Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

Bobby shook his head and groaned, “Maybe we should reconsider fighting the general.”

Rita stood up, looking like a lamppost next to Bobby’s massive frame. “You trusted the scientists who designed your fighter, didn’t you?”

Bobby snorted. “I don’t fly fruit crates.”

“But you will fly balloons burning charcoal?” said Gilbert.

Romero cleared his throat. “As long as we’re trying out crazy ideas, does anyone mind if I set up a telegraph link between the microwave farm and the EM launcher?”

Gilbert frowned. “The wireless is working just fine, Juan.”

“Ah, but Bayclock could never monitor a dedicated telegraph line. And there’s plenty of telephone wire I’m sure Southwest Bell won’t miss anymore.”

Bobby chuckled. “Maybe we should hang a wire from the balloon, too.”

Gilbert said slowly, “You’re not going to believe this, but I remember reading that somebody did that during the Civil War.”

Bobby groaned. Spencer stood. “Okay—three weeks. Let’s give it a go. All of it.”

“Hold it right there. Steady, steady—now keep it open!” Spencer pushed the rolled cylinder of aluminum siding into the roaring fire. Smoke spewed from the top into the stitched-together parachutes.

“Ouch! Hurry up, Spence. Not so much smoke!” Rita shouted.

“One more minute!” Spencer held the cylinder with gloved hands, but he could still feel the heat burning through the insulation. Bobby Carron waved at the fire, directing more hot air into the two-foot-thick cylinder. Like water pushing up through a straw, the hot air raced down the aluminum tube and spilled into the deflated balloon sack on the ground.

Parachute material billowed out as Romero raced around the periphery, keeping the silk from catching. Gilbert Hertoya directed a squad of ranch hands to hold lines tied to the top of the inflating balloon.

Slowly, ponderously, the colorful sack swelled as hot air and smoke tumbled inside the cavity. The balloon pushed against the sand, unfolding dozens of yards of fabric as it struggled to rise. Within another minute, Spencer pushed the aluminum piping upright into the fire and secured it in the middle of the gondola; the balloon groaned as it weaved back and forth, flexing to all three stories of its height.

“Don’t let it get off the ground yet!” yelled Gilbert. His eyes were wide and soot covered his face; sweat gushed off his forehead. The ranch hands held their ground, hauling on the long lines anchoring the balloon in place.

The hot-air balloon looked like an crazy-quilt of psychedelic material: multi-colored patching of parachutes sewed together, a gondola made of an aluminum shell, at the bottom of which stood an oversized Weber grill burning a stack of wood.

Bobby joined Spencer. Both men were covered in black grime and dust. Bobby rubbed at his red eyes, looking up . “How much of a daredevil do you think I am? This thing could blaze up in a second if the fire gets out of control. I’d rather be flying experimental aircraft out on China Lake.”

“Once you’re up, you won’t need to keep a big flame going. Just keep feeding the fire to maintain the hot air in the cavity.”

“How long can I stay aloft?” Bobby stared upward. The balloon strained against the ropes. Part of him longed to be up in the air again.

“Probably an hour with the load of charcoal you’re taking,” Spencer said. “That’s enough for a good look around.”

It had taken nearly ten people from the microwave farm to ready the single balloon for flight. “I hope this is worth the effort. It doesn’t seem too efficient to keep using this many people just to mount a lookout.”

“You should provide us with at least a day’s notice of Bayclock’s army, so it’s well worth the trouble. Besides, once we get this up in the air the first time, the rest is easy. We’ll just bring it down, add more charcoal, and send it back up again. As long as we keep it tethered, we can send it up every morning.”

“And pray for no wind,” said Bobby.

“We’ve sent word down to Alamogordo and Cloudcroft, and they should be mobilizing to help us,” Spencer said. “They think of us as their friends, and they don’t want any Napoleon taking over their chance at having electricity again.

“Okay, Doc. Let’s hope this plan of yours works.”

“My plan?” said Spencer, astonished. “You’re the one with the grapefruits and peas, remember?”

Spencer craned his neck and held a hand to his forehead to cut the glare. Bobby’s balloon was no more than thirty feet off the ground on its third flight, and it looked like it would tip over at any minute.

Romero and the technicians were back attempting to optimize the antenna farm power conversion; Gilbert had returned to the EM launch facility up on the peak. Within the next few days, the ranchers from Alamogordo would start arriving to set up defenses.

Bobby Carron kept the piñon charcoal in the big hibachi to a minimum. The ranch hands released their guide ropes, letting the strands dangle from the top of the balloon. A tether, tied to a massive concrete anchor, ran down from the bottom of the gondola. Bobby had borrowed Rita’s old bush hat. He stood at the side of the gondola peering into the distance, but he raised no alarm.

Spencer doubted Bayclock could muster his troops within the next few days; if he didn’t have enough horses for his men, it might take weeks before anyone showed up.

But Bobby insisted they get “operational testing time” for the balloon. That way, when the general finally did appear, the lookout procedure would be second nature. And they could concentrate on the hardest part—stopping Bayclock’s army.

By the fifth day of the forced march, Lance Nedermyer wasn’t sure he liked the idea of taking over the White Sands solar facility—even if General Bayclock had promised to put him in charge.

The cross-country expedition force consisted of 100 soldiers, all armed and walking in a loose formation, plus supply carriers, followers, and message-runners. The soldiers wore leather hiking boots and desert camouflage, led by a vanguard of ten horses—all that Bayclock would spare from his Albuquerque forces. The general himself rode at the point on black gelding from the Kirtland stables, flanked by Colonel David from the Phillip’s Lab and Colonel Nichimya, the Personnel Group commander; the general’s elite security police guard rode directly behind them.

The expedition force had set out eastward, following the shoulders of Interstate 40, next to the old Route 66 that had once sparked America’s wanderlust. When they reached the town of Moriarty, they hooked south, passing through the tiny settlement of Estancia where a few people came out to stare at the military contingent. On his impressive black horse, Bayclock kept his chin up as if he were heading a proud cavalry outfit. The townsfolk looked at them as if they were bandits.

Lance stumbled along with the footsoldiers, trying to keep in formation, but frequently falling out of line, stopping to gasp for breath. He hadn’t gone through the training the rest of the Air Force troops had; in fact, he had never exercised much in his life. Some of the other officers, and occasionally Bayclock himself, admonished him to keep up. Lance couldn’t understand why walking in formation was so important out in the middle of the desert, but he didn’t argue with the general.

Sergeant Catilyn Morris led the group, once again making the trek to the bottom of the state. No expression marred her stone-like face. Haughty litte bitch . She hadn’t even talked to him during the return trip from White Sands.