Ill Wind Part 15

Barfman acknowledged only with two clicks on the radio, no words at all. Bobby swallowed. Barfman must be having a much harder time than he realized.

Bobby changed the frequency to pick up the FAA control center, keeping his voice calm and firm as he called in. "Albuquerque control, this is Navy Zero Six out of China Lake. We're approximately a hundred thirty miles southeast of Four Corners. Request immediate location of the nearest airfield."

"Navy 6, this is Albuquerque. Do you have an emergency?"

The option raced through Bobby's mind. It was one thing for Barfman to try an bring the fighter in all by himself-if nothing was really wrong with the jet, they'd just refuel, hop back in and zoom to the beach. No problem, no worry, no messy paperwork. But if they declared an emergency, then all h.e.l.l would break loose-at the very least they'd have to appear before an inquiry board.

Bobby wet his lips; the high-alt.i.tude air was bone dry. "Ah, Albuquerque, we've run into some difficulty but are not ready at this time to declare an emergency. Please advise ASAP on the location of the nearest airfield."

"Roger, Navy Zero Sixer. You may divert to Santa Fe or Los Alamos to the north or keep coming in for three airfields in the Albuquerque area. Please inform of your situation."

Barfman's jet continued descending. Barfman's voice came over the speaker, clipped with tension. "Getting kind of hard to handle, old buddy. Not sure I want to try to bring her down in the mountains around Los Alamos-"

Suddenly, large gaps appeared in Barfman's contrails, as if the jet engines had been turned on and off in quick succession. Bobby gripped the control stick with his sweaty hand as icepicks of cold sweat stabbed up and down his back.

"Barfman, you all right?"

His partner's voice sounded tight, under control. "I'm fighting engine-out, Rhino. This thing wants to shut down. Do you think somebody watered the fuel at Nellis? That d.a.m.ned Air Force JP-4-" Barfman's voice cut off entirely and white noise filled the airwaves.

"Barfman, do you read?" Bobby waited a second, hoping and praying that something would improve. It didn't. When Barfman didn't answer, Bobby pushed his throttles to the max; the fighter leaped through the air. Barfman's jet dropped like a rock. Bobby clicked his mike. He felt helpless, unable to do anything but watch. "Barfman, do you copy?"

Bobby nosed his craft over to follow Barfman's descent. He peered through the scratched transparent canopy of his fighter. The contrails had vanished from Barfman's jet; there was no flame in the engine-he must have had a complete power failure. But what about the backup? That should have kicked in. Without power, the electrical system would not work, making the radio inoperable. The rudders and stabilizers could be moved through hydraulics, so Barfman had some control; but with no thrust, the fighter would fall one foot for every ten it moved forward. Barfman didn't have much time to eject.

Bobby clicked to the emergency guard frequency. "Mayday, mayday. Navy Zero Sixer calling for help, southeast of Four Corners. We have a flame-out and are rapidly descending. Request emergency equipment immediately."

He skinned close to Barfman's jet, almost wingtip to wingtip. He breathed sharp cold air in staccato gasps. Bobby could see his friend's helmet through the c.o.c.kpit, his head down as he wrestled in vain with the unwieldy hydraulic controls.

Bobby knew of no way to stretch out the inevitable crash-at this rate, Barfman would impact the ground at five hundred miles an hour. Bobby glanced at his altimeter; they were pa.s.sing through fifteen thousand feet and still accelerating downward.

Albuquerque control came over the radio. "We've lost your squawk, Navy 6. Do you copy?"

"Come on, Barfman-punch out!" Bobby slid the jet off to the side to give the other pilot room to eject-but nothing happened. The altimeter continued to run down. "Come on!"

Barfman didn't have a chance in h.e.l.l to land, even if he regained total control. Bobby glanced out his c.o.c.kpit; rugged brown terrain swooped up to meet them.

"Navy Zero Sixer, do you read?"

