And Bayclock considered him a traitor. Under combat conditions the general might put a service pistol to Bobby’s head and pull the trigger himself, without the drawn-out niceties of a court martial.
Bobby was satisfied with how much he had helped Dr. Lockwood and the others at the solar-power farm. He recalled his days as a Navy fighter pilot stationed at China Lake. He remembered that last cross-country flight with Barfman Petronfi. Just trying to reach a nice, long R&R in Corpus Cristi where they would sit on the beach, eating shrimp and looking at bikinis…. .
The outskirts of the military camp were a bustling confusion of campfires, tents staked out against the day’s heat and the night’s chill, supply wagons next to unloaded crates. Refurbished rifles stood racked and stacked where soldiers could grab them in a moment’s notice.
The troops watched the prisoner arrive. Bobby looked around, trying to make eye contact, trying to recognize anyone from Kirtland Air Force Base—but that wouldn’t help. He really only knew Sergeant Catilyn Morris, but she gave him nothing but scorn.
Sergeant Morris led them directly to the general’s command tent. Someone must have warned Bayclock, because the general stepped outside to watch them approach. He recognized Bobby immediately.
Bayclock’s face was frigid, and his eyes held a firestorm of anger. “Well, if it isn’t our turncoat lieutenant.” He nodded to Morris. “Good work, Sergeant.”
“He was manning their balloon, sir,” she said. “We shot it down and took him prisoner.”
“The balloon?” Bayclock said, raising his eyebrows. “Of course, that’s a good job for a fighter pilot, isn’t it?”
Bobby said nothing.
“You’re still on active duty, Lieutenant—or have you forgotten the code of military conduct?”
Bobby maintained his silence, watching the general play the waiting game. No one spoke, but Bobby could feel the tension rising, the general becoming impatient.
Bayclock said, “But then you’re no longer a real fighter pilot. A traitor and a deserter is not the type of man any flyer would want on his wing. No wonder your aircraft crashed, Lieutenant. Is that why your wingman died—did he crash while you were trying to save your own butt?”
Bobby clenched his jaw, aching to retort, but he kept quiet.
Bayclock startled Bobby by stepping forward and slapping him across the face. “You’re not fit to be a pilot, much less an officer.”
Bobby’s eyes blazed. He remembered Bayclock’s office, all the diplomas and lithographs of aircraft. He knew he had found exactly the right button to push.
“You’re still fighting the last war, General. The system has changed,” he said in a low voice. “Before the plague hit I was flying fighters for my country—while you were flying a desk.”
Bayclock looked ready to explode, but somehow he contained himself. His hands clenched, as if trying to grasp a cutting reply, but he turned and glared at the other soldiers. “Bind the prisoner and send a general notice to all troops. This traitor and deserter will be executed at dawn. We’ll hang him from a utility pole.”
Connor sulked. The camp medic had dabbed stinging antiseptic on his facial wounds and bandaged them up, but the medic couldn’t say whether Connor would lose his eye. His sight would be permanently damaged for certain.
They fed him a meager meal of crappy food. He would have been better off eating his own supplies, but that butthead Bayclock had callously commandeered Connor’s stuff for his own people. “That’s my food,” Connor thought. “I came into camp with open hands offering a deal—and they ripped me off!”
But then, why was he surprised? Connor had gotten the short end of the stick all his life. Sometimes he wondered if he had a sign painted on his back that said Screw me—I don’t mind.
He sat cross-legged on the hard ground, looking at the Air Force robots wandering around doing busy work. His face burned, his new clothes were uncomfortable. And he had lost everything!
Oilstar had jerked him around. On the supertanker, Captain Uma had done the same. Connor remembered the the crummy old station wagon he had borrowed at the gas station in southern California; even that Stanford preppy moron who had paid him to drive a broken-down AMC Gremlin to Atlanta; or the two Mormon bitches with their year’s worth of supplies refusing to give Connor and Heather a few measly scraps.
He seethed, digging his fingers into the dirt. The whole world was out to get him, and none of it was his fault. How about Heather herself souring on him, refusing to put out anymore after only a few weeks? Some relationship that had turned out to be.
Even the damn shotgun had blown up in his face!
Now, after all that bullshit, when he finally deserved some kind of reward, when he finally took the solar-power satellites and delivered them to the army, did he get any thanks? No. Did he get any reward? No! That butthead general wouldn’t even give Connor a rifle.
To make things worse, Bayclock had taken all of his supplies, the wagon, the horses—and held him prisoner in camp. Connor found a rock, gripped it, and threw it as hard as he could. A short distance away, it struck the shoulder of an airman digging a new latrine. The airman turned and shouted in anger, but he couldn’t see who had thrown the rock.
Any other time Connor would have snickered at the joke, but now he hauled himself to his feet. He wasn’t going to take this crap anymore!
He strode across the camp, fixing the gaze of his good eye on the command tent. Inside the open flaps Connor could see the bearlike general sitting across a small folding table from Sergeant Morris and two colonels, debriefing her. An airman stood in front of the tent, but Connor brushed the guard aside.
“General, I’m leaving,” Connor announced.
“What did you say?” Bayclock rose to his feet.
“You can’t hold me, General. I came here of my own free will to offer you a deal—which you refused. I’m a United States citizen, and you can’t hold me prisoner. I’m going to take my horses and my wagon and my satellites and I’ll be on my way.”
Connor turned before the general could say anything, glancing quickly at where his wagon had been impounded. He took one step before Bayclock said in a loud growling tone, “Sergeant Morris, I’ve had enough of this. Take Mr. Brooks into custody. If he resists, shoot him as a deserter.”
Connor whirled. His face burned with livid anger; he felt the scab from his slashed cheek break open. “Deserter! I’m not part of your damned army! You’re not my commanding officer.”
Bayclock gripped the tent flap as if he wanted to rip it to shreds. “You have been conscripted, Brooks. This is martial law, and we don’t have time to quibble in a war zone. That is all. Sergeant Morris!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Guard him. Don’t let him out of your sight. This insubordination makes me want to puke. And if it doesn’t stop, there’s going to be a bloodbath.” He fixed his gaze on Connor. “And we’ll start with him.”
Late that night, after feigning sleep for forty-five minutes, Connor Brooks opened his one good eye.
The camp was dark and still, with outlying campfires glowing behind dirt berms; extra guards stood on alert because of the previous night’s attack by Lockwood’s people. Connor didn’t move, but kept staring, taking in details. He could feel the ropes against his arms, his legs.
Near him, beside the fire, Sergeant Morris lay curled on top of her blanket. She even slept in an uncomfortable position that gave the impression of readiness, as if she would snap awake and leap into action at a moment’s notice. She still wore her uniform—not that he expected the thick-lipped blonde to slip into a sexy nightie!