Psychlone (30 page)

“I almost forgot,” Burnford said, sipping a plastic cup full of bitter coffee. “It's Christmas."

“The eve of Christmas day,” Miss Unamuno said. Outside, workmen were racketing back and forth across the plateau with generators, electric tools, hammers and curses. The small tent offered scant protection against the cold, but now everything was off-limits for them. Machen opened the flap and stepped inside.

“It's coming,” he said. “The reports are coming in on schedule. Everything's doing fine outside. I have a message for you, Mr. Jacobs.” He handed Jacobs a note. “Received ten minutes ago."

He unfolded the note and looked it over. “It's from Colonel Silvera,” he said. “The ground base has received a call from the President."

“Until now, we weren't sure he knew,” Machen said.

“The President wants us to observe and record all we can, as civilians, for posterity. Even though it may be a century before it's released."

Machen grinned. “Isn't that something? You have a free ticket this evening. Look, see, but don't talk right away."

Jacobs nodded. He wasn't enthusiastic. He looked up at Machen, who seemed to be going through pre-battle exhilaration, and said, “Tell him thank you. After tonight, we may have a lot to talk about."

“Of course,” Machen said.

The generators started outside. Three truck-trailer rigs carried six massive generators, all tied to transformers on another bed, all raising a hell of a racket. “That's it,” the General said. “We'll have to risk the electrical attraction tonight."

“What are they using, now that we're privileged?” Jacobs asked.

“Mr. Burnford might be able to guess. We're using it because of his work."

“I think it's a PBW,” he said. “A particle-beam weapon. But I'm not sure what kind. I made several recommendations."

“I see,” Jacobs said. “And it will re-create the conditions in the atom bomb blasts?"

“Some conditions,” Burnford said.

“What's a particle-beam weapon?” Miss Unamuno asked.

“Depends on what you want it to do,” Burnford said. “If General Machen wants to explain..."

“I can't, and wouldn't if I could,” Machen said.

“It's a particle accelerator,” Burnford said. “If you want to penetrate a target, you use leptons—an electron is a good example. A TV set creates an electron beam, but it never leaves the tube. Adapted properly, an electron beam can slice things up pretty well. If you want a non-penetrating beam, hadrons can be used. Protons are hadrons. Non-penetrating beams heat up the surface of an object. There was talk a few years ago that the Russians had PBWs. I was skeptical then, and I am now. I don't think they're practical weapons."

“Not yet,” Machen said. “This is an experimental model. It's not much good for shooting down aircraft or missiles."

“The best place for a PBW would be a satellite in space. You don't have to worry about atmospheric interference then. I imagine we could orbit that thing,” he indicated the tarps on the truck-trailer rigs, “but it would be bulky as hell and probably not reliable enough for a major program. So I suspect we're the only ones who have found a use for it."

“It's still top-secret,” Machen said.

“That means you have high hopes for its future,” Burnford said, smiling grimly.

“Coming up on time,” Machen said, consulting his watch. “From here in, it's out of our hands. Orders have been given and will be followed. I'm as much an observer as you. Shall we go observe?"

The last tarp had been pulled away, revealing an ugly, black object shaped something like a soda-bottle cannon from the Civil War. It was mounted on a three-axis drum. Around its butt was a maze of wiring, gray slabs of metal, bronze-colored tubing and fist-thick cables. The vibration of the generators was shaking the ground. Diesel smoke poured east across the star-filled night sky.

“It's right out of Jules Verne,” Miss Unamuno said. It did remind Jacobs of something Captain Nemo might have had socked away on his island. But there was no trace of Victorian whimsy about it. Along the barrel, spikes of metal rose from a bulbous midriff. Just in front of it, a white-enamel U, like a giant tuning fork, was cocked at a forty-five-degree angle away from the barrel. Behind it, four doughnuts at least six feet across were stacked atop one another, separated by ceramic blocks and connected to the barrel by chrome-shiny tubes.

To the west, Siloam Springs was illuminated only by streetlamps. The grid of streets and houses was clean and simple. It was only eight o'clock, and nothing moved in the town.

Jacobs wondered if the psychlone could perceive a trap. Would its captives feel obliged to warn it? He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck with one thick-fingered hand. It was just a nightmare, perhaps. The garden would be awaiting him when he woke up. Millicent would chide him about eating cheese with wine late at night.

