A New World 10 - Storm (30 page)

Ortiz rattles off a string of comments in Spanish.

“Chief, we’re on the second story. What now?” Franklin asks.

“Well, that way is a no-go,” Speer comments, nodding toward the open door.

Shrieks continue to echo aimlessly within the interior. Krandle walks over to the window, rubbing his shoulder. Twenty feet below, tall grass surrounds the structure. “Fuck it, we jump.”

Glass shatters as Franklin puts rounds through the windows. Securing their gear, each of them hangs from the sill, and drops to the overgrown lawn.

Krandle radios in that they are out and on their way back.

“Are you and your men okay?” Leonard asks.

“Aye, sir,” Krandle replies.

“Return to the boat then, chief. We’ll see when you get back.”

Upon their return, Krandle briefs Leonard, who, in turn, informs the other boats. With the sun sinking over the ocean, the
Santa Fe
winds her way out through the channel and into the open sea, sinks below the waves, and heads northeast toward the Bangor naval base.

Plumes of smoke rise in the morning air some distance to the left. Fire crews are burning the housing areas of northern Steilacoom, which lays a couple miles west of Fort Lewis and McChord AFB. Farther west, near the shores of Puget Sound, a wall of smoke fills the sky from another burn that was set at daybreak. The fires are helped by a southern wind, which drives the spreading burns north. Smoke casts a pall over the landscape, filtering the sunlight and casting a brownish tinge across everything below.

Behind the new fires lay the smoldering ruins of previous burns, the area ever-farther south blackened from earlier ones. For the past couple of days, we’ve put a concerted effort into clearing out potential night runner lairs in the western half of the urban areas. During the day, we’ve set fires and used the Spooky to blast lairs identified by Frank. At night, we’ve gone aloft to hammer the night runners running through the streets.

Today marks the third day since the first convoy left. According to their daily radio updates, they should arrive at the bunker by sundown. Until we get everything moved, we’ll be doing anything we can to deny the southern and western areas to the night runners. We need to buy the time needed to transfer our supplies and people. Craig and Roger have been running daily ferry operations to assist, transferring a number of people to the bunker in the process. So far, everything has gone smoothly, which is worrying in itself.

When has that ever happened?

Yesterday evening, Leonard notified us of their excursion ashore at Pearl Harbor, relating their findings and letting us know that they are on their way to Bangor.

We cruise by the morning burns, leaving the smoke behind us to one side of the aircraft, and the bases on others. We’re en route to hit Tacoma Community College, where Frank identified several packs laired within the campus buildings. It’s not long before I set up an orbit around the facility.

“You’re cleared to fire,” I tell Robert.

A quickly rising cloud of smoke billows from the corner of a multi-story building, joining the smoke already in the air. Tongues of yellow and orange fire can be seen within the climbing plume. Circling back, a second shot near the first sends another billowing mass skyward. When it clears, a wing of the building lays collapsed, debris strewn across a wide walkway. We continue to hit the structure until there is nothing left but smoke drifting up from piles of rubble.

Continuing our orbit, we begin hitting the next building. The sun climbs higher in the sky as we send shell after shell downward, turning each building into a pile of rubble. With the midday hour approaching, we level off, leaving nothing but smoldering wreckage behind.

“Bri, set us up for an emergency fuel dump,” I say.

Descending to a lower altitude, I bank toward a residential neighborhood that is north of the current fires being set.

“How many dump pumps should we use?” Bri asks.

Each dump pump will transfer the fuel at an increased rate out of the dump valve and mast located at the tip of each wing.

“Only vent out of the wing tanks but sure to watch for an imbalance. That will happen quickly,” I state.

Bri reaches up to the fuel panel and makes the appropriate changes, setting the fuel system for a tank-to-engine flow and placing the dump valves to the open position. As we line up for a west-to-east approach, I call back to Robert.

“Place the cameras behind. We’ll have to monitor the flow to make sure something on the ground doesn’t ignite the vapors. Bri, besides watching the tanks, I want to you keep an eye on the monitor. If you see a flash, kill the dump pumps and close the dump valve immediately.”

Racing down one of the boulevards, I call out to Bri, “Okay, now.”

