the upper shunt cable, and as he had done with the wire cutters on the tail assembly of the helicopter, he worked furiously up and down until his professional instincts told him he was within millimetres of the first layer of coiled copper. He gently leaned the extended metal pole against the fence and turned to the first of the two main dynamos.
If it were merely a question of shorting the island's electrical power, he would simply continue slicing into the transformer's conduit while gripping the nonconductive rubber handles and let the short take place by angling the metal clipper into the metal fence when he struck cable. There would be a brief electrical explosion and all the power terminated. However, more was at stake; he had to face the probability that neither he nor Emilio would survive, and a damaged transformer cable could be repaired in a matter of minutes. He had to inflict more than damage; he had to cripple the system. He could not know what was happening in San Diego, he could only give Payton's forces time by disabling the machinery to the point where it would take days to replace, not repair. This island compound, this headquarters of a government within a government, had to be immobilized, isolated, without means of communication or departure. The transformer was, in actuality, his backup, his far less desirable option, but it had to be there and ready to execute. Time was everything now!
He approached the dynamo, cautiously peering into the enormous wire-encased flywheel. There was a horizontal space, no more than half an inch wide, separating the upper and lower screens of thick latticework that kept objects of any size from penetrating the whirring interior. That space or something similar was what he had hoped to find, the reason for the machete. Sections of all generators, needing air, had openings of extremely limited dimensions, vertically and horizontally; this was his. It was either his or he was its in death; one slip meant instant electrocution, and even if he avoided death by millicounts of high voltage, he could be blinded by the exploding streaks of white electric light if he did not turn away in time, keeping his eyes tightly closed. But if he could do it, the island's generator would be shut down for major replacement. Time… time might well be the last gift he had to give.
He pulled the machete out of his belt, sweat pouring down his face despite the wind from the flywheel, and inched the blade towards the horizontal space… Trembling, he yanked the machete back; he had to steady his hands! He could not touch either edge of the narrow space! He tried again, inserting one inch, then two, and three… he rammed the heavy blade inside, snapping back both hands before the blade made contact and lurched to the ground behind him, his face and eyes buried under his arms. The self-contained electrical detonations were ear-shattering, and despite his tightly closed eyes, white blinding light was everywhere in the darkness.
The flywheel would not stop! It kept chewing up the primitive metal of the machete while spewing out bolts of Frankensteinian electrical charges, spitting jaggedly, violently into the fence.
Kendrick leaped up, shielding his eyes, and, step by cautious step, crossed back to the tree clipper, its saw-toothed jaws embedded in the transformer's conduit. He gripped the rubber handles, and in desperation crashed them back and forth until the jolt threw him off his feet. He had struck the cable proper and the telescoped metal clippers fell into the metal fence. The whole generator complex went mad, as if its electrical inhabitants were infuriated by mere man's interference with his superior inventions. Lights went out everywhere, but there were still blinding, erratic, jagged streaks of electrical lightning within the lethal fenced enclosure. He had to get out!
Scrambling on his stomach, his arms and legs propelling him like a racing spider's, he reached the hole in the fence, the beam of the torch guiding him through. When he got to his feet, the rifle was thrust into his hands by Emilio.
'Matches!' yelled Evan, unable to reach his own; the Mexican gave him a handful while angling the torch over to the last towel. Kendrick ran, limping to his fuse, lurching to the ground and striking half a dozen matches on a rock. As they flared he threw them on the last towel; the flame caught and started its deadly journey, slowly, relentlessly, no more than a glow in the dirt.
'Hurry!' cried Emilio, helping Evan to his feet and leading him, not to the path back to the dirt road, but instead into the high grass below. 'Many have come out of the house and are running down! Pronto, senor!'
They raced, literally diving into the grass as a swarm of panicked men, most with rifles, approached the blinding, erupting generator, shielding their eyes and shouting at one another. During the chaos Kendrick and his Mexican companion crawled through the grass below the terror-stricken crowd. They reached the road as another equally stupefied stream of men came rushing out of the long, low building that was the staff's barracks. Most were only half dressed, many in undershorts, and not a few showing the effects of too much alcohol.
'Listen to me,' whispered Evan into Emilio's ear.
