"Is this really necessary?" Peter Evans said, with a worried look.
"It is," Kenner said.
"But it's illegal," Evans said.
"It's not," Kenner said firmly.
"Because you are a law-enforcement officer?" Evans said.
"Of course. Don't worry about it."
They were flying in over Los Angeles, approaching the runway at Van Nuys. The California sun shone through the windows. Sanjong was hunched over the dining table in the middle of the plane. In front of him lay Evans's cell phone, the back removed. Sanjong was attaching a thin gray plate the size of his thumbnail right on top of the battery.
"But what exactly is it?" Evans said.
"Flash memory," Sanjong said. "It'll record four hours of conversation in a compressed format."
"I see," Evans said. "And what am I supposed to do?"
"Just carry the phone in your hand, and go about your business."
"And if I get caught?" he said.
"You won't get caught," Kenner said. "You can take it anywhere. You'll go right through any security, no problem."
"But if they have bug sweepers amp;"
"They won't detect you, because you're not transmitting anything. It's got a burst transmitter. For two seconds every hour, it transmits. The rest of the time, nothing." Kenner sighed. "Look, Peter. It's just a cell phone. Everyone has them."
"I don't know," Evans said. "I feel bad about this. I mean, I'm not a stool pigeon."
Sarah came to the back, yawning, clearing her ears. "Who's a stool pigeon?"
"It's how I feel," Evans said.
"That's not the issue," Kenner said. "Sanjong?"
Sanjong took out a printed list, passed it to Evans. It was Morton's original sheet, now with additions to it:
662262
3982293
24FXE
62262
82293
TERROR
Mt. Terror, Antarctica
882320
4898432
12FXE
82232
54393
SNAKE
Snake Butte, Arizona
774548
9080799
02FXE
67533
43433
LAUGHER
Laugher Cay, Bahamas
482320
5898432
22FXE
72232
04393
SCORPION
Resolution, Solomon Is.
ALT
662262
3982293
24FXE
62262
82293
TERROR
Mt. Terror, Antarctica
382320
4898432
12FXE
82232
54393
SEVER
Sever City, Arizona
244548
9080799
02FXE
67533
43433
CONCH
Conch Cay, Bahamas
482320
5898432
22FXE
72232
04393
SCORPION
Resolution, Solomon Is.
ALT
662262
3982293
24FXE
62262
82293
TERROR
Mt. Terror, Antarctica
382320
4898432
12FXE
82232
54393
BUZZARD
Buzzard Gulch, Utah
444548
7080799
02FXE
67533
43433
OLD MAN
Old Man Is., Turks amp; Caicos
482320
5898432
22FXE
72232
04393
SCORPION
Resolution, Solomon Is.
ALT
662262
3982293
24FXE
62262
82293
TERROR
Mt. Terror, Antarctica
382320
4898432
12FXE
82232
54393
BLACK MESA
Black Mesa, New Mexico
344548
9080799
02FXE
67533
43433
SNARL
Snarl Cay, BWI
482320
5898432
22FXE
72232
04393
SCORPION
Resolution, Solomon Is.
"As you see, Sanjong has identified the precise GPS locations," Kenner said. "You've undoubtedly noticed a pattern in the list. The first incident we know about. The second incident will take place somewhere in the American deserteither Utah, Arizona, or New Mexico. The third incident will be somewhere in the Caribbean, east of Cuba. And the fourth incident will be in the Solomon Islands."
"Yes? So?"
"Our concern right now is for the second incident," Kenner said. "And the problem is that from Utah to Arizona to New Mexico there are fifty thousand square miles of desert. Unless we can get additional information, we'll never find these guys."
"But you have exact GPS locations amp;"
"Which they will undoubtedly change, now that they know of the trouble in Antarctica."
"You think they have already changed plans?"
"Of course. Their network knew something was wrong as soon as we arrived at Weddell yesterday. I think that's why the first guy left. I think he's actually the leader of the three. The other two were just foot soldiers."
"So you want me to go see Drake," Evans said.
"Right. And find out whatever you can."
"I hate this," Evans said.
"I understand," Kenner said. "But we need you to do it."
