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.
Chapter 65
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.
In the late-morning heat Lance was already sweaty and exhausted. His clothes dragged on him. Back at the Air Force Base, they had outfitted him with a uniform the right size, void of rank insignia. The uniform fit well at first, but now it felt as if every thread and every seam found a way to chafe his skin. He was thirsty, he was hungry, and he was afraid to complain.
Lance fell into a routine of just walking. Every fifty-five minutes the call would come down the ranks to “Take Five!”, and Lance would slump against his backpack. He tried to conserve energy, but how could he recharge an hour’s worth of walking in only five minutes? It reminded him of the time he had tried to hike Old Ragtop mountain in the Appalachians, not far from Washington, D.C. He had been forced to turn back after only an hour. But there was no turning back, here.
Sergeant Morris came back and chided him. “Keep standing during your break. Otherwise you’ll tighten up.” He ignored her advice and sat panting.
Distances were deceptive out in the desert. The troops seemed to hike forever, yet they made no progress. Mountains on the horizon shimmered like a milestone to reach by nightfall, yet after a day of hiking the haze-blue mounds looked no closer. Lance tried setting near-term goals instead, looking at a scraggly mesquite or a cluster of rocks not too far away.
In the first hard day, Lance again made the mistake of thinking about his wife and two daughters, stranded back east. In his job at the Department of Energy, Lance had always spent too much time traveling. He rarely spent more than two-thirds of a month with his family, and he hadn’t thought anything when he left home to visit Lockwood’s smallsat demonstration or to attend the tech-transfer ceremony at Kirtland.
He hadn’t seen his wife or daughters since. In fact, with the phone lines breaking down early in the crisis, he had only managed to speak to them twice. And all they had talked about were how bad things were getting… little Lisa had cried, and it made things even worse.
Since that time, Bayclock had carved himself a position as military dictator in New Mexico; Jeffrey Mayeaux was acting president of the United States. And Lance was in the middle of an endless trek across a godforsaken parched wilderness.
He smiled with cracked lips; he couldn’t wait to get the White Sands antenna farm up and running under his control—so they could start restoring modern conveniences, like a humidifier.
By afternoon on the sixth day, they approached a small Native American pueblo. A cluster of rickety house trailers, cabins, and a general store stood like a careless pile of refuse at the intersection of a narrow pot-holed road and a winding gravel path that led into the mountains.
General Bayclock raised his hand for attention and swiveled around on his gelding so he could shout back at his troops. “We’ll re-provision here,” he said. “It’ll count as a rest break. Take no more than half an hour.”
The pueblo seemed to have more buildings than inhabitants. Behind each cluttered shack, children and old women came from small gardens of beans, chiles, and corn to watch the soldiers. Lance saw no adult men. Were they out hunting? Chickens clucked by, pecking at weeds and insects. A dog barked and scattered the chickens.
Two small black-haired children, naked and covered with dust, played in the street. Even before the petroplague, this place must have seen little traffic. Pickup trucks and gutted cars were scattered randomly between house trailers. Lance had no idea if these vehicles were also victims of the plague, or if they had fallen into decay long before.
Everyone in the pueblo stood motionless as the contingent approached. A stocky, matronly woman stepped out of the general store and held onto one of the support beams on the wooden porch.
Bayclock rode directly up to her. “We need food and water, Ma’am. Enough for a hundred men.”
The woman stared at the general. She looked hard and weathered, like a schoolteacher Lance once had. Even in the summer heat she wore a red flannel shirt and didn’t seem to be sweating at all. “You’re welcome to water at the well,” she said, gesturing to a community pump near one of the empty house trailers. “But we have no food to spare.”
Bayclock’s face darkened, as if a sudden winter storm crossed his features. “Nevertheless, you’ll provide what we need.”
Other people from the pueblo began approaching. The woman crossed her arms over her chest. “And if we refuse?”
Bayclock scowled down at her from his tall black horse. He shifted as if in a conscious effort to make his general’s stars glitter in the sun. “I’m invoking eminent domain, requisitioning supplies. My authority comes directly from the President of the United States. It’s against the law to refuse.”