James Rollins - The 6th Extinction

It was a smart choice. Back at the bridge, he remembered overhearing a commando express concern about taking a smaller CAAT across those treacherous currents. The bigger vehicle would have a better chance.

“Keep a watch out there,” Gray said.

“You watch yourself.” Kowalski glanced back to the tunnel leading out from the Coliseum. “You’re not going to catch these bastards with their pants down. Not a second time. Especially Wright.”

Gray silently agreed, reaching to his ears and tugging out the plugs.

Their ruse had worked perfectly. Earlier, when he had first caught sight of the camp here, he had used the directional microphone built into his DSR rifle to eavesdrop on the soldiers’ conversations. He heard Wright talking to someone on the radio. He could only pick up the commando’s side of the call, but it was clear Wright had new orders, something important he needed to get before evacuating with his men.

Whatever that was, Gray intended to stop him.

Also, while en route, he had overheard the enemy’s plans to use the LRAD against the approaching CAAT, to knock the occupants out and take the vehicle by force. Knowing that, he and Kowalski had found protective gear in their ride: plugs and noise-dampening earphones. Down here, where many of the CAATs came equipped with portable LRADs, such emergency gear was likely standard equipment.

So it was a simple matter of feigning incapacitation, slumping in their seats, which wasn’t a hard act since that sonic assault was agonizing, even with the noise-suppression gear. Still, the trick got the enemy to successfully lower their guard. Once the ex-British soldiers were near enough — laughing at their supposed victory — Gray and Kowalski had let loose with both barrels, firing from either side of the CAAT, catching the entire crew by surprise.

But that’s where their ruse ended.

Surely Wright had heard the brief firefight — and would be waiting for him.

So be it .

As he headed into the tunnel, he glanced to the far right, to where a twinkle of a star glowed high up the wall on that side. Jason and the others should have reached the Back Door by now. Gray had expected to hear that earth-shattering blast of those bunker busters by now.

But so far nothing.

What’s taking them so long?

Jason leaped off the last rung and rushed toward the small glow in the darkness. He had made the descent as fast as he could in the darkness, coming close to falling twice. But he knew now was not the time for caution.

He hurried through the muck and moss and reached Professor Harrington’s body. The man lay on his back, his eyes open and glassy. Blood ran from the corner of his lips, one arm broken and twisted under him.

Oh, God…

Jason fell to his knees in the ankle-deep algal sludge. He touched the professor’s shoulder, reaching with his other hand to close his eyes.

I’m sorry .

Then those eyes twitched, following his fingers. A small bloody bubble escaped from a left nostril.

He’s still alive!

But Jason knew it would not be for long. A bony kink in his thin neck looked like a cervical fracture.

“Professor…”

His pale lips moved, but no words came out.

Jason hated to disturb the last moments of his life, but the situation here was too dire, the need too great. He reached to Harrington’s cheek and held it.

“Professor, we need the code. Can you speak?”

Harrington’s gaze found Jason’s face. Fear shone there — but not for himself. Those eyes flickered up toward the distant substation, toward his daughter.

“I understand,” he said. “Don’t worry. Stella made it safely up top.”

He wasn’t certain of that, but a lie that brought comfort couldn’t be a sin.

With his words, some of that anxiety dimmed from the professor. His entire body sagged into the soft bed beneath him. He likely only lived because of the thick, damp growth covering the stone floor.

“The code, professor,” Jason pleaded.

The only acknowledgment was the slightest nod, only detectable because of his palm resting on the man’s cheek. Jason tried to get him to speak, but the professor’s gaze never left the glow of that distant station, to where he believed his daughter was safe.

Finally the old man gave one last breath that sounded like a sigh, dying with a measure of peace, taking his secrets with him.

Jason rose to his feet, defeated and grief-stricken.

There’s nothing else I can do…

“Picking up a smoke column ahead,” Sergeant Suarez said from the cockpit of the Valor. “It’s rising from that summit.”

Painter leaned to the window as the tiltrotor swept toward the lofty plateau of the summit. The engine nacelles turned, slowing their forward momentum. The pilot expertly shot the Valor over the tepui, banking slightly, then came to a perfect hover. Its blades chopped through a stream of smoke flowing out the open doors of a rustic French Normandy — style home, hidden within the mouth of a cave.

Had to be Cutter Elwes’s abode .

Elsewhere, Painter noted a still pond and a sinkhole in the middle of a stunted forest. As they hovered, a handful of men ran into view on the ground, taking potshots at the intruder.

“Abramson! Henckel!” Suarez called out. “How about we show them how the Marines say hello?”

The Valor swooped lower, lifting Painter slightly out of his seat. The hatch opened on one side, bringing in the roar of those engines and the bluster of the props. The two lance corporals already had their lines hooked. The ropes were thrown down and the men rolled out just as quickly. They fired as they spun along those lines, dropping several assailants, scattering the rest.

The Valor’s wheels touched down a moment later.

“Let’s join the party,” Drake said to Malcolm and Schmitt.

Painter followed, a SIG Sauer in his fist, as the Marines bailed out.

Suarez came behind them. “My men and I’ll hold the summit.” He tapped his ear. “Comms are open. Call if you need help.”

Painter looked to the haze-shrouded home, knowing where they needed to search first.

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire .

Painter led the team at a low run toward those open doors. The Marines had rifles at their shoulders, their beard-rusted cheeks fixed to their stocks. Painter kept his pistol ready, gripping the weapon two-handed.

A lone assailant shot from an upper-story window.

Drake shifted faster than Painter could react — and fired. Glass shattered, and a body fell through and toppled to the stone. They rushed past and entered a huge reception hall.

Empty.

“Elevator!” Painter said, pointing his pistol toward the wrought-iron cage.

They hurried forward and found a handsome woman huddled on the floor in a neighboring alcove. She appeared unarmed, distraught. She offered no sign of resistance. From her puffy eyes and tear-stained face, whatever distressed her had little to do with their arrival.

Painter pulled out a pair of laminated photos: one of Kendall Hess, one of Jenna Beck. He held them in front of her face. “Are these two people here?”

She looked up, pointed to Hess, then the elevator.

Painter had no time for niceties, not with a nuclear device set to detonate in California in under an hour. He pulled the woman to her feet. “Show me.”

She stumbled to the elevator and pointed to a lower-level button, somewhere beneath this home.

Painter let her go and piled into the cage with Drake. “Malcolm, Schmitt, search this place floor by floor. Look for Jenna. For Cutter Elwes.”