Kenner drove to the other side of the park and spoke briefly to a state trooper, whose black-and-white patrol car stood at the edge of a clearing. Kenner had arranged radio contact with the trooper. In fact, they were all going to be in radio contact, because the plan required a high degree of coordination. They would have to hit the three spiderweb sites at the same time.
As Kenner explained it, the rockets were intended to do something called "charge amplification" of the storm. It was an idea from the last ten years, when people first began to study lightning in the field, in actual storms. The old idea was that each lightning strike decreased the storm's intensity, because it reduced the difference in electrical charge between the clouds and the ground. But some researchers had concluded that lightning strikes had the opposite effect--they increased the power of storms dramatically. The mechanism for this was not known, but was presumed to be related to the sudden heat of the lightning bolt, or the shockwave it created, adding turbulence to the already turbulent storm center. In any case, there was now a theory that if you could make more lightning, the storm would get worse.
"And the spiderwebs?" Evans said.
"They're little rockets with microfilaments attached. They go up a thousand feet into the cloud layer, where the wire provides a low-resistance conduction pathway and creates a lightning strike."
"So the rockets cause more lightning? That's what they're for?"
"Yes. That's the idea."
Evans remained doubtful. "Who pays for all this research?" he said. "The insurance companies?"
Kenner shook his head. "It's all classified," he said.
"You mean it's military?"
"Correct."
"The military pays for weather research?"
"Think about it," Kenner said.
Evans was not inclined to do so. He was deeply skeptical of all things military. The notion that they were paying for weather research struck him as the same sort of ludicrous excess as the six-hundred-dollar toilet seats and thousand-dollar wrenches that had become so notorious. "If you ask me, it's all a waste of money."
"ELF doesn't think so," Kenner said.
It was then that Sanjong spoke, with considerable intensity. Evans had forgotten that he was a soldier. Sanjong said that whoever could control the weather would control the battlefield. It was an age-old military dream. Of course the military would spend money on it.
"You're saying it actually works."
"Yes," Sanjong said. "Why do you think we are here?"
The SUV wound up into the wooded hills north of McKinley Park. This was an area of intermittent dense forest and open grassy fields. In the passenger seat, Sarah looked at Peter. He was good-looking, and he had the strong physique of an athlete. But sometimes he behaved like such a wimp.
"You ever do any sports?" she said.
"Sure."
"What?"
"Squash. A little soccer."
"Oh."
"Hey," he said. "Just because I don't shoot guns...I'm a lawyer, for Christ's sake."
She was disappointed with him and not even sure why. Probably, she thought, because she was nervous and wanted somebody competent to be with her. She liked being around Kenner. He was so knowledgeable, so skilled. He knew what was going on. He was quick to respond to any situation.
Whereas Peter was a nice guy, but...
She watched his hands on the wheel. He drove well. And that was important today.
It was no longer sunny. They were close to the storm clouds. The day was dark, gloomy, threatening. The road ahead was deserted as it wound through the forests. They hadn't seen a car since they left the park.
"How much farther?" Evans said.
Sarah consulted the GPS. "Looks like another five miles."
He nodded. Sarah shifted in her seat, moving so the holstered gun would not press against her hip. She glanced at the passenger-side mirror.
"Oh shit."
"What?"
Behind them was a battered blue pickup truck. With Arizona plates.
AURORAVILLE
MONDAY, OCTOBER 11
10:22 A. M.
"We've got trouble," Sarah said.
"Why?" Evans said. He glanced in the rearview mirror, saw the truck. "What is it?"
Sarah had the radio in her hand. "Kenner. They spotted us."
"Who did?" Evans said. "Who are they?"
The radio clicked. "Where are you?" Kenner said.
"On Highway 95. We're about four miles away."
"Okay," Kenner said. "Stick with the plan. Do your best."
"Who is it?" Evans said, looking in the mirror.
The blue pickup was advancing fast. Very fast. In the next instant, it banged into the back of their car. Evans was startled, swerved, got control again. "What thefuck? " he said.
"Just drive, Peter."
Sarah took the revolver from its holster. She held the gun on her lap, looked out the side mirror.
The blue truck had dropped back for a moment, but now raced forward again.
"Here he comes--"
Perhaps because Peter stepped on the gas, the impact was surprisingly gentle. It was hardly more than a nudge. Peter careened around the curves, glancing at the rearview mirror.
Again, the blue truck dropped back. It followed them for the next half mile, but it was never closer than five or six car lengths.
"I don't get it," Evans said. "Are they going to ram us or not?"
"Guess not," she said. "See what happens if you slow down."
He slowed the SUV, dropping their speed to forty.
The blue truck slowed too, falling back farther.
"They're just following us," she said.