Ignoring the ground controller, Bobby jerked his stick to the right, rolling until he was beneath Barfman's jet, accelerating down faster than the A/F18 fell. He had to get Barfman's head up out of the controls! Holding his breath, Bobby shoved the throttles forward; when he was under Barfman, he kicked in the afterburners with a sound like a bomb blast. The sudden acceleration shoved Bobby back in his seat.

Barfman appeared to be struggling with his ejection handles. Bobby cut off the afterburners and pulled back on the stick. He felt the gees build up and squash him into his seat.

Pulling his jet into a loop, Bobby searched for Barfman's fighter. The sky wheeled around him, the desert looked like brown scabs below him with baking sands and lumpy weathered lava outcroppings. "Barfman, where are you!"

A moment later, he saw a flash of light. A ma.s.sive brown cloud rose from the desert floor as Barfman's fighter slammed into the ground. Bobby winced for just a second, but he could not let himself believe his buddy had been trapped in the c.o.c.kpit. Making an animal sound through his teeth, he wrenched the control stick to pull his fighter over. He scanned the sky for a parachute, an eject seat. "Come on, come on!"

Then he felt a shudder run through his own plane.

He found the fuel indicator-his pump appeared to be malfunctioning. The flow rate from the tank to the engine started dropping. Something had blown, just like in Barfman's jet. "Oh, s.h.i.+t," he said.

The speakers crackled to life. "Navy Zero Sixer, we have lost your squawk. We are standing by. Please engage your transponder. Estimate has you northwest of Double Eagle airport in Albuquerque. Do you copy?"

Bobby shook his head to clear the shock that gripped him. Adrenaline flushed his system of cobwebs, making him sharp. His altimeter showed that he had climbed back up to twelve thousand feet, and aside from the faulty reading on the pump flow indicator, there was nothing to show he was in any trouble. Not yet. He knew he should be doing something: trying to land his craft so he wouldn't be taken by surprise like his friend. He still saw no sign of Barfman's parachute.

Life or death. He squelched the fear, the helplessness. No time for that now. Bobby shoved the throttles to full, kicking in the afterburners. As the surge of acceleration hit him, he realized he might have only minutes to find a place to land, especially if the sudden plague of breakdowns. .h.i.t his own A/F18.

He keyed his transponder and spoke into the mike. "Mayday, mayday, Albuquerque control. Navy Zero Six declaring an emergency. Attempting to reach Double Eagle airport. One plane in our flight is down, approximately thirty miles behind me. My flow pump reads faulty, and if I lose engine power I will not be able to transmit. Request immediate emergency a.s.sistance, foam and emergency vehicles-"

"We have you fifteen miles out, Navy Zero Sixer. Please be advised there is no emergency equipment at Double Eagle. I say again, no emergency equipment available."

"Great," muttered Bobby. From what he had seen on the map, he'd have to fly over the city of Albuquerque to reach the munic.i.p.al airport, which meant putting thousands of people at risk if he couldn't nurse his plane all the way to the runway.

He pushed the aircraft as fast as he dared, hoping to reach the Double Eagle airport before everything c.r.a.pped out on him. He tried to keep a balance between alt.i.tude and speed, knowing that he could trade off one for the other; but he also didn't want to fall into the same trap as Barfman, and lose stability while wrestling with the hydraulic controls.

The humped line of the Sandia mountains loomed in the distance. Below him the ground smoothed out, leaving the rugged terrain behind. He might make it.

"Navy Zero Six, please be advised-" The speaker went dead and the c.o.c.kpit sounded weirdly silent except for the rus.h.i.+ng wind. At the same instant he felt a gigantic sagging as the engines died, the A/F-18's electrical systems shut down. What the h.e.l.l happened to the backup? The system was isolated from the main engine-this couldn't happen!

Adrenalin and split-second fear switched off the questions in his mind. Deal with them later. Bobby immediately pushed as hard as he could to lower all flaps to extend the camber in an attempt to increase his lift.

He spotted Double Eagle airport off to the left; he had vectored in too far south. Cursing under his breath, he inched the fighter's nose to the left, trying not to do anything that would send the already precarious craft out of control. He had to punch out-no way could he bring this fighter in. No way.