Trumbauer and Miss Unamuno stared across the panorama, faces blank. Without their guides they were almost defenseless. Their range was shortened, their acuity lessened. Yet they had volunteered to come up on the mountain, facing perhaps a greater danger than any of them. They were like lightning rods, highly visible in the psychic landscape.

The white-coated technicians around the PBW called out equipment checks. The lights strung on poles around the perimeter dimmed, brightened, and then were shut off on order of a distant, authoritative voice. Four men on the edge of the plateau examined the sky with binoculars and equipment Jacobs didn't recognize.

“Levels are up,” one called back.

“Let's set it for a sixty-by-twenty sweep for ten seconds,” said a technician standing by the PBW's control panel, a box mounted on the side of the trailer. “Broad-range penetration and light scattering effects. We want to punch three clear holes and let them snake around to stir it up, then go for the final solution."

The wind was rising. Burnford held his hand out to Miss Unamuno. “I don't need comforting,” she said stiffly.

“I think I do,” the physicist said. “Some of my friends are out there. I knew three of the researchers in Haverstock."

Jacobs wondered if Thesiger and the boy were out there, too. He hoped not. Thesiger should have had the expertise to guide them clear.

The lights in the town went out.

“It's in range,” someone called.

“We have full storage."

“Levels higher."

Jacobs could see the horizon stars wobbling, twinkling. New stars seemed to be added, then vanished.

“All sensors in the town are down."

“The front is approaching. Slope and plateau sensors show high activity."

In the center of town, a tiny green glow moved from building to building. More appeared, dancing like will-o'-the-wisps, or like lanterns carried by a crowd. In their wake, red glows flared into fires. Circles of black smoke whirled above the fires. It was a calm, subdued display, almost dignified. The fires grew, leaping in fingers from building to building. The sky above glistened with an oily purple sheen, as if a jellyfish had settled over them.

Trumbauer groaned. “It's bigger,” he said. “The edges are dissolving, but the center is more powerful than ever."

Purple smoke began to pour from the center of town, snaking down the streets, rolling over the rooftops in viscous waves. The smell of burning flesh reached the plateau.

The wind whipped their coats and pants.

“Clear some tunnels,” a technician yelled.

The generators screamed and the PBW trailer bounced furiously. The mounting was as steady as rock, however. The ponderous barrel rotated slowly, then stopped.

The lights in the town came back on. The green glows vanished and the fires winked out. Jacobs squinted to see what was happening.

“Hold the sequence,” Machen shouted. The air was clear and the wind had stopped. Trumbauer and Miss Unamuno whispered to each other, then turned to Jacobs.

“They haven't done anything yet, have they?” Miss Unamuno asked. Jacobs looked to Machen, who shook his head. “It seems to be gone,” Trumbauer said. “We can't sense anything."

“Shit,” Machen said. “It can't just go away like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Can it?"

“Why not?” Jacobs said. “It may have moved in some fashion we don't know about. Maybe it sensed a trap."

“How can we be sure?"

Trumbauer shrugged his shoulders. “Is your equipment in the town working?"

Machen consulted with a technician. “It's still out,” he said. “God damn, we've missed it!"

“Not necessarily,” Trumbauer said. “Franklin, to be sure, I'll have to go into the town."

Jacobs made no move to show a sign of either agreement or disagreement. The thought terrified him.

“I can't go,” Miss Unamuno said.

“Franklin?” Trumbauer looked at him pleadingly.

“I'll have two soldiers go with you,” Machen said.

“Fine, but ... Franklin, I'll need someone I know, someone strong. To do what Thesiger did for the boy, if we're caught. Both of us. Together."

Franklin nodded. All feeling had left his hands and feet.

Machen called for two soldiers and a Jeep. The vehicle rolled up behind them and a white-coated technician got out, making way for a man and a woman in kelly green. They took the front two seats, placing a walkie-talkie between them. Trumbauer gripped Franklin's shoulder. They climbed in behind.

“Where will you need to go?” Machen asked.

“Into the town, into the center,” Trumbauer said.

“Take them there,” Machen said. “I want a steady report."

“Yessir,” the woman said. She put the Jeep in gear and backed it up, then turned it around and drove onto the fire trail. They bounced in and out of the heavy trailer ruts, the Jeep's lights bobbing against rocks and grass and tree trunks.

“My name's Sally,” the woman said. “This is Nathan.” The man nodded. “Any idea what we can expect down there?"

“No, regrettably,” Trumbauer said. The fire trail joined a paved road and they drove toward the brightly lighted outskirts of Siloam Springs. Jacobs looked at the woman's short-cut hair, bunched up under the green cap. She was stocky, with large eyes and a touch of down on her upper lip. She wore glasses. Nathan was thin and tall and quiet, keeping his attention on the town. He carried an automatic rifle.

The Jeep crossed over railroad tracks and between rows of warehouses—much like the ones in Lorobu, Jacobs thought. A colonnade of silos and a grain elevator were topped by red aircraft warning lights on their left. The lights blinked in the steady night air. “How much farther, sir?” the woman asked.

“To the center—there was a post office, I think,” Trumbauer said.

“Anything yet?” Jacobs asked. He shook his head.

A row of houses showed signs of the fires they had seen from the plateau. Smoke stains blackened the upper frames of windows and doors. Trumbauer frowned, then told the woman to halt the Jeep.

They were on a tree-lined street between two small stretches of park. A brick library stood just behind them, frosted-glass pole lamps flanking two concrete lions on the steps. Jacobs pulled his jacket up closer around his neck.

“Party One to Silent Night. We're in Nielsen Park,” the man reported on the walkie-talkie. “Nothing sighted yet. Out."

“Sally, stop by that house with the towers, on the right,” Trumbauer said. He looked at Jacobs. “I'm beginning to hear something. It sounds like people walking."

“I don't hear anything,” Jacobs said. Trumbauer smiled at him, cocking his head. The Jeep stopped smoothly and the woman turned to look at them.

“What is it?"

“I'm not sure,” Trumbauer said. “But tell the General I don't believe the town is empty. I think we're the ones being tricked, as it were—"

His head jerked back and he nearly fell out of his seat. Jacobs grabbed for him and pulled him back. “Arnie!"

“Tell Machen!” Trumbauer shouted, swiping at his hair. “Franklin, am I on fire? Help me put—"

“You're fine, there's nothing in your hair,” Jacobs said. But Trumbauer slumped against his shoulder, eyes drawn up until only the whites showed. Saliva dribbled from one corner of his mouth. “Arnold, come on...” Jacobs shook him until his head lolled back. Trumbauer blinked once.

“I'm closing up. Franklin. I can't take it.” He went limp and curled into a fetal ball.

Nathan had finished reporting their situation to Machen. “What's happening?” he asked Jacobs. The soldier's eyes were narrow, as if he was prepared to flinch from a blow.

“Get us out of here. Do they know up on the hill?"

“They know,” Sally said, spinning the Jeep around. Jacobs held on to Trumbauer and tried to keep his head down.

The glass globes on the library lamps exploded. The library windows blew out and flames shot through them, making nearby trees flare like matches. The Jeep careened to avoid a car burning furiously by the roadside.

“Jesus!” Nathan shouted, covering his face. A funnel of green and purple was forming over the center of Siloam Springs. It was oddly dimpled and glowed as if a neon light had been turned on in its middle. It descended.

Jacobs felt his ears pop. All around, buildings were shivering, throwing off shingles and bits of timber. Bricks fell ahead of them and Sally expertly swerved.

The funnel's base spread out into a viscous purple mass, pouring outward like a wave. Jacobs glanced back, then turned away—

As the sudden glare baked his neck. Like a distant reflection, across thousands of miles and more than three decades, the sky over Siloam Springs became bright as day. Sally looked in the rear-view mirror and was dazzled. Around the street, all the buildings flared and caved in. Jacobs’ white jacket reflected the heat, but Trumbauer was wearing black and his jacket caught on fire. Jacobs tried to slap it out as the Jeep twisted back and forth on the road. It keeled over, was caught in a blast of hot air, and flipped up over them, spilling them onto the street. It flew off like a leaf in wind. Jacobs held on to Trumbauer as they were pushed over the asphalt, which heaved and cracked behind them.

He lay on his stomach, hand still clutching his friend's smoking coat. He looked up and saw a wall of dense smoke, occasionally pierced by the glare of fires.