Chapter 64.

"Hey, Lieutenant," Spencer asked, "what do you know about military intelligence?"

"Military intelligence? That's how I remember the definition of the word 'oxymoron.'" Bobby Carron looked up from untying the tentlike sun-screen at the blockhouse corner. The sun had set over the Organ Mountains, and already the high desert air took on a chill. "Me, I just flew fighters-you know, grapefruit and peas."

"Grapefruit and peas?" Spencer made a disgusted grimace. "Is that what they feed you guys?"

Bobby laughed. "No, sir. It's just what they say about us fighter pilots. b.a.l.l.s the size of grapefruits, brains the size of peas."

"I see." Spencer chuckled. "Come on inside the trailer. You're the only military type around here. You might be able to figure this out."

"Right." Bobby left the cords dangle from the sprawling sun-screen tent made of parachute silk. To keep the bunkers cooler during the hottest part of the day, Spencer's group had obtained some surplus fabric in Alamogordo. Stenciled on the parachutes were the words HOLLOMAN AIR FORCE BASE, taken from the closing of the base a few years earlier. After high evening winds had torn away the last sun-screen, taking down the parachute had become Bobby's nightly ritual.

Bobby followed Spencer inside the trailer, where Juan Romero listened to the voices coming over the static-filled speaker, pursing his lips in a confused frown that made his black moustache stick out at the sides. Electronic equipment lay on the tabletops, cannibalized for parts used in the makeshift radio. Romero rolled his eyes at the signal. "Everything's encrypted."

". . . Niner niner rog. Turtle mound advised of bandit watch." Other nonsensical phrases jabbered over the channel.

Spencer watched Bobby Carron as the Navy pilot digested the cryptic information. "Any idea what they're saying, Lieutenant?"

"I recognize some code words," Bobby said, frowning as he concentrated. "Maybe they can't get their regular encryption gear working." He stared at the makeshift equipment as if in a trance. Spencer said nothing.

Three electric lanterns lit the control room against the darkness outside; they used solar power stored in batteries during the day's transit of the smallsat cl.u.s.ter. A cool breeze swept through the door, bringing a sweet hint of yucca.

Romero glanced at Bobby. "How can he understand what they're saying when the static is this bad? Must be sunspots."

"Ever heard a pilot talk on the radio?" Spencer said. "You can't understand a thing they're saying until you do it yourself."

Bobby held up a hand. He spoke as if he were reciting a pa.s.sage: "They're saying something like: events have gotten out of hand. Take all actions necessary to ensure the continuity of-" He hesitated, then shook his head. "d.a.m.n," he muttered, "Some of the stuff just doesn't make any sense."

"Go on," said Spencer. He motioned for Romero to sit back down. Rita Fellenstein joined them from the back room. She had been making eyes at Bobby ever since he had arrived, much to the dismay of the other ranch hands.

Three minutes pa.s.sed before the mixed-up transmission stopped. Bobby scribbled in pencil on a small notepad. His forehead held a sheen of sweat.

"As far as I can tell, General Bayclock has been ordered to occupy your installation at White Sands. He's to show an iron hand. All a.s.sets of something-the California expedition?-are to be confiscated and turned over to the United States."

Spencer exchanged glances with Rita. "I hope that doesn't mean the mission from JPL."

Bobby continued, "The general is authorized to use whatever force necessary to preserve the integrity of the United States."

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean?" muttered Rita.

"It means we've been declared open game, and this Bayclock clown can come and blow us away, man!" Romero stood up, knocking back his chair and flinging his long black hair out of his eyes like a dangerous bandit.

"He's crazy enough to do it, too," Bobby said. "Your wagon train carrying the smallsats got out of the Los Angeles area just in time. The mayor of LA has taken over the national guard and is declaring southern California a free state. Bayclock wants to stop the JPL people from getting to you."

Spencer shook his head. "This is ridiculous. Does he think the expedition from JPL is some kind of armed force? How paranoid can he get?"

Bobby said, "I know the general has been monitoring radio transmissions from White Sands-that's how he discovered you have a working power station."

"Yeah, for all of twenty minutes a day," said Spencer, "and a bunch of leftover battery power."

"That was enough for him to send me down here after you." Bobby's face tightened. "He's serious about enforcing his martial law, and he must have gone nonlinear when you guys didn't roll over and cooperate. He probably thinks the group from JPL is part of a conspiracy to subvert his authority. With the White House backing him, I bet he's decided to make an example of us."