But what had gone wrong with Barfman? Had he tried to eject, only to fail for some unknown reason? Or had Barfman simply waited too long, kept his head buried in the controls?

He saw a long stretch of green in front of him-the Rio Grande river. What a place to run out of gas! He frantically tried to turn the craft, but felt a growing wobble.

The craft would lose it any second now. Slamming his helmeted head against the back of his seat, he reached down and grasped the ejection handles. He'd crash through the canopy if it didn't blow open, but better that than staying with the jet and digging a crater in the desert. He looked straight ahead, closed his eyes, and pulled up as hard as he could.

An instant later he felt the shock of cold air, a sound that overwhelmed him-wind, cras.h.i.+ng, tearing. His right leg and mouth felt torn apart. He was thrown from the seat, twisting. Attached to the parachute a line in front of him snaked out, ripped into the howling wind.

He felt himself tumbling. The parachute started to open. He had to clamp his mouth shut to keep from vomiting.

It was going to be one mother of a hard landing. Bobby gritted his teeth and tried to keep conscious. The parachute tugged him upward in an effort to slow his plunge.

Below him, he watched his jet explode into the desert floor.

Chapter 31.

Iris s.h.i.+kozu's portable phone no longer worked, but the clunky old model in the bedroom of her apartment still functioned. Different plastics broke down at different rates. The plague was spreading like a flood, wiping out the entire city.

She carefully pushed b.u.t.tons, hoping the equipment wouldn't fall to pieces as she dialed. She had to talk to somebody. The world seemed to close around her as everything broke down. On her bedroom wall, posters of middle-aged rock groups stared down at her, offering silent sympathy for her predicament.

In only a day the news had become intermittent . The plague had been spreading quietly since the Prometheus spraying, infecting numerous items, metabolizing gasoline first and then attacking other polymers, until components began to break down all at once. All at the same time.

The radio news told stories of riots in South Africa, a major stock exchange crash in Tokyo, communications blackouts from various parts of the world. The President himself was stranded out of the country, and now the Vice President had been stuck in Chicago when all aircraft were grounded. Everything was happening too fast.

She listened to the buzzing ring against her ear as she waited for someone to answer. More often than not, the phones had been out of order. She suspected that plastics in the various telephone substations had dissolved, but the phone company had managed to reroute most of the calls. So far.

Francis Plerry, her contact at EPI, answered the phone; Iris launched into her rehea.r.s.ed speech before he could hang up on her.

"I've been waiting for you to return my calls, Mr. Plerry. I called five times yesterday. I have some information regarding the spread of the Prometheus plague and how it is attacking plastics." She sat down on her double bed, pulling the phone after her, calmed now that she could finally speak to someone. "I need to be put in touch with the other research teams addressing the issue. Have you even established other teams?"

"Miss s.h.i.+kozu," Plerry said, "I received your messages, and I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to you. This place has been a zoo since rumors of the plague started. Er . . . I'm sure you understand that a lot of these people don't want to talk to you."

Iris felt like he had slapped her in the face. "No, I don't understand that at all. Why wouldn't they want to talk to me?"

"Well . . ." Plerry sounded fl.u.s.tered. "You were the one who inspected the Prometheus microorganism and deemed it safe. Obviously, few people are interested in your theories after you so grossly misinterpreted the data." were the one who inspected the Prometheus microorganism and deemed it safe. Obviously, few people are interested in your theories after you so grossly misinterpreted the data."

"That's bulls.h.i.+t, Plerry! Dr. Kramer gave me a bogus control sample to a.n.a.lyze, then sprayed something completely different on the oil spill-"

Plerry kept right on talking. "-there may actually be certain charges of criminal negligence and endangerment of public health when all this blows over."

Iris rolled her eyes. When all this blows over? Right! Todd Severyn had Plerry pegged from his first impression: this guy is out of touch with reality.

"Yeah, Plerry, we'll talk about that later. For now I've got some information for the other teams. The Centers for Disease Control, the NIH, the Department of Defense, and the petroleum industry all better throw their research muscle into this."

