Early that morning, Bayclock’s main forces had occupied the place, taking prisoner the few scientists and technicians who had remained after the railgun explosion, including a seriously injured Gilbert Hertoya. Holding the EM launcher and the scientists hostage, Bayclock had sent a courier demanding Spencer’s immediate surrender of the entire antenna farm facility.
Spencer felt he had no choice. If only he had succeeded in getting the increased satellite power directed at the general’s troops! He had tried everything possible, but he could not get the orbiting Seven Dwarfs to respond, and the makeshift circuit board would not be worth anything for quite some time. Instead, the smallsats would pass overhead in just a short while, unaffected, beaming their increased solar power down onto the field of microwave antennas, oblivious to the conflict below.
Spencer idolized fictional scientists, geniuses like the professor on Gilligan’s Island who could kludge together a solution to the wildest problem with the skimpiest resources—and it would always work! But despite Spencer’s expertise and the help of his team, his desperate measures fizzled as often as not: the transformer at the water pumping station, Gilbert’s railgun defense system, and Spencer’s attempt to reprogram the smallsats.
Bayclock held all the good cards right now. He had demanded surrender, and so Spencer had rigged up the white flag.
Back at the solar-power farm, Heather Dixon had astonished him by asking to accompany him on the journey.
“What for?” Spencer blurted.
“Because I want to.” She fidgeted and then flashed him a smile. “Besides, the general is less likely to shoot at a man and a woman coming to meet him, than just a lone rider.”
He stared at her, then she smiled at him. Actually, Spencer didn’t think Bayclock would kill anyone coming in under a white flag, since the general seemed so anal retentive about law and order. Bayclock lived by a clearly defined code of honor—and that might be his weakness, Spencer thought, because it lets us predict what he will and won’t do.
Now, as they rode toward the launcher facility, dangling the surrender flag in front of them, both he and Heather stared straight ahead. The long rails extended up the side of Oscura Peak, flanked by debris, rocks, and underbrush. Plenty of good places to hide.
Spencer seethed at seeing the troops occupying the ruined facility—how many prisoners had Bayclock taken? Given his code of honor, the general wouldn’t abuse Hertoya or the other captives, but he seemed to have no compunction against destroying irreplaceable technical apparatus. A true barbarian.
In the rugged foothills by the base of the launcher, Bayclock’s scouts saw the two of them approaching and rode out. Spencer swallowed. “You ready for this?”
Heather reached over and squeezed his arm. Together, they waved the white flag.
The scouts rode up on either side of them. Spencer halted his horse as the Air Force men looked them over, guns leveled. “Are you unarmed?” one of the scouts asked.
“Yes,” Spencer said. The two men nodded. Somehow, he had known they wouldn’t bother to check. Bayclock, with his sense of military honor, would automatically expect everyone else to play by the same rules. He would be bound to accept Spencer’s surrender and offer terms.
But Spencer’s mind didn’t work the same way. He preferred the model of one of his other heroes, Captain James T. Kirk: promise the world, stall for time, and keep working to find a way to win. And that was exactly what he planned to do now. He just hoped this would work.
“Take me to your leader,” he said to the guards.
His hands bound behind him, Lieutenant Bobby Carron stood facing Bayclock’s wrath.
One of the airmen threw a rope over the crossbeam and dropped the rope down, letting the noose dangle at the height of Bobby’s shoulders. They would slip the noose over his neck, tighten it, and yank him into the air. No quick snapping of the neck for Bobby—he would kick and twist as the rough rope squeezed his throat shut.
Arnie, the scientist who had accompanied Bobby and Catilyn’s first expedition, stood watching by the ruined aluminum building. His hands were loosely bound, another of Bayclock’s prisoners of war; he looked as though he were reliving the nightmare of when his family had died under martial law.
Gilbert Hertoya sat with one broken leg crudely splinted and the other bandaged from several bloody gashes he had received in the explosion of the railgun. Unattended, Gilbert rested in the scant shade beside the wrecked capacitor banks and the long metal rails of the EM launcher. Both captive scientists looked angry, unable to believe what Bayclock was about to do.
The Air Force captain gripped the noose, opening it wide as he stepped toward Bobby. The captain kept his eyes down, avoiding Bobby’s eyes. Bobby wished he could remember the officer’s name, but his mind blanked.
General Bayclock stood with his hands behind his back, puffing his chest forward, as if his captive was transparent and insignificant.
Bobby could think of nothing to say. His stomach knotted, and his vision seemed sharp, too focused, as if trying to absorb a lifetime’s worth of details in just a few minutes: a cloudless sky, the dry dust, the sweet smell of sage, razor-sharp shadows.
Bayclock was not kidding. Not kidding at all.
A rider came up the path to the blockhouses. He had pushed his mount hard, crossing the foothills to the general’s new base of operations. Breathless, he dismounted next to Bayclock, glanced at Bobby and the ready noose, then saluted the general.
“What is it?” Bayclock asked. “Report!”
“A white flag, sir!” the airman said. “The scientists have sent two representatives to surrender. I believe one of them is Dr. Lockwood himself, sir.”
Bayclock suddenly looked relieved. “Very well. Bring them to me as soon as possible.”
“They’re on their way, sir.”
Bobby wanted to collapse in dismay. He couldn’t believe it! Why would Spencer give up after all they had accomplished? Bayclock’s army had been severely wounded by the scientists’ efforts, and their morale was shot. The general had occupied the launcher facility, but that was already ruined by the explosion. The cracks showed in Bayclock’s forces; they were ready to crumble in another few days, and he was sure the general knew it.
Why couldn’t Spencer have held out just a little longer? Bobby had no other choice, nothing to lose. He raised his voice. “You better hang me in a hurry, General. Now that they’ve come under the flag of surrender, can you justify executing prisoners of war?”
Bobby spat hard at Bayclock. “Yeah, General, I’m talking to you! If you string me up right now, I’m sure you can convince every one of your soldiers to pretend you hung me before anybody saw the white flag. That would cover your ass. In fact, why not just threaten to shoot any soldier who says otherwise?”
Bayclock turned from the courier, and his face became livid, deeper than the sunburn on his broad face. The black bristles of his hair stood on end. Bobby thought of the old fighter-pilot adage: balls the size of grapefruits, and brains the size of peas. He wanted to continue provoking Bayclock, keep him torn between his conflicting wishes.
“What’s the matter, General? Can’t make a snap decision?” Balls the size of grapefruits. “Good thing you’re not flying real aircraft anymore! You’re still fighting the last war. You’re better off flying a desk.”
Bayclock took one step forward, shoving his face less than an inch away from Bobby’s. Bobby didn’t flinch. Bayclock back-handed him across the cheek. Brains the size of a pea.