Evans looked at Sarah, who was rubbing her eyes, still sleepy. He was annoyed to see that she had arisen from her bed perfectly composed, her face uncreased, beautiful as ever. "How are you?" he said to her.
"I need to brush my teeth," she said. "How long until we land?"
"Ten minutes."
She got up, and walked to the back of the plane.
Evans looked out the window. The sunlight was glaring, harsh. He hadn't had enough sleep. The line of stitches in his scalp pinched. His body ached from being wedged in the damned crevasse for so long. Just to rest his elbow on the armrest of the seat was painful.
He sighed.
"Peter," Kenner said, "those guys tried to kill you. I wouldn't be too careful about the niceties when you fight back."
"Maybe so, but I'm a lawyer."
"And you could be a dead lawyer," Kenner said. "I don't advise it."
It was with a sense of unreality that Peter Evans merged his hybrid car onto the San Diego freeway, twelve lanes of roaring traffic on an expanse of concrete as wide as half a football field. Sixty-five percent of the surface area of Los Angeles was devoted to cars. People had to wedge themselves in what little was left. It was an inhuman design and it was environmentally absurd. Everything was so far apart, you couldn't walk anywhere, the pollution was incredible.
And people like Kenner did nothing but criticize the good work of environmental organizations, without whose efforts the environment of a place like Los Angeles would be much, much worse.
Face it, he thought. The world needed help. It desperately needed an environmental perspective. And nothing in Kenner's smooth manipulation of facts would change that truth.
His thoughts rambled on in this way for another ten minutes, until he crossed Mulholland Pass and came down toward Beverly Hills.
He looked at the passenger seat beside him. The doctored cell phone glinted in the sunlight. He decided to take it to Drake's office right away. Get this whole thing over with.
He telephoned Drake's office and asked to talk to him; he was told Drake was at the dentist and would return later in the day. The secretary wasn't sure exactly when.
Evans decided to go to his apartment and take a shower.
He parked in the garage and walked through the little garden to his apartment. The sun was shining down between the buildings; the roses were in bloom, beautiful. The only thing that marred it, he thought, was the lingering odor of cigar smoke in the air. It was offensive to think that somebody had smoked a cigar and that what remained was "Sssst! Evans!"
He paused. He looked around. He could see nothing.
Evans heard an intense whisper, like a hiss: "Turn right. Pick a damn rose."
"What?"
"Don't talk, you idiot. And stop looking around. Come over here and pick a rose."
Evans moved toward the voice. The cigar smell was stronger. Behind the tangle of the bushes, he saw an old stone bench that he had never noticed before. It was crusted with algae. Hunched down on the bench was a man in a sportcoat. Smoking a cigar.
"Who are"
"Don't talk," the man whispered. "How many times do I have to tell you. Take the rose, and smell it. That'll give you a reason to stay a minute. Now listen to me. I'm a private investigator. I was hired by George Morton."
Evans smelled the rose. Inhaling cigar smoke.
"I have something important for you," the guy said. "I'll bring it to your apartment in two hours. But I want you to leave again, so they'll follow you. Leave your door unlocked."
Evans turned the rose in his fingers, pretending to examine it. In fact, he was looking past the rose at the man on the bench. The man's face was familiar, somehow. Evans was sure he had seen him before amp; "Yeah, yeah," the man said, as if reading his thoughts. He turned his lapel, to show a badge. "AV Network Systems. I was working in the NERF building. Now you remember, right? Don't nod. For Christ's sake. Just go upstairs, change your clothes, and leave for a while. Go to the gym or whatever. Just go. These assholes" he jerked his head toward the street "have been waitin' for you. So don't disappoint them. Now go."
His apartment had been put back together very well. Lisa had done a good jobthe slashed cushions had been flipped over; the books were back in the bookcase. They were out of order, but he would deal with that later.
From the large windows in his living room, Evans looked out toward the street. He could see nothing except the green expanse of Roxbury Park. The kids playing at midday. The clusters of gossiping nannies. There was no sign of surveillance.
It looked perfectly normal.
Self-consciously, he started unbuttoning his shirt, and turned away. He went to the shower, letting the hot spray sting his body. He looked at his toes, which were dark purple, a worrisome, unnatural color. He wiggled them. He didn't have much sensation, but other than that, they seemed to be all right.
