He could see only blurry red fuzz out of his left eye, and his torn cheek and forehead throbbed like a disco rhythm made with ice picks. He had managed to wash his injuries from the shotgun backfire in a stream, but he knew they might get infected, and he didn’t relish the thought of the pain increasing. God, what he wouldn’t do right now for a handful of aspirin! Extra strength.
As he drove the horses toward the camp, a handful of armed guards came out to meet him. “Freeze, toadface!” one said, leveling his rifle. “Who are you?”
Connor raised a hand in a wave or a salute, or perhaps just a gesture to show that he was unarmed. He pulled the horses to a stop near the tents, sleeping bags, and supply stations.
“I need to see whoever’s in charge,” he said hoarsely. His words clawed through a larynx bruised when Butthead Uma tried to strangle him. He gestured back toward the wagon. “Tell him I’ve got something those solar-power people want very badly.”
“Wait here,” said the guard.
Connor stood with his hands above his head. The three horses nickered, sniffing other horses with Bayclock’s troops. Connor wanted a cold drink, but the two guards watched his every move in sour silence. Even though he had come with a nice offer, they seemed to regard him as some kind of vermin caught in a rat trap. Typical, he thought.
Finally, flanked on either side by an armed escort, a burly tough-looking man stumped across the camp toward Connor. He had bristly dark hair and a gimme-no-shit expression.
“I’m General Bayclock,” he said, “commander of these troops. What have you brought for me?” Unspoken but visible on his expression was a threat. If you’re wasting my time, I’ll strip you naked and make you run through a cactus field.
Connor tried to turn on the charm that had always served him so well, though he didn’t know how much charm he had left with a mangled face and a bruised voicebox. “Good to meet you, General,” he said. “My name is Connor Brooks—”
“I don’t give a damn who you are and I’m sure the hell not happy to meet you. Now cut the bullshit—what do you want?”
“Uh, yes, sir.” Connor wet his lips with a thick tongue and spoke fast. “I got my hands on a bunch of technical equipment on its way to the solar-power farm you have under siege. I thought it might be worth something to you.” He raised his eyebrows, knowing he must look hideous with his scabbed and gashed face.
“What kind of high-tech equipment?” Bayclock said, suddenly interested but still challenging him. “Where did it come from?”
“Well, I have ten satellites back here in the wagon. They were made at the Jet Propulsion Lab and they were being brought cross-country to White Sands.”
The general’s dark eyes lit up. “Are you part of this Pasadena expedition?” He seemed ready to pounce.
“I, uh… acquired it from them,” Connor said. “The expedition was trying to slip these satellites in past your troops. So I brought them here.”
“Satellites? The JPL expedition just carried a bunch of satellites out here?” Bayclock look at him, incredulous.
“That’s all.”
An officer standing next to Bayclock asked, “How many were there in the party?”
Connor shrugged. “Two, three maybe.”
A murmur ran through his staff. Bayclock looked unconvinced—and pissed off. “Show me.”
A minute later, Bayclock ran his hands over the nearest sealed canister. His officers poked around the devices, rapping on the metal cases. They all seemed astonished by the discovery.
Connor positioned himself next to the general. “I thought you might be willing to make a decent trade, sir. These are exceedingly valuable satellites, as I’m sure you know. Priceless, in fact. I’d like a few of your revamped weapons—say, six rifles—and some supplies.” He touched the stinging injuries on his face. “And some minor medical attention. As you can see, getting these satellites wasn’t all that easy.”
Bayclock’s expression was hard. He spoke in a low tone, but it looked like it took an effort to keep his voice under control. “I represent the United States of America, and we do not barter while under a declaration of hostilities. Under direct presidential order, I am authorized to simply take what I need. By delivering these satellites to me, you’ve done service to your country. You should feel proud about that.”
Outrage boiled in Connor at the attitude of this butthead general. “That isn’t exactly what I had in mind.” His stomach knotted. “If that’s your attitude, General, then I’ll just take my satellites and go, thank you.”
He stomped off to the wagon, hauling himself up on the buckboard. Fucking asshole! He yanked the reins to turn the three horses around. Connor was amazed at the speed with which five rifles were suddenly pointed at him. “What the hell is this?” he sputtered.
“This is martial law, Mr. Brooks,” Bayclock said. “We’ll see that you get medical attention, as you requested, and a position in the supply corps. We need every person we can get in our fight against the solar-power station.”
Connor felt betrayed and appalled. Worse yet, he felt like an idiot.
A tall thin man came up to Bayclock, obviously a civilian, with wire-rimmed glasses, a weak chin, and a large Adam’s apple.
Bayclock spoke bitterly, as if unhappy about the satellites. “Dr. Nedermyer, this man has brought us ten solar-power satellites from JPL. They are now in our possession, and we don’t need to worry about Dr. Lockwood getting his hands on them.”
Nedermyer came forward to peer over the side of the wagon. “I thought there was some kind of large expedition carrying them.”
“This is it,” said Bayclock. “And that’s all they carried. I want you to draft up a notice to be sent by courier to Lockwood and his little rebels. Tell them that unless they surrender immediately, starting tomorrow morning we will take one of these satellites and smash it to pieces in their full view. We’ll destroy one every two hours until they surrender. If this technology means so much to them, let’s just see how much of it they’ll let go to waste.”
Connor couldn’t believe his ears; the bespectacled civilian looked incredulous. “But General, you can’t do that! These satellites can’t be replaced. We don’t have the facilities to fabricate any more. These are precious items—and if you destroy them, you defeat the entire purpose of our expedition!”
Bayclock’s face turned the color of clotted blood, and he turned slowly toward Nedermyer. “The purpose of this expedition, Doctor, is to quash an insurrection. These satellites are toys, conveniences. We can survive without them. We cannot survive without order and a rule by law. If a few metal tanks must be dented to accomplish that, then so be it.”
The butthead general turned back to Connor and pointed for him to get back down off the wagon, Two of the guards took hold of the horses. “Sergeant, take the wagon and animals to the logistics group. You, Brooks, will help the supply personnel for tomorrow’s assault. You’ve just joined the army.”
His hands tied behind him with rough rope, Bobby Carron stumbled across the uneven desert. Two horsemen rode on either side of him, two walking guards behind him and one in front. He had to push himself to keep the pace set by Sergeant Morris.
He tried to remember the time he had spent in survival training, escaping from a mock prisoner-of-war camp. The training had been held in a jungle, and it wasn’t meant to be used against his own military. Before they had come within a half of a mile of Bayclock’s camp, Bobby realized he was completely out of ideas to escape. He had nothing up his sleeve, no tricks to pull. He saw no way out.