General Wacon, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a graying man who looked like an airline pilot in his Air Force uniform, pushed a briefing packet across the table. The papers were handwritten-the few rebuilt computers working in secured vaults were reserved for more important tasks than preparing briefing charts.

"We have managed to establish communications with seventy percent of the military bases, Mr. President. We don't know why we've lost contact with the remaining thirty percent, but we don't believe it's because of a technical breakdown."

"Tell me what that means." Mayeaux shoved the papers back at the Chairman. "I don't have time to read all this."

"There's enough redundancy in our emergency communications that we should still be in direct contact with every installation commander. The petroplague did not disable backup wireless communications."

"So what the h.e.l.l is the significance of that?" Mayeaux looked around the table. "I asked a simple question, now give me a simple answer. No doubletalk, no technojargon."

The general continued smoothly, not quite managing to cover a frown. "Widespread riots, sir. The out-of-contact bases are located next to cities with large populations-Los Angeles, New York, Philadelphia. With so many people in the neighboring communities, we suspect the civilians are not cooperating with the military's enforcement of martial law."

"So the people are disobeying emergency orders from the President of the United States? And the military commanders can't back up our demands? Maybe we should all go hide in the closet and cry."

"We don't know for sure, Mr. President. The military bases still in contact report increasing unrest among the civilian populace. Every commander has lost personnel to mobs, even in southern states where the military is traditionally viewed with more respect."

Mayeaux's jaw clenched and relaxed as General Wacon spoke. He couldn't get his military commanders to enforce a straightforward directive in a crisis situation. Against civilians, yet! Being the "most powerful man in the world" wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Even with the communications breakdowns, the people would listen to a strong leader, not some limp d.i.c.k too frightened to back up his own threats. Mayeaux knew that much. It was just like raising kids-you set the rules, and whenever the kid stepped over the line: wham! wham! Behavior modification. Behavior modification.

It worked in Louisiana, rewarding the parishes that toed the line, and it worked in Congress when he had been Speaker of the House. The congressmen who didn't fall in line when Mayeaux made it clear he was calling in a personal favor, found themselves suddenly without any federal projects for their districts. As far as the American people were concerned, they didn't know how far they could push Jeffrey Mayeaux him.

Not very d.a.m.n far.

The chairmen of their respective services sat back in their seats and waited for the president to speak his words of wisdom. Mayeaux felt like a preacher under a revival tent. What the h.e.l.l did they want from him?

"What's the status of the rest of the military? What other national defense matters aren't we ready for, gentlemen?"

The question seemed to throw the officers. They looked at each other. "Each stateside installation is utilizing its resources to enforce martial law, Mr. President. They are relying on the National Guard as well as local law-enforcement groups. None of our forces is poised to prevent an attack from an external threat, but frankly I don't see how such an attack could be feasible without any fuel-"

Mayeaux dismissed the observation with a wave. "Not an attack from outside, from within. within. If civilian disobedience is affecting every installation, we've got to get those commanders firmly in control. We've got to let the people know we won't take any c.r.a.p. These are not normal times." If civilian disobedience is affecting every installation, we've got to get those commanders firmly in control. We've got to let the people know we won't take any c.r.a.p. These are not normal times."

The five officers remained stone-faced, keeping their thoughts to themselves. What a bunch of nippleheads! Mayeaux pushed back from the conference table, feeling his control slipping away. Didn't anybody take this seriously Didn't anybody take this seriously? Well, if they weren't going to come up with a solution, then he sure as h.e.l.l would. He had the entire country to look after, whether he wanted to or not.

Mayeaux stood and started for the door of the Cabinet Room. "Gentlemen, get me a complete review of your forces-personnel, capabilities, whatever you've got. I want you all to be ready to answer questions whenever I need you. Camp out in the Old Executive Office Building. Get that information to me in one week. If things haven't gotten better by then, I'll make some decisions for you." Franklin Weathersee followed Mayeaux out as he strode from the room.

In silence, everyone stood in the President's wake.

Chapter 53.

