Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

Bayclock shook his arm free. One of the guards unshouldered his firearm, but the exec put out an arm to stop him. The exec called, “Messenger approaching, General.”

Bayclock spotted a lone horseman traveling across the desert. He had left orders not to be bothered—unless it was important. He turned back to the scientists. “There’s not enough dry lubricant to go around. We need it for refurbishing our weapons, so you’ll have to come up with another way. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a slight problem obtaining supplies right now.”

“But without the lubricant, the mirrors won’t turn,” the woman said.

“Figure out a way! Your minimal electricity should be enough to power the Manzano complex. I want it before the end of the week. The rest of the city will have to wait.”

Dismissing the Sandia woman, Bayclock turned as the approaching horseman reached the field of mirrors. Wearing desert camouflage, the rider dismounted and popped to attention, snapping off a salute. “The White Sands expedition has returned, General.”

Bayclock said, “Thank God for that Navy pilot.” He swung up on his horse, leaving the scientists in the middle of a thousand reflected suns. The exec motioned for the guards to follow.

The Sandia woman raised her voice. “General, you’re asking the impossible!”

Bayclock dug his heels in the black gelding’s flank, turning the mount around. “Do you think you’re playing in some R&D sandbox? Just do it! You also better be ready to interface with White Sands. I’ve had it with people questioning my authority.”

As the general rode off with his escort, he felt a grim satisfaction that at least Lieutenant Carron had come through. Two types of people— fighter pilots and weenies . He knew who he could trust.

Bayclock took the point at a fast trot as his party rode through the high chain-link gates of the Manzano complex. Armed guards stood at attention in the shade, giving their commander a salute as he rode past.

Four razor-wire fences surrounded the complex, twenty feet apart with bare dirt in between, making the area look like a giant racetrack draped over the rugged hills. Several two-story buildings, made of wood and covered with chipped white paint, formed the central part of the installation. Dozens of concrete bunkers dotted the four hills.

Bayclock rode directly up to the largest bunker behind the old wooden buildings. Only two horses stood outside tied to a NO PARKING sign, nuzzling the dusty ground for something to eat.

Bayclock turned to his exec. “Get Mayor Reinski out here ASAP. Tell him Lieutenant Carron is back from White Sands. His luck just changed.”

Reaching his office, Bayclock found Sergeant Catilyn Morris and a gaunt bearded man he did not recognize. They both stood when the general entered. Covered with trail dust, the stocky blond sergeant looked as if she hadn’t had a shower in weeks. He would have to reprimand her for not making herself more presentable for her commanding officer.

“Afternoon, General.”

“Sergeant.” He nodded at the stranger, looking around for the Navy pilot. “Welcome back. Where’s Lieutenant Carron? I expect him to give me a full debriefing.”

Sergeant Morris drew her mouth tight. “Well, sir—”

The bearded man stepped forward and held out a dirty hand. “I’m Dr. Lance Nedermyer, General. We met a few months ago at a ceremony to turn over the adaptive optics facility to the University of New Mexico. Jeffrey Mayeaux was with us.”

Bayclock returned the handshake and squinted at Nedermyer’s face. He remembered the stranger as a heavier man with mirrored sunglasses and a brusque manner. Nedermyer looked as if he had lost thirty pounds, the beard offset the thinness of his face. Bayclock did not approve of beards. The Washington bureaucrat looked more like an old prospector than a DOE inspector.

“Okay, what the hell is going on?” Bayclock asked, looking at Sergeant Morris. “And what are you doing here, Nedermyer?”

Sergeant Morris stiffened as Nedermyer spoke quickly. “I was stuck down at White Sands when the petroplague hit. I tried to help the people of Alamogordo move to safety in the mountains, but they elected to throw their hats in with Spencer Lockwood. He’s a loose cannon, General, does whatever he damned well feels like, without regard to the consequences.

“He’s got them convinced he can save the world with his solar satellites. Instead of trying to make themselves self-sufficient with the resources on hand, he’s got them working on a railgun launcher, running electrical wires out to substations in the middle of the desert.”

Bayclock sat behind his desk. “Does the solar farm work?”

“That depends.” Nedermyer fidgeted. “But—”

Bayclock raised his voice. He’d been doing that a lot lately. “I asked a simple question, Nedermyer. Does it work?”

“Well, yes sir, it does.”

“So, Lieutenant Carron and the Sandia scientists I sent down there are finalizing plans to bring the microwave technology up to Albuquerque? How soon can we get it working here?”

Nedermyer looked annoyed. “You don’t understand, General. Lockwood’s dangerous. He’s got his priorities all wrong. He’s having trouble even transmitting the power over twenty miles—”

Bayclock interrupted, tired of being nickel-and-dimed to death. “Do you damned scientists have to find a caveat in every argument? The microwave farm works, does it or doesn’t it?”

“Well, yes it does, but—”

“Then I don’t care if they transmit the power into the New Mexico utility grid or if they build us another microwave farm up here. It works—that’s all that matters. The orbiting satellites are immune to the petroplague, and it’s a resource we should use. I’ve got two laboratories full of people that can work out the details. Got it?”

Nedermyer opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it, frustrated. Sergeant Morris stepped forward. “General, I’m afraid you’re not going to get any support from White Sands.”

“What?” Bayclock looked up. “That’s ludicrous. The White Sands facility is under my command. Did Lieutenant Carron stay down there to iron out the details?”

Sergeant Morris looked hopelessly to Nedermyer, who shook his head. Nedermyer said, “Your boys have jumped ship, General. Not only is White Sands refusing to help you, but the scientists you sent and your Navy lieutenant have elected to work for Lockwood. They’re not coming back.”

“They deserted,” Sergeant Morris said, as if it was her fault.

A storm gathered inside Bayclock’s head. “Impossible! Carron wouldn’t even think of desertion. He’s a fighter pilot! He can’t .”

“I”m afraid it’s true, General,” said Sergeant Morris. Her voice sounded strained, as if each word might carry her over the edge of a cliff. “I… I warned him about what he was doing. He fully understands the consequences.”

Bayclock felt his face flush with anger and disbelief. He looked at his lithographs of fighter aircraft, his awards, his diplomas. Survival in the post-petroleum world was built on a foundation of eggshells, and cornerstones could not be allowed to crumble. He’d trusted the Navy lieutenant—fighter pilots were a special breed, too tightly taught, too highly focused and motivated to make frivolous decisions. Dammit, there had to be a mistake, some other reason why Carron would appear to bug out.

Bayclock looked narrowly at Nedermyer. “Could this Lockwood character have coerced Lieutenant Carron into staying, forced him in some way?”

Nedermyer shook his head. “No, General. It was pretty clear the lieutenant chose to stay. Dr. Lockwood vowed never to help you and practically dared you to come take over his site….”