“But how do we stop him?” asked Romero. “Our guns will only fire a few times, if they haven’t seized up already.”
“The ranch hands will help,” said Rita. “They aren’t going to let the general waltz down here and take this place.”
“Romero’s got a point,” said Spencer. He looked around the group. “Even with the ranchers helping, we’ll be fighting military troops, not a bunch of scientists. Anyone here besides Bobby know anything about the military? I mean, we aren’t even weapons scientists.”
Gilbert Hertoya cleared his throat. “That’s not entirely true.” The small man ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I haven’t been working on the EM launcher all my career, you know. Sandia lab is a pretty big place, and I’ve been involved in a lot of different areas, including weapons.”
“Do you have any ideas? Will they enable us to win?”
Gilbert grinned and shrugged. “Sure, I’ve got ideas. Ask me in three weeks if they’ll let us win.”
“Okay, let’s hear what you got.”
“Well, first idea. It won’t take much to build a homopolar generator—”
“A what?” said Bobby.
“Homopolar generator,” said Rita, batting her eyes mischievously. “Don’t you know nuthin’?”
“We can cannibalize some rails, capacitors, and batteries at the launch site and build a railgun,” Gilbert said.
“Railguns haven’t been too successful even under normal circumstances, have they?” said Spencer.
Gilbert looked hurt and slouched down in the chair. “We were able to build our satellite launcher, based on the same principle. We won’t try to get orbital velocities this time, though, just enough to make a crude weapon.”
“Okay,” said Spencer. “That’s one then. Anything else?”
“Well, we can produce explosives, or at least gunpowder. You know the old formula: one part charcoal, two parts saltpeter, and four parts sulphur.”
“Where are we going to find that?” said Rita.
“Muck, piss and beer,” recited Bobby. “They used to feed saltpeter to us all the time at Annapolis. Dampens the sex drive.”
“Great,” Rita sounded disappointed.
“I agree that might be a bit problematic,” Gilbert said, “but we can try other explosives. Seems that in World War II they ground up citrus fruit rinds and extracted the oil for explosives.” His eyes widened at the skeptical looks he was getting. “No kidding! It’s actually pretty easy to make: one gallon of orange rind oil to a hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate, kind of a distant cousin to the explosive ANFO, used all the time.”
“Ammonium nitrate? Where do we get that?”
“Simple,” Gilbert said with a grin. “Otherwise known as fertilizer. Southern New Mexico has plenty of orange and lemon groves. It won’t take much to extract what oil we need. And I know there’s plenty of fertilizer around. All we have to do is use a little TNT to detonate the stuff, and kablooie!, we’ve got homemade bombs.”
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 materiaclass="underline" 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.