He toweled off, and checked his messages. There was a call from Janis, asking if he was free tonight. Then another, nervous one from her, saying her boyfriend had just come back into town and she was busy (which meant, don't call her back). There was a call from Lisa, Herb Lowenstein's assistant, asking where he was. Lowenstein wanted to go over some documents with him; it was important. A call from Heather, saying that Lowenstein was looking for him. A call from Margo Lane, saying she was still in the hospital and why hadn't he called her back? A call from his client the BMW dealer, asking when he was coming to the showroom.
And about ten hang-ups. Far more than he usually had.
The hang-ups gave him a creepy feeling.
Evans dressed quickly, putting on a suit and tie. He came back into the living room and, feeling uneasy, clicked on the television set, just in time for the local noon news. He was heading for the door when he heard: "Two new developments emphasize once again the dangers of global warming. The first study, out of England, says global warming is literally changing the rotation of the Earth, shortening the length of our day."
Evans turned back to look. He saw two co-anchors, a man and a woman. The man was explaining that even more dramatic was a study that showed that the Greenland ice cap was going to melt entirely away. That would cause sea levels to rise twenty feet.
"So, I guess it's good-bye Malibu!" the anchor said cheerfully. Of course, that wouldn't happen for a few years yet. "But it's coming amp;unless we all change our ways."
Evans turned away from the television and headed for the door. He wondered what Kenner would have to say about this latest news. Changing the rotation speed of the Earth? He shook his head at the sheer enormity of it. And melting all the ice in Greenland? Evans could imagine Kenner's discomfiture.
But then, he'd probably just deny it all, the way he usually did.
Evans opened the door, carefully ensured that it would remain unlocked, closed it behind him, and headed for his office.
He ran into Herb Lowenstein in the hall, walking toward a conference room. "Jesus," Lowenstein said, "where the hell have you been, Peter? Nobody could find you."
"I've been doing a confidential job for a client."
"Well next time tell your damn secretary how to reach you. You look like shit. What happened, you get in a fight or something? And what's that above your ear? Jesus, are those stitches?"
"I fell."
"Uh-huh. What client were you doing this confidential job for?"
"Nick Drake, actually."
"Funny. He didn't mention it."
"No?"
"No, and he just left. I spent the whole morning with him. He's very unhappy about the document rescinding the ten-million-dollar grant from the Morton Foundation. Especially that clause."
"I know," Evans said.
"He wants to know where the clause came from."
"I know."
"Where did it come from?"
"George asked me not to divulge that."
"George is dead."
"Not officially."
"This is bullshit, Peter. Where did the clause come from?"
Evans shook his head. "I'm sorry, Herb. I have specific instructions from the client."
"We're in the same firm. And he's my client, too."
"He instructed me in writing, Herb."
"In writing? Horseshit. George didn't write anything."
"Handwritten note," Evans said.
"Nick wants the terms of the document broken."
"I'm sure he does."
"And I told him we'd do that for him," Lowenstein said.
"I don't see how."
"Morton was not in his right mind."
"But he was, Herb," Evans said. "You'll be taking ten million out of his estate and if anybody whispers in the ear of his daughter"
"She's a total cokehead"
"who goes through cash like a monkey through bananas. And if anybody whispers in her ear, this firm will be liable for the ten million, and for punitive damages for conspiracy to defraud. Have you talked to the other senior partners about this course of action?"
"You're being obstructive."
"I'm being cautious. Maybe I should express my concerns in an e-mail to you."
"This is not how you advance in this firm, Peter."
Evans said, "I think I am acting in the firm's best interest. I certainly don't see how you can abrogate this document without, at the very least, first obtaining written opinions from attorneys outside the firm."
"But no outside attorney would countenance" He broke off. He glared at Evans. "Drake is going to want to talk to you about this."
"I'll be happy to do that."
"I'll tell him you'll call."
"Fine."
Lowenstein stalked off. Then he turned back. "And what was all that business about the police and your apartment?"
"My apartment was robbed."
"For what? Drugs?"
"No, Herb."
"My assistant had to leave the office to help you with a police matter."
"That's true. As a personal favor. And it was after hours, if I recall."
Lowenstein snorted, and stomped off down the hall.
