“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.”