James Rollins: Subterranean

"We'd take care of such minor concerns."

She thought of Jason, who was eating dinner from a rickety tray in front of the television. "I have my son. I can't just up and leave. And he's no minor concern."

"You have an ex-husband. A Scott Vandercleve, I believe."

"Jason's not staying with him. Forget it."

Blakely sighed loudly. "Then we do have a problem."

This point was going to be a stickler. Jason had been having trouble at school, and this summer Ashley had vowed to spend some time with him. "This is not up for debate," she said with as much conviction as she could muster. "Jason accompanies me, or I have no choice but to decline."

Blakely studied her silently.

She continued, "He's been on other digs with me. I know he can handle this."

"I don't think that would be prudent." He smiled wanly.

"He's a tough and resourceful kid."

Blakely grimaced. "If I agree to this point, then you'll join the team?" He paused, removing his glasses and rubbing at the indentations on the bridge of his nose. He seemed to be thinking aloud. "I suppose he could stay in Alpha Base. It's secure." Replacing his glasses, he reached across the table and held out an open palm. "Agreed."

Relieved, she let out her breath and shook his dry hand. "So why so much effort to get me on your team?"

"Your specialty. The anthropology of cliff-dwelling primitives. Your work on the Gila dwellings was brilliant."

"Still, why me? There are other paleoanthropologists with similar interests."

"Several reasons. One"-he began ticking off the points on his fingers-"you've demonstrated you can manage teams on other digs. Two, your nose for detail is superb. Three, your perseverance in solving mysteries is bone-hard obstinate. Four, you're in excellent physical shape. Five, you've earned my respect. Any other questions?"

Satisfied for now, she shook her head, slightly embarrassed. She fought back a blush. Rarely did one hear praise in her field. Uncomfortable, she changed the tack of the conversation.

"Now that we're partners, maybe you can tell me where you discovered this unique artifact." She rose to clear the dishes. "Somewhere in Africa, I'd guess."

He smiled. "No, in Antarctica, actually."

She glanced over her shoulder, trying to judge if he was testing her. "There are no primitive cultures on that continent. It's a barren glacier."

Blakely shrugged. "Who said on it?"

She rattled a dish in the sink. "So where, then?" She turned to him, leaned back against the sink, and dried her hands with a damp dish towel.

He just pointed a single finger toward the floor.

Down.

Black Rock, Australia

BENJAMIN BRUST WATCHED A BROWN COCKROACH SKITTER across the white lavatory sink. He crossed over to the bars, running a hand across the stubble that had grown over his cheeks since his incarceration. The stink of old urine in the cell was less intense by the door. A khaki-uniformed military guard glanced up from the GQ magazine on his lap. He nodded to the guard, who, without acknowledgment, returned to his reading.

At least Ben's client, Hans Biederman, was recuperating well. Thank god for that. He sure as hell didn't need an involuntary manslaughter charge on top of everything else. Mr. Biederman was due to fly back to Germany today, having received no more than a slap on the wrist for their little escapade-while Ben, as the planner of the expedition, had a long stint in a military prison ahead of him.

For the past five years, Ben had specialized in escorting those with the proper ticket price to exotic locales to see rare sights. Trips that required bending, even breaking a few rules to accomplish. He specialized in underground adventures: abandoned diamond mines in South Africa, monastic ruins buried under the Himalayas, undersea tunnels off the Caribbean coast-and now, here in Australia, a set of stunning caverns restricted by the military from human sight.

The caverns were on a remote section of the Black Rock military installation. These exquisite caves had been discovered and mapped by Ben himself four years ago when he had once been stationed here.

It had all been going perfectly until Herr Biederman, his pudgy German client, slipped and broke his leg. Ben should have just left him to rot for ignoring his warning, but instead Ben had tried to haul the bastard's sorry butt out of the caverns. Herr Biederman's bellows of pain drew the military police, and Ben got caught for his efforts.

He turned from the bars and dropped onto the moth-eaten cot, then leaned back, studying the stains on the ceiling. He heard hard-heeled boots tapping down the hall and something mumbled to the guard.

The heavy magazine slapped on the floor. "In there, sir. Fourth one down." He heard the fear in the guard's answer.

The tapping heels approached, then stopped. He pushed up onto his elbows to see who stood in front of the cell. He recognized the face of his old commander. Bald head, beak of a nose, gray eyes that drilled. "Colonel Matson?"

"Somehow I knew you would end up here. Always a troublemaker." But the smile playing at the corner of his lips softened the gruffness. "How have they been treating you?"

"Like it's the Hilton, sir. Room service is a bit slow, though."

"Isn't it always." The colonel gestured to the guard to open the cell. "Follow me, Sergeant Brust."

"It's Mr. Brust now, sir."

"Whatever," he said with a frown, turning away. "We've got to talk."

The guard interrupted. "Should I handcuff him, sir?"

Ben gave Colonel Matson his most innocent look.

"Yeah," Matson said. "You'd better. There's no trusting civilians."

"All right," Ben said, standing at mock attention. "You win. Sergeant Brust, reporting for duty."

Nodding, Colonel Matson waved the guard away. "C'mon, then, Sergeant. We're going to my office."

Ben followed him out of the prison, and after a short drive, they arrived at the Administration Building. The colonel's office had not changed. Same walnut desk with stained coffee mug circles; walls festooned with banners from the Old Guard; trophies lining the side wall. During the ride over, Ben could tell from the hesitancy in an otherwise ebullient man that something of importance was being withheld.

The colonel ushered Ben to sit, then Matson leaned on the edge of his desk and studied him. The colonel's face was stone. Ben tried not to squirm under his gaze. Finally his old commander spoke, his voice tired, "What the hell happened to you? The best of the best, and you just disappear."

"I had a better offer."

"What? Guiding yuppies with midlife crises on little thrill tours?"

"I prefer to call them 'Adventure Vacations.' Besides, I earn enough to help keep my dad's sheep station afloat."

"And earned yourself a bit of a reputation. Quite the cave hound. I read about that cavern rescue in the States. Big hero, huh?"

Ben shrugged.

"But that's not why you left here. It was Jack, wasn't it?"

Ben's face went cold at the mention of his friend's name. "I believed in the Guard. And honor. I believed in you."

Colonel Matson grimaced. "Sometimes political pressure bends rules. Distorts honor."

"Bullshit!" Ben shook his head. "The prime minister's son deserved every inch of the pummeling he got from Jack after the shit he tried with his girl."

"A prime minister has powerful friends. It couldn't go unpunished."

"Bloody hell!" Ben slammed his fist on the arm of his chair. "I'da done the same. His court-martial was a travesty." Ben stopped, swallowed hard, then continued in a quieter voice. "Jack was stripped of everything that made him a man. And you wonder why I left?"

Matson sighed, seemingly satisfied. "Then the balance of fate has shifted your way this time. Now the political pressures are aligned to help you."