LOSS OF REASON

by Miles A. Maxwell

  “How long till your backup batteries fail?” Everon asked quickly.

  The door stopped. “Not long. Our backup generator didn’t come on like it was supposed to,” Coates said.

  “Maybe I can take a look?” Everon urged. “I know something about power systems. Have any tools?”

  “Hmm.” The door widened. “Well, I guess— We have an engineer on call but—” His words choked off, eyes turning to the city. He let out a long breath and stepped aside. “We have some tools in the cabinet. None of us know how to fix it.”

  Coates turned on a flashlight, led the way down a wide hallway.

  “It’s a diesel in back here on the ground floor. Watch it there, the backup lighting on the stairs is out.”

  Everon followed him past a handrail to where Coates unlocked a set of double doors.

  The middle of the room was filled by the long diesel generator. Its engine should have started automatically—already loud and running!

  It was silent. He pictured the dimming lights outside.

  Along the far wall sat banks of batteries in steel racks three rows high. First thing, Everon looked from the big generator to the battery gauge. 112 volts. The red display flipped to 111.

  “When it drops under a hundred, forget about ever starting this thing! Tools?” Everon urged.

  The goateed controller swung open a wall-mounted metal supply cabinet. Its door looked like it’d been opened with a crowbar. “No one had a key.”

  It was a jumble of wrenches, pliers, a hammer.

  Everon grabbed a screwdriver and undid a large screw on the generator’s control box. Inside was a melted mess. The bomb’s electromagnetic pulse had traveled up the wires and stopped at the transfer switch. The automatic relays were frozen solid.

  He glanced at the readout. 109 volts.

  In the dim light, he looked more closely at the automatic starting circuit. The tiny black optical isolators had been turned into small plastic globs.

  Everon studied the wiring diagram.

  “I’m going to run your radio upstairs,” the airport guy interrupted.

  “No problem. Check on flights trying to land. Then come down and let me know soon as it’s clear to cut the batteries. I’ve got to cut power before I can get this thing started. From the look of your runway lights, you don’t have much time.”

  “Okay.” Coates started to take the flashlight with him, not thinking.

  “Uh—you have a penlight or anything?” Everon asked.

  “Oh.” The controller seemed surprised at himself. “Yeah, I guess it won’t do much good— No, no penlight. I guess I won’t kill myself. I ought to be able to feel my way along the handrail in the dark, I’ve run those stairs enough times. If you hear a scream, it’ll be me falling down six flights.”

  108 volts.

  Everon grabbed a pair of cutters. He’d have to bypass the transfer mains. There was a big spool of heavy wire shoved into a corner of the room. He cut off several three-foot sections.

  Shit! Out of all of us, why Cyn? Married to a smart, good-looking, loving guy. Their beautiful new daughter.

  107!

  Hands automatically shoving old wires out of his way, stripping, bending, forming loops to replace them. That helicopter! Just sitting there outside across the airport! The controllers have my radio. Maybe if I can fix this damn generator they’ll let us go in there!

  He yanked out the shadowy mess of melted wire. Threw it on the floor.

  If this works, they’ll HAVE to give me permission to take that helicopter in.

  Everon examined his effort, brain turning in a hundred directions. All he had left to do was bypass the main power leads. “Where’s that controller?” He had to disconnect the master.

  He glanced at the meter. 105 volts! The airport’s runway lights are running the batteries down! A couple more minutes and there won’t be enough power to start a lawnmower! Where is he?

  He checked a gauge on the generator’s side. Fuel level looks okay.

  The goateed controller ran through the double doors out of breath. “Sorry! We had a flight landing.”

  “I was beginning to wonder. Anybody coming in?”

  “Not at the moment. You’ve got a few minutes.”

  A few minutes. Everon gripped the big breaker handle with two hands and pulled it down with a sharp bang. Now the airport was completely dark.

