Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(38)

It took a lot longer for Silverman to get to me than for her to get to him.

“Give Angie the camera. She’ll do you some good shots.”

She’d have no time for that. I expect he knew it, too, but he handed her the camera anyway. He started down the ladder, but as soon as he set foot in the boat, he panicked. I saw him stiffen up, clinging for a moment.

“Come on,” I said. “I’ve got you.”

Once he was down, he was fine. He took the oars and we rowed out to the middle of the pond. I was going to loop the cables back now, into the bank, and I didn’t want to be bothered rowing, too. The pattern was a little tricky here, but I reckoned we’d be good.

I said, “Not much boating in New York, then?”

I felt confident. I felt relaxed. A balloon bobbed in my face. I dropped the cable. Only this time round, it didn’t sink. It lay there on the surface of the water, gleaming like a silver snake. The balloon swung back and forth. Happy St. Pat’s! it said. I put my hand into the water. I tried to duck the cable under. There was an odd sensation—I pushed down and then, maybe a half a second later, I felt something pushing back. Resistance. Not strong. The cable sank, then drifted back up, broke the surface.

Ripples moved across the water. I saw the look on Silverman’s face—the understanding there was something wrong, and we were in the middle of it. I saw a moment’s fear. He pulled on one oar, clumsily, and it jumped out of the water, spraying us both.

“Relax,” I told him. “We’ve got time.”

The singing was louder now. If they were going to pull the curtains, they’d do it soon.

I said, “Take us to your left. We run this back to shore and then we’re done, OK?”

There was a sound like fish jumping, or raindrops falling, and the water climbed in little steeples, dragging itself up into the air and tumbling back, waves shimmering across the pond. Silverman made mouths at me. “We’re fine,” I said. We weren’t, but I wanted him calm.

I played out the rest of the cable. It was sinking now, but slowly. Balloons swayed on their strings, fancy colors dimmed to gray and silver in the darkness. Water slid like oil. It piled up, slow and lazy, then slackening and flowing away.

I said, “Let’s go.”

Silverman craned round, checking his direction. At the same time, the whole pond seemed to swell. We were slipping down the side of a great hill, smooth and liquid, shining like mercury. A trail of dead leaves slipped by and then plunged beneath the bow. A current spun us round, whirling us for maybe twenty seconds. Silverman swore. But he kept control. He dug the oars in and he pulled. I got to my knees in the bottom of the boat, grabbed the oars with him, pushing as he pulled, matching my strokes to his, trying to guide him.

We hit the jetty with a bump. I grabbed one of the big supporting timbers, pushing us along. It wasn’t easy. Then we were at the ladder. I shoved Silverman up it. Angel was there. I passed her the cable ends. She made to help me up but I yelled for her to go. There was no more secrecy, no more silence. The boat rocked. I got my feet onto the ladder and I practically crawled onto the boards. I felt like I could barely move.

And that was when the lights came on.





Chapter 35

The Threat of Violence




The glare sent shadows racing through the water. The back of the tent was open. We were public, now, whatever I’d been hoping. Cold spray lashed my cheek. I dragged myself over the gate, landed on my feet, and ran. She’d put the flask on shore, one side of the jetty. Habit made me stop, check the connections, the locale. She’d done well.

She was over to the left, four or five yards back, with the control box, mounted on a metal stand. A power lead trailed to the car.

This was the point I’d wanted to take over. Instead, I told her, “Go!”

She hit the perimeter.

A charge shot round the outer wires. I turned in time to see the whole pond rear up like a wall. It held for seconds—a wave, tumbling over and over on itself, foaming, bright. Light whirled through it, patterns like silver veins, and—no. I was looking at the cables. Cables we’d taken so much care to place, and mark.

“Angie—”

“I got it.”

I’d wanted the generator up and running for backup. There was no time now. Someone was shouting. I couldn’t see the revival tent. The water bulged, straining upwards, and the harsh white light set up a nimbus all around it, a glowing outline, flashing colors as this liquid mountain sloshed and slopped, broke up and reformed, blazing with electric power.

I was with her now. I reached for the control box.

Again, she said, “I got it,” and she slammed the next charge home.

There was a hiss like a steam whistle.

By then, it was too late to stop.

We were running blind, running on guesswork. “Now,” I told her, “now—” She hit the second of the inner wires, then the third. Her teeth were clamped over her lower lip. Her shoulders hunched. Was she too close? To the flask? To the pond? I wouldn’t have set up there. I’d have moved it all a few feet back. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter. Perhaps we’d be OK. I was going to tell her, “Next,” but again, she hit it. I saw Silverman, down on one knee, the camera on his shoulder. There was water everywhere. It sparkled in the air. Everything glittered. I saw someone running through the trees. Then Angel hit the inner loops.