Todd could not talk openly with his partner, though they had come hundreds of miles together and narrowly escaped death. The man who called himself Casey Jones had some sort of parasite of guilt inside him, chewing away.

Casey had been all right when he was moving, bringing supplies down to Los Angeles, taking direct action to alleviate his conscience. The moment they stopped and ran up against a problem, though, he became restless as a lion in a cage. Todd guessed he would have done the same thing. In some ways, he and Casey were a lot alike.

Henrietta Soo led Todd deeper into the laboratory complex, away from the offices and conference rooms. The partially dissolved linoleum on the floor left hard cheese-like remains in strange patterns on top of the plywood underfloor.

At the end of the corridor an emergency exit sign marked a red-painted door. Banks of gun-metal gray lockers lined the left side of the hall, like a high-school corridor. On the other side, dark windows gazed in on a warehouse-sized clean room.

"This is where we a.s.sembled the smallsats," Soo said. "It's a Cla.s.s 1000 clean room. The air inside was filtered and refiltered so that it had a thousand times fewer particles than outside air. Even that couldn't stop the spread of the petroplague, of course, but twenty of the solar smallsats were already finished, packaged and sealed, ready for launch. The original plan called for constructing nearly a hundred of them, but Lockwood's project was on a shoestring budget and we had to go one step at a time. We probably have the components and spare parts to complete another twenty smallsats, though. In addition to these."

Through the glowing lights of luminous power sources inside the clean room, Todd could make out the hulks of the twenty packaged solar satellites like meter-long pods on the tables.

"Have you spoken to Dr. Seth Mansfield?" Henrietta asked. "He got interested in this work after speaking with Spencer Lockwood over the wireless-Seth has a lot of admiration for that young man. Seth still comes in here, helps us brainstorm last-ditch solutions. Did he put you up to this?"

Todd shook his head. "No, Ma'am. I just heard on the radio that the White Sands folks needed someone to transport these sats and that it could be a big payoff to the country's recovery. I was tired of sitting on my b.u.t.t." He refrained from saying anything about his part in the Promethus spraying.

Henrietta leaned closer to the gla.s.s, jabbing her stubby fingers at something Todd couldn't see.

"Each smallsat is about the size of a large scuba tank, weighing nearly a hundred kilograms. It uses solar electric propulsion for att.i.tude control and has a supercomputer brain the size of a deck of cards. It's got a microthin array of solar power panels accordioned into a layer a few centimeters thick, but once extended the panels cover several hundred square meters of collection area."

Todd put the edge of his hand against the gla.s.s and tried to peer inside, but he saw no further details. "Sounds delicate," he said. "Are we going to ruin these things by carrying them a thousand miles cross country?"

She shook her head. "Everything's been hardened to withstand over ten thousand gees of acceleration during launch, standard stuff for this type of equipment. If Dr. Lockwood hadn't specified using silcon sealants, the petroplague would have done them in."

As they walked back toward Henrietta's office, he looked around; the other rooms were empty. "We saw a big meeting yesterday when we came in. Where is everybody? How many people still work at JPL?"

Henrietta Soo shrugged. "Quite a few, actually, but most of our people have thrown themselves into practical problems, trying to develop technological band-aids for crucial city services. The big one is the Emergency Broadcast Network. It's linking more and more as people build short-wave radios."

As she stepped into her dim office, Henrietta flicked the light switch out of habit. She frowned at herself when nothing happened. "It's really not as bad out there as we thought at first. PVC seems to be unaffected, the hard plastic pipe that most of our underground conduits are made out of. Same with natural rubber, though synthetic rubber gets all spongy and doesn't function well. Bakelite, that old amber-colored plastic you find in antique stores, resists the petroplague. It's brittle, but it still holds up pretty well. Some nylon even managed to survive."

He knew that was good news, but he could not get too excited about it. "Yeah, but if we don't have the industry to keep making this stuff . . ." Todd let his voice trail off.

"Ah, but that means we can can find subst.i.tutions-given time-but it's going to be h.e.l.l to survive the transition." find subst.i.tutions-given time-but it's going to be h.e.l.l to survive the transition."

Later, when Henrietta convinced Todd that he should contact the group at White Sands, he grabbed the microphone with much less trepidation and waited for Spencer Lockwood to acknowledge his transmission. "Lockwood here," said the man's voice. "Who am I talking to?"

