purpose of this expedition, Doctor, is to quash an insurrection. These satellites are toys, conveniences. We can survive without them. We cannot survive without order and a rule by law. If a few metal tanks must be dented to accomplish that, then so be it.”

The butthead general turned back to Connor and pointed for him to get back down off the wagon, Two of the guards took hold of the horses. “Sergeant, take the wagon and animals to the logistics group. You, Brooks, will help the supply personnel for tomorrow’s assault. You’ve just joined the army.”

His hands tied behind him with rough rope, Bobby Carron stumbled across the uneven desert. Two horsemen rode on either side of him, two walking guards behind him and one in front. He had to push himself to keep the pace set by Sergeant Morris.

He tried to remember the time he had spent in survival training, escaping from a mock prisoner-of-war camp. The training had been held in a jungle, and it wasn’t meant to be used against his own military. Before they had come within a half of a mile of Bayclock’s camp, Bobby realized he was completely out of ideas to escape. He had nothing up his sleeve, no tricks to pull. He saw no way out.

And Bayclock considered him a traitor. Under combat conditions the general might put a service pistol to Bobby’s head and pull the trigger himself, without the drawn-out niceties of a court martial.

Bobby was satisfied with how much he had helped Dr. Lockwood and the others at the solar-power farm. He recalled his days as a Navy fighter pilot stationed at China Lake. He remembered that last cross-country flight with Barfman Petronfi. Just trying to reach a nice, long R&R in Corpus Cristi where they would sit on the beach, eating shrimp and looking at bikinis…. .

The outskirts of the military camp were a bustling confusion of campfires, tents staked out against the day’s heat and the night’s chill, supply wagons next to unloaded crates. Refurbished rifles stood racked and stacked where soldiers could grab them in a moment’s notice.

The troops watched the prisoner arrive. Bobby looked around, trying to make eye contact, trying to recognize anyone from Kirtland Air Force Base—but that wouldn’t help. He really only knew Sergeant Catilyn Morris, but she gave him nothing but scorn.

Sergeant Morris led them directly to the general’s command tent. Someone must have warned Bayclock, because the general stepped outside to watch them approach. He recognized Bobby immediately.

Bayclock’s face was frigid, and his eyes held a firestorm of anger. “Well, if it isn’t our turncoat lieutenant.” He nodded to Morris. “Good work, Sergeant.”

“He was manning their balloon, sir,” she said. “We shot it down and took him prisoner.”

“The balloon?” Bayclock said, raising his eyebrows. “Of course, that’s a good job for a fighter pilot, isn’t it?”

Bobby said nothing.

“You’re still on active duty, Lieutenant—or have you forgotten the code of military conduct?”

Bobby maintained his silence, watching the general play the waiting game. No one spoke, but Bobby could feel the tension rising, the general becoming impatient.

Bayclock said, “But then you’re no longer a real fighter pilot. A traitor and a deserter is not the type of man any flyer would want on his wing. No wonder your aircraft crashed, Lieutenant. Is that why your wingman died—did he crash while you were trying to save your own butt?”

Bobby clenched his jaw, aching to retort, but he kept quiet.

Bayclock startled Bobby by stepping forward and slapping him across the face. “You’re not fit to be a pilot, much less an officer.”

Bobby’s eyes blazed. He remembered Bayclock’s office, all the diplomas and lithographs of aircraft. He knew he had found exactly the right button to push.

“You’re still fighting the last war, General. The system has changed,” he said in a low voice. “Before the plague hit I was flying fighters for my country—while you were flying a desk. ”

Bayclock looked ready to explode, but somehow he contained himself. His hands clenched, as if trying to grasp a cutting reply, but he turned and glared at the other soldiers. “Bind the prisoner and send a general notice to all troops. This traitor and deserter will be executed at dawn. We’ll hang him from a utility pole.”

Connor sulked. The camp medic had dabbed stinging antiseptic on his facial wounds and bandaged them up, but the medic couldn’t say whether Connor would lose his eye. His sight would be permanently damaged for certain.

They fed him a meager meal of crappy food. He would have been better off eating his own supplies, but that butthead Bayclock had callously commandeered Connor’s stuff for his own people. “That’s my food,” Connor thought. “I came into camp with open hands offering a deal—and they ripped me off!”

But then, why was he surprised? Connor had gotten the short end of the stick all his life. Sometimes he wondered if he had a sign painted on his back that said Screw me—I don’t mind.

He sat cross-legged on the hard ground, looking at the Air Force robots wandering around doing busy work. His face burned, his new clothes were uncomfortable. And he had lost everything!

Oilstar had jerked him around. On the supertanker, Captain Uma had done the same. Connor remembered the the crummy old station wagon he had borrowed at the gas station in southern California; even that Stanford preppy moron who had paid him to drive a broken-down AMC Gremlin to Atlanta; or the two Mormon bitches with their year’s worth of supplies refusing to give Connor and Heather a few measly scraps.