“Yes, sir.”
“Then they’ll support me—or find another job, petroplague or not. I have enough to worry about.”
He stepped through the door, smiling his best media smile as the others stood to greet him. Mayeaux headed for his high-backed chair. He dispensed with shaking hands. “So, what do we have?” he asked. “Give me the slicked-down version.”
The four military officers sat directly across the table, next to the Secretary of Defense. Brass plates on the backs of the chairs identified each cabinet member. The chairs were arranged around the table in the order the office had been elevated to cabinet level.
General Wacon, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a graying man who looked like an airline pilot in his Air Force uniform, pushed a briefing packet across the table. The papers were handwritten—the few rebuilt computers working in secured vaults were reserved for more important tasks than preparing briefing charts.
“We have managed to establish communications with seventy percent of the military bases, Mr. President. We don’t know why we’ve lost contact with the remaining thirty percent, but we don’t believe it’s because of a technical breakdown.”
“Tell me what that means.” Mayeaux shoved the papers back at the Chairman. “I don’t have time to read all this.”
“There’s enough redundancy in our emergency communications that we should still be in direct contact with every installation commander. The petroplague did not disable backup wireless communications.”
“So what the hell is the significance of that?” Mayeaux looked around the table. “I asked a simple question, now give me a simple answer. No doubletalk, no technojargon.”
The general continued smoothly, not quite managing to cover a frown. “Widespread riots, sir. The out-of-contact bases are located next to cities with large populations—Los Angeles, New York, Philadelphia. With so many people in the neighboring communities, we suspect the civilians are not cooperating with the military’s enforcement of martial law.”
“So the people are disobeying emergency orders from the President of the United States? And the military commanders can’t back up our demands? Maybe we should all go hide in the closet and cry.”
“We don’t know for sure, Mr. President. The military bases still in contact report increasing unrest among the civilian populace. Every commander has lost personnel to mobs, even in southern states where the military is traditionally viewed with more respect.”
Mayeaux’s jaw clenched and relaxed as General Wacon spoke. He couldn’t get his military commanders to enforce a straightforward directive in a crisis situation. Against civilians, yet! Being the “most powerful man in the world” wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Even with the communications breakdowns, the people would listen to a strong leader, not some limp dick too frightened to back up his own threats. Mayeaux knew that much. It was just like raising kids—you set the rules, and whenever the kid stepped over the line: wham! Behavior modification.
It worked in Louisiana, rewarding the parishes that toed the line, and it worked in Congress when he had been Speaker of the House. The congressmen who didn’t fall in line when Mayeaux made it clear he was calling in a personal favor, found themselves suddenly without any federal projects for their districts. As far as the American people were concerned, they didn’t know how far they could push Jeffrey Mayeaux him.
Not very damn far.
The chairmen of their respective services sat back in their seats and waited for the president to speak his words of wisdom. Mayeaux felt like a preacher under a revival tent. What the hell did they want from him?
“What’s the status of the rest of the military? What other national defense matters aren’t we ready for, gentlemen?”
The question seemed to throw the officers. They looked at each other. “Each stateside installation is utilizing its resources to enforce martial law, Mr. President. They are relying on the National Guard as well as local law-enforcement groups. None of our forces is poised to prevent an attack from an external threat, but frankly I don’t see how such an attack could be feasible without any fuel—”
Mayeaux dismissed the observation with a wave. “Not an attack from outside, from within. If civilian disobedience is affecting every installation, we’ve got to get those commanders firmly in control. We’ve got to let the people know we won’t take any crap. These are not normal times.”
The five officers remained stone-faced, keeping their thoughts to themselves. What a bunch of nippleheads! Mayeaux pushed back from the conference table, feeling his control slipping away. Didn’t anybody take this seriously? Well, if they weren’t going to come up with a solution, then he sure as hell would. He had the entire country to look after, whether he wanted to or not.
Mayeaux stood and started for the door of the Cabinet Room. “Gentlemen, get me a complete review of your forces—personnel, capabilities, whatever you’ve got. I want you all to be ready to answer questions whenever I need you. Camp out in the Old Executive Office Building. Get that information to me in one week. If things haven’t gotten better by then, I’ll make some decisions for you.” Franklin Weathersee followed Mayeaux out as he strode from the room.
In silence, everyone stood in the President’s wake.
Chapter 53
White gypsum sand glittered like an ocean of bone-dry sparkle dust. With nothing more than a small spade, Spencer Lockwood dug only a few feet before he reached moisture.
The water table around White Sands had always been near the surface, though it had steadily fallen for the past half century, drained by massive pumping stations along the Rio Grande corridor. But not any longer, not after the petroplague. The aquifer was exceptionally pure from natural filtration—and it was available, rapidly replenishing itself.
Adjusting his floppy hat, Spencer applied a handful of soft lard on either side of the ceramic washer and tightened the cap to the water pump. A long strand of cloth-wrapped electrical wire ran from the pump to a telephone pole, then to the power substation. Transformer parts lay strewn around the substation, prominent against the bright sand: open coils of copper windings, ceramic insulators, iron cores. The new substation looked like a Rube Goldberg collection of giant tinkertoys. A hundred yards away, three ranch hands stood around a pile of scrub wood, waiting for the order to light the signal fire.
Beside him, Rita Fellenstein tipped back her Australian hat and spat to the side, adding another blot to the scattered tobacco stains on the snowy gypsum. “You really think this is going to work, Spence?”
He used the fine sand to scrub smelly animal fat from his hands, then wiped the grit on his frayed pants. “If we can’t carry power from the microwave farm to the pump station, it’ll be impossible to get it to the outlying ranches.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
Heat shimmered from the ground like blurred fingers reaching to the sky. Spencer could see for miles all around. “There’s no reason why it shouldn’t work. Basically, it’s a no-brainer. We hook it up and it starts pumping water.”
Rita worked up a mouthful of saliva and spat again. She seemed to enjoy the disgusted frown on his face. “If you say so. You weren’t the one trying to figure out how to fix it.”
Spencer grinned, keeping his doubts to himself. “That’s what engineers are for.”
Rita strode back to the ranch hands. Her gangly legs put a rolling swing into each step. Good-natured catcalls greeted her, but Rita told the men to shut up and light the signal fire.
Spencer took one last look at the pump—he always became obsessive before starting an experiment. Everything appeared ready, but he never believed it. The transmission line ran to the substation, all the pump parts had been inspected a dozen times.