“Fuel?” asked Lopez. “Why does it need fuel?”
“To run all the coolant systems,” said Lightfoote. “Ever had your outlet or computer heat up?”
“I think this phone is about to explode,” said Houston.
“Well, just imagine this transformer that’s bigger than a house and all the current running through it. Fawkes could take it out just by blowing the cooling units and waiting for the thing to burst into flames.”
“Jesus,” said Houston. “So, big as a house. Lots of big wires going in. We can’t miss it.”
“No, it will be obvious. And, from what I could find out, relatively unsecured. A chain link fence and some concrete barriers to stop suicide trucks.”
“Wait,” said Lopez, shaking his head. “Our electrical grid is dependent on a few of these behemoths and all we’ve done to keep modern civilization running is slap some cheap wire around it?”
“Pretty much, Holy Man,” said Lightfoote. “Lots of congressional hearings after 9/11. Not much done. It’s a sitting duck. If we lose it, it could be the entire Northeast and parts of Canada.”
“That’s unbelievable,” Lopez said.
“They did fortify the transformer in 2015. Says here it’s bullet resistant.”
“Bullet resistant? What, to protect from transformer snipers?”
“In part,” Angel continued. “There have been several incidents of lone wackos shooting at them. One guy caused an explosion that blacked out part of Texas for hours. Anyway, this one has reinforced concrete around it.”
Lopez pointed ahead of the car. “That’s it, Sara. Take that road.”
The substation opened up in front of them. Several football fields in surface area, it looked like something from a dystopian film. Wires sprouted from it like tentacles, only to be contrasted by the harsh steel and Frankenstein-esque electrical devices that neither of them had names for.
The transformer was obvious. Enormous. It dominated the other structures within the compound. Thick, metallic arms erupted above a sloppy concrete girdle around the thing, giving the object the appearance of a colossal robot design project gone terribly wrong. Thick wires connected to the transformer through the ends of the arms to the chaos of wiring overhead that linked the substation to the rest of the grid.
“You found it?” called out Lightfoote.
“Yes,” said Houston flatly.
“And the transformer? You see it?”
“Oh yes,” she said.
“Great!” Lightfoote’s relief was palpable.
“Not so great,” said Lopez as Houston slowed the car in front of the twisted and mangled remains of a chain length fence.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
Two National Guardsman lay by the wrecked gate, their bodies riddle with bullets. The gatehouse windows were shattered and the wood pocked with holes.
Lopez spoke in a rough baritone. “It’s on fire.”
Black smoke poured into the air in front them.
57
“The transformer’s burning?”
Lightfoote’s voice rang out desperately over the phone. Lopez exited the car and stared forward, shielding his eyes from low lying morning sun. Houston shut off the engine, grabbed the phone, and followed.
“I’m not sure,” said Houston. “Lots of fires and smoke. Some around the transformer. But, no, it doesn’t seem hit.”
“Then there’s still time!” cried Lightfoote. “We still have power. You still have a transformer. I need power to get the last code out! Hang up, get in there, and stop them!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Houston closed the phone. “She’s right. There’s still a chance. They haven’t managed to bring it down yet.”
“Could happen any moment,” said Lopez. “We don’t know their numbers or how they’re armed.”
Houston removed her Browning and pulled the mask over her smile. “I’m a lady who loves surprises.” She jogged down the small road from the gate, toward the flames.
Lopez reached inside his vestments and grabbed the submachine gun. His left shoulder was screaming, useless to help him aim his pistol. The submachine gun would blanket his targets and help compensate. He ran forward, chasing Houston.
They passed grassy lawns on both sides of the road. Ahead, rows of wired equipment intersected above them. In the middle of it all lay the concrete slab with the transformer inside. Keeping alongside a row of utility sheds, they remained concealed from anyone around the object. Apparently, the idea had occurred to others. The bodies of three men — not Guardsman — were strewn along the path of the sheds, gunned down while moving toward the transformer. The bodies of several soldiers were across from them, near the far corner of the sheds.
“They must have used the shelter of the sheds for a last stand.”
Houston pressed her back against the cold metal, stepping over the body of one, and peered discretely around the corner.
Her head snapped back and her eyes locked with Lopez. “More dead guards. Looks like grenades.”
“The strike team?”
“They’re there. Alive. Right next to the concrete around the transformer. One had his hands on the wall, fiddling with something. The other seemed to be yelling at him. That’s all I got.”
“Bomb,” Lopez said.
“Likely they’re wiring it up now. From the argument, we can only hope some of the dead bodies were their demolitions experts.”
“Assuming those two are the last.”
She nodded and spun around again, keeping her sights forward for several seconds before whipping back around.
“You think you can get me on top of that shed?”
Lopez frowned. “It’s over fifty yards, Sara. That’s a good shot, even for you.”
“You have better ideas? It’s all open field from here to the transformer. No way to sneak up on them. We could go in blazing and hope for the best, but odds are not good for a clean win. I’ll stabilize on the roof edge. Three shots or less and you owe me a drink.”
Lopez frowned and got on one knee. “Just don’t step on the left shoulder, or you forfeit any winnings. I’ll be ready for a sprint.”
She holstered the weapon and he hoisted her toward the roof. She grabbed the edge, swinging herself over. Lopez couldn’t follow with his bad arm, so he returned to the corner and crouched, weapon readied.
Houston kept low and crawled to the end of the shed overlooking the transformer. She could see the two men facing the concrete wall, oblivious to her actions as they worked on the explosives. She removed her Browning. The edge of the roof rose several inches from the base and she used it to steady her weapon. She sighted the two dark shapes, focusing on the one who seemed to be taking the lead. She calmed, steadied her breathing. His torso fused into an extension of the barrel. She felt the metal tube reach outward towards him, connecting, closing the space between them. She stopped breathing and pulled the trigger.
There was an explosion. The figure before them shuddered, hands jerking outward and away from the bomb. He fell to his knees, then onto his side. She repositioned the gun.
The man next to him froze for an instant and then wheeled in their direction, weapon raised. He scanned a small arc across the sheds, then centered on the roof, and Houston. He dropped to one knee and aimed his gun in her direction.
Two more shots burst in the compound, the sounds reverberating off the concrete and metal, echoing and blending in a dispersing chaos of noise. The man in front of them buckled, but did not fall. He began to turn toward the wall slowly, gait lumbering, face toward the device fixed to the transformer.