Douglas Preston - Reliquary

Snow shifted position, trying to hold the bag as far from his torso as possible. Except for the fitful sputtering of the flare, there was silence for several minutes. Then Snow heard Donovan’s low chuckle again. “Man, take a look at this! Can you believe some crazy bastard’s been wandering around here? In bare feet, no less.”

Putting the rifle aside, Snow stood up and came over for a look. A set of bare footprints tracked through the mud. Fresh, too: the mud around the edges was damp, not dry.

“Big mother,” Donovan murmured. “Must be a size fourteen triple-E, at least.” He laughed again.

Snow stared at the strangely broad footprint, the feeling of menace increasing. As Donovan’s laughter subsided, Snow heard a distant rumble. “What was that?” he asked.

“What?” Donovan asked, kneeling and adjusting his H-harness.

“Isn’t it too early to set off the charges?” Snow asked.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“I did.” Suddenly, Snow’s heart was hammering in his rib-cage.

Donovan listened, but there was only silence. “Chill, sport,” he said. “You’re starting to hear things.”

“I think we should check it with the Patrol Leader.”

Donovan shook his head. “Yeah, and piss him off good.” He glanced at his watch. “Strict noise discipline, remember? The op site isn’t even a click away from here. They’ll be back in ten minutes. Then we can get the hell out of this toilet.” He spat fervently into the stagnant mud.

The flare guttered and died, plunging the vault into darkness.

“Shit,” Donovan muttered. “Snow, hand me another from that ditty bag near your feet.”

There was another rumble, which slowly resolved into the faint muffled staccato of gunfire. It seemed to shiver through the ancient walls, rising and falling like a distant storm.

In the dark, Snow could hear Donovan rise quickly to his feet, finger punching the comm set. “Team Alpha, Patrol Leader, do you read?” he hissed.

A mass of static came crackling over the frequency.

There was a rolling shudder in the ground. “That was a damn grenade,” Donovan said. “Alpha! Beta! Come in!”

The ground shuddered again.

“Snow, get your weapon.” Snow heard the long rattle of a well-oiled bolt being drawn back. “What a cluster-hump this is turning into. Alpha, do you read ?”

“Five by five.” Rachlin’s voice came crackling over the comm set. “We’ve lost communications with Gamma. Stand by.”

“Roger that,” Donovan said.

There was a brief, tense silence, then the Commander’s voice returned.

“Delta, Gamma must-have run into difficulties setting their charges. Handle the redundancy. We’ve already set our charges and will check Beta’s status.”

“Aye-aye.” A light snapped on, and Donovan looked at Snow. “Let’s move,” he said. “We’ll have to set Gamma’s charges.” Twisting the light into his shoulder snap, he set off at a lope, running low, his rifle held perpendicular to his chest. Taking a deep breath, Snow followed him into the tunnel. Glancing down, he noticed footprints in the flickering illumination—more prints here, crossing and crisscrossing in a crazed welter, too numerous to pick out the SEAL booties of Gamma team. He swallowed hard.

Within minutes, Donovan slowed at what looked like an old siding, surrounded by a mass of pylons. “Shouldn’t be much farther,” he muttered, switching off his light and listening carefully.

“Where are they?” Snow heard himself asking. He wasn’t surprised when Donovan didn’t bother to answer.

“We’re back at the rally point,” came the voice of Rachlin in his comm set. “I repeat: charges successfully set. Going to check on Beta now.”

“Come on,” Donovan said, moving forward again. Suddenly, he stopped.

“You smell that?” he whispered.

Snow opened his mouth, then closed it again as the stench hit him. He turned away instinctively. It was an overripe, earthy smell, its pungency overwhelming the stink of the drainage tunnel. And there was something else: the strangely sweet smell of a butcher’s shop.

Donovan shook his head as if to clear it, then tensed to move forward again. At that moment, the comm unit buzzed in Snow’s ear. There was a hiss, then Rachlin’s voice suddenly came through: “... attack. Drop flares…”

Snow wondered if he’d heard right. Rachlin had spoken with abnormal calmness. Then there was a burst of static from the comm unit, and a rattle that sounded like gunfire.

“Alpha!” Donovan yelled. “You reading? Over.”

“That’s a rog,” came Rachlin’s voice. “We’re under attack. Couldn’t reach Beta. We’re setting their charges now. Beecham, there !”

There was a whump, then a terrific explosion. Emerging from the electronic snow were unintelligible sounds: shouting, perhaps a scream, yet somehow too deep and hoarse to be human. Again, the low rumble of gunfire came through the walls.

“Delta…” came Rachlin’s voice over the roar of static, “...surrounded…”

“Surrounded?” Donovan shouted. “Surrounded by what? You need backup?”

There was more gunfire, then a massive roar.

“Alpha!” Donovan called. “Do you need backup?”

“My God, so many… Beecham, what the hell is that…” Rachlin’s voice died in a roar of static. All at once, the sound stopped, and Snow—rooted in place in the close darkness—thought that perhaps his comm unit had gone dead. Then it emitted a hideous, coughing scream, so loud it seemed to come from beside him, followed by the rubbery noise of neoprene being torn.

“Alpha, come in!” Donovan turned to Snow. “This channel’s still live. Commander, this is Delta, reply!”

There was a burble of static, followed by what to Snow seemed the sound of sucking mud, and then more static.

Donovan adjusted his comm unit unsuccessfully. He glanced at Snow. “Come on,” he said, readying his weapon.

“Where?” Snow asked, shock and horror turning his mouth to sandpaper.

“We still have to set Gamma’s charges.”

“Are you crazy?” Snow whispered fiercely. “Didn’t you hear that? We’ve got to get out of here now .”

Donovan turned to look at him, his face hard. “We set Gamma team’s charges, my friend.” His voice was quiet, but it held unshakable determination, perhaps even an implicit threat. “We finish the op.”

Snow swallowed. “But what about the Commander?”

Donovan was still looking at him. “First, we finish the op,” he said.

Snow realized there-was no room for argument. Gripping the M-16 tightly, he followed the SEAL into the darkness. He could make out a fitful illumination ahead of them: light from around a bend in the tunnel, dancing off the brickwork of the far wall.

“Keep your weapon at the ready,” came the murmured warning.

Snow moved cautiously around the curve, then stopped short. Ahead of him, the tunnel came to a sudden end. Iron rungs in the far wall led to the mouth of a large pipe set in the ceiling.

“Oh, Christ,” Donovan groaned.

A single flare, sizzling in the muck of a far corner, cast a dim light over the scene. Snow looked around wildly, taking in the frightful details. The walls of the tunnel were scarred and raked with bullet marks. A deep bite had been taken out of one wall, its edges burned and sooty. Two dark forms lay sprawled about the mud beside the flare, packs and weapons strewn beside them in wild disarray. Feathers of cordite drifted through the dead air.

Donovan had already leapt toward the closest of the figures, as if to rouse it. Then he stepped back again quickly, and Snow caught a glimpse of a neoprene suit torn from neck to waist, a bloody stump where the head should have been.