Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

With the radical changes forced by the petroleum plague, society would be like a wild horse trying to throw the reins of law and civilization. Bayclock had to ride hard and not let his determination falter for an instant.

When he had visited Kirtland AFB, Mayeaux had told Bayclock they could work well together whatever might come up—and now Mayeaux was his Commander in Chief. In the petroplague crisis, Mayeaux was shouldering a burden vastly more difficult than Bayclock’s own, and Bayclock vowed to give the new president his fullest support.

He breathed deeply, scanning the Sandia peaks before turning back to Mayor David Reinski. A squad of fifteen security policemen, all beefy young men over six feet tall, protected them against the anarchistic elements that had already caused so much damage. The MPs faced outward, holding their automatic weapons loosely, ready to snatch them in a second. Bayclock had refused the protection of the few civil police officers still on duty.

They stood in the center of City Plaza, an island of enforced sanity amidst the turmoil. Shattering glass and sporadic screams peppered the dusk; fires burned from several buildings. Hiding behind a dark window, someone shouted taunts across the plaza.

In front of the adobe Spanish mission, Bayclock’s horses were tied together and guarded by another group. The scene could have been part of a Mexican showdown in an old Western movie. The citizens would writhe at the enforced discipline—at least at first, but they would get used to it. And one day they would thank him for saving them all.

Mayor Reinski fidgeted; he looked from side to side, as if uncertain that Bayclock’s MPs could offer sufficient protection. Bayclock let the mayor squirm for a moment before speaking. “Seen enough? Tell me how you could possibly handle this yourself.”

“I—I don’t know how much longer we’ll be safe out here.”

Bayclock snorted. “You think we’re safe now? Look up there.” He nodded to the building behind them. “The only reason we haven’t been attacked is because of my snipers stationed on the rooftop. They’ve already shot two would-be assassins.”

Reinski looked around. “Okay, you’ve proved your point.”

“I don’t think I have. Not sufficiently.” Bayclock turned to the security police squad leader. “Lanarelli!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Neutralize the mayor.”

“Yes, sir.” It took the gaunt sergeant only a second to react. Lanarelli stepped forward and cocked his weapon, pointing the M 16 muzzle at the mayor’s head. “Get on the ground, sir.”

Reinski turned pale. “What?” He looked to Bayclock, who only stared back blandly.

Lanarelli growled, “Move it—now.”

Reinski slowly lowered himself to the concrete. Lanarelli pressed his weapon at the mayor’s head while Bayclock crouched next to the man. He spoke softly.

“There will be no ‘shared responsibility,’ Mr. Mayor, do you understand? I am following the direct orders of the President of the United States, and they don’t require me to ask permission from any local mayors.”

He stepped back. “This is just my way of showing you how ridiculously vulnerable you are. Where is your police escort that’s sworn to uphold the peace? Tell me, where’s the man at the bullhorn right now who’s supposed to be ordering me to leave his mayor the hell alone? We’re not in Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood!”

Reinski answered only by moving his head back and forth.

Bayclock crouched on one knee and lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you where they are. Most of the people sworn to guard you are at home with their families, protecting them against the lawlessness all around us. Duty obviously doesn’t mean a hell of a lot to them. If they were under my command, I’d court martial them as traitors and deserters.”

Reinski squirmed on the ground. Bayclock motioned for Lanarelli to let him lift his head. “You don’t see my men running away, do you? Even if we didn’t have access to synthetic lubricants for our weapons at the base, you’d still see my people here. They would use night sticks, or swords, or their bare fists to protect me and any other officer. That’s their duty.”

Bayclock stood, brushing the knees of his uniform. “That’s the difference between civilians and military—we’re sworn to follow orders, no matter what else happens. You might manage to keep the water running, Mr. Mayor. You might keep the sewage under control. But anyone could step over the city line and tell you to go to hell.”

Bayclock disliked making his point in such a dramatic matter, but Reinski was still naively convinced this whole thing was going to blow over after a few days, that something miraculous would happen, that he could somehow compromise the orders issued from the President himself.

Bayclock reached down and grabbed the mayor by the arm, easing him back to his feet. “Thank you, Lanarelli. Return to your post.”

“Yes, sir.” The weapon disappeared as the sergeant stepped back in one fluid motion. Once more Bayclock and Reinski were left alone, surrounded by an unbroken ring of men. Reinski’s eyes were open wide, red and brimming with tears of shock and outrage.

Bayclock said gently, “The President instructed all military commanders to take whatever measures are necessary to enforce his order.” He paused. “I’m already responsible for the lives of thirty thousand people on Kirtland, Mr. Mayor. By Presidential directive, the city of Albuquerque als falls under my purview.

“You’re just not cut out for something this crucial. I am . It’s a responsibility that runs very deep, and I’m going to need the trust of your people to pull this off. If I have your support, it’s going to be a lot easier.”

Reinski nodded. He didn’t seem to have his voice back yet.

“My people are sworn to obey me,” Bayclock continued. “Don’t make me take the next step to demonstrate this to the people of Albuquerque.” He narrowed his eyes and watched Reinski closely.

Reinski finally spoke. His voice shook as he tried to keep his voice from cracking. “What—what are you asking me to do?”

Bayclock allowed himself to relax imperceptibly. “Publicly throw your support behind me when I announce martial law.”

“When will that be?”

“Immediately.”

“Do I have a choice?”

Bayclock shook his head. “No, we don’t.”

The Visitor’s Center was closed, leaving only two abandoned cars in the parking lot. Heather tried to lead Connor to the spectacular overlook on the rim of the Grand Canyon, but he picked up a rust-colored rock and smashed a window of the deserted museum building. “We didn’t come all this way not to look at the exhibits,” he said.

No alarms rang, no park rangers came running. Heather didn’t think Connor had any real interest in the museum; he just seemed to enjoy breaking in. That was just like him. She shrugged and let him have his fun. What did it matter, anyway? Satisfied, Connor followed her to the overlook.

It had taken them a week on foot to reach the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. When Heather had come here before with her old boyfriend Derek, they drove up, stayed in one of the lodges, and paid little attention to the surrounding scenery. Hiking in with Connor, though, gave her a greater appreciation as anticipation built mile after mile. Now she had time to inspect outcroppings, time to absorb the vastness of the landscape.

The Grand Canyon looked so spectacular that she couldn’t comprehend the vastness. Her mind swelled with details—jagged mesas, bands of color ranging from ochre, tan, vermillion, and scarlet. Shadows carried orange tinges deep in the crevasses. The wind whipping up and over the rim enhanced the isolation.