“This kind of damage all over the Williams system,” Nick agreed, “we’re miles from where the bombs went off. The New York bomb must have been bigger than Nagasaki and Hiroshima put together.”
“Yeah. A lot bigger. Who knows what the bomb’s pulse would have done to someone if they’d been in here.”
Silently, Nick removed the melted cards. Threw them in a trash bag. He didn’t want to get Lama started.
“Too bad this place wasn’t disconnected like the Mercer plant,” Lama went on anyway as he connected the laptop’s power supply to an extension cord, cautiously connected the cord to the little generator. He came back in. “I still don’t get why someone would shut down Mercer. Ten minutes before New York went off? Do you think that guy in the Hummer took those computer disks?”
“I don’t know. But E wants us to hurry up on getting this stuff fixed.”
Lama hesitated, then huffed out a blast of air and started coding. With the phone lines down, he planned on transmitting data directly over the power lines — the same path the mysterious signal had taken that shut down Mercer.
“Eighty-nine . . . Ninety-one . . .” a smooth female voice called out. “Nick! Lama! Do you copy?”
Lama ran out to the Suburban and grabbed up the portable. Nick followed. “Enya! You’ve got the transmitter up!”
“Hold for E, Lama!” A moment later, Everon’s voice, “How’s Thomas look, Lama?”
Lama handed Nick the radio.
“Even though we’re closer to New York, the equipment’s not nearly as bad as Nicola, E. I don’t know why. We’ve got some burned relays and sensors.” He shined a flashlight above the control shed. “The comm antenna is melted — actually fused to the pole. And see if Scrounge has got a couple of SF6 hydraulic breaker pumps.”
“I got that, E, Nick!” Scrounge’s voice. “Give me half an hour.”
“Great!” Nick said. “We tested the transformer oil. We’re getting the middle transformer online ASAP. “Uh — E,” Nick added. “We had some TV reporters stop by.”
“You didn’t let them in?”
“We didn’t. But they might be headed your way.”
Lama reached for the radio. Nick handed it over.
“You know, E,” Lama said, “I’ve been thinking about that guy who pulled out of the lot in the Hummer when we pulled into Juniata —”
Everon cut him off. “Not now, Lama. Just get those control circuits going. Then you and Nick get over to Alessandro. Assuming the firemen saved it.”
Lama bit down on a retort, and blew out a sharp stressful breath, bunching his lips, walking back to his laptop, shaking his head.
Two hours later, their makeshift control circuit was ready to go. Nick and Lama left the others to the hours of work it would take to finish making Thomas ready to re-energize. But as soon as they had a working transformer, and power to push through it, Thomas could be controlled remotely from Juniata.
As they pulled out of the gate, Nick felt an almost physical sense that Lama was bursting to say something — about bombs and EMP, missing disks and unknown short, thick-necked computer hackers.
Nick stared at his friend and waited for it.
Lama opened his mouth. And then he closed it. And said nothing.
Instruction
For hours, Pang Zhou’s body stood rigid, hand frozen to the ship’s rail. But he himself was in a dark warm place.
Around him grew pain. Mind-numbing pain.
The darkness began to wane, and there was light at the end of a tunnel. An opening. He was moving, being pushed through it.
White! Brilliant light!
He heard a cry. It was his own! Blood was everywhere! His beautiful Japanese mother Kyoku! The higher-pitched screams were hers! She lay on her back, legs spread, abdomen cut open. An old woman sewing her up.
“Shr-wu-bahng!” a shocked voice called out in Chinese, lifting him into the air. “Fifteen pounds!”
They were speaking of him.
Kyoku brought Pang up alone in port city Changshu, on East China coast. And from early as he could remember, all he could hear was his mother’s voice. Talking, praying . . . telling how the family’s thousand year Chinese-Korean dynasty began — and ended . . . “Fortune lost, family emigrating to Japan . . . The Americans . . . Always the Americans . . . Always the sea!
