James Rollins - Altar Of Eden

He touched his mike again. “Tell the beach patrol to keep heavy watch on that boat until I get there. And order the gun battery in the crow’s nest to maintain a fix on that target.”

During the construction of the villa, he’d had a M242 Bush-master cannon built into a bunker atop the highest floor of the villa. It fired two hundred rounds a minute with the velocity to shred through armor. Might seem like overkill, but it was a reasonable precaution considering that the seas around here continued to be hounded by modern-day pirates, raiders who attacked small islands, pillaged unsuspecting estates, and slaughtered or kidnapped anyone unlucky enough to be around.

Duncan refused to be caught by surprise. If whoever was out there wanted to make trouble, he’d make them regret it.

Five meters underwater, Jack sped above a line of reefs into the island’s shallows. His fingers gripped the handles of a portable Mako underwater scooter and powered toward the shoreline. He adjusted the pitch of the unit’s propeller to keep him a foot above the seabed.

To either side, Mack and Bruce paced him, zipping through the shallow waters. They all wore black neoprene wet suits. Each of them hauled oilskin dry sacks holding clothes and weapons. M4 carbines and H &K double-action pistols. Jack had also packed his Remington 870 shotgun.

He didn’t hold out any hope that such firepower was sufficient for a full-out frontal assault. The weapons were meant as a last resort. This mission’s success or failure hinged less on firepower than on stealth. To that end, Jack had coordinated with the Thibodeauxs’ boat. The others should have raised a distress signal by now, drawing attention to the far side of the island while Jack’s team snuck in the back door. As an added precaution, he had studied the satellite maps and opted to make land-fall on the wooded island to the north. With the villa on the southern island, this smaller island would be less likely to be watched.

Or so he hoped.

Jack slowed his scooter as the seabed rose under him. Twenty yards off the beach, he powered the propeller off and let the scooter drop to the sand below. He carefully floated to the surface and peeked his mask above the surf to scan the shoreline. A thin strand of beach fringed a dark wall of forest, mostly palms and mangrove trees near the water with Caribbean pines and walnuts up higher. With the sun setting on the far side of the island, the woods were thick with shadows.

He watched for a long minute for any sign of movement.

All seemed quiet.

Mack and Bruce joined him, hovering to either side. He shed his air tanks, weight belt, and swim fins. Holding his breath, he grabbed his dry sack, then signaled for the others to follow. With a kick of his legs, he propelled himself toward shore, staying underwater for as long as possible. Finally, with sand rasping the belly of his wet suit, he surged up and lunged for the beach.

In seven steps, he was out of the water and into the shadows of the woods. Bruce followed next, his lithe shape barely making a splash. He dove over the sand and rolled into the shadows on the right, not even leaving a footprint. On the other hand, Mack stormed the beach like an amphibious landing craft. He lunged out of the water and pounded low across the sand, hitting the woods to the left.

Once under shelter, they kept silent. Beyond their hiding places, the waves slowly washed away most evidence of their landfall.

Jack shivered as he waited. Now that he was no longer moving, his skull began to ache again. The smells of the forest filled his head: moldy leaf rot, wet sand, some spicy-scented flower. His feverish eyes burned, making even the shadows seem too bright. All his senses stretched outward, wary for any sign that their landing had been spotted.

But no alarm sounded. No shouts rose.

Satisfied, he motioned for the others to get ready. They stripped out of their wet suits and into rough duty uniforms in green and black. Weapons were freed; radios fixed to ears and throats.

Once outfitted, Jack lifted an arm and dropped it like an ax in the direction of the land bridge that separated the two islands. The bridge lay not far from the villa. Using the cover of this island should allow them to creep almost to the doorstep of the place.

From there, they would need information. He planned to ambush one of the outlying guards, to interrogate the man under threat of great bodily harm-a threat that would be realized if the man didn’t cooperate. Jack had no time for subtlety. He intended to find out if Lorna was here, and if so, where she was being kept.

Jack again felt that bone-deep surge of fierceness. His vision narrowed as he headed into the dappled forest. His men moved silently to either side.

No matter where Lorna was, he would find her.

LORNA STOOD BEFORE a closed door. It read authorized personnel only. Malik swiped his ID card. Bennett stood behind her. They were accompanied by Lorna’s assigned bodyguard, the redheaded Connor, who wore his usual hard scowl.

The guard posted himself at the door as the lock disengaged and Lorna and the two men entered a nondescript anteroom. A second door led into the next room, but it couldn’t be opened until the first door was closed.

Like an air lock.

Malik turned to Lorna. “What you’re about to see may seem callous at first glance-but it is necessary.”

“In order to maintain their purity,” Bennett added.

Malik gave a half shrug. “Or in other words, to isolate variables. To strip any possibility that contact with animal minds is contributing to the psychotic breaks demonstrated by the first generation of specimens. To that end, let me show you the second generation of our research.”

Lorna suddenly quailed against stepping across that threshold, fearful of discovering what new horrors lay hidden here. Malik opened the doorway-and Lorna was shocked to hear childish laughter, accompanied by the clapping of small hands. Music also wafted out. The theme song from Sesame Street.

The incongruity of laughter in this house of pain set her teeth on edge. Fear grew sharper inside her.

“Come with me,” Malik said and led her inside.

Lorna had no choice but to follow, trailed by Bennett.

Malik continued his dialogue, sounding vaguely nervous, maybe even embarrassed. “Though they’re isolated here, we treat them very well.”

Lorna stepped into what could pass for an ordinary dayroom in any preschool. A chalkboard covered one wall. Beanbag chairs dotted the floor in a rainbow of colors. Crayon drawings decorated a corkboard, and in a corner, a plasma television showed a furry puppet conversing with Big Bird.

But it was the children in the room who drew Lorna’s full attention. Dozens of children sat on chairs or sprawled on rugs, raptly staring at the television screen. Each looked around the same age, or at least the same size. They stood no taller than her waist, but these were not toddling babies. Their fully developed features suggested maturity beyond their size. And from the downy fluff on cheeks and limbs, they were clearly related to the inhabitants on the other island. But rather than being naked, the children wore matching blue jumpers.

“How old are they?” Lorna whispered, choked by shock.

“From sixteen months to two years,” Malik answered.

As she stepped farther into the room one child turned toward her, then the others all swung to face her. It reminded her of the synchronization witnessed on the camera. Like a flock of birds startled into sudden flight or a school of fish turning on a dime.

She remembered Malik’s term: a hivelike intelligence.

Was that the source of this behavior? She knew flocking was still poorly understood. Some scientists wondered if there might not be some electromagnetic connection between birds in a flock or fish in a school, to get them to act so perfectly in unison. But the latest consensus seemed to suggest that each individual was responding to microsignals from its neighbors and responding in a preprogrammed fashion.