Plerry hesitated on the other end of the line, and she could picture his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "I a.s.sure you, Miss s.h.i.+kozu-"

"That's Dr. Dr. s.h.i.+kozu, and I'm d.a.m.ned tired of you 'a.s.suring' me!" she said. "Listen to me. Most of the equipment in my lab is already shot, so I can't run any a.n.a.lyses, but I have been able to piece together some of my own results. I know why Prometheus is going after plastics. s.h.i.+kozu, and I'm d.a.m.ned tired of you 'a.s.suring' me!" she said. "Listen to me. Most of the equipment in my lab is already shot, so I can't run any a.n.a.lyses, but I have been able to piece together some of my own results. I know why Prometheus is going after plastics.

"The microorganism primarily dissociates the octane molecule, which is made up of eight carbons in a chain, surrounded by hydrogen atoms. Most petroleum plastics are just longer polymers made up of shorter hydrocarbons, interlinked. Kramer engineered the new strain of Prometheus to break out eight-carbon chains from longer polymers, as well as some ring hydrocarbons. It can reach into heavy petroleum molecules and snip out bite-sized molecules. That's how it breaks down plastics! Any plastic that doesn't have eight-carbon segments should still be safe-"

Plerry cut her off. "Thank you, Dr. s.h.i.+kozu. The working teams have already come up with that independently. But it's not always true. We have not been able to come up with a simple explanation for why Prometheus attacks certain plastics and leaves others alone. Nylon seems to resist the plague, and so does polyvinyl chloride, PVC-which should should be one of the most easily affected plastics. But even that may change, as the microorganism adapts to new food sources. We just don't know, but we are working round the clock to look for answers." be one of the most easily affected plastics. But even that may change, as the microorganism adapts to new food sources. We just don't know, but we are working round the clock to look for answers."

"Have you gotten in touch with Kramer's a.s.sistant Mitch Stone?" Iris persisted. No one had ever given her such a cold brush-off before. She'd earned a little more respect and consideration. "He might know something."

"The research teams have already commandeered Dr. Stone and his expertise. He is working with Oilstar to interpret Dr. Kramer's notes right now."

Iris felt exasperated. She was never good at sitting still, and she couldn't just wait for somebody else to work on the problem. She wanted to be involved. She wanted to be somewhere she could put her hands on the problem. She stood up again and brushed her hand across the bedspread to smooth the wrinkles. "Maybe I could a.s.sist them."

Plerry's voice was as smooth as hemorrhoid ointment. "Thank you for your interest, Dr. s.h.i.+kozu. I'll take that under advis.e.m.e.nt and pa.s.s it along to the appropriate people. We'll get back to you if anything turns up." He hung up on her.

Iris stared at the phone. "Good thing the petroplague doesn't eat pure slime, Plerry." She slammed the receiver back in the cradle. She paced her apartment, desperate for something to do. This was worse than being forced to go on vacation.

Iris padded over to the stereo. She didn't know how much longer she'd have electricity, so she might as well do something constructive. The power had flickered out earlier in the day, as she sat at the kitchen table, trying to go over chemical equations without the aid of her computer. She figured all the wiring in her apartment; the electrical substations must be insulated with plastic, though natural rubber seemed to resist the plague, but the generating stations would fail before long.

She flicked on the amplifier, cranked the volume k.n.o.b, and went to select a CD. Tom Petty? Talking Heads? Yeah, "Burning Down the House" sounded particularly appropriate.

She plucked out the jewel box, but it had a cloudy, frosted appearance. When she lifted the compact disk, it sagged in her hand, the plastic substrate gone limp like a floppy computer diskette.

"Oh, dammit!" Iris said, tossing the CD and jewel box across the room. The same Talking Heads alb.u.m that featured the song "Making Flippy Floppy." Appropriate.

"This is really getting annoying. The fall of civilization is bad enough, but do I have to do it without my music?"

Chapter 32.

The moment Heather Dixon dragged herself into the offices of Surety Insurance, her supervisor shouted at her. "Where the h.e.l.l have you been, Heather? d.a.m.n it all, this place is going crazy! Boston's been calling since six o'clock this morning."

