Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

“I can’t trust any of the damned civilians to head up this expedition—the scientists at Sandia Albuquerque turned tail and deserted their labs at the first sign of a riot; my Phillips Lab troops aren’t much better. I haven’t been able to reach the enclave of researchers up at Los Alamos, and I’ve never trusted those bomb designers anyway. But down in White Sands they’ve made a little Atlantis for themselves.”

The general cracked his knuckles one at a time. It sounded like someone snapping twigs—or neckbones.

“I need someone I can trust, Lieutenant Carron—an operator who’s used to working alone and can function when things get tough. In short, I need a fighter pilot.” Bayclock drew himself up, setting his mouth. “When I took this command, I saw it as an opportunity to instill some of the esprit that pilots have… you know, the sense of duty that comes from being in an operational fighter unit. These scientists and nonrated pukes have a warped sense of duty, more allegiance to their profession than to the overall mission.”

Bayclock looked suddenly tired, as if the effects of his orders wore at him. “I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or not, Lieutenant. I just met you, but I know you wouldn’t be flying fighters unless you had the right stuff, even if you did join the Navy instead of the Air Force.” He smiled wearily.

“A colleague of mine once said, ‘There’s two types of people in this world: fighter pilots and weenies.’ Well, I’m surrounded by weenies. What I need is a fighter pilot to head up an expedition to White Sands, then return here with a report.”

Bobby tried to keep the astonishment off his face. The events of the past few weeks swam through his mind—waking up in the ravaged hospital, the execution of looters, seeing the full effects of the petroplague…. The general probably thought Bobby would be apprehensive about leaving the “security” of a city under martial law.

Bobby saw it as an opportunity to get away from this insanity, but he knew it would be the worst thing in the world for him to show his eagerness. He stood and reached across Bayclock’s desk, extending his hand. “General, you’ve got your man. Where do I sign up?”

The horses kept to the side of Interstate 40 east out of Albuquerque, paralleling old Route 66 in the pass between the Sandia and Manzano mountains. The spongy asphalt highway was too soft to bear any weight, and the horses clopped along on the shoulder. Each rider carried several dozen liters of water along with their food rations.

Beside Bobby at the front of the five-person expedition, his assigned escort—a stout, gruff sergeant named Catilyn Morris—had not spoken in an hour. Three scientists trailed behind—two from Sandia’s Albuquerque Labs and one from the Air Force’s Phillips Lab—who would study the White Sands power generators and take back whatever components the general might need in Albuquerque.

The horses walked through the pass. Boulders littered the sides of the barren hill, sloping up on either side like a giant brown funnel that had been cut in half and laid on its side. Although he had lived at barren China Lake for the past two years, Bobby still missed to the thick trees in Virginia where he had grown up, the ocean, and humidity. This seemed like an alien landscape.

Bobby turned to the taciturn woman sergeant beside him. Catilyn Morris was a helicopter mechanic who had flown many times along the corridor to White Sands. Her blond hair was clipped short, accenting her stout frame and full hips. She stood no taller than five feet, but she rode high in the saddle, confident.

“Seems like we’re making good time,” Bobby said. “How long do you think it’ll take to get to White Sands?”

Sergeant Morris didn’t look at him as she answered; she kept scanning the road in front of them. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Lots of things.”

Bobby felt a flash of annoyance. “Look, Sergeant, I don’t want to play Twenty Questions—”

She interrupted him by holding up a hand. “Wait up.” She slowed her horse and placed a hand against her revolver. It glistened from her cleaning, polishing, and refurbishing.

Bobby pulled back on the reins. He started to speak, then he glimpsed several figures scrambling down the sides of the hill. They were dressed in dusty jeans, threadbare shirts; some of them tried to take advantage of the brush cover, while others didn’t care if they were seen. They all carried sticks, crowbars, or unwieldy knives. It took them only a minute to spread out in a line, blocking the highway fifty yards ahead. Bobby counted fifteen men. Half were teenagers.

“Hey, what’s going on?” said Arnie, one of the scientists behind them. “What do they think they’re doing?”

Sergeant Morris turned in the saddle. “It’s your game, Lieutenant Carron. The rest of you keep quiet.”

“Thanks,” muttered Bobby. He left his rifle in the holster at the back of the saddle, not ready to pull it out yet.

One of the men stepped toward them. Bearded and balding, his patchy skin peeled from sunburn. The man stopped twenty yards away. He held a long iron bar like a swagger stick in his left hand. “Where you folks headed?”

Bobby wondered if the man was going to ask for a toll to use the road. He turned at the crunch of gravel and saw five more people come up behind them, blocking their return.

“White Sands. I’m Lieutenant Carron, representing General Bayclock at Kirtland.” Maybe the general’s bloodthirsty tactics would scare these people off.

“You’re going the wrong way. White Sands is due south.”

“So is Laguna Pueblo. We’re respecting Native American land. There’s been some trouble down there.”

The man grinned. “Good for you, Lieutenant. Still, a long way to carry your own food and water. I don’t think you’re going to make it. Your horses would fare better here, I’m sure.”

“We’ll resupply at Clines Corners before turning south. The general authorized us to exchange some supply chits, redeemable at Kirtland.”

“Redeemable at Kirtland?” The man roared as the rest of the group broke out in chuckles. “So Generalissimo Bayclock is going to let people walk into Albuquerque and pick up food? Well, then. You won’t mind donating some chits to make sure you get through the pass? For protection, you understand.”

Bobby drew himself up. This was weirdly medieval. “The chits aren’t for passage. We’re an official military expedition, operating under martial law. I’ll ask you gentlemen to allow us to pass, or face the consequences.”

The men laughed among themselves. The bearded man stepped closer. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, Lieutenant. I was asking for a donation. If you can include a couple of these horses, and some of your supplies along with the chits, we’ll help you along.” He spoke softly and stared at Bobby.

As he approached, he seemed to notice Sergeant Morris for the first time. His eyes widened. “So what are you, missie, his protection? You’re probably worth more than a horse, aren’t you?”

Sergeant Morris pulled out her revolver. The man grinned. “You military types haven’t used those guns for a while, have you?” He puffed up as he walked, changing his path from Bobby to Catilyn. “What makes you so sure they’ll work?”

Bobby raised his voice. “This is your final warning.”

The man ignored him. He was within five yards when Sergeant Morris calmly brought the revolver up. She aimed at his crotch and glanced at Bobby; Bobby nodded, and she clicked off a round. The explosion of the gun echoed off the bare boulders.

The man grabbed at his groin and fell, screaming. The others in the mob stood in shock, uncertain what to do.