White gypsum sand glittered like an ocean of bone-dry sparkle dust. With nothing more than a small spade, Spencer Lockwood dug only a few feet before he reached moisture.

The water table around White Sands had always been near the surface, though it had steadily fallen for the past half century, drained by ma.s.sive pumping stations along the Rio Grande corridor. But not any longer, not after the petroplague. The aquifer was exceptionally pure from natural filtration-and it was available, rapidly replenishing itself.

Adjusting his floppy hat, Spencer applied a handful of soft lard on either side of the ceramic washer and tightened the cap to the water pump. A long strand of cloth-wrapped electrical wire ran from the pump to a telephone pole, then to the power substation. Transformer parts lay strewn around the substation, prominent against the bright sand: open coils of copper windings, ceramic insulators, iron cores. The new substation looked like a Rube Goldberg collection of giant tinkertoys. A hundred yards away, three ranch hands stood around a pile of scrub wood, waiting for the order to light the signal fire.

Beside him, Rita Fellenstein tipped back her Australian hat and spat to the side, adding another blot to the scattered tobacco stains on the snowy gypsum. "You really think this is going to work, Spence?"

He used the fine sand to scrub smelly animal fat from his hands, then wiped the grit on his frayed pants. "If we can't carry power from the microwave farm to the pump station, it'll be impossible to get it to the outlying ranches."

"That's not what I asked you."

Heat shimmered from the ground like blurred fingers reaching to the sky. Spencer could see for miles all around. "There's no reason why it shouldn't work. Basically, it's a no-brainer. We hook it up and it starts pumping water."

Rita worked up a mouthful of saliva and spat again. She seemed to enjoy the disgusted frown on his face. "If you say so. You weren't the one trying to figure out how to fix it."

Spencer grinned, keeping his doubts to himself. "That's what engineers are for."

Rita strode back to the ranch hands. Her gangly legs put a rolling swing into each step. Good-natured catcalls greeted her, but Rita told the men to shut up and light the signal fire.

Spencer took one last look at the pump-he always became obsessive before starting an experiment. Everything appeared ready, but he never believed it. The transmission line ran to the substation, all the pump parts had been inspected a dozen times.

He remembered how paranoid he had been about his antenna farm on the day of the first test. Now he'd be even more excited if he could just get a simple water pump working out in the desert.

One of the ranch hands squatted by the pile of wood, striking a flint and a piece of metal together. They still had some matches among their supplies, but the cowboys liked to show off their wilderness skills in front of Rita. Fine steel wool brought in from the microwave farm caught the spark and started smoking. Pieces of shaving, then larger pieces of mesquite began to burn, crackling and sending rich-smelling smoke into the air.

Rita stood back, shielding her face as one of the ranch hands tossed a handful of green pinon needles onto the growing fire. The smoke thickened and billowed. Rita said, "All we need now is a blanket to send smoke signals!"

"We don't want to have a conversation with them," Spencer said. "We just want them to turn on the juice." He knew the radio man Juan Romero would be back at the microwave farm, waiting to see the smoke.

Spencer watched the water pump, not sure what to expect. Once Romero switched on the electricity from the farm, a motor would move a series of gears-what could be so tough about that? The substation would transform the oscillating voltage collected from the microwave antennas to power the pump. If this worked, it would be the first step to reestablishing a power-grid for the area, electricity that did not rely on petroleum or plastic components for distribution.

By erecting similar antenna farms, simple metal wires spread out on flat ground under the orbital path of the smallsats, and launching the remaining satellites in storage at JPL, Spencer could return electrical power to a broad band of the country-even the world. He liked crazy, optimistic plans, but, hey, it gave them something to work toward.

A high-pitched popping, sizzling noise jarred him out of his daydream. Acrid smoke spewed from the nearby utility pole. Spencer caught the sudden smell of creosote burning. "The substation's going up!" he yelled.

The ranchers grabbed shovels and started throwing gypsum sand on the equipment to smother the fire. White sparks danced around the transformer units, accompanied by loud snaps and cracks. The signal fire continued to blaze, sending streamers of smoke into the windless air.

