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Clive Cussler, Graham Brown

Zero Hour

PROLOGUE

Thunder shook the unlit cavern as an immense, blue-white spark jumped between a pair of towering, metal columns. Instead of fading, the shimmering charge split in two and the twin streams of plasma began to circle their respective pillars. They moved like flames chasing the wind, racing around the columns and snaking their way upward toward the underside of a curved, metallic dome. There, they swirled together like the arms of a spiral galaxy, joining each other once again before vanishing in a final, eye-searing flash.

Darkness followed.

Ozone lingered in the air.

On the floor of the cavern, a group of men and women stood motionless, night-blind from the display. The flash had been impressive, but they’d all seen electricity before. Every one of them expected something more.

“Is that it?” a gruff voice asked.

The words came from Brigadier General Hal Cortland, a burly, squat figure of a man. They were directed at thirty-eight-year-old Daniel Watterson, a slight, blond-haired man wearing spectacles who stood by the controls of the great machine from which the artificial lightning had come.

Watterson studied a bank of dimly lit gauges. “I’m not actually sure,” he whispered to himself. No one had ever gotten this far, not even Michael Faraday or the great Nikola Tesla. But if Watterson was right — if his calculations and his theory and years of serving as Tesla’s apprentice had led him to understand what was about to occur — then the display of light they’d just witnessed should be only the beginning.

He switched off the main power, stepped away from the controls, and pulled the wire-rimmed glasses from his face. Despite the darkness, he could make out a soft blue glow coming from the columns. He raised his eyes to the dome above. An effervescent hue could be seen coursing around its inner surface.

“Well?” Cortland demanded.

Back at the console, one of the needles ticked up. Watterson saw it from the corner of his eye.

“No, General,” he said quietly, “I don’t think it’s quite finished. ”

As Watterson spoke, a low rumble made its way through the cave. It sounded like heavy stones tumbling in some distant quarry, muffled and distorted, as if the vibration had to traverse miles of solid rock just to reach them. It rose for several seconds, then faded and ceased.

The general began to snicker. He switched on a flashlight. “Uncle Sam ain’t paying for a show with wet fireworks, son. ”

Watterson didn’t reply. He was listening, feeling for something, for anything, at this point.

The general seemed to give up. “Come on, people,” he said, “the party’s over. Let’s get out of this mole hole. ”

The group began to move. Their shuffling and mumbling made it impossible to hear.

Watterson raised a hand. “Please!” he called out loudly. “Everyone, stay where you are!”