"You're talking to the guy who's going to deliver your solar power satellites from JPL."

"What!" Spencer's voice was suddenly high-pitched with childish excitement. "Hot d.a.m.n!" Then he dropped off again. "I hope we're still ready to receive them when you get here. We might be having a few minor problems with the military. Some big bully wants to take all our toys. We hope we can hold out."

"We'll get there as soon as we can," Todd said.

"Good luck. We'll be waiting," Spencer said.

After they exchanged a few more details, Todd signed off. He felt the sense of urgency bubble through him again. They had made it all the way to Pasadena, but practical matters had brought them to a screeching halt.

Todd was still pacing the floor when Casey Jones returned from his day's search. The grin on the burly man's face made Todd stop in his tracks. "You find something?" he asked.

"Maybe," Casey answered. He held out a battered old book. "I got a map of all the main lines and spurs of railroad tracks in the southwestern United States. From here, we can hook onto the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe line, which will take us east to Barstow, Flagstaff, and straight to Albuquerque. From there, another spur heads south, right into White Sands."

"Rail lines?" Todd said. "Where did you get that book?"

"At the library." Casey set the book down and dropped himself heavily into a folding metal chair. "It was a zoo down there! You should have seen the people. They were grabbing all sorts of books on do-it-yourself stuff. How to make your own clothes, build your own furniture, gardening books, that sort of thing. The library is kind of messed up, but I got the book I needed. Can you believe a lady even asked me if I had a library card?"

"That's a sign some parts of civilization are still working," Todd said, then he scowled. "But what do you want with railway maps? Your train is wrecked!"

"Ah, but I've come up with something else," he said. "In an old railyard I found two handcars. They're rusty, but nothing a little lard and sandpaper won't fix; and we can link them together, ride the rails, pump ourselves across country. I figure we can get a wheelbarrow to haul the smallsats down to the rail line. From there, we'll . . . just head off. Simple." He grinned with deep satisfaction.

Todd looked skeptical. "You realize there's twenty satellites here? These things are heavy heavy."

"So we only take half of them. After we prove we can do it, we can come back for the rest of them. Or somebody else can."

"That's ridiculous!"

"I know." Casey shrugged, but he kept smiling.

They left at dusk, hauling the ten packed smallsats in wheelbarrows as well as all the bottled water and food supplies they could carry, and three metallized survival blankets to shield them from the desert heat and night cold. Even with help from some of the other JPL workers, it still took five trips to get everything to the hidden handcars.

Henrietta Soo surprised them both by insisting on coming along on the rigorous journey. "The smallsats are my babies," she said. "How do I know I can trust you two? I have to watch them." She stood firm.

Todd argued with her, but Casey Jones just wanted to leave. Finally, as Henrietta trudged along hauling a loaded wheelbarrow of her own and keeping pace, Todd believed her when she said she could do her share of the work. It reminded him of Iris-she insisted on pulling her own weight.

According to Casey's railroad map, they had about a thousand miles of track to cover. He guessed they could make 10 to 15 miles per hour pumping the hand car, once they got it going. With three of them, they could take shifts and keep going maybe ten hours a day. By traveling at night, they hoped to avoid gangs like the one that had blown up Casey's locomotive. If they started at dusk, and pumped straight through the night, they could be far from Los Angeles by dawn.

Casey linked the two handcars with a pin and slid them along the track to show how easily the old vehicles moved. "We could be there in a week," he said.

"Is that an optimistic estimate?" Henrietta asked.

"It's just the one I'm counting on," Casey answered.

They loaded up the handcars, tying down the carefully wrapped smallsats and their supplies for the trip. Once everything was secure, they climbed onboard the lead car.

"This really is crazy," Todd said again. "Dr. Soo said we're carrying a metric ton of satellites!"

"So what?" Casey said. "Let's shove off before somebody sees us." He stood with his back to the wind, facing east. He gripped the metal push bar. "How are your hands?"

Todd faced him, taking the opposite end of the seesaw bar. "Don't worry about it. How's your back?"

"Are we going to talk or go?"

Todd grasped the bar. "On three: one . . . two . . . three!" Together, they began to push.

Up and down, slowly at first as the linked cars moved forward, picking up speed. Up . . . down . . . up . . . down. . . Finally, as they gained momentum, they could feel the movement, see the rails slide by beneath them.

"We're heading out," Casey shouted.

Todd said, "I've got this sudden urge to sing 'I've Been Working on the Railroad.'"

