The dark bald man glared at him. His skin had a strange mottled coloration, and his face was wide and flattened in some sort of weird halfbreed mixup. "Come on, Brooks!" the man taunted. "You've been in my nightmares for months. You don't recognize your captain?"

Suddenly the pieces snapped into place, and Connor's eyes widened. Impossible! But the eyes, the slash of a lip, the flat nose and high cheekbones were indeed familiar. The last he remembered of the b.u.t.thead had been of Uma running from the bridge of the Oilstar Zoroaster Oilstar Zoroaster to answer the false fire alarm Connor himself had set. The man had been a regular ape, full of black bristly hair from his knuckles to his eyebrows. But, the same man was somehow here in the middle of the desert, months after the petroplague-and their paths had collided again. to answer the false fire alarm Connor himself had set. The man had been a regular ape, full of black bristly hair from his knuckles to his eyebrows. But, the same man was somehow here in the middle of the desert, months after the petroplague-and their paths had collided again.

"You . . . you f.u.c.k! f.u.c.k!" Connor shouted.

He ducked his head and launched himself like a bullet to charge into Uma, but the burly captain was prepared. In fact, he seemed eager for the fight.

Uma took the attack in his rock-hard stomach; he pounded down with his fist on the back of Connor's head. Then he wrapped a huge forearm around Connor's neck.

Connor hammered upward into Uma's crotch, making the dark man gasp with pain and release his hold just enough for Connor to struggle free. But Uma didn't appear weakened. He stood with his fists bunched, ready to come pounding again.

"I am going to beat the living s.h.i.t s.h.i.t out of you, Brooks, and then maybe I'll stake you out on the desert and let the ants finish you off!" out of you, Brooks, and then maybe I'll stake you out on the desert and let the ants finish you off!"

Connor took a step back toward the wagon. He couldn't run. No way would he get far enough to escape, not that he really wished to. Right now more than anything Connor wanted to put Captain b.u.t.thead's head up on a stake for the vultures to eat.

"What are you two doing?" Henrietta Soo came up from the campfire holding a big wooden spoon in her hand like a mother about to chastise two brawling children.

"This man caused the Zoroaster Zoroaster spill," Uma said in his low, broken-gla.s.s voice. spill," Uma said in his low, broken-gla.s.s voice.

Connor used the distraction to scramble around the back of the wagon, where he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the shotgun he had carried across two states, the gun he had used to shoot the Mormon lady's dog.

He took one more step toward Uma and raised the barrel. He had sh.e.l.ls in both chambers; he c.o.c.ked back the hammer. "You were the captain of the tanker, b.u.t.thead. You You were responsible. Don't go dumping that c.r.a.p on me!" were responsible. Don't go dumping that c.r.a.p on me!"

Henrietta Soo looked from one to the other as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. Uma didn't seem the least bit afraid of Connor's shotgun, and he stepped toward him.

"We're not in front of an inquiry board here, Brooks. You can't get away on technicalities. I may be responsible, since I should have had you confined to your quarters, but you caused caused the wreck. It's your fault, and you'll burn in h.e.l.l for it." the wreck. It's your fault, and you'll burn in h.e.l.l for it."

Connor held the shotgun steady as Uma continued to stride closer. He had no second thoughts about pulling the trigger. He had almost forgotten how much he hated this man. "My fault? None of it's my fault, b.u.t.thead!" He laughed and raised the shotgun.

Heather stared back at Todd, trying to be alluring but somehow looking just as frightened as he felt. She unsnapped her jeans and pulled the zipper slowly open. "I don't need need you to come along with me, Todd. I can handle this by myself-but I you to come along with me, Todd. I can handle this by myself-but I want want you there. I made a major bad choice with Connor, but I think you're different. Let's go make our own lives. Let's get out of here!" you there. I made a major bad choice with Connor, but I think you're different. Let's go make our own lives. Let's get out of here!"

Todd's heart hammered in his chest, and his throat became drier than the desert hardpan. "Heather, I . . . ."

He kept seeing flashes of Iris. There were plenty of other men at the Altamont commune, and Iris was a person with a short temper and quick pa.s.sions. She had wanted to move much faster in their relationship than Todd ever would have. He doubted that she would ever wait for him, and he had never promised to wait for her . . . just to come back someday.

