The steel catwalk trembled beneath Julian’s boots like a plucked bass string.
Fifty thousand watts of radio-frequency current blasted through the three-inch Heliax line.
It surged past his shoulder, roaring up the remaining two hundred feet of the harbor broadcast mast.
The Atlantic gale screamed through the galvanized girders, throwing needles of freezing sleet against his face.
Yet the air around the antenna feed-horn was boiling hot.
It tasted of scorched lacquer, ozone, and salt.
Julian gripped the unpainted handrail with his insulated gauntlet.
Four hundred feet below, the black surface of the harbor churned against the concrete pylons of Pier Fourteen.