  He flipped several switches. While they waited for the diesel’s glow plug to heat, Everon quickly pushed the bare ends of the three wires he’d stripped into the relay lugs and tightened them down.

  A door slammed out in the hall.

  “This way!” someone yelled faintly from the stairwell. “In here!”

  Everon ignored it.

  “Okay!” Coates rapped a knuckle against his own head. “Knock on wood if you have any.”

  The double doors crashed open. Flashlights blazing, four soldiers in dark fatigues ran in bearing machine guns.

  “Step away from there!”

  Coates jumped back. Everon turned toward the man who had spoken, an officer with a pistol in his hand. “You planning to repair this generator yourself?” he asked. “Difficult to do with a gun in your hand.”

  “All airports in the area, by presidential order, are now under military control!”

  104 volts.

  “Well maybe you can get President Wall in here to fix this generator himself,” Everon said with a bitter grin. “Or did you just come for the end-of-the-world tailgate party?”

  The officer’s face went red. His uniform tag said MARSH. Everon thought he recognized the shoulder insignia of an Army colonel. Standing directly behind Marsh was a face he recognized. That asshole who stopped us flying in the Robinson—Vandersommen!

  103!

  “Look,” Everon said, “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but if you don’t get these guns out of my face and let me try to start this thing, in about thirty seconds there won’t be enough juice to crank over a Volkswagen.”

  “He doesn’t work here!” said Vandersommen.

  Marsh squinted, studied Everon’s face a moment, then turned to the man behind him. “Stand down.” The soldiers lowered their weapons. He turned back to Everon. “Go ahead.”

  Everon flipped a switch. The generator turned over—at first rapidly, then slowed as the battery banks wound down. Everon shut off the starter.

  “He doesn’t know what he’s doing!” yelled Vandersommen.

  “Alright,” Marsh said roughly. “Step away.”

  “Give it a second. The batteries are low.”

  102.

  “Stop him, Colonel!” stormed Vandersommen. “He’s damaging the system!”

  “I said step away.”

  Everon pulled a lever, adjusting the mixture, tried again. Rrr . . . rrr . . . rrr . . . weaker this time, within three seconds it was barely turning.

  101.

  Everon frowned, reaching for the switch.

  Marsh turned to one of the soldiers. “Take these men out of here right n—”

  With a RRROOM! the giant diesel roared to life.

  Everon jumped quickly now, manually adjusting mixture and throttle, listening as it went rougher, then smoother, then steadied out. He stepped to a master breaker and flipped the handle up.

  “Check the lights!” he shouted.

  Vandersommen stood there, lips sucked in, eyes tight, doing a slow burn.

  “Go!” Marsh pointed.

  Two men ran outside.

  Everon’s mouth opened in a chuckle that couldn’t be heard over the constant noise. “You don’t need to go that far,” he yelled.

  He stepped slowly around Vandersommen and flipped a wall switch. The overheads came on.

  “Nice job!” he shouted in Everon’s ear over the generator’s roar. “I’m John, by the way, John Coates.”

  They shook hands. “Everon Student.”

  “You’r
e not looking for a job are you?”

  Everon shook his head. “Not at the moment,” he yelled back. Now they’ll have to let me— “Say, John, think I could ask a favor?”

  John studied him, leaned in close, “Still looking for some way into the city?”

  Everon didn’t answer.

  The goateed controller smiled grimly. “I doubt it’ll happen but c’mon upstairs. You can ask Sue. She’s supervisor tonight. She’s using your radio.

  “Don’t slam the door,” John added softly, pointing down the hall. “They’ve got guards outside.”

  Two steps at a time, Everon followed him up six well-lit flights.

  “So then you’re just gonna go?” a clearly upset female voice drifted down.

  Just inside the doorway at the tower’s top was a man with his back to Everon, his shaved head shaped like a watermelon standing on end. Colonel Marsh and two of his soldiers stood silently near a short, beautiful, dark-haired Asian female.

