Heather stiffened and drew away from him. “This is not what I wanted!” Then she staggered to be by herself. Any thought of a relationship between them would now be forever stained with murder and violence.
After a few moments apart, Todd made his way to Heather. “We’ll never catch him. He’s got three horses. Where do you think he’ll go?”
Heather took a while to respond. “Anywhere he thinks he can use the satellites to his advantage. But that won’t help us.”
“We’ll bury these two,” Todd said, “and then you and I will make our way to White Sands. I’ve come this far, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to turn back, even if I don’t have the satellites.”
Riding high in his tethered hot-air balloon, Lieutenant Bobby Carron stared across the desert, dozing. The first day he had exhilarated in being up in the air, but this was vastly different from flying a fighter jet: standing in an aluminum basket while a blazing fire scorched his back, bobbing at the end of a thousand-foot-long rope coupled with a telegraph wire.
For the past week Bobby had surveyed the surrounding area, staring at every rock and shrub. He checked the horizon with the metal spyglass Dr. Lockwood’s optics workshop had rigged up. He knew the area well enough now to spot anything unusual.
Movement triggered his subconscious. Without thinking, he floated up one level of awareness, letting his mind integrate the area around him. He detected another movement, another… and then scores of them like an army of ants making its way across the valley—right where Rita had predicted it would come.
He felt his pulse race as he made out a column of soldiers appearing in the shimmering heat mirage. By rough count, he guessed General Bayclock had brought a hundred troops, plus support personnel. A few rode horses, but the rest marched in ranks.
Then, far in the west, he saw two other figures, two people alone walking across the flat dizzying desert, headed toward the White Sands facility. Bobby turned his spy glass to them and could barely make out a man and a woman striding along.
Bobby grabbed the portable telegraph unit. He tapped the international signal to drop everything!, attempting to get Juan Romero’s attention: “XVW, XVW, XVW…”
Chapter 69
In the west wing of the White House, the Situation Room had once been the showpiece of America’s military-industrial investment in high technology. At one time, media pundits forecasted with uncanny accuracy the level of U.S. response to an international incident by counting the number of pizzas delivered to the Situation Room on any particular night. In the most important city in the nation, at the most important residence, this was without a doubt the most important room.
But now there were no pizzas, no media watchdogs, no technological wizardry. High-definition computer workstations gave way to blackboards, messages scrawled on scraps of paper, and flickering electric light powered by steam-engine generators on the Mall.
Staffers hurried about, but their focus had shifted from world events to the demands upon the national government made by several unofficial domestic “city-states,” which were the new centers of power scattered around the crumbling country.
President Jeffrey Mayeaux sat in a highbacked chair, digging his fingernails into the leather. He tried to digest the information being fed to him in contradictory scraps with confusing lack of detail. What the hell was going on out there? The lack of verified information appalled him—it was like trying to make sense out of a TV show on a channel filled with multicolored static.
At his right, along a long wooden table, sat his military advisers, the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The five men looked weary—as they damn well should, since he hadn’t let them leave the White House Complex in over a week! Their uniforms were wrinkled, stained, but they held themselves up with caffeine-fed dignity. Mayeaux scowled at them then looked back to the note papers. Those guys didn’t know what pressure was!
At Mayeaux’s left sat representatives from his cabinet, the National Security Agency, and his private staff. Three Secret Service agents stood quietly in the background; the agents were usually absent from such closed discussions, and their presence now did not go unnoticed. Mayeaux had started taking such precautions when his military advisers began grumbling more and more loudly about Mayeaux’s way of coping with the petroplague situation.
Well, fuck them! No other president had to deal with the whole country falling apart—not even Lincoln! The Civil War had been rational and understandable, a disagreement in politics.
Mayeaux pushed Appendix J 7, the latest list of petroplague-destroyed items, across the desk. He was getting sick of seeing addenda to the original memo. Didn’t the compilers get tired of jotting things down? Toothpaste caps? Disposable diapers and condoms? For God’s sake, who cared?
Mayeaux scowled and closely watched the reactions of the Joint Chiefs. “The list is not getting smaller, gentlemen. I understand the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex has also broken off communication with the central government, and they strung up three of our agents trying to enforce martial law. I’ve got conflicting reports of some severe problems in San Diego. Are we going to be able to get the country back on its feet? What do we have to offer people as far as restoring the old way of life? How about making some progress for a change!”
Mayeaux’s science advisor said, “We still hope to someday use methane and propane, but that’s impossible until we can develop reliable seals for airtight containers. Eventually, we could extract and refine oil in a closed, sterile environment, but of course that would enormously increase the cost of petroleum products. There may even be certain additives to plastics that will discourage decomposition by the microorganism. The scientists at NIST and the CDC are working around the clock—”
“Dammit, I’m not interested in ‘eventually!’ Our house is in flames and you’re talking about inventing a telephone to call the fire department!” Mayeaux slammed his fist on the arm of the chair. “We’ve got to get the situation under control, and then ease back so we can introduce improvements and gradual solutions.”
He studied the Joint Chiefs. “Mais, let me tell you somethin’. Since we can’t tap anything other than firewood or maybe coal for energy, we are in for one hell of a winter. We don’t have any industry left. States and big cities are declaring their independence right and left, and the national government is nothing more than a figurehead.
“We cannot back up our authority or make orders stick—not to mention martial laws, executive decrees, and everything else! What are we going to do about the larger cities defying my emergency orders? Do I just ignore Dallas and Los Angeles and Miami and San Diego? See how they fend for themselves as independent countries? Screw that! Give me an effective strategy I can use right now in this situation.” Mayeaux turned to General Wacom, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a thin, grey-haired Air Force man in an unassuming blue uniform.
Wacom stared back. “You’ve said it all yourself, sir. The military is disjointed and relegated to the status of either observers or local police forces maintaining order under the authority of local governments. It may be our most effective tactic to let the country calm down and keep order on a local level until we get the infrastructure back in place. I don’t think these states really intend to become permanently independent—once the populace starts to see regular news from Washington again, once they hear the President address them directly, they’ll come around. I don’t suggest we do anything drastic.”