“Sure. In fact, after that little electrical display, I think that’s a really damn good plan.” A mildly-unnerved Compton pushed back and swiveled the magnifiers away from his eyes. “Anybody bring any coolers or water bottles or something? I could use a drink.”
“No, but only because Maia told me right before we came over that we were welcome to raid the fridge,” Mott noted. “She said she and Lee got bottled water and sodas for us last night, and she mixed up a pitcher of fresh lemonade expressly for us. All of which is in said fridge. With stuff to snack on sitting on the kitchen bar.”
“Now that sounds good,” Smith said. “I’m up for some lemonade. The garage isn’t as well air-conditioned as the rest of the house, and those storms are making it stuffy and humid in here.”
“No shit,” Compton agreed, taking off the headband. “You think they’d mind if we went into the house proper and cooled off? I’m about to start dripping sweat, here. That’s half my problem; I got sweat in my eyes and I can’t see for shit.” He pointed at the headband, which he’d discarded on Carter’s workbench. “And I swear, that thing there just funnels it right down into my eyes.”
“Let’s go,” Armbrand ordered. “Air conditioning, here we come.”
“Hallelujah,” Smith said with a grin.
“Amen,” Compton agreed.
While the storm raged, the four men took refuge in the kitchen’s dining nook, watching the storm through one-way picture windows overlooking the back yard. Meanwhile, between them, they knocked back water, sodas, and at least half the pitcher of lemonade – without anyone needing a restroom break, thanks to dehydration – as well as most of a truly huge platter of cookies, as well as another of sausage biscuits, that had been left with a coded note identifying it as for them. When the storm finally let up and the skies lightened, they headed back to the garage to try to finish their work before the next feeder band brought another wave of storms.
Compton sat on a stool, wiped his forehead on his sleeve, donned the headband again and pulled the magnifier down, then studied the device that had been placed within the case of the car charger. “Lessee. Um, Johnny, can you fish out that double-ought Phillips-head screwdriver?”
“Yeah, Alan,” Smith replied. “Lemme have a look-see in the tool case...”
Half an hour later, the original car charger was completely disconnected from the power, but the timer inside it still had power – though none of the rest of the sabotage package would work.
“That ought to do it,” Compton said. “The package on the gas line has been completely detached from the line – though they won’t be able to tell – and the charger package isn’t live, just the timer. Now all I gotta do is hook the new charger back into the circuitry.”
“Pity it isn’t a plug-in like some,” Armbrand noted. “But Lee wanted to have it attached so it couldn’t go walkabout, or worse, get lost.”
“Yeah, Maia can be kinda absent-minded, if she isn’t careful,” Smith said with an affectionate chuckle. “She may be a colonel, and she may be our division lead, but she has her moments.”
“She does, but the only person I’d trade for her might be Nick,” Armbrand determined, and the others agreed. “Still, she’s got more experience.”
“No argument there,” Smith agreed. “I don’t think even Nick would disagree; he told me he’s figuring on stepping back as soon as Lee decides things are full-up and running. Hey, Adrian, how’s the weather looking?”
“Not good,” Mott replied. “Alan, get a move on, there, kiddo. The worst storm yet is headed this way, it looks like. At least if the darkness of the cloud is anything to judge by. It’s got a shit-ton of lightning in it, too. And the radar-sat map agrees.”
“Hurryin’ as fast as I can,” Compton replied. “I’ve only got about two more–”
Suddenly the room lit up in a blue-white glow as the house shook. No one heard the thunder or any other report from the strike, but it was as if a small explosion had detonated in their midst, as the car charger in Compton’s hand blew apart, and every outlet in the area shot fire, even as all the light fixtures in the house lit up brilliantly from induced currents. Even the little, self-contained lights they were using in the garage flared brightly. Smith fell from his stool near Compton onto the epoxycrete floor, barely conscious; Armbrand staggered backward hard into the side of the van and slid to the floor, stunned. Mott, farthest from the effect, stumbled back, tripped over the threshold into the house proper, and fell onto the carpeted flooring.
But Compton was blown across the garage and into the cinder-block wall.
Disaster
Mott and Armbrand were the first to get back on their feet, a scant few seconds after the lightning strike. They immediately ran to Smith, who was still stunned, but starting to sit up.
“Damn,” he murmured, mildly confused and disoriented, as they helped him ease to a sitting position. “What the hell just happened?”
“Lightning strike came in through the power line, according to the house telemetry,” Mott said. “The systems are back online and getting it under control; fire detection and suppression are active, but not showing anything. I think we’re good, as far as that’s concerned.”
“Oh shit,” Smith said then,
