Spencer looked at the blue capacitor boxes, then suddenly felt a sinking at the pit of his stomach. Well, that’s that, he thought. The entire setup was as worthless as a Detroit auto factory now. They had been so close.
“I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.” Spencer started to turn away. “Capacitors have oil dielectrics. They’re useless.”
“Oil?” Gilbert made a dismissive gesture. “No, we decided against an oil dielectric in favor of some new insulating technology. These just use distilled water.”
Spencer froze. “Water-based capacitors?”
Rita laughed. “Where you been, Spence, on Mars?”
“If we could use this launcher to get the rest of our satellite constellation in orbit, we’d have practically a continuous ring of smallsats. It would be easy to add other antenna farms on the ground.”
“Spencer, we have to figure out how to survive the winter!” Rita interrupted. “Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself? It needs another one and a half miles of railing. It’s taken them six years to get this far.” Rita smiled apologetically at Gilbert. “Spencer gets this way sometimes.”
“There are plenty of people back in Alamogordo who’d break their backs to get this thing working, because it’s one of the only chances we have for the future,” Spencer insisted, “even if it does take several years.”
As he spoke, he grew more passionate. “They’ve got nothing to do, and they want to help get the world back on its feet. You saw the response we got from the ranchers.”
“That was for horses and food, Spence, not for… for working on the railroad!” Rita said, exasperated.
Spencer slung an arm over Hertoya’s shoulder. “Rita can handle the supply details if you oversee finishing the railgun project. The microwave farm doesn’t need any more people for the conversion process—”
He grew more animated with every step. “We could have limitless energy from the satellites. White Sands can be a new Atlantis, the only place left with the comforts of 20th century life!”
As they stepped into the sunshine, Rita shook her head. “Sometimes I think his brain is just going to explode.”
Chapter 47
The Sandia mountains east of Albuquerque turned a deep pinkish red as light from the setting sun struck them. Desert sunsets were stark and pure, filled with a silent rawness that always reminded him of his days in Gulf combat.
And that reminded him of the thirty thousand lives under his charge at Kirtland Air Force Base. Thirty thousand souls, he thought. All in his hands, at this time of crisis.
The first directive from newly sworn president Jeffrey Mayeaux had come down like a hammer on an anvil. All military commanders were to bring cities under strict martial law. They were to enforce curfews, stockpile supplies for orderly distribution among the populace, and enforce a rule of order at all costs. Via shortwave radio the president had ordered local commanders to call up nearby contingents of the National Guard.
With the radical changes forced by the petroleum plague, society would be like a wild horse trying to throw the reins of law and civilization. Bayclock had to ride hard and not let his determination falter for an instant.
When he had visited Kirtland AFB, Mayeaux had told Bayclock they could work well together whatever might come up—and now Mayeaux was his Commander in Chief. In the petroplague crisis, Mayeaux was shouldering a burden vastly more difficult than Bayclock’s own, and Bayclock vowed to give the new president his fullest support.
He breathed deeply, scanning the Sandia peaks before turning back to Mayor David Reinski. A squad of fifteen security policemen, all beefy young men over six feet tall, protected them against the anarchistic elements that had already caused so much damage. The MPs faced outward, holding their automatic weapons loosely, ready to snatch them in a second. Bayclock had refused the protection of the few civil police officers still on duty.
They stood in the center of City Plaza, an island of enforced sanity amidst the turmoil. Shattering glass and sporadic screams peppered the dusk; fires burned from several buildings. Hiding behind a dark window, someone shouted taunts across the plaza.
In front of the adobe Spanish mission, Bayclock’s horses were tied together and guarded by another group. The scene could have been part of a Mexican showdown in an old Western movie. The citizens would writhe at the enforced discipline—at least at first, but they would get used to it. And one day they would thank him for saving them all.
Mayor Reinski fidgeted; he looked from side to side, as if uncertain that Bayclock’s MPs could offer sufficient protection. Bayclock let the mayor squirm for a moment before speaking. “Seen enough? Tell me how you could possibly handle this yourself.”
“I—I don’t know how much longer we’ll be safe out here.”
Bayclock snorted. “You think we’re safe now? Look up there.” He nodded to the building behind them. “The only reason we haven’t been attacked is because of my snipers stationed on the rooftop. They’ve already shot two would-be assassins.”
Reinski looked around. “Okay, you’ve proved your point.”
“I don’t think I have. Not sufficiently.” Bayclock turned to the security police squad leader. “Lanarelli!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Neutralize the mayor.”
“Yes, sir.” It took the gaunt sergeant only a second to react. Lanarelli stepped forward and cocked his weapon, pointing the M 16 muzzle at the mayor’s head. “Get on the ground, sir.”
Reinski turned pale. “What?” He looked to Bayclock, who only stared back blandly.
Lanarelli growled, “Move it—now.”
Reinski slowly lowered himself to the concrete. Lanarelli pressed his weapon at the mayor’s head while Bayclock crouched next to the man. He spoke softly.
“There will be no ‘shared responsibility,’ Mr. Mayor, do you understand? I am following the direct orders of the President of the United States, and they don’t require me to ask permission from any local mayors.”
He stepped back. “This is just my way of showing you how ridiculously vulnerable you are. Where is your police escort that’s sworn to uphold the peace? Tell me, where’s the man at the bullhorn right now who’s supposed to be ordering me to leave his mayor the hell alone? We’re not in Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood!”
Reinski answered only by moving his head back and forth.
Bayclock crouched on one knee and lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you where they are. Most of the people sworn to guard you are at home with their families, protecting them against the lawlessness all around us. Duty obviously doesn’t mean a hell of a lot to them. If they were under my command, I’d court martial them as traitors and deserters.”
Reinski squirmed on the ground. Bayclock motioned for Lanarelli to let him lift his head. “You don’t see my men running away, do you? Even if we didn’t have access to synthetic lubricants for our weapons at the base, you’d still see my people here. They would use night sticks, or swords, or their bare fists to protect me and any other officer. That’s their duty.”
Bayclock stood, brushing the knees of his uniform. “That’s the difference between civilians and military—we’re sworn to follow orders, no matter what else happens. You might manage to keep the water running, Mr. Mayor. You might keep the sewage under control. But anyone could step over the city line and tell you to go to hell.”
Bayclock disliked making his point in such a dramatic matter, but Reinski was still naively convinced this whole thing was going to blow over after a few days, that something miraculous would happen, that he could somehow compromise the orders issued from the President himself.