Evans made a mental note to call Drake. And get this entire business behind him.
In the hot midday sun, Kenner parked his car in the downtown lot and walked with Sarah out onto the street. Heat shimmered off the pavement. The signs there were all in Spanish, except for a few English phrases"Checks Cashed" and "Money Loaned." From scratchy loudspeakers, mariachi music blared out.
Kenner said, "All set?"
Sarah checked the small sports bag on her shoulder. It had nylon mesh at either end. The mesh concealed the video lens. "Yes," she said. "I'm ready."
Together, they walked toward the large store on the corner, "Brader's Army/Navy Surplus."
Sarah said, "What're we doing here?"
"ELF purchased a large quantity of rockets," Kenner said.
She frowned. "Rockets?"
"Small ones. Lightweight. About two feet long. They're outdated versions of an '80s Warsaw Pact device called Hotfire. Handheld, wire-guided, solid propellant, range of about a thousand yards."
Sarah wasn't sure what all that meant. "So, these are weapons?"
"I doubt that's why they bought them."
"How many did they buy?"
"Five hundred. With launchers."
"Wow."
"Let's just say they're probably not hobbyists."
Above the doors, a banner in flaking yellow and green paint read, Camping Gear Paintball Paratrooper Jackets Compass Sleeping Bags Much, Much More!
The front door chimed as they went in.
The store was large and disorderly, filled with military stuff on racks and piled in untidy heaps on the floor. The air smelled musty, like old canvas. There were few people inside at this hour. Kenner walked directly to the kid at the cash register, flashed his wallet, and asked for Mr. Brader.
"In the back."
The kid smiled at Sarah. Kenner went to the back of the store. Sarah stayed at the front.
"So," she said. "I need a little help."
"Do my best." He grinned. He was a crew-cut kid, maybe nineteen or twenty. He had a black T-shirt that said "The Crow." His arms looked like he worked out.
"I'm trying to find a guy," Sarah said, and slid a sheet of paper toward him.
"You think any guy would be trying to find you," the kid said. He picked up the paper. It showed a photograph of the man they knew as Brewster, who had set up camp in Antarctica.
"Oh yeah," the kid said immediately. "Sure, I know him. He comes in sometimes."
"What's his name?"
"I don't know, but he's in the store now."
"Now?" She glanced around for Kenner, but he was in the back, huddled with the owner. She didn't want to call to him or do anything to cause attention.
The kid was standing on tiptoes, looking around. "Yeah, he's here. I mean, he was in here a few minutes ago. Came in to buy some timers."
"Where are your timers?"
"I'll show you." He came around the counter, and led her through the stacks of green clothing and the boxes piled seven feet high. She couldn't see over them. She could no longer see Kenner.
The kid glanced over his shoulder at her. "What are you, like a detective?"
"Sort of."
"You want to go out?"
They were moving deeper into the store when they heard the chime of the front door. She turned to look. Over stacks of flak jackets, she had a glimpse of a brown head, a white shirt with a red collar, and the door closing.
"He's leaving amp;"
She didn't think. She just turned and sprinted for the door. The bag banged against her hip. She jumped over stacked canteens, running hard.
"Hey," the kid yelled behind her. "You coming back?"
She banged through the door.
She was out on the street. Glaring hot sun and shoving crowds. She looked left and right. She didn't see the white shirt and red collar anywhere. There hadn't been time for him to cross the street. She looked around the corner, and saw him strolling casually away from her, toward Fifth Street. She followed him.
He was a man of about thirty-five, dressed in cheap golf-type clothes. His pants were rumpled. He wore dirty hiking boots. He had tinted glasses and a small, trim moustache. He looked like a guy who spent a lot of time outdoors, but not a construction guymore of a supervisor. Maybe a building contractor. Building inspector. Something like that.
She tried to notice the details, to remember them. She gained on him, then decided that was a bad idea, and dropped back. "Brewster" stopped in front of one window and looked at it intently for a few moments, then went on.
She came to the window. It was a crockery store, displaying cheap plates. She wondered, then, if he already knew he was being followed.