"Great!" Spencer ran to the bonfire. "Help me get this thing out!" He knew Romero would keep the juice flowing until the smoke signal stopped.

The dry mesquite burned hot and bright. He picked up a bucket of sand and threw it onto the blaze; the sand simmered on the coals. Smoke continued to boil into the air. Finally, a blanket thrown over the fire extinguished the flames.

Spencer stood back and waited as the smoke leaking from the blanket turned from black to gray-white. The substation continued to crackle like an electric heater dropped into a bathtub. As the smoke trailed away, the inferno at the substation subsided. Romero had shut down. The electrical equipment looked scorched.

A real no-brainer, Spencer had called the exercise. Right!

Rita wiped a hand over her sooty face. "So, we fix it up and try again?"

"Must be an engineering problem," he said, scowling at the substation components.

Before the petroplague, the station had been a crossroads for power generated by the Public Service Company of New Mexico and the Rural Electric Network. Now, nothing remained but a smoldering pile of resistors, coiled windings, and insulators. At least the electric company wouldn't come after him for damages.

"Let's find out what went wrong," he said. "That's the only way we'll learn anything. I want to get back to the microwave farm by sundown for the JPL contact."

"You don't seem too upset after just blowing the h.e.l.l out of that substation," Rita said.

"Job security," Spencer said and faked a shocked expression to mask his disappointment. "You've been hanging around Nedermyer too much."

Romero tugged on his drooping black mustache. "Caltech's on the wireless, Spence. They're ready for you."

"Thanks." Spencer took a seat. Now that the sun was down, their shortwave radio could eavesdrop on the world.

The blockhouse was illuminated by beeswax candles. They had a few battery-powered lights, but they tried not to use them much. Shadows cast by the flickering light danced on the trailer walls.

Static came from the radio speaker like ocean surf, distorting the voice that relayed news across the country for local dissemination. Romero repeated the news back to the emergency broadcast channel, verifying that he had correctly copied the contents.

Rita whispered, "You're not going to tell them the test failed, are you? JPL might not send the satellites if they find out you can't even get the power lines to work."

"The experiment didn't fail," Spencer said. "It just pointed out some deficiencies in our a.s.sumptions."

"Now who's been talking to Nedermyer too much?" she snorted. who's been talking to Nedermyer too much?" she snorted.

Romero handed him the makeshift microphone. "All set. You've got five minutes."

Spencer fingered the b.u.t.ton, clicking it twice. "h.e.l.lo? This is Spencer Lockwood from White Sands."

A moment pa.s.sed. Nothing but static came over the speaker. He frowned and started to repeat himself when a voice broke through. "Dr. Lockwood?"

Spencer leaned forward. "Yes, that's me."

"Stand by, one. We've got someone here for you."

The microphone rustled as it was handed over. "Spencer? Is this the same Doctor Lockwood I taught at Caltech?"

Spencer stopped. The voice sounded familiar, but it had been so many years . . . "Seth- Seth Mansfield? Is that you?"

Coughing. "Spencer, are you still playing with those smallsats? Dr. Soo at JPL tells me you've been pestering her to ship the remaining satellites cross-country to you. What's this nonsense? Last time I checked, you were a physicist, not a rocket scientist. At least that's what I wrote on your diploma."

He rolled his eyes. It was nice to hear from his gruff mentor again. "Seth, what are you doing there? I thought you retired years ago."

The n.o.bel laureate's voice came back strong for a 74-year-old man. "Did you expect me to roll over and play dead? I returned here after the plague hit. The least I could do is wash bottles while the microbiologists try to figure this d.a.m.n thing out."

Romero leaned over and whispered, "You've only got four minutes, Spence." Spencer waved him away.

"Seth, I'd love to talk, but I just don't have the time."

"Oh, all right! I hear you were going to transmit electricity today to power some d.a.m.ned water pump."

"Well, Seth, it-"

"Good thinking, Spencer. You'll need the infrastructure up and working before the smallsats can do any good. Doesn't matter if you have all the microwave energy in the world if you don't have any way to get it to people. How did you do? Did it work?"