Romero laughed, but Bobby spoke in a level tone. "In Albuquerque, he was hanging teenagers for stealing cans of tuna or staying out after dark."

The trailer fell quiet. Bobby looked from person to person. Spencer placed a hand on his shoulder. "Look, why don't you finish taking down the sunscreens outside. I'll have Romero run through the FEMA frequencies and see if we can find any other information that confirms what we've heard."

Bobby stopped at the door. "You know, I'd feel a lot better if we could just see what that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Bayclock is going to do. I'd hate to have a few thousand fanatics sneak up on us without warning. No telling when he'll make his move."

Spencer pictured the state of New Mexico in his head. "It'll take him at least a week to get down here, even if he started today. I'll notify Alamogordo. Maybe some of the ranchers can help us out. Give us quarter, if nothing else. We can get away."

"But that means abandoning the antenna farm, man!" Romero cried. "Spencer, you can't do that!"

"Maybe we can station lookouts on Oscura Peak, use smoke signals to warn us like we did for the substation test," Rita suggested.

"It would be more effective to have lookouts nearby," said Bobby. "What would happen if the peak got socked in with clouds? Of if Bayclock decided to attack at night? What you need is a thousand-foot-high tower, or an airplane." He grinned half-heartedly, his mind obviously elsewhere, as if knowing he would never fly again. "Nevermind. I've got to finish packing the parachutes."

Spencer had a sudden thought. "That's not such a crazy idea."

"What?" Bobby turned around.

"The parachutes," said Spencer. "I bet if we sewed some of them together, we could make a hot-air balloon, just like something out of a Jules Verne novel. Fill it with hot air, and up it goes."

"The fuel, Spence," Rita reminded him with an elbow to the side. "In case you haven't noticed, there's no propane around for the central heater."

"The Montgolfier brothers didn't have propane," Spencer said, "but they did have wood, and even better, we can make charcoal. Hot air is hot air, right? You take along some charcoal and burn it in a big metal hibachi-presto!" He put a finger to his lips and started muttering. "In fact, we can loft a series of balloons, even equip them with weapons . . . ."

Rita sighed and got a faraway look in her eyes. "I can just see it now-the first Aeroballoon Squadron of the White Sands Regiment. Risking their lives, tethered a thousand feet up, keeping watch over the advancing barbarian hordes." She motioned for Bobby to stand back. "Better stand back, Lieutenant."

Bobby looked from Spencer to Rita. "What? What's the matter?"

"He's thinking so hard you might get splattered when his brain explodes."

Gilbert Hertoya rode in from the electromagnetic launcher, looking even smaller on the back of a big horse. The group frequently got together to coordinate technical directions, but this time they had more serious matters to discuss.

"Okay," said Spencer, "the first question is if we should even try and fight these guys."

Bobby Carron snorted. He folded his arms and looked around. "If we don't do something against Bayclock, he'll inst.i.tute the same type of b.l.o.o.d.y martial law down here."

Spencer looked around, but no one spoke. "I think we all agree about that, so we don't surrender. But what's the consensus? Fight or run?"

"Bobby's right. If we run, we'll never get this facility back," said Rita. "No telling what Bayclock would do here."

"That's the crazy part," said Bobby. "What is is he going to do when he gets here? I mean, I'm a one-each, Navy-issue, real-live aviator and even he going to do when he gets here? I mean, I'm a one-each, Navy-issue, real-live aviator and even I I know you can't just pack this place up and take it back to Albuquerque!" know you can't just pack this place up and take it back to Albuquerque!"

"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 military troops, not a bunch of scientists. Anyone here besides Bobby know anything about the military? I mean, we aren't even weapons scientists." 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 win."

"Okay, let's hear what you got."

"Well, first idea. It won't take much to build a h.o.m.opolar generator-"

"A what?" said Bobby.

"h.o.m.opolar 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 that?" said Rita.

"Muck, p.i.s.s and beer," recited Bobby. "They used to feed saltpeter to us all the time at Annapolis. Dampens the s.e.x 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! 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 ma.s.sive 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 st.i.tched-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 material: multi-colored patching of parachutes sewed together, a gondola made of an aluminum sh.e.l.l, 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.