“ . . . Refugee survivors of Nagasaki . . . Deserted on China mainland by Americans . . . then came The Three Alls — Loot All, Kill All, Burn All — by retreating Japanese,” . . . always his mother’s voice . . . “Always the Americans . . .”
How Zhou’s father Ulsan passed into Kami — “Mao’s Great Leap Forward — Ulsan Zhou’s great leap off building-side into nothing — suicide . . .” Kyoku’s soft clear tones, a whisper in the wind . . .
“Always the Americans . . . Always the sea . . .”
A Chinese man entered their little house. “Go outside and play,” Kyoku told him. He left, so hungry, his big body needing so much food.
Pang knew where the food came from.
“Quarter-breed! Quarter-breed of a comfort woman!” the boys on the street jeered while he waited — over and over. Taunting, insulting his once-proud ancestry.
He knew his mother heard them.
It felt so right to smash the boy’s face — over and over. Until friends pulled the bloody child from Zhou’s grasp.
They ran away.
“Tsai Chien — goodbye,” the man said to Kyoku, leaving his money on the dresser.
Kyoku rose from bed. While she pulled on the long white lotus petal kimono, the wind began to blow.
Minutes later the sea erupted in violent storm. “Always the sea!” Kyoku hurried out of the little house to find Pang.
Nowhere was her son. Kyoku was Pang! Pang was her!
Yet something forced her head to turn — to look fifty meters east at the narrow beach. At her huge young boy in the pouring rain.
“Pang!” she screamed. “Pang! Come in!”
The sky split! The bolt came — not down — upward! Out of her son’s right shoulder golden fire rose into the cloud-dark sky!
She could no longer see.
She ran. Tripping, mud coating her long white kimono. “Surely he is dead! He must be dead!”
She found him in a pool of water, face down. Black flesh of his back burst wide. Her frightened finger touching the skin’s cooked, charcoal edge. Jerking back as Pang slowly rolled his small young face to hers.
“MOTHER!” his voice croaked . . . “I am GOD!”
From that day on, his mother prayed silently — but she never spoke again.
Six years later Kyoku and Pang removed an offering to the beach. Offering the Kami what was best of their pitiful food — rice and fruit. Some of the smoky da zao dates. Buried in the earth, at the spot where the lightning had risen from Zhou’s body.
The next day Kyoku died.
From that first stolen boat, Pang Zhou cast her body into the sea.
Always the sea!
That very night father Ulsan came to Pang upon the spirit plane.
To control wind, to navigate, his father’s Kami presented its first gift: A companion. A fish owl. A beautiful brown bird named Ting.
And something else, an even greater gift: America was to be his, upon which to seek the family’s revenge. To restore ancestral honor.
“Always remember, Pang, my son: Always the Americans! Always the Sea!”
An uneven vibration pushed through Zhou. This was no dream of a distant past. This was a vision of his future. He was floating . . . across a flowing sea of white.
Wheels? White sea?
Zhou could not understand. Wheels — on white . . . water? What does this mean?
And then he knew, and with the sudden jar of his body’s convulsion, the Pali Kongju released him. His ship! He was returned! For hours the crew had probably been afraid to touch him. He could barely move. His hand was frozen to the rail.
But he could feel the c
hange. The air was growing warmer. Finally he knew what must be done. Exactly how the dark-haired man’s life would be forfeit! How Ting was to be restored.
Zhou worked his hand free. He took the outside stairs up to Norse Wind’s bridge. The radio had been dried. He stood next to where the radioman sat. “Out!” he commanded. The man tripped over his feet trying to get through the door fast enough.
Zhou set the radio to disable its external speaker. He took a black device from his pocket the size of a pack of cigarettes, and with a tiny cord attached it to the transmitter. He pulled a pair of headphones halfway onto his ears, pushed in a frequency only he knew. When he pressed a button on the device’s side, an annoying squeal came from the ear speakers.
Almost a minute went by before a red light on the device’s side glowed. The squeal died.
“Here,” a voice announced.
“A man is required,” Zhou transmitted back.