Simultaneously, Henrietta Soo and Casey Jones shushed him. Todd threw his back into the pumping.

The two handcars moved on into the night bearing the solar smallsats and three pa.s.sengers. Todd could hear only the sound of the steel wheels humming along the track.

Chapter 63.

"The NSA team is here, Mr. President," Franklin Weathersee said, rapping on the door to the oppressive, lonely room.

Jeffrey Mayeaux grumbled to himself as he sipped then put down his drink. Let's pa.s.s a good time Let's pa.s.s a good time! Two shots of old bourbon, neat. His wife would be sleeping by herself in a different suite down the hall, so at least Mayeaux had that much peace. Now that her social life had fallen to pieces, she had started wanting to spend time with him again, and he didn't like the change of pace. One more mess to cope with. He'd just gotten undressed, ready for bed, when Weathersee came in to announce the meeting. What good did it do to be in charge of the G.o.dd.a.m.n country if he had to cater to everyone else's schedules?

Weathersee's face was outlined with deep shadows thrown from the single low-wattage bulb hanging from the ceiling. Mayeaux could see two Secret Service agents standing just outside the bedroom door.

"Thanks, Frank. I was getting sick of relaxing after a whole five minutes or so. You wouldn't want to spoil me."

"No I wouldn't, sir," Weathersee said without so much as cracking a smile.

Before communications had been disrupted with the military bases, Mayeaux would have postponed the meeting until morning. Teach them all some respect. Lordy, he hated working by the dim light almost as much as he hated getting up early in the morning. But he grabbed his bathrobe and headed for the door. If they expected him to show up in a formal suit, they had their heads up their a.s.ses.

The staff engineers had wired the elevators to work-but after what happened to that idiot Vice President in Chicago, Mayeaux never wanted to use an elevator again. He headed down the long two flights of stairs from the third-floor living quarters to the Oval Office.

Because of the enormous effort required to generate electricity with the old steam-engine equipment hauled out of the Smithsonian, there weren't many functional lights in the White House. Over three thousand military troops were devoted to collecting wood, stoking the fires, and running the converted steam-generators around the capitol city. Generously, Mayeaux signed an executive order directing most of the electricity to go to local hospitals, but the marginal remaining supply kept the main communication lines open.

Mayeaux almost tripped on a rug in the dark. He cursed; if things got any worse, he'd have to cut a hole in the floors and install a fireman's pole so he could whiz down to important meetings. Now wouldn't that look presidential?

The team from the National Security Agency met him outside the Oval Office. He noticed two women in the group, but was not impressed; they both looked hardened to their duties, not the least bit attractive. The job must be getting to me The job must be getting to me, Mayeaux thought bitterly. He ushered them into the office and got right to business.

"I called you here to give me another perspective, cher cher. I'm not sure I can trust the bulls.h.i.t my Joint Chiefs are feeding me. Don't mince words-tell me what's going on out there."

The team leader, a middle-aged woman who wore no makeup at all and let her hair fall loose to her shoulders, pushed a large sheet of cardboard across his desk. She had fastened white sheets of paper to the stiff backing, drawings of the downtown Washington area. The woman pointed at the Mall extending two miles from the Washington Monument to the Capitol building.

"We've finished installing the underground Extreme Low Frequency antennas, Mr. President. In addition, there are five shortwave antennas around the White House." She pointed to various locations on the drawing.

One of her aides handed her a sheaf of papers. "The ELF antenna has already raised communication with six Trident-cla.s.s submarines, still underwater and still unaffected by the plague, as far as we know. That leaves ten subs unaccounted for, and three confirmed missing after the plague. We a.s.sume they have been destroyed, probably because their watertight seals were breached, but it's not a foregone conclusion."

"Destroyed?"

"Yes, sir. They either surfaced and the petroplague infiltrated their systems, or they were so close to the mix layer, the petroplague got to them that way."

Mayeaux glanced over the material. Page after page of handwritten code appeared on the pages, with elaborate decoding inked in by hand after each line. Even the decoded material seemed a jumble of nonsense.

"So, can we still communicate with the surviving nuclear submarines? Can I issue them new orders?"

She nodded. "That's right, sir. At least to a fair fraction of them. We're still attempting to raise those a.s.signed to ocean areas in electromagnetic voids, but we should have confirmation in a week."

Mayeaux pushed the papers back. "What does the Navy think about this?"

