Morning broke on March 4. The usual chitters, howls, and grunts of Waza National Park’s wildlife were joined by a new sound. Cries of dismay and alarm echoed among Sergeant Mike Imfeld’s squad. Their uniforms were dead. It was as if a master switch turned every uniform to dumb cloth. The medical sensors were muted; the protective liquid armor puddled uselessly; shirtsleeve bandages for cuts or scrapes morphed from medical marvels to blood-mottled fabric. Even the command, control, and communications applications were dead. In the event of an attack, they would be reduced to blind firing.
Imfeld’s problems were compounded by his foe’s skill. Aluwa’s scouts had come of age in the forest. A small company followed Imfeld’s squad’s every move. Seventy-five child-soldiers circled north above Waza and then south to reach the park’s eastern border and set up an enfilade with a company on the western border with Imfeld’s squad in the middle. Aluwa knew he would have the element of surprise. What the teenaged general did not know was that the EcoForce’s defenses had been disabled by instructions from Cerberus.
When Aluwa’s attack began at 0700 hours, local time, the Eco-Force squad’s defense was unfocused. The battle for Waza National Park was over in less than thirty minutes. Aluwa suffered nine casualties. None of Imfeld’s troops survived. The Great Washout claimed its first military casualties.
Dana Ecco subvocalized and the dumb pillar projected Eva Rozen’s vid feed. There was Rafael Cruz. Behind him were the plain walls, the small bed and the edge of a window.
“There,” said Dana. “The window.”
Jim said, “So what? We can’t see what’s outside of the window.”
Dana said, “Look at the window itself. That’s not smart glass. It’s an old-fashioned window. Look at the glass. See the little ripples in the window?” He subvocalized and magnified the image which showed a moiré pattern in the glass.
“You’re right,” said Marta. She stared at the vid. “Nobody uses plain glass anymore. Building codes require smart glass.”
Dana said, “So where does Eva go that would have this kind of a window?”
“I bet it’s her home,” said Marta. “I remember, back at Harvard. One of the few times she ever talked about her childhood, she described the apartment where she grew up. She swore that if she ever was successful—no, make that when she became successful, she never had any doubts—she wanted to recreate her childhood apartment in Sofia.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Dana.
“We’re going to pay her a visit,” said Marta.
“Not yet,” said Jim. “First you and Dana go to her office and see if you can find anything that will restart the public health programs. I’m going to get your father.”
Marta said, “I think she’s taken on some enhancements. If I’m right you can’t face her without being prepared. I’m expecting a delivery, something for you that Eva won’t expect. And I need a little time in the lab to confirm my suspicions about her.”
When the Cerro Rojo plant failed, Nancy Kiley made an inventory of the region’s available water, took stock of her own situation, and made an executive decision: she fled.
The region’s principal water reserve was the eight million gallons remaining in the pipeline that carried Cerro Rojo’s output to its customers. Kiley did a quick calculation to estimate how much time she had. Eight million gallons of water for thirty million thirsty people. Fifteen quarts each. Survival ration for a healthy human at rest is a bit over three quarts daily. If they used the water in the pipelines only for drinking, the region’s population could survive for a few days—if it rested in the shade. Factor in sanitation and hygiene, the need rises to fifty quarts a day or more. But agriculture and industry also lay claim to the liquid treasure.
She had little time. Within hours, the populations of six Caribbean islands and the northeast coast of South America would be parched. And Nancy Kiley wanted to be anywhere in the world other than in the middle of a water riot.
Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. Nancy Kiley stuffed her travel documents, a change of clothing and a few personal items in to a bag. Before she commandeered an NMech land vehicle, she doubled back to her tent and stuffed a treasured pair of comfortable shoes into her pack—I’ll be damned if I have to wear freaking boots when I’m out of this shithole.
“What are you doing, Dr. Kiley?” her administrator asked as he watched Kiley leave. I can be in Maracaibo in less than two hours, but not if I have to take time to explain. “It looks like there might be a problem upstream of the plant,” Kiley temporized. “I should be back in a few hours.”
“You can’t leave now. What are we going to do here? The whole system is down. What do we try now?”
“You’ve got a whole team to figure it out. Stop complaining and get to work.” Startled, the admin turned and left.
Kiley went back to her escape plan. Canada had been spared the worst of the drought and its climate harbored none of the fire ants, scorpions, and the other creatures that had bedeviled her here in Paraguaná. She could walk on pavement, not gravel, and enjoy seasons with temperatures less than 90 degrees. If she could make it to Toronto, then she might be safe.
Kiley subvocalized and checked airline schedules. Bad news. No flights to the northern United States or Canada until the next day. By then riots would overtake the airport. She started to weep. Goddam Eva Rozen for getting me into this. Why don’t you come down here for a spell, you fucking dwarf! She pounded the dashboard in frustration, then chided herself. Come on, Nancy—think like a scientist, an executive.
An executive? That was an idea. She wasn’t part of the most senior management, but perhaps she could appropriate one of their privileges. Eva spared no expense to get me here. NMech can spare no expense to get me the hell out again. She found a corporate jet in Boston, fueled and idle after a flight from Mexico. Kiley linked to the pilot. He was agreeable. There were no travel orders from Rozen and anyway, she’d been unreachable. Nancy agreed to a fare equal to a month’s salary and the promise of some personal time with the pilot. He would be in Bogotá when she arrived and would take her to Canada.
Kiley left her vehicle at the Maracaibo depot and sprinted to the maglev. The region would soon be bloody, but with a little luck she’d be airborne before it all went bad. For the first time in weeks, she began to relax. A long shower topped her list of things she’d do when she was safe. No, make that a bath. Hot water up to her chin. Quiet music, a bottle of wine. Make that two bottles. She would soak till her skin was as wrinkled as a prune.
The maglev decelerated at the airport and Kiley came out of her reverie. She grabbed the pack with her travel papers and clothing and headed for a private terminal where the NMech jet was fueled and ready. Fifteen minutes later she was pressed back in her seat as the aircraft accelerated. The landing gear bumped as it folded into the belly of the craft, and after a steep banking turn into the sun, they were heading north. Within minutes she and the pilot were cruising at 30,000 feet, destination: Toronto. There she would find cool weather, moist air, no water shortages, and no damn bugs.
Nancy Kiley unbuckled her seat belt and stretched. From the plane’s bar she poured vodka into a tumbler of ice and swallowed half, cherishing the cool burn in her throat almost as much as the quiet roar of the jet. She shut down her commlink. Let her staff, no, make that her former staff, let them deal with the desal plant. For the next few hours, Nancy Kiley would enjoy the solitude of the plane’s small but comfortable cabin and its well-stocked bar.