Текст книги "Reliquary"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

“Three Points,” Rachlin said. “We’ll use this as our rally base. The op should be a cakewalk, but we’ll do it by the book. Follow strict challenge-and-reply procedures: proper response will be three even numbers. The rules of engagement are simple. Identify yourself, but shoot to kill any threat or hindrance to your work. Extraction point will be the One Hundred Twenty-fifth Street Canal.” The Commander looked around. “All right, gentlemen, let’s earn our MREs.”

= 57 =

FOR A DREADFUL moment Margo thought they were under attack, and she turned instinctively, raising her weapon to the ready position, strangely reluctant to look at the thing Pendergast was struggling with. There was a whispered curse from D’Agosta. Squinting through the still-unfamiliar goggles, Margo realized Pendergast was grappling with a person, perhaps a homeless man who had evaded the police roust. He certainly looked the part: wet, caked in mud, apparently bleeding from some unseen wound.

“Shut off the light,” Pendergast hissed. D’Agosta’s flashlight beam struck her goggles, then winked out. The glowing vista seesawed violently as her goggles tried to compensate, corning back into focus as they stabilized. She drew her breath in sharply. There was something about the lanky features, the tousled hair, that was irresistibly familiar.

“Bill?” she asked in disbelief.

Pendergast had the man on the ground, hugging him almost protectively, murmuring words into one ear. After a moment, the man stopped struggling and went limp. Pendergast released him gently and stood up. Margo leaned in for a closer look. It was Smithback, all right. .

“Give him a minute,” Pendergast said.

“I don’t believe it,” D’Agosta growled. “What, you think he followed us down here?”

Pendergast shook his head. “No. Nobody followed us.” He looked around at the confluence of tunnels above and below. “This is the Bottleneck, where all descending tunnels of the Central Park quadrant meet. He was being chased, apparently, and his path intersected ours. The question is, chased by whom? Or what?” He unshipped his flamethrower and glanced at D’Agosta. “You’d better be ready with the flash, Vincent.”

Suddenly, Smithback lunged upwards, then fell back onto the mass of pipes and twenty-four-inch mains that made up the floor of the Bottleneck.

“They killed Duffy!” he cried. “Who are you? Help me, I can’t see!”

Pocketing her weapon, Margo came forward and knelt at his side. The trip down from the subway tunnel—through noisome corridors and dark, echoing galleries that seemed incredibly out of place dozens of stories beneath Manhattan—had been like an endless dark dream. Seeing her friend race out of the darkness, petrified with fear and shock, only increased her sense of unreality.

“Bill,” she said soothingly. “It’s okay. It’s Margo. Please keep quiet. We don’t dare use lights, and there isn’t a spare set of goggles. But we’ll help you along.”

Smithback blinked in her direction, pupils wide. