Worlds in Chaos (41 page)

One of the JPL directors had talked with the area National Guard commander, who, after being satisfied that this was coming from the President’s office, had gone back through the local military chain to acquire the means. The outcome was that a Cessna Caravan with support squad was being rushed in from the Twentynine Palms Marine base and would meet them at Burbank. JPL had essentially ceased functioning as a national laboratory and was being adapted as a transit center and shelter for public-sector workers and their kin en route inland. The last Keene and the others had seen of it had been bulldozers working under floodlights in the fog to bank earth against the walls of suitable buildings, while crews sandbagged the roofs and lower floors. South of the Laboratory, the Army was taking over the Rose Bowl golf course as a transportation depot and supply dump.

Sheila muttered something and braked as the escort car in front slowed. Tail lights beyond showed vehicles ahead of it. The sound of the police cruiser’s siren floated back above the traffic noise, but the lane to the left was solid. Finally, risking unlit vehicles pulled over, the cruiser swung onto the shoulder and began overhauling the obstructions leapfrog fashion on the inside, with the shuttle bus clinging yards behind. Lights ahead as they pulled back into the regular lane showed a group of military vehicles parked on the shoulder. Two of them moved off and swung in behind the shuttle bus as it passed, and then dropped back to head off the encroachers. A smoky halo of light in front of a stopped car revealed a knot of windblown figures struggling to change a wheel on a jacked-up camper. More lights ahead marked the tail of a military convoy. The police escort and bus closed up and stayed with it to the Burbank exit, where the tailback from the exit ramp extended for at least a quarter mile along the shoulder. The escort led them past, and they were waved through by police in capes and motorcycle visors directing airport traffic at the top.

The airport approach was a confusion of cars parked haphazardly in the roadways and others jostling for whatever space became available. Checkpoints had been set up across the road leading into the departures drop-off area. The cruiser led the bus to a gate bearing the sign authorized access only and halted. A dust-covered shape, looking in the glare from the lamps like a yeti of the desert, materialized outside Sheila’s window. He had a hood with an enormous, fur-trimmed rim, in the shadows of which could vaguely be discerned a transparent visor and mask covering the lower face. Colby squeezed forward alongside Sheila, brandishing a plastic wallet showing his White House ID and a pass from the Pasadena regional military command.

“There’s supposed to be a Marine Corps flight coming in to collect us,” he shouted out the window. “It’s top priority—White House directive. What do we do?” The yeti gave the papers a perfunctory glance, as if acknowledging that they belonged to a world already passing. “Wait,” a voice instructed from somewhere inside the hood, and the figure disappeared inside the gatehouse. Keene was impressed by the amount of organization that was managing to persist. Power was flowing; planes were flying. People were still at their jobs. But as he had said himself the previous day, what else was there for anyone to do?

Lights appeared in the roadway behind the bus, and a horn began blaring.

“All we needed was an asshole,” Sheila sighed, resting her arms on the wheel and staring at her mirror dully. More figures came out of the shadows and went back to deal with it. The desert yeti reemerged. “I can’t get ahold of anyone who knows anything. Look, there’s a traffic information center set up somewhere off the Departure Hall. They’ve got a line through to the tower, so they’ll know about as much as anybody.”

“What’s the name of the room it’s in?” Greene yelled back out.

“You’ll have to find somebody in there to tell you.”

“Where do I park?” Sheila asked.

One side of the cape rose as the gesture of a shaggy forelimb. “What are they gonna do, give you a ticket?” Sheila drove around into a service yard and found space among a jumble of vehicles and baggage carts around a side entrance. The captain detailed two of the Guardsmen to stay with the bus while he and the other accompanied the rest of the party inside.

The scene inside the airport building resembled a refugee station—which in effect it was. People sat among piles of bags or huddled on blankets and sleeping bags laid out on the floor, some trying to calm cranky, overtired children, some managing to doze, others just staring blankly. There were lines at a number of the check-in desks, where hand-lettered signs identified parties being assembled and destinations. Regular schedules had been abandoned, and it seemed that which airline owned or was operating any particular flight no longer meant very much. The public address system endlessly paged names to call various numbers or meet other parties at stated places. As Keene watched, a woman with a clipboard waited while a group whose names she had called collected their belongings, and then led them away in the direction of the gates. Along the far wall, several dozen young children in wheelchairs, many of them cuddling toys, waited while a procession of nurses brought more in from a line of ambulances and buses drawn up under the canopy outside the main entrance. Keene swallowed a lump in his throat and looked away.

Colby came back from the throng of people around the Information Desk, followed by a couple of uniformed police. “We follow these guys,” he told the others. Sheila and John fell in on either side of him, Keene and Charlie behind, the Guardsman and captain bringing up the rear. They passed a restaurant area where soup, sandwiches, and beverages were being handed out at a long table; a knot of people were sitting on the floor playing cards; a young man was playing a violin to a bar where there was no TV. Many of the faces had looked bloody, but closer up Keene realized that the streaks and blotches were red dust lodged in creases or mixed with perspiration, and skin sores angry from rubbing and scratching. There was little show of belligerence. The prevailing mood was tiredness, resignation, waiting.

The Traffic Information Center turned out to be a large room off one of the side corridors, where a score or so of people were working at tables covered with papers piled among constantly ringing phones. An improvised wall board with information entered by hand showed traffic situations and projections, and an Army field telephone exchange had been installed at the rear with cables trailing out through a far door. In one corner was a coffee pot with a tray of plates containing remnants of bagels, muffins, and vending snacks. A line of tables across the near end of the room formed a counter barring off the rest of the area. Clerks at the front were trying to deal with a press of people jostling for attention, while others updated the board.

“I always wondered what they’d do when all the computers went down at once,” Colby remarked, surveying the scene.

One of the policeman called over a man in shirtsleeves and a headset and beckoned Colby forward. Colby identified himself and explained the situation. The man in the headset went away to consult with one of the others, who referred to a screen that evidently was able to report something, then called somewhere on a phone. He returned to the counter.

“We have that flight logged, but it doesn’t look as if it’s here yet. The tower has instructions to clear it in, priority. I don’t know yet where it will be directed. We’ll put a call out when we know something more.”

“You are aware that we’re on a presidential directive here,” Greene said, appearing irritated by what he seemed to take as perfunctory treatment.

“Sir, if you were here under a directive from Jesus Christ, there’s nothing more I could do. When it shows up, we’ll let you know. A lot of flights aren’t making it.”

“Ease up, Colby. They can’t wave wands. We’re just taking up space here,” Keene murmured. Mollified, Greene let himself be ushered out to the corridor. They walked back to a part of the main ticketing concourse, where more people with children and baggage were sitting along the walls. A sad-faced black woman was dispensing coffee and hot dogs from a snack bar that seemed to have run out of all else.

“Are you people gonna need us for anything else?” one of the policemen asked.

“I’d prefer it if you stick around,” Colby told them. “We may need directions where to go when the plane shows up.”

“Could you guys use some coffee?” Sheila asked them.

“Sure, why not?”

“Better make it all of us while we’ve got the chance,” Keene said.

Sheila went to the counter and picked up a tray, John following to lend a hand. “How do we pay for this?” Sheila asked the black woman.

“You might as well just take ’em. I don’t know what else to do with it.”

They stood around, like everyone else—waiting. Sheila and John found a couple of vacated chairs. Colby stood to one side, talking with the Guard captain. Charlie Hu leaned back against the wall and sipped his coffee. Keene moved over to the policemen. “How bad is it getting to be out there?” he asked them in a low voice.

“It’s a mess, but still pretty orderly,” one of them answered. “Most people are trying to do the right thing. They’re not panicking yet.”

“You figure it’ll get worse, eh?”

“Oh, while there’s somebody to tell them what to do, and they’ve still got food and gas and electricity, to a lot of them it’s still just an adventure. When stuff starts running out and they realize it isn’t a game anymore, that’s when it’ll get ugly.”

“We’ve been lucky down here so far,” the other cop said. “There were some big falls north of San Francisco and farther on up the state. They’ve got blocked freeways up there. Lotta cars hit right out there on the road.”

Two middle-aged ladies came over and drew the policemen away to ask them about something. Keene moved over to join Charlie. “You know, we only just met, and you’re already beginning to amaze me. You’re actually managing to look serene. What’s the secret?”

Charlie smiled distantly. “Well, you know how it is. Inscrutable Orientals and that kind of thing.”

Keene drank from his coffee cup. “So which particular brand of inscrutability are you from? Chinese?”

“Taiwanese, actually. But I was born in Carson City, Nevada.”

“So . . .” Keene frowned, wondering how best to put it. “This business up the coast. You know things are going to get worse. Traveling might soon get really problematical. You don’t have someone somewhere that you should . . . You know what I’m trying to say.”

Charlie smiled again, this time cynically. “Well, yes, there is a Mrs. Hu. However, relationships are not exactly, shall we say . . . exemplary. She disappeared off to LA a week ago, I think to see the boyfriend. Anyway, I haven’t heard from her since. Which is all a long way of saying, you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Look, I—”

“No, it’s okay. Thanks, I appreciate the consideration.”

Sheila got up and left them—out of sensible anticipation, she said—after noticing that the line from the ladies’ room was backed up into the concourse. Colby wandered away along the side of the concourse, stood looking around for a minute or two, then came back. “If LAX is anything like this, they could easily miss them,” he said to Keene. Keene could only shrug.

Cavan had told them that Washington was arranging for Fey and Tyndam to be watched when they arrived at Los Angeles, but not apprehended. Beckerson’s flight was routed to Edwards AFB, situated in the high desert above Palmdale—reinforcing Keene’s belief that the regional command center was somewhere under the mountains in that direction. However, the plan could be to divert the flight to join up with Voler’s group, wherever it was, perhaps collecting Fey and Tyndam from Los Angeles on the way. Alternatively, another aircraft could be waiting at Edwards. Various possibilities existed as to how they might all get together. The hope was that observing how Fey and Tyndam were met and in which direction they were taken might provide further clues as to what might be expected at Vandenberg.

One of the cops left to make a circuit of the concourse. Sheila came back.

Charlie Hu returned from a newsstand with a week-old copy of
Time
, which he proceeded to thumb through sitting on the floor with his back to a wall. The front cover showed a picture of Athena rounding the Sun with the caption: why the doomsayers are wrong.

And then public address announced: “Colby Greene, contact Traffic Information Center. Mr. Colby Greene from Washington. We have flight information for you.”

Everyone hastened back to the room with the phones and the wall board. The same clerk that Colby had talked to before told them, “It should be landing now—a Cessna Caravan, flight code MU87. Board out on the tarmac. They’re bringing it right up to the door. Go to Gate 3 and wait at the top of the stairs leading down to the outside access door. Somebody will meet you there.” He handed Greene a pass. “Gate-area access is being controlled. You’ll need to show this.”

Preceded by the two policemen, the party hurried through the departure concourse and through the check to the gates. There was a flight boarding at Gate 3 when they arrived. A girl with dusty, windblown hair and wearing a crumpled Delta uniform under a red-streaked raincoat led them past the slowly shuffling line and unlocked a door next to the jetway entrance. They went down two flights of steel-railed stairs to a lower space and across to a door, where the girl stopped to peer through a narrow window. “Your plane is just taxiing up now. We’ll give it a minute to make its turn.”

Keene and the two leaving with him turned to face the others. There was a moment of awkward silence. Then John extended a hand and shook it with each of them. “Well . . . I guess this is it. Let’s hope it works out. Maybe we’ll . . .” He seemed to think better of whatever he had been about to say and left it unfinished.

Sheila followed suit, shaking hands first with Keene and Colby; then, on impulse, she threw her arms around Charlie in a hug. Suddenly, she was crying. “Oh shit. . . . I can’t believe you won’t be there in your office tomorrow, Charlie, with everything back the way it was. Are we even going to see you again?”