“What type?”
“As before. As the last you sent.”
“What happened to that one?”
“Dead.”
The voice on the other end of the radio paused. Then, “This will cause a delay?”
Zhou waited, not answering.
Finally the voice gave a new course. A location. “The replacement will meet you there. Saturday.”
“Payment?”
“On its way. Soon as you arrive.”
Zhou disconnected.
His head rotated. He looked west into the dark distance off Norse Wind’s starboard side. There must be a glow, he thought. Lights beyond the horizon’s sky? He felt the pull of destruction, as if he should reach out and grip the city, squeeze it in his fist — two more beasts of fire awaiting his command in the belly of the ship.
He shook his head in disappointment. We have already traveled beyond.
Go back! Go back now!
It was a feeling of seduction Pang Zhou had never known.
No. He heaved a deep breath. Shook his head. He had no care what the meal ticket wanted — though Zhou’s own hunger was certainly ravenous. Six, eight, ten million souls would never be enough — Zhou’s pain, that of his ancestral Kami would never abate. Always the Americans . . . But no, he could not move in that direction. Not yet.
If only those foul radio technicians had not stolen Ting! Taken Zhou’s guide to be possessed by the blue-eyed man!
Perhaps he should kill some of his crew. One of them had been involved, he was certain. Muslims! He’d like to kill them all.
What he needed now was the ship to be faster.
He swarmed down staircase after staircase. Into the engine room.
The men paled and shook when they saw his face. Yes, he still lived.
A violent splash of red. Screams among the running feet.
When Zhou was done, a single body lay on the engine room deck. A dark-haired Muslim boy of twenty-three.
Minutes later, again up on the damaged bridge, Zhou felt the wind blow harder upon his face. A surge in the engines, acceleration flowing upward through his shoes. Shr — yes! Killing does indeed make the ship go faster!
Ting was far away. But Zhou was coming soon.
Heart Of The Matter
A gaggle of male voices leapt from Enya’s scanner, trying to talk over each other:
“This is NA3 . . . Company 201 in Reed’s Gap —”
“Josh Larkin here with the 690, Roxbury, Pennsylvania —”
“This is Cheshire, change to frequency 153.770 —”
Fast as her pen would go, Enya jotted down call letters and names, fire station numbers, frequencies and fire locations. Most of the callers were male.
They probably imagined her smooth voice belonging to some ravishing female. Everyone said she had nice features: full lips, a small perfectly formed nose, the brownest eyes. Skin dark as warm Kahlúa, a drink she adored.
But at five-seven, and tipping the scale at two hundred pounds, Enya wasn’t likely to grace the cover of the swimsuit magazines anytime soon. A week ago she’d had her fiftieth birthday.
“NA5 . . . Ed here on 153.89 — KD7? Those are western call letters. What you doin’ in our neighborhood, sweetie? I’ve got some info on a fire under the lines over Marbury way — come on back, Enya.”
Not just fire departments, she realized. We overlooked the independent radio guys! She shook her head. Nobody’s more helpful than a ham. Most are survivalists. Most probably have their own backup generators. She quickly changed frequencies. “Thank you, Ed! What can you tell me?”
“Well, we had a big meltdown offa these towers. Our property backs up to a power line cut in the woods. My son had my little grandson playin’ out there in the snow when the dang thing came down. Cut his little ol’ snowman right in two, from its head right down through the big snowball on the bottom. Never saw anything like it. When the snow ’round the big wire was melted, it lit the grass afire! It’s out now, but it still smells real bad back there.”
“Can you give me an address?” Probably relieved just to hear a voice from the power company, she thought, even if we can’t say when his power will be back on.
“Sure thing.” I’m at 10347 Route 93. He called out a set of coordinates. “If you wanta stop by, angel, be glad to show ya. Say, if you want, hon, maybe I can run through some frequencies for ya, speed things up a little bit?”
“That would be just great, Ed. Thank you so much.”
“Ten-four, Enya — , back to ya in, say, an hour or so? ’Round 3 a.m. How’s that?”
“Just great, Ed. My callback frequency is 144.670. Talk to you soon!”
“Ed — out.”
Over the next half hour her callback list grew and grew. Twenty-nine fire departments. More than twenty hams. So did her list of electrically caused fires. In one case over in Towachie, six reports for the same fire. In each case she updated the Williams grid map, hoping to increase repair efficiency when they were able to start putting customers back on line.
She looked up to find Hunt’s mouse of a secretary Toni Sena, the only one who’d come back to work, knocking on her open door. Enya pulled one ear free of her headset.
“Sam and Ewing asked me to locate the big video monitors your crew brought,” Toni explained. “Do you know where —”
“Just a sec, hon.” Enya finished noting a fire close to Parish Substation on the map. Then set her headset on the desk.
In the front lobby, Enya and Toni attacked the stack of cardboard boxes with carpet knives, pulling off strips of tape, unfolding lids and fishing through the jumble of equipment inside. One contained keyboards and wireless mice. Another, laptop computers.
“Scrounge is usually so organized,” Enya huffed. “He marks everything. We didn’t have much time to pack.”
“This is ridiculous,” Toni said. “Let me go see exactly where they’re supposed to be.” She disappeared down the hall.
Maybe this one. Enya said to herself, straining to lift one big cardboard box atop another.
The room spun.
She sat back hard on one of the empty cartons behind her. Wheezing fast, face twisting, straining to take in air. A tremendous pain shot across her chest, down her left arm.
“The control room guys say — Enya!” Toni gasped. The little secretary rushed over.
The big woman sat massaging the loose flesh inside her left forearm. “Maybe I better . . . should be following . . . my doctor told me . . . losing a few pounds —”
“Enya! Are you all right?”
And then it hit again. The big woman fell backward.
“Help!” Toni ran screaming from the room. “Help me!”
First Look
The yoke felt light beneath Everon’s fingertips. Face fixed in concentration, eyes moving from the gauges — airspeed, turbine temperature and torque, especially the fuel gauge at three-quarters full — to the high-tension lines in the MD-900’s spotlight twenty yards below. He expected the night sky to remain empty. But it wouldn’t do
to slam into a tower, to snag a random tree branch.
Low altitude helicopter barnstorming was part of his past. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it, though it had been usually in places a lot warmer like the Gulf of Mexico. Freezing air whipped through the chopper. Everon wished he’d put on a second set of long underwear. Rani and Holmes studied the power lines through the open back cargo door.
Mile after mile of perfect aluminum-stainless conductor flowed underneath.
In the left seat, Nan cross-referenced a Williams grid map against a flight sectional. Everon was glad to have her there. Andréa had offered, “Like me to fly co-pilot?” But Nan had answered for him, “I’ve got it,” and smiled. “The guys are used to me. The MD-900’s only a four-person machine. Sorry you can’t go.”
Nan wasn’t sorry at all.
“You don’t know the way!” Andréa protested.
Nan smiled. “Not too complicated, is it? Just follow the power lines to whatever plant Turban decides to run up first.”
Andréa had spun away in a huff, back into Juniata Control.
Now as they followed the lines out to Mercer, Nan said over the intercom, “I don’t get it, E. There’s no damage here at all.”
“Yeah,” Rani agreed, “they look good.”
At least that’s something, Everon thought. But it is odd. Considering the destruction at Nicola, pieces of exploded transformer casing all over the yard. That weird log report too, shutting Mercer off before the bomb.
They’d fly the lines to the end. Then find out if Turban was making any progress restarting Mercer.
Everon glanced at the fuel gauge. The team’s fuel situation was becoming critical. The news at Whitpain Airport had been bad — much worse than he or Scrounge expected.
“Can’t do it,” Whitpain’s manager told them, shaking his head. “Can’t give you what I don’t have. Only three hundred gallons of diesel left in the tank.”
Search For Reason (State Of Reason Mystery, Book 2) Page 17