But he shook his head, knowing that as difficult as it was, that his true feelings lay with Iris. He averted his eyes and started to speak, but before any words could form themselves, the cracking echo of a gunshot split the dusk.

"What the heck?" Todd said.

"The shotgun!" Heather said. "It's Connor!" She scrambled to b.u.t.ton her shirt again and fasten her jeans. The two of them climbed up the embankment and raced desperately toward the camp.

Connor squeezed the shotgun's triggers, firing both barrels. The bang nearly deafened them.

-but instead of turning Uma's chest into a pulp, the shotgun itself blew up in a backfire. Shards of the gun barrel and the stock flew in all directions. Black smoke burst out in a cloud. Connor fell backward, screaming as the hot explosion shredded the left side of his face.

With an animal howl Uma was upon him, ripping the twisted remains of the shotgun out of his hand and bringing it down like a club. Connor managed to roll and took the full force of the blow on his shoulder.

Trying to think clearly through the pain in his head and the rage pulsing though him, Connor yanked out his hunting knife. He couldn't see anything out of his eye, and blood blazed like fire across his cheeks and temple. He slashed blindly, hoping to slice Uma's jugular or put out his eye. Instead, the tip of the knife ripped across the dark man's shirt. Uma stumbled back just long enough for Connor to scramble to his knees and grip the knife handle with both hands.

Uma swung again with the ruined shotgun, but Connor ducked low, then came up with all the strength in both of his arms and plunged the knife to the hilt in Uma's abdomen.

Connor yanked the knife away, and blood came with it. Uma didn't even seem to notice. The big bald man dropped the shotgun and came in again with his bare hands. He locked his grip around Connor's throat, and Connor slashed his forearm-but Uma didn't care. He was a vengeful machine, his only thought to kill Connor.

Connor's larynx crumpled like an aluminum beer can. He stabbed Uma again, feeling the blade slip between his ribs and into his side. Foamy red blood came out of Uma's mouth, but the b.u.t.thead continued to squeeze.

Connor's eyes bulged; he didn't know how much longer he could hold out. He stabbed again and again. Uma was drenched with his own blood.

Connor began to pa.s.s out, when slowly Uma's eyes froze ahead. He toppled like a great redwood trunk, falling to the dirt at the side of the wagon.

Connor tore himself free, retching and gasping for air. He stepped back, staring down at the wide-eyed corpse of the tanker captain. "You f.u.c.k!" He coughed and slammed his hiking boot viciously into b.u.t.thead's kidneys. He kicked Uma again and again, feeling ribs crack and his side cave in. Connor couldn't release his grip on the big hunting knife, even though the blood made his hands slick.

Suddenly, he remembered Henrietta Soo. She stood by the campfire still holding her flimsy wooden spoon and staring at him in horror.

A slow grin twisted Connor's mangled face and he set off after her with the knife.

Todd reached the clearing before Heather. He scrambled down the rocks as he spotted Connor sitting on the buckboard of the wagon, cracking the reins. Todd nearly tripped, but kept his balance and yelled, "Hey-Connor! Stop!"

Connor twisted in his seat as if stunned to hear his name. He looked hideous-blood ran down the side of his face, a dark splotch where his eye had been. He was covered in dirt, soot and blood. Connor yelled at the horses. The wagon lurched forward in a cloud of dust and stones.

Todd heard the horses whinny as he smelled an overpowering smell of burning meat. Reaching the bottom of the rocky slope, Todd clunked forward in his cowboy boots. He tried to get up as much speed as he had when he and Casey Jones had leapt across the s.p.a.ce between the buildings.

The wagon moved faster as Todd put on a final burst of speed. Reaching out, he grabbed onto the side of the wagon.

Splinters from the rough siding sc.r.a.ped his hands. He stumbled and tried to grab on with his other hand, but the wagon hit a b.u.mp and jerked away from him. Todd crashed into the ground, rolling, trying to keep away from the rear wagon wheel.

The wagon clattered past, and Todd heard a mish-mash of horse's hoofs, snorting, and then the sound of Connor shouting something unintelligible as he charged away. Todd waited for a moment before pushing himself up.

He heard Heather run up beside him as he inspected his splintered hands. "Oh, Todd-" He ignored her, ticked off that he had let Connor get away.