The team chief spoke slowly. "We haven't seen their complete a.n.a.lysis, Mr. President. Our instructions were only to collect unbiased communications traffic."

Mayeaux thought it over for a moment. So far none of this new information conflicted with what his military chiefs had told him, but he still wasn't convinced he had the whole story. He made a mental note to have Weathersee scare up a new list of advisors he could trust. "Okay-next topic. What's the status of those out-of-touch military bases? Are you doing any better than the Joint Chiefs in raising them?"

The NSA staff exchanged glances. The team chief cleared her throat. "No, sir, we have not. We're working closely with our military counterparts out in the field, and we have not yet been able to reestablish communication."

Mayeaux shook his head. He knew he should have gulped down the rest of that d.a.m.ned drink before coming downstairs. "What about the communities outside the bases? Are they responding at all?"

"Well, sir, about the only thing we have are reports of looting and out-of-control fires in the larger cities: Philadelphia, Chicago, Dallas, and Denver."

Mayeaux looked up from his desk. "What happened to LA? That was a hot spot before."

"That's a problem, sir." She shuffled through her papers again, but he could tell she was just avoiding his gaze. "We think perhaps another organization should handle this-"

"I'm sick of doubletalk," Mayeaux growled, flicking his glance to skewer every person in the room. "I asked a question-give me the f.u.c.king answer!"

The NSA team chief continued. "Los Angeles refused to establish martial law, sir. We have word from the city's mayor that they are considering seceding from the nation. They do not want to partic.i.p.ate in conscription activities or food taxation. The mayor has ordered breaking open all military stockpiles of food to the populace at large. From what we can tell, the military in the Los Angeles area is cooperating with this action, directly countermanding your orders."

She stacked her papers neatly. "The last we heard was a call for action to help some sort of expedition going to New Mexico from the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. It wasn't clear what was going on, but the New Mexico connection may be a symptom of breakdown in martial law across the country. JPL has commandeered Caltech's Emergency Network Radio node and they also refuse to cooperate with FEMA or any other emergency agencies. They are apparently behind this expedition."

Deep resentment ran through Mayeaux. He had to push with a crowbar to get anyone to tell him bad news. Did they really fear him that much, or were they crawfishin' around the issue?

"Mais, let me tell you something. This c.r.a.p has gone too far. It's going to stop, right now. I didn't ask for this d.a.m.ned responsibility, but I will not be remembered as the man who allowed the United States to fall apart." He turned to Frank Weathersee. "Pull the Joint Chiefs in here, right now. I want more information, and if they give you any grief in return, throw their a.s.ses out. Period."

Weathersee stiffened. "Very well, Mr. President."

Mayeaux was on a roll now. Sometimes it felt d.a.m.ned good to kick some b.u.t.t. He hunched over the table, talking rapidly. On reflection, he thought he sounded very presidential. "That expedition to New Mexico. Are they spreading this call for secession? Did they instigate this d.a.m.ned mess in LA? Who was that general I met at Kirtland a few months ago, on my way to Acapulco-" He snapped his fingers, trying to remember.

"Bayclock, sir."

"That's right. Have the Chiefs warn General Bayclock there's some sort of traitor movement heading his way. He seemed like a down-to-earth man. Make sure the general understands that everyone must support him, nip this thing in the bud, all that rah rah stuff. This might be the test for keeping anarchy in check."

Weathersee looked unconvinced. "Yes, sir, traitor movement. Any other items the Joint Chiefs should work on?"

"So far we're nothing but a voice over a radio to these people. We don't have any way to back up our threats." He set his mouth. "Make sure the Vice President has this information at the Naval Observatory. And have the Chiefs draw up a plan to make an example of . . . something-if LA is going to try to secede, maybe they need a knock on the head to set them right."

He steepled his fingers. "Take a lesson from history. Abraham Lincoln took that step. He threw most of the Baltimore businessmen and newspaper editors in jail when they wouldn't support him. Sure taught them a lesson!"

"What do you propose, Mr. President?" Weathersee said.

He glared at his Chief of Staff. "h.e.l.l, I don't know. Maybe take out Catalina Island with a nuke. We're in touch with the subs again, after all."

Weathersee stood tall, his arms at his sides, as he looked at Mayeaux. "If you're going to take a lesson from history, sir, perhaps you should remember what happened to President Lincoln. I just thought I should remind you of that."