  “We may as well shut down,” Melon Head answered her, almost shouting, backing toward the door. “You should leave too. All the main radios and phones are shot to hell. What’s the difference?”

  The internal emergency lights were off now, the main lights working. Two flashlights no one noticed still glowed from atop a main console. Everon stepped over and turned them off.

  “You can’t go,” the Asian woman said back. “FAA regulations—”

  “Hey! You’re single! We’ve got families to consider! No one can force us to stay here!” He turned to Everon. “This the guy? You fixed the generator?” He head-pointed toward the radio the woman was holding. “That your radio?”

  “That’s right,” John Coates answered for Everon.

  “Well, thank YOU!” The melon-headed man’s retort was pure sarcasm. “Beats the hell out of the light gun—or throwing stones at planes and shouting Hey you!” He stared at them coldly, face pinched tight. “Twelve crashes in one night!”

  Everon’s eyebrows rose. Double the number Coates said a little while ago!

  “Probable crashes!” the woman said back, turning to Everon, holding up the handheld radio he’d loaned them. “At least we’re getting their calls now.”

  “Yeah,” said Melon Head, “they start with ‘ . . . Declaring an emergency!’ then, ‘Going down! . . . systems out!’ . . . and that’s the last we hear of them.” He was almost crying.

  Everon could see the blue runway lights glowing outside on the field full strength. There was no time to waste listening to them argue. Cyn could be trapped, maybe dying. He walked over to Colonel Marsh.

  “I’m a pilot. My brother and I have a helicopter we can take in for a rescue mission. Can I get clearance into the city to look for our sister?”

  “Afraid not,” Marsh replied. “I have orders to lock this place down. Only official Emergency Medical Service flights. The government has to respond definitively to this threat.”

  “But—”

  “Under martial law, a series of new emergency restrictions are being put in place for everyone’s protection. Increased aircraft and airport security measures, tightened controls of highways. We’re to begin regulating all traffic at shipping ports of entry, bus stations, train stations. And airports. Sundown curfews will be enforced by tomorrow night.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Everon said, trying to control his voice. “What good will that do? It’s not an invasion! We’ve been bombed!”

  “We don’t know that definitively,” Marsh disagreed. “There could be more coming.”

  “You’ve got millions of desperate people out there—just trying to get away from the fallout!”

  “I understand, sir, but we’ve got to prevent looting and keep society as stable as possible.”

  “Aren’t you setting up awfully close here? These hospital tents? What about the nuclear cloud? It’s out there.”

  “Conditions are stable. It’s scheduled to blow east all night.”

  “But tomorrow—”

  “Let us worry about that.”

  “You didn’t even bring any engineers or electricians!”

  “We’re only here to guard things, to coordinate military flights and authorizations.”

  “You see!” Melon Head yelled, fingers splayed, palms upraised, hands circling crazily. “They don’t need us here! I can’t take any more!”

  He spun, leaving the room at a dead run. The metal door slammed hard behind him, but the latch failed to catch in the frame and it clanged and chattered back halfway open. Footsteps echoed down the metal stairwell.

  No one moved to close it.

  John Coates glanced at Colonel Marsh then turned to the female controller and shrugged. “Bob has a point you know, Sue. There aren’t going to be many flights authorized.”

  Everon didn’t know which way to turn. He had to find a way in.

  Loss And Desertion

  From the Learjet’s doorway Franklin listened to his heart pounding in his chest and worried over the distant flames that lit the sky. A million voices screaming for help. Is Cynthia’s still among them?

  He checked his wristwatch. 1:00 A.M. and we’re no closer to getting in. He turned to his bag, dug out his portable radio and handed it to Andréa. It took her several minutes to tune in a faint and staticky station:

  “Pack clothing, blankets, sleeping bags. Medicines, shaving kits and cosmetics; infant formula and diapers. Remember to bring your checkbook, credit cards, cash and important papers. A portable radio. A flashlight and batteries may be useful. Remain calm. You have ample time to leave.”