To trail a terrorist on a downtown street felt like something out of a movie, but it was more frightening than she anticipated. The surplus store seemed very far behind her. She didn't know where Kenner was. She wished he were here. Also, she was hardly inconspicuous; the crowd on the sidewalk was largely Hispanic, and Sarah's blond head stuck up above most people's.
She stepped off the curb, and walked along the street gutter, hanging at the edge of the crowd. That way she lost six inches of height. But still, she was uncomfortably aware that her hair was distinctively blonde. But there was nothing she could do about that.
She let Brewster get twenty yards ahead of her. She didn't want to allow more distance than that because she was afraid she'd lose him.
Brewster crossed Fifth Street, and continued on. He went another half a block, and then turned left, down an alley. Sarah got to the alley entrance, and paused. There were garbage bags stacked at intervals. She could smell the rotten odor from where she was. A big delivery truck blocked the far end of the alley.
And no Brewster.
He had vanished.
It wasn't possible, unless he had walked through one of the back doors that opened onto the alley. There were doors every twenty feet or so, many of them recessed into the brick wall.
She bit her lip. She didn't like the idea that she couldn't see him. But there were delivery men down at the truck amp;.
She started down the alley.
She looked at each door as she passed it. Some were boarded shut, some were locked. A few had grimy signs giving the name of the firm, and saying USE FRONT ENTRANCE OR PRESS BELL FOR SERVICE.
No Brewster.
She had gotten halfway down the alley when something made her look back. She was just in time to see Brewster step out of a doorway and head back to the street, moving quickly away from her.
She ran.
As she passed the doorway, she saw an elderly woman standing in the door. The sign on the door said, Munro Silk and Fabrics.
"Who is he?" she shouted.
The old woman shrugged, shaking her head. "Wrong door. They all do" She said something more, but by then Sarah couldn't hear.
She was back on the sidewalk, still running. Heading toward Fourth. She could see Brewster half a block ahead. He was walking quickly, almost a jog.
He crossed Fourth. A pickup truck pulled over to the side, a few yards ahead. It was battered blue, with Arizona license plates. Brewster jumped in the passenger side, and the truck roared off.
Sarah was scribbling down the license plate when Kenner's car screeched to a stop alongside her. "Get in."
She did, and he accelerated forward.
"Where were you?" she said.
"Getting the car. I saw you leave. Did you film him?"
She had forgotten all about the bag on her shoulder. "Yes, I think so."
"Good. I got a name for this guy, from the store owner."
"Yes?"
"But it's probably an alias. David Poulson. And a shipping address."
"For the rockets?"
"No, for the launch stands."
"Where?"
Kenner said, "Flagstaff, Arizona."
Ahead, they saw the blue pickup.
They followed the pickup down Second, past the Los Angeles Times building, past the criminal courts, and then onto the freeway. Kenner was skilled; he managed to stay well back, but always kept the truck in sight.
"You've done this before," Sarah said.
"Not really."
"What is that little card you show everybody?"
Kenner pulled out his wallet, and handed it to her. There was a silver badge, looking roughly like a police badge, except it said "NSIA" on it. And there was an official license for "National Security Intelligence Agency," with his photograph.
"I've never heard of the National Security Intelligence Agency."
Kenner nodded, took the wallet back.
"What does it do?"
"Stays below the radar," Kenner said. "Have you heard from Evans?"
"You don't want to tell me?"
"Nothing to tell," Kenner said. "Domestic terrorism makes domestic agencies uncomfortable. They're either too harsh or too lenient. Everyone in NSIA is specially trained. Now, call Sanjong and read him the license plate on that pickup, see if he can trace it."
"So you do domestic terrorism?"
"Sometimes."
Ahead, the pickup truck moved onto the Interstate 5 freeway, heading east, past the clustered yellowing buildings of County General Hospital.
"Where are they going?" she said.
"I don't know," he said. "But this is the road to Arizona."
She picked up the phone and called Sanjong.
Sanjong wrote down the license, and called back in less than five minutes. "It's registered to the Lazy-Bar Ranch, outside Sedona," he told Kenner. "It's apparently a guest ranch and spa. The truck hasn't been reported stolen."
"Okay. Who owns the ranch?"
"It's a holding company: Great Western Environmental Associates. They own a string of guest ranches in Arizona and New Mexico."
"Who owns the holding company?"