She blinked at Albert "You Can Call Me Al!" Sysco, already exhausted from her ordeal of just getting to work. After her car wouldn't start, she had to walk nearly two miles in her high heels, red plaid business skirt, and itchy panty hose.

Al Sysco, the water-cooler Napoleon, lorded over the women in the office as if it were his due, breathing down their necks until they couldn't do their jobs-and then he reprimanded them when productivity dropped. Heather decided it was because he had a tiny p.e.n.i.s, but she had no intention of finding out for sure.

She wanted to tell him that Headquarters knew full well there was a two-hour time difference between Boston and Arizona. She wanted to tell him that her calves were sore from walking in clothes that were meant to be admired, not exercised in. She wanted to know what in the world Sysco had been doing in the office at 6 A.M. anyway.

Most of all, she wanted to go to the coffee maker, yank out the filter basket, and stuff a steaming wad of coffee grounds down the front of Al Sysco's pants.

Instead, she went to her desk. "My car wouldn't start, and the streets are a zoo." The city seemed much worse than the local radio news described it, though for two days the broadcasts had been growing more panicked as reporters tracked the progress of the "petroplague."

"You've got a hundred forms to process already. I've made some follow-up phone calls, but you'll have to do the rest of them. I'm going nuts! The phone connections break off half the time anyway. Keep trying until you get through."

Sysco wiped his palm across the sweat in his porcupine hair. In the background, a few telephones continued to ring. The air smelled stuffy, with an aftertaste of turpentine.

Two women bustled down the hall, arguing about something, then split down two separate paths among the cubicles, still shouting over the metal-rimmed cloth barriers. Heather noticed that half of the office cubicles were empty. Pale green ferns poked over the top of the nearest barrier. Her own wood-grain desk was strewn with pencils, cute post-it notes, two coffee cups, and clippings from the comic strip Cathy.

Before Heather could get to her desk and slip her canvas purse into the bottom file drawer, Sysco came with a six-inch stack of paperwork. Heather ignored him as she turned to switch on her terminal.

"Don't bother," said Sysco. "They're falling apart from that gasoline plague. What a mess. I can't get Surety to give me a decision on how we're going to cover all this. Use the telephone, but for G.o.d's sake don't tell anybody the computers are down! We're, uh, 'unable to access that information at this time' or some such nonsense."

Heather blinked. If Surety's networked computers were down, they were in big trouble. If plastic components were falling apart across the country, then why the h.e.l.l had she come to work at all? People resisted changing their momentum, moving from their daily routine. Tabloids had screamed about the end of the world for so long that everyone seemed numb to the possibility. But maybe . . .

"Stacie has an old Selectric typewriter under her desk," said Sysco. "You'll have to type things by hand."

Heather glared at him as he turned back to his own work area. His shoulders hunched with spring-wound tension. Sysco was such a little man, harried and suffering. At the moment, she didn't particularly envy him the promotion.

She walked over to Stacie's desk and stooped to find the old gray-brown Selectric underneath the desk. The thing felt like an anchor as she slid it out along the worn carpet. Tiny broken carpet fibers sprayed out as the nap crumbled. Her left foot snagged on a burr, and the panty hose ran from ankle to knee. "s.h.i.+t," she mumbled, then hefted the typewriter, waddling with it back to her own desk.

She kicked off her heels and wiggled her toes on the hard plastic chair mat to get the circulation back. The mat felt tacky against her feet.

Not even 9:30 in the morning, and she already felt sweaty and uncomfortable. Why had she worn one of her nicest business suits today? Why did she keep playing the game?

Claims poured in by the thousands as panic spread. She shuffled through the paperwork, seeing a marked change from simple car breakdowns to damage caused by disintegrating plastic components in machinery.

She swallowed, overwhelmed but still unwilling to believe the magnitude of the disaster. Such things couldn't really really happen. Someone would figure out how to stop it soon, and then they could pick up the pieces, pay off the claims, and get back to normal. happen. Someone would figure out how to stop it soon, and then they could pick up the pieces, pay off the claims, and get back to normal.