  Like Hell they do, Franklin thought. What about Cyn?

  “Ignore rumors. Stay tuned to this local Emergency Alert Station for further instructions—”

  The voice suddenly changed.

  “ . . . then at this moment, President Wall, the Cabinet, all locatable members of Congress are being transported to an undisclosed location?”

  “That’s what we understand, Brian. Goal number one is to protect the government.”

  “All right, then, Art. The question everybody is asking: Who the hell did it?”

  “The FBI, CIA and the NSA are right on top of this thing. There are a lot of countries out there who hate us: Iran for one, North Korea for another. Syria. Even certain factions inside China and Saudi Arabia—though the U.S. does a lot of business with both of them. India and Pakistan have the bomb, but experts feel their involvement is unlikely. We supply each of them with thousands of tons of food and financial aid every year. If—”

  They don’t know anything!

  Franklin stepped outside into the cold and shivered. He couldn’t listen to any more of it. With each passing moment, he could feel his sister’s life slipping away.

  Cynthia!

  He looked east, watched the unnatural glow while his frustration boiled over. New York’s right there!

  He’d never really understood fear before. Now he did. Being helpless to head off the vast unknown.

  Then he watched tonight’s chance of getting into the city go from bad to a whole lot worse: An old green jeep with white stars on its doors roared through the airport gate, followed by a cloth-covered transport truck.

  The military had arrived.

  Orders were shouted. Twenty soldiers disembarked from the back of the green fabric-covered transport. They began to erect huge tents.

  Franklin understood the military mind. Order and control. Things that will prevent us from going to look for Cynthia!

  But Everon’s got us a way in! All we need is clearance!

  His eyes were drawn back to the distant glow. He stretched out a hand.

  She could be dying!

  He couldn’t think.

  Franklin walked behind the jet, along the frozen grass by the taxiway, tying back his dark hair with a spare piece of climbing cord fished from his pocket.

  He sat down forcefully on the cold ground, lay back, put his hands behind
his head and pulled his legs up.

  Into a crunch. One . . .

  Two . . .

  Three . . .

  He began breathing harder, rising faster. Down-up, his stomach nothing but a series of tight ripples, feeling his breath burst from his mouth in the cold night air.

  He watched another of the Red Cross helicopters womp in overhead from the city. Imagined riding inside, going back into the city with it.

  Twenty-four . . . twenty-five. He started over.

  One . . . two . . . Franklin’s thick dark hair came loose now, flowing about his neck. The same helicopter returned from somewhere behind him. Landing. A fuel truck roared up beneath its blades.

  A few minutes—fuel up, restart, take off for the city again. How do they know who has clearance and who doesn’t?

  He rose and pulled down his leather jacket, heart speeding. He ran along the fence, past the unmanned security booth, through the airport gate. Along the chain-link fence, in the direction he’d seen the helicopter return from.

  When he reached the corner, he saw a sign inside the fence near the runway’s end. A notice to pilots:

  Hospital Below Flight Path

  Climb To 1500 Feet

  Follow 040 Degrees Immediately After Liftoff

  The streets were littered with abandoned cars. A car drove past. And again there was only starlight.

  Another chopper in from the city whirred loudly overhead. He ran, following the concrete sidewalk after it.

  High on the hill, it slid overtop a large square building and disappeared.

  What’s he looking at now? The radio trickle chargers. Their small cube power supplies were black blobs of melted plastic. From the moment he walked in the room, the chief controller Sue felt bad for the incredible-looking green-eyed man.

  He’d given up his own radio and now he’d fixed their backup generator. Despite the horrible circumstances, he appeared to be controlling his anger, doing whatever he could figure out to do. Like if he can just fix enough stuff we’ll let him go into the city.

  The city’s glow lit the side of his face, luminesced his eyes. Two years ago, Sue and her three girlfriends had flown down to Puerto Rico. The water off the beach had been that exact same shade of startling green. So what if he was a foot taller than her own five-two.