"I'm checking on that, but it'll take some time."
Sanjong hung up.
Ahead, the pickup truck moved into the right lane, and turned on its blinker.
"It's pulling off the road," Kenner said.
They followed the truck through an area of seedy industrial parks. Sometimes the signs said sheet works or machine tooling, but most of the buildings were blocky and unrevealing. The air was hazy, almost a light fog.
After two miles, the truck turned right again, just past a sign that said ltsi corp. And beneath that, a small picture of an airport, with an arrow.
"It must be a private airfield," Kenner said.
"What's LTSI?" she said.
He shook his head. "I don't know."
Farther down the road, they could see the little airfield, with several small prop planes, Cessnas and Pipers, parked to one side. The truck drove up and parked alongside a twin-engine plane.
"Twin Otter," Kenner said.
"Is that significant?"
"Short takeoff, large payload. It's a workhorse aircraft. Used for fire-fighting, all sorts of things."
Brewster got out of the truck, and walked to the cockpit of the plane. He spoke briefly to the pilot. Then he got back in the truck, and drove a hundred yards down the road, pulling up in front of a huge rectangular shed of corrugated steel. There were two other trucks parked alongside it. The sign on the shed said ltsi, in big blue letters.
Brewster got out of the truck, and came around the back as the driver of the truck got out.
"Son of a bitch," Sarah said.
The driver was the man they knew as Bolden. He was now wearing jeans, a baseball cap, and sunglasses, but there was no doubt about his identity.
"Easy," Kenner said.
They watched as Brewster and Bolden walked into the shed through a narrow door. The door closed behind them with a metallic clang.
Kenner turned to Sarah. "You stay here."
He got out of the car, walked quickly to the shed, and went inside.
She sat in the passenger seat, shading her eyes against the sun, and waited. The minutes dragged. She squinted at the sign on the side of the shed, because she could detect small white lettering beneath the large ltsi initials. But she was too far away to make out what it said.
She thought of calling Sanjong, but didn't. She worried about what would happen if Brewster and Bolden came out, but Kenner remained inside. She would have to follow them alone. She couldn't let them get away amp;.
That thought led her to slide over into the driver's seat. She rested her hands on the wheel. She looked at her watch. Surely nine or ten minutes had already passed. She scanned the shed for any sign of activity, but the building was clearly made to be as unobtrusive and as unrevealing as possible.
She looked at her watch again.
She began to feel like a coward, just sitting there. All her life, she had confronted the things that frightened her. That was why she had learned to ski black diamond ice, to rock climb (even though she was too tall), to scuba dive wrecks.
Now, she was just sitting in a hot car, waiting as the minutes ticked by.
The hell with it, she thought. And she got out of the car.
At the door to the shed, there were two small signs. One said ltsi lightning test systems international. The second said warning: do not enter test bed during discharge intervals.
Whatever that meant.
Sarah opened the door cautiously. There was a reception area, but it was deserted. On a plain wooden desk was a handwritten sign and a buzzer. PRESS BUZZER FOR ASSISTANCE.
She ignored the buzzer, and opened the inner door, which was ominously marked:
She went through the door and came into an open, dimly lit industrial spacepipes on the ceiling, a catwalk, rubber-tile floor underfoot. It was all quite dark except for a two-story glass-walled chamber in the center, which was brightly lit. It was a fairly large space, roughly the size of her living room. Inside the chamber she saw what looked like an airplane jet engine, mounted on a small section of wing. At the side of the room was a large metal plate, set against the wall. And outside the room was a control panel. A man was sitting in front of the panel. Brewster and Bolden were nowhere to be seen.
Inside the room, a recessed monitor screen flashed clear area now. A computer voice said, "Please clear the test area. Testing begins in amp;thirty seconds." Sarah heard a slowly building whine, and the chugging of a pump. But nothing was happening that she could see.
Curious, she moved forward.
"Ssst!"
She looked around, but could not see where the sound was coming from.
"Ssst!"
She looked up. Kenner was above her, on the catwalk. He gestured for her to join him, pointing to a set of stairs at the corner of the room.
The computer voice said, "Testing begins in amp;twenty seconds."