She reaches up and turns the dump pumps in the wing tanks on. Fuel begins streaming from the wingtips, vaporizing in the air and settling toward the ground. The breeze from the south carries the mist over a larger area. Ending our run down one of the main avenues, Bri turns off the pumps and we make a climbing turn before descending to make another run several blocks away. The tank levels decrease with each pass. The compound is only a short flight away so I’m not worried about running low, and fuel is something we have in abundance at the bases.

After several runs, I orbit for some time to allow the fuel we dumped overboard to settle all the way to the ground. Satisfied that enough time has passed, I steer us south of our initial run at a higher than usual altitude. Robert directs several rounds of 40mm fire into the area we covered.

A sudden, rippling explosion erupts as the vapors are ignited, along with a rolling ball of fire that travels along the route that we dumped fuel. It’s not quite as effective as a fuel-air bomb, but it provides the desired effect. When the blast settles, many houses are flattened and an entire neighborhood is burning, sending a long line of smoke roiling into the air. We set other areas alight before turning back to base to fuel up and reload. After one more run, with the sun near the horizon closing out another chilly day, we leave the northern area under a haze of smoke.

That evening, Bannerman mentions the arrival of the convoy at the bunker. Harold has some new information regarding the satellite. He reports that, although he hasn’t made any breakthroughs, he has some ideas. The next part of the conversation is so far over my head that it might as well be in another galaxy. I tell him that Lynn and I will fly out in the morning, and for him to spend the night trying to put whatever ancient Greek he just spoke into layman’s terms. We’ve hit the night runners up north steadily for the past three days and could use a break.

“What did Harold have to say?” Lynn asks after I sign off.

“I don’t know. Something about spaceships, lasers, and terraforming…I think. I heard the word ‘possibility,’ and honestly, that’s the last thing I understood. We’re flying out in the morning,” I answer.

In the morning, Harold sends the latest weather reports. We’ll have clouds to contend with once we pass into Idaho, but the radar doesn’t indicate large areas of rain. Although I have no idea what the cloud layers look like, we should be able to make it through them, as the bunker shows clear weather overhead.

We climb out with a cargo bay loaded with supplies and a few people. We encounter a few layers of clouds, but by the time we pass Salt Lake City, we’re in the clear. I line us up on a long final descent toward the bunker. Bannerman has managed to clear a section of field within the perimeter for use as a runway. Several houses and farm buildings in the outlying area show the blackened remains of fires that were set while waiting for the convoy to show.

Landing on the dirt strip, we are picked up and driven to the bunker. There is a bustle of activity around the topside buildings. Nearly every inch of ground is occupied by parked semis that arrived the prior afternoon. Cranes, which Bannerman managed to dig up from somewhere, are busy offloading storage containers and stacking them a short distance away. Bannerman meets us outside. The nearby noise makes it hard to hear

“It sure is something,” he shouts, looking out over the activity.

“Yeah. I don’t know how to thank you for organizing this,” I reply.

“Don’t thank me yet. It looks like we’ll need three runs to complete the move instead of the original two. That will mean another week at Cabela’s,” Bannerman states.

“Not necessarily. I was thinking that as soon as the last truck pulls out of Cabela’s, the rest of us will climb aboard the 130 and we’ll fly it and the Spooky here. So our timetable hasn’t really been thrown off that much.”

“Okay, that’s good. We’ll iron things out on this end so the place is move-in ready. Not that it will take much, to be honest,” Bannerman says.

Leaving him to manage the organized chaos taking place, Lynn, Robert, Bri, and I head inside to meet with Harold. Settling into a small conference room, Harold takes a minute to gather his thoughts before speaking.

“Like I mentioned before, I wouldn’t call what we have a breakthrough, but we have made some discoveries,” Harold begins.

He then starts into details regarding frequencies and programming. I hold up a hand.

“Whoa. This is your idea of layman’s terms? Talk to me as if I don’t have the first clue about what you mean…which I don’t.”

Again, a long pause. “Okay. It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the particular satellite per se. We can alter the frequency it uses on any communication satellite at our disposal. We discovered the frequency it transmits on, so that’s not the issue. The problem is the program it uses, a set of instructions that are sent to the nanobots, which is transmitted across that frequency.”