A cloud of fading dust marked the horses' progress. Todd turned to view the campsite.

Heather brushed back the hair from her eyes. "What now?"

Todd headed for the campsite. "Let's check it out."

The campfire still burned, and Henrietta Soo lay sprawled face-first on the ground beside it. Her arm had fallen into the embers of the fire. Her shirt smoldered, and the skin of her forearm blistered a sickly black.

Todd bent down on watery knees and rolled her over. Connor had slit her throat in a long ragged gash. It looked as if she had bled gallons into the dry dirt.

The deepening dusk blurred all the sharp details and the bright colors, but it took Heather only a moment to find the body of Casey Jones. He was much worse. Connor had butchered him.

Before Todd squeezed his eyes shut, he saw at least half a dozen stab wounds in Casey's chest and abdomen.

Todd staggered away and vomited into the scrub brush, then fell back. He sat on the rough dirt and stared at nothing. He had never experienced anything like this before. Connor Brooks couldn't be a human being and do this!

Heather squatted next to him and put her hand lightly on his shoulder. She squeezed it, but Todd barely felt the pressure of her fingers.

"I know I warned you," she said, "but even I didn't think he was capable of this. I thought he might take our supplies and steal the wagon but . . . all the blood!" She shuddered violently, then gasped to herself in disbelief. "I slept with him! I was alone with him for a month. What if I had said the wrong thing? What if he had done that to me?"

Todd's voice was bitter. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? Now he's gone and we're alone together."

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 d.a.m.ned 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 spygla.s.s 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 scores of them like an army of ants making its way across the valley-right where Rita had predicted it would come. 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 gla.s.s 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! 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 sc.r.a.ps with confusing lack of detail. What the h.e.l.l was going on out there What the h.e.l.l 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 d.a.m.n 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, f.u.c.k 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 J7, 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 G.o.d'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 progress for a change!" 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 h.e.l.l 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 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 una.s.suming blue uniform. in this situation." Mayeaux turned to General Wacom, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a thin, grey-haired Air Force man in an una.s.suming 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."

Mayeaux worked his jaw, feeling helpless as he watched the authority of the Presidency crumble beneath him.

"That's just great, General. So what you're saying is that I should just sit here and let everything take care of itself? History would really love me for that. I'm sure they'd erect a Mayeaux Monument right there on the Mall, with the three monkeys of Hear No Evil, See No Evil, Speak No Evil! What the h.e.l.l are you trying to pull on me? Because I talk with an accent do you think I'm an idiot?"

His military advisors stared blandly back, not offering any solution. As he simmered, Mayeaux got the distinct feeling that they were waiting for him to slip up, to make a wrong move, and then they would crawfish in to accomplish their own agenda.

Were they going to initiate impeachment hearings? He drew in a breath, suddenly panicked. Or would it be a military coup? Or would it be a military coup?

He glanced at the Secret Service agents standing at the corner of the room for rea.s.surance; it was getting hard to trust anyone nowadays, and he couldn't feel secure in his dealings even with his own staff. Where the h.e.l.l was Weathersee?

Mayeaux pushed his chair back from the table and strode from the room, accompanied by his Secret Service entourage. Not one person in the Situation Room stood as the Chief Executive exited.

Chapter 70.

From his lookout position in the rugged Organ Mountains, General Bayclock searched the sprawling White Sands valley. Behind him on a volcanic outcrop, his two colonels and Sergeant Catilyn Morris waited for him to decide their next move.

At the base of the mountain, he had directed his troops to rest and inspect their weapons for the final march across the valley. Five miles to the north, they had left the group of noncombatants, cooks, water carriers, supply haulers, food handlers, tent carriers. Bayclock had needed the additional personnel to get this far, but now that he was within sight of the enemy, he insisted on having only the front-line troops present.

Sergeant Morris scrambled up the rocky slope. "See anything, sir?" The two colonels huffed after her, pulling at lone clumps of gra.s.s for support.

"Let me have the binoculars," Bayclock said.

Sergeant Morris rummaged in her pack and pulled out a reconditioned olive-green pair of binoculars. She pointed to a thin line running up the tallest peak on the other side of the valley. "That's the electromagnetic satellite launcher, sir. Five miles south is the microwave antenna farm. Lockwood's group has holed up in those few support buildings there. No major defenses, no perimeter fortifications."