Rita leaned over and scowled. Spencer saw his precious time slip away. The Caltech emergency network operators adhered to a ruthless reputation when it came to part.i.tioning radio time. He sighed; it was a lost cause to argue with his old professor.

"Uh, it didn't go exactly as planned, Seth. There are more problems than I suspected with the transformers. But it's just an engineering problem." Romero clapped a hand to his forehead and snickered; Spencer turned back to the radio. "We'll fix it. I've already got a team working on design changes, using what we learned from the test."

"Engineering problems! Those are the best kind," Mansfield said. "You think your idea will still work?"

"Of course it'll work! Look, we transmitted the power at least twenty miles, and that's a lot farther than we thought would be possible with these primitive lines. It blew out a transformer at the substation, so we know the electricity got that far."

Spencer threw a glance at Rita. She mouthed, 'Less than one minute.' Spencer thought he heard the hint of a laugh over the static-filled channel. "Plenty of people here at JPL thought you were just pipedreaming, son. There's starvation and rioting going on out here, in case you haven't heard."

"We have the same reports coming out of El Paso and Albuquerque," said Spencer. "All the more reason to give people some shining example of hope, something to show that we can get back on our feet again."

"Okay, Spencer. The JPL folks wanted a.s.surance of two things: that you weren't lying, and their efforts wouldn't be wasted. I think I've convinced the JPL acting director that you haven't gone loony tunes. Of course, I don't know how the h.e.l.l you expect to get twenty 300-pound satellites from Caltech to White Sands. By a wheelbarrow? A refurbished Conestoga wagon?"

Spencer didn't know what to say. "Uh, that's the next question, but it's really just another engineering problem. We can solve those."

The old man laughed. "If you manage this one, Spencer, you deserve a n.o.bel Prize of your own!"

Chapter 54.

Todd Severyn c.o.c.ked back his cowboy hat and scanned the rolling vista of the Altamont range. His chocolate quarter horse snorted at the dry, unpalateable gra.s.s on the ridge. The sky above was as blue and smooth as a robin's egg, cloudless; he didn't expect to hear a discouraging word . . . at least not until he rode back to those wierdos at the commune.

Todd urged Stimpy down the slope, following a cattle trail toward the glistening aqueduct that directed fresh water from the mountains. Moving again, Stimpy crashed through the gra.s.s with an energetic gait that showed Todd how much the mare was enjoying her regular long-distance rides.

Gleaming white windmills, spinning in rampant breezes that gusted over the range, lined the crests of the rounded hills. Many of the wind turbines had burned-out rotors with gummed lubricants; Jackson Harris and his group of washed-up hippies spent much of their days trying to repair them.

Far below to his left Todd could see the empty interstate freeway dotted with wrecked and abandoned cars. With the traffic gone and the people scattered from the corpses of the cities, he found the world more palatable in a way. Like his beloved Wyoming, everything had slowed down, gone back to the ways of a century before when communities worked together to survive, and each small town was its own little world.

That was how Jackson Harris and the Altamont commune managed to succeed, but Todd didn't fit in. Philosophically, they were poles apart, yet he did enjoy belonging to their settlement. As long as he didn't have to sing along with their campfire concerts of oold Rock & Roll songs. And Iris Shikozu certainly seemed comfortable with the arrangement, even if he wasn't . . . .

When he reached the aqueduct between the hills, Todd directed the horse to follow the concrete embankment. Two men and a teenager dangled their feet in the languid ca.n.a.l, fishing with bamboo poles and cotton fish line. As Todd pulled the horse to a stop, Stimpy stuck her nose in the water, blowing out her nostrils and drinking deeply. "Any fish in there?" Todd asked.

A man in a battered straw hat shrugged. "Carp."

"Are they good eating?" Todd noticed a chain-link basket slung low in the water.

"Depends how hungry you are," the teenager said.

When the fishermen didn't offer to continue the conversation, Todd rode off along the Altamont Pa.s.s Road and back over the crest of the hills. He dreamed of eventually making his way across country, riding back to his parents' ranch, maybe even with Iris. But not for a while yet, not until things were a bit more settled.