She climbed the stairs and crouched beside Kenner. The whine had now built to a shriek, and the chugging was rapid, almost a continuous sound. Kenner pointed to the jet engine, and whispered, "They're testing airplane parts." He explained quickly that airplanes were frequently struck by lightning, and all their components had to be lightning proof. He said something else, too, but she couldn't really hear him over the increasing noise.
Inside the center room, the lights went off, leaving just a faint blue glow over the jet engine and its smoothly curved cowling. The computer voice was counting backward from ten.
"Testing begins amp;now."
There was a snap! so loud it sounded like a gunshot, and a bolt of lightning snaked out from the wall and struck the engine. It was immediately followed by more bolts from the other walls, striking the engine from all sides. The lightning crackled over the cowling in jagged white-hot fingers, then abruptly shot down to the floor, where Sarah saw a dome-shaped piece of metal about a foot in diameter.
She noticed a few of the lightning bolts seemed to shoot directly to this dome, missing the engine entirely.
As the test continued, the lightning bolts grew thicker, brighter. They made a long crack! as they shot through the air, and etched black streaks over the metal cowl. The fan blades were struck by one bolt, causing the fan to spin silently.
As Sarah watched, it seemed as if more and more of the bolts did not strike the engine, but instead struck the small dome on the floor until finally there was a white spiderweb of lightning strikes, coming from all sides, going directly to the dome.
And then, abruptly, the test ended. The whining sound stopped, and the room lights came on. Faint, hazy smoke rose from the engine cowling. Sarah looked over at the console, and saw Brewster and Bolden standing behind the seated technician. All three men walked into the central room, where they crouched beneath the engine and inspected the metal dome.
"What is it?" Sarah whispered.
Kenner put a finger to his lips, and shook his head. He looked unhappy.
Inside the room, the men upended the dome, and Sarah had a glimpse of its complexitygreen circuit boards and shiny metal attachments. But the men were clustered around it, talking excitedly, and it was hard for her to see. Then they put the dome back down on the floor again, and walked out of the room.
They were laughing and slapping each other on the back, apparently very pleased with the test. She heard one of them say something about buying a round of beer, and there was more laughter, and they walked out through the front door. The test area was silent.
They heard the outer door slam shut.
She and Kenner waited.
She looked at Kenner. He waited, motionless for a full minute, just listening. Then, when they still heard nothing, he said, "Let's have a look at that thing."
They climbed down from the catwalk.
On the ground level, they saw and heard nothing. The facility was apparently deserted. Kenner pointed to the inner chamber. They opened the door, and went inside.
The interior of the chamber was bright. There was a sharp smell in the air.
"Ozone," Kenner said. "From the strikes."
He walked directly to the dome on the floor.
"What do you think it is?" Sarah said.
"I don't know, but it must be a portable charge generator." He crouched, turned the dome over. "You see, if you can generate a strong enough negative charge"
He broke off. The dome was empty. Its electronic innards had been removed.
With a clang, the door behind them slammed shut.
Sarah whirled. Bolden was on the other side of the door, calmly locking it with a padlock.
"Oh shit," she said. Over at the console she saw Brewster, turning knobs, flipping switches. He flicked an intercom.
"There's no trespassing in this facility, folks. It's clearly marked. Guess you didn't read the signs amp;"
Brewster stepped away from the console. The room lights went dark blue. Sarah heard the start of the whine, beginning to build. The screen flashed clear area now. And she heard a computer voice say, "Please clear the test area. Testing begins in amp;thirty seconds."
Brewster and Bolden walked out, without looking back.
Sarah heard Bolden say, "I hate the smell of burning flesh."
And they were gone, slamming the door.
The computer voice said, "Testing begins in amp;fifteen seconds."
Sarah turned to Kenner. "What do we do?"
Outside the facility, Bolden and Brewster got into their car. Bolden started the engine. Brewster put a hand on the other man's shoulder.
"Let's just wait a minute."
They watched the door. A red light began to flash, slowly at first, then faster and faster.
"Test has started," Brewster said.
"Damn shame," Bolden said. "How long you figure they can survive?"
"One bolt, maybe two. But by the third one, they're definitely dead. And probably on fire."
"Damn shame," Bolden said again. He put the car in gear, and drove toward the waiting airplane.