Douglas Preston - Reliquary

“Right,” D’Agosta said.

“I’d like to help,” Margo heard Smithback say softly.

Pendergast looked at him.

“I’m useless without a weapon,” the writer explained, his voice unsteady but determined.

“Can you handle a gun?” Pendergast asked.

“Used to shoot skeet with a 16-gauge,” Smithback said.

D’Agosta stifled a laugh. Pendergast pursed his lips a moment, as if calculating something. Then he unslung the other weapon from his shoulder and passed it over. “This is an M-79. It fires 40-millimeter high-explosive rounds. Be sure you’ve got a kill zone of at least one hundred feet before you use it. D’Agosta can describe to you how to reload as we go. I expect if action starts, there will be plenty of light for you to see with.”

Smithback nodded.

“The thought of a journalist with a grenade launcher makes me very nervous,” came D’Agosta’s voice out of the darkness.

“We’ll set the charges, then leave,” Pendergast said. “Fire only as a last resort; the sound will bring the entire nest down upon us. Vincent, set the flash unit to strobe, and use it at the first sign of trouble. We’ll blind them first, then fire. Be sure to remove your goggles first—the flash unit will overload them. We know they hate light, so once they know we’re here, let’s use it to our advantage.” He turned. “Margo, just how sure are you about the vitamin D?”

“One hundred percent sure,” she answered immediately. Then she paused. “Well, ninety-five percent, anyway.”

“I see,” the FBI agent replied. “Well, if there’s a confrontation, you’d better use your pistol first.”

Pendergast took a final look around, then began cautiously leading the group down the ancient tunnel. Margo could see D’Agosta leading the journalist forward, gripping his arm tightly. After about fifty yards, Pendergast raised his hand. One by one, they all stopped. Very slowly, he brought a warning finger to his lips. Reaching into a pocket of his jacket, he removed a lighter and held it close to the nozzle of the flamethrower. There was a puff, a flash of light, and a low hiss. A tiny blue pilot flame played around the end of the copper nozzle.

“Smores, anyone?” Mephisto murmured.

Margo breathed through her nose, struggling to stay calm. The air was heavy with the combined reek of methane and ammonia. And overlying them both was a faint goatish odor she knew only too well.

= 58 =

SNOW LEANED HIS aching back against the brick wall of the landing. Easing the fins from his feet, he laid them carefully along the wall, where the weights and tanks were being placed in neat rows. He thought about removing the rubber duffel at his side, then remembered what the Commander had said about not parting with it until the mission was over. The landing felt slimy beneath his neoprene booties. He removed his mouthpiece, wincing at the smell of the ambient air. His eyes stung, and he blinked several times. Better get adjusted, he thought, taking a hit of oxygen. From this point on, he knew, it would be on foot.

Around him, the SEALs were removing their masks and tanks, opening waterproof packs, readying gear. Commander Rachlin snapped on a flare and jammed it into a crack in the brick wall. It hissed and sputtered quietly, bathing the room in fitful red light. “Ready your comm sets. Emergency use only, on the private frequency. I want noise discipline enforced at all times. Remember, each team has a candyman carrying redundant charges. If for any reason one of the three forward teams is unable to carry out their mission, the other teams will cover.”

He took another glance at his waterproof map, then rolled it tight and snugged it into the curve of his knife strap. “Delta,” he said, speaking to Donovan, “you’re failsafe. You hang back here at the rally point, provide loose cover to the rear. If any team fails in its objective, you fill in.” He looked around. “Beta, take that tunnel. Gamma, the far tunnel. They’ll end in vertical shaftways at about five hundred meters. That’s where you’ll place your charges. We meet back here no later than twenty-three-twenty hours. Any later, and we’re not leaving.”

Rachlin looked hard at Snow. “You all right, darlin’?”

Snow nodded.

The Commander nodded. “Let’s go. Beecham, you’re with me.”

Snow watched the three teams disappear into the darkness, shadows bobbing against glistening walls, their booties squelching in the thick muck. The comm set felt awkward and foreign on his head. As the sounds faded away, swallowed by the darkness of the outflow tunnels, he felt a gathering sense of menace.

Donovan was exploring the cavern, examining the shorings and aged bricks. In a few minutes, he stepped noiselessly back toward the equipment cache, ghostly in the light of the flare.

“Smells like shit down here,” he said at last, squatting down beside Snow.

Snow didn’t bother to make the obvious reply.

“Not bad swimming, for a civ,” the SEAL continued, adjusting his Webb belt. Apparently, Snow’s performance in the tunnels had convinced Donovan it wouldn’t be beneath his dignity to speak with him. “You’re the guy that pulled the two bodies out of the Cloaca, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Snow replied defensively. He wondered what Donovan had heard.

“Crazy damn job, looking for dead bodies.” Donovan laughed.

No crazier than killing Vietcong or packing explosives under some poor bastard’s hull , Snow thought. Aloud, he said, “We don’t just look for dead bodies. That day, we were actually looking for a cache of heroin somebody’d thrown off a bridge.”

“Heroin, huh? Must’ve been some pretty messed-up fish down there for a while.”

Snow ventured a laugh, but even to himself it sounded forced and awkward. What the hell’s the matter with you? Be cool, like Donovan. “I’ll bet the Cloaca hasn’t seen a live fish for two hundred years.”

“Got a point there,” Donovan said, heaving himself to his feet again. “Man, I don’t envy you. I’d rather do a week of PT than swim five minutes in this muck.”

Snow saw the SEAL look at his harpoon gun with a smirk. “You’d best have a real weapon, just in case we have to go in.” Donovan rummaged in one of the kit bags and pulled out a machine gun with a cruel-looking metal tube fixed to the underside of its barrel. “Ever fire an M-16 before?” he asked.

“The Tactical guys let us try some on the range during the Academy graduation picnic,” Snow said.

A look of incredulity mixed with amusement crossed Donovan’s features. “Is that right. The Academy graduation picnic. And I’ll bet your mother made you a sack lunch.” He tossed the rifle toward Snow, then reached into the bag and passed over some magazine pouches. “Those are 30-round clips. They’ll empty in less then two seconds on full automatic, so keep your trigger finger light. Not exactly new technology, but tried and true.” He passed over another pouch. “That forward trigger is for the XM-148. The grenade launcher attachment. Here are two 40-millimeter canister rounds, just in case you get ambitious.”

“Donovan?” Snow had to ask. “What’s a chunk boy?”

A long slow grin spread across the SEAL’S painted face. “No harm in telling, I guess. It’s the unlucky stiff who catches hi-mag duty for the operation.”

“Hi-mag duty?” Snow was as much in the dark as he’d been before.

“White magnesium flares. Mandatory issue for all night ops, even stealth runs like this. Stupid-ass regulation, but that’s the way it is. They’re ultra, ultra bright. Twist off the top to arm the detonator, toss one a safe distance, and you’ve got half a million candlepower on impact. But they’re not too stable, if you know what I mean. All it takes is one bullet in that bag, even something small like a .22, and boom! Chunk boy. If you know what I mean.” He chuckled, then wandered off again.