“So, that’s your news, that you found the frequency?” Lynn asks.

“No…no. I actually found the program buried deep in the systems here. Before you say anything, it seems to be an earlier version, or perhaps a beta. With the assistance of some of the programmers here, we’re in the midst of rewriting it,” Harold states.

“Well, that’s great news. Then you can upload it to a comm satellite and initiate it,” I say. “Nice work.”

“Don’t thank me yet, we have a problem.”

“Why is that a common theme for the day?” I mutter. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s the challenge-response portion of the program. As in, we don’t have it. Without that, we might as well be blowing up balloons and yelling yippee. If the nanobots don’t receive the proper code, they’ll ignore any instruction set sent to them,” Harold states.

“So, how can we get the right codes?” I ask.

“That, I don’t know. We’re still working on getting communication with the satellite in addition to rewriting the program. I have a few ideas along that line as well. Give me a few days and we’ll see what I can come up with.”

“Okay. Nice job, keep working at it. I don’t have to tell you what eliminating almost two-thirds of the night runners would mean,” I say.

“Well, that seemed like a whole lot of nothing,” Lynn comments once we’re out of the room.

“I don’t know. He may come up with something,” I reply.

“I know. I guess I was just hoping for more.”

“I think the twelve people who have had their shots are already here. I think it’s time we talked with them. Can you contact Frank, get the list of names, and have them gather in one of the large conference rooms?” I ask.

“Sure, I can do that. What are you going to talk to them about?”

“I think it’s important that they get a say. After all, they’re at risk if Harold manages to get the system operational. I think it would be unfair to just initiate the program without them at least knowing,” I answer.

“And if they don’t agree?” Lynn queries, looking at me with a sidelong glance.

“I don’t know. I would like to think their opinion matters, but I don’t know.”

“What about people in the other camps who might have had the shot?”

“These people can be their representative, as it were.”

“Jack, have you thought that perhaps they might not want to know? I mean, imagine the stress that would create. Would you want to know you were carrying that around and someone could flip a switch?”

“Perhaps you’re right, but imagine if we get to a point that we can initiate the program, and people just drop dead because of it. What would others think? How would they view us if we weren’t up front and honest with them? I’ll tell you, the trust factor would vanish,” I say.

“That may be true, but let me put it to you another way. Suppose the people say no, that they don’t want to die, will that change your mind about using the satellite?”

I sigh heavily. “Fuck! No…I mean, I don’t know. Have I mentioned lately how much I hate this?”

“Think of the other people here with us. They’re in it as well. Would you put a halt to a method of virtually eliminating one of the biggest threats to them? What about them?”

“Quit being logical! I just feel that they should know, and have a say,” I reply.

Lynn stops, places a hand on my upper arm, and looks softly into my eyes. “Jack, you intend for the best. Truly, I know how much you care. There is no right or wrong with this, one way or the other. You know, deep down, that we’ll initiate the system if Harold can get it operational. That’s the right thing to do. Now, knowing that, don’t fill what could very possibly be those people’s last days with that kind of stress.”

I pause. Both seem like the right thing. Letting them know would be the honest thing to do, but at what cost? By not telling them, I feel like I’d be holding their life in my hands, and making decisions for them. Of course, that wouldn’t change even if I did tell them. Lynn’s right. I don’t like it, but she’s right. We’ll initiate the program if Harold manages to do the impossible. Telling them would only induce a stress that I can’t even begin to imagine.

“Life really sucks,” I comment.

“Yes it does. We never received a fairness agreement when we were born.”

“Cancel the call to Frank,” I say.

She reaches up and kisses me on the cheek. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

We stay overnight. In the morning, the convoy readies itself for the return trip. The fields are filled with idling semis, empty of their storage containers. Tanker trucks, which were part of the caravan, move amongst the others, refueling the last of those departing. In three days, they should arrive back at the compound to pick up their next load. I still don’t feel right about leaving without informing the twelve people, but like Lynn said, why fill their last days with untold amounts of anxiety? I wouldn’t want to know when I was going to die. Just let it happen.