Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

Bayclock tried to hide his embarrassment. Mayeaux must have flipped through the briefing materials and memorized an item or two just so he could drop appropriate comments in conversation. Bayclock wished he had picked a different example, though. Long before Kirtland had been put under his command, propeller-heads at the base’s research arm had tested a laser to shoot down aircraft—and decades later he still didn’t have a working laser-weapon in any of his planes.

“Uh, yes sir,” Bayclock said. “We’re developing another laser to fit in an aircraft that can fly above most of the atmosphere and destroy ballistic missiles. We’re also researching high-power microwaves. They held an interesting test the other day.” And damn near shot down a fuel-tanker airplane . “We’ve even got a bunch of doomettes working on Star Trek-style plasma weapons—compact toroids, they call them.”

Nedermyer bent closer as he pushed into the conversation. “Uh, bear in mind, though, Mr. Speaker, that the R&D phase of new concepts is sometimes rather prolonged.”

Bayclock himself held no hope that the Buck Rogers weapons would work within the next fifty years, but he didn’t say that. He couldn’t get excited about anything he wasn’t able to strap onto an F 22 today.

Mayeaux nodded. “Even though results sometimes seem a long time forthcoming, we must continue to invest in basic research for our own survival as a nation.” He smiled and shook Bayclock’s hand with a grip that was as firm and dry as an adobe brick. Impressive. Bayclock’s previous experience with career politicians had been that their handshakes were sweaty and slimy, and the lack of pressure was equalled only by their lack of trustworthiness. Mayeaux wasn’t afraid to meet his gaze.

“Without fundamental weapons research, we wouldn’t have even a breech-loaded rifle, not to mention the latest high-tech weapons. Our jet fighters are the best in the world, thanks to scientists like yours pushing the envelope. Let them know we appreciate it.”

Bayclock narrowed his eyes as he grudgingly considered the point. Without the techno-nerds, Bayclock himself would never have been able to pull a fighter into a nine-gee turn, to keep a bandit in his sights with a night infra-red tracker/pointer, and pull off a supersonic air-to-air kill. That was worth something, wasn’t it? Every man had his job to do; as much as he hated to admit it, Bayclock had no problem with that.

Mayor David Reinski accompanied them to the waiting shuttle van. He had come ostensibly to represent the University of New Mexico, but he seemed cowed by the Speaker’s presence. Nedermyer, on the other hand, couldn’t stop talking. As they climbed into the back of the minivan, Nedermyer took off his glasses and brushed his florid face. His lacquered hair stuck out in stiff chunks from the whipping wind. His midriff had started to go to fat, probably from babysitting too many desks. The driver, a young Hispanic lieutenant, slid the van’s heavy door shut with a thump. The sudden silence sounded loud in Bayclock’s ears.

“Glad that’s over,” Mayeaux said with a smile. “I’ve enjoyed visiting your facility, General, but you can keep your desert wind. I’m getting on a plane to San Diego instead. I’ve requested the Naval base commander there to arrange for pleasant weather, along with a little New Orleans-style hospitality.”

They all chuckled. The armed forces often provided free flights to high-level government types for on-site “research,” if they agreed to stop by the bases for a bit of PR. Bayclock said, “Too bad your family couldn’t come with you, Mr. Speaker.”

Mayeaux shrugged. “Damn shame, isn’t it? They’re spending some time back home. My wife keeps herself so busy with social causes she rarely gets a chance to accompany me.” They buckled their seatbelts as the lieutenant swung up into the driver’s seat. The wind rattled the windows.

Mayeaux turned to Nedermyer. “From what I’ve heard, that solar-power experiment at White Sands could have a big impact. My staff tells me this Lockwood fellow is quite the miracle worker.”

Nedermyer smiled tightly. “Don’t believe everything your staff tells you, Mr. Speaker. Between the microwave farm and the railgun satellite launcher at White Sands, DOE has some hard funding decisions to make. You of all people know we can’t throw money at everything.”

Bayclock raised an eyebrow. A DOE person who was not afraid to speak his mind? He nodded to himself, making a mental note. “I’ve received orders from high up to logistically support the White Sands operation. It seems to have top priority.”

Now Nedermyer turned to him. “People and priorities change, General.” Bayclock wondered what Nedermyer’s private agenda might be.

“We all have our own priorities, gentlemen,” Mayeaux said in a voice as smooth and hard and cold as polished granite. “And now that we’ve met, I think we’ll be able to work well together in the future… whatever might come up.”

After driving for hours in the rental Mazda, Spencer Lockwood passed the bleak, low hills rimming the Central Valley and headed east into oil country. The arrow-straight roads across the flatlands reminded him of rural farm lanes, with crops on either side and clods of mud on the pavement left behind by lumbering farm machinery. He kept the air conditioning turned up high, rolling up the windows to seal out the thick farm smells.

Spencer grabbed a fast-food hamburger in Bakersfield for a late dinner, then checked into the least expensive room he could find. He didn’t care about TV or telephones or adult movies. Without much interest, he flipped through the yellowed Gideon material in the nightstand drawer and went to bed early, stretching out on the lumpy mattress, listening to the rise and fall of traffic noises outside, and feeling tension drain from him as he let his mind wander. He had wanted the road trip to think, and so he concentrated on what next to do with his project, now that his Sandia excursion had failed miserably.

Twenty more completed solar-power smallsats sat in storage at the Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena. Scheduling their launch aboard one of the shuttle flights had always been problematic, as was using a Delta Clipper or even one of the Pegasus rockets.

Sandia’s prototype railgun on Oscura Peak seemed a viable alternative for launching smallsats, but the rails needed to be extended so the satellite could reach a proper orbit. Unlike delicate space probes or megachannel communications satellites, the smallsats were simple energy collectors with microwave transmitters. They could withstand the huge acceleration of an electromagneti catapult. Perhaps the railgun people would be interested in teaming up for a test case, once they upgraded their equipment; but that might take years.

He finally drifted off to sleep without coming up with any new ideas.

Spencer woke up refreshed, though a bit stiff. Unfolding the road map of California, he saw that it wouldn’t take him much out of his way to cut through Death Valley National Monument—a place he had always wanted to see. He would never make the trip otherwise, and he’d always resent never taking the time if he skipped it now. “What the heck,” he said, “I’m doing the rest of this road trip on impulse.”

He made a quick call to Rita Fellenstein to inform her he was going to be a little later than he thought; she knew better than to bring up any business and just left him alone.

The previous night had been chilly, and the white Mazda chugged and grunted as he tried to start it. When the engine finally caught, Spencer sniffed a sulfurous odor, muttered to himself about the “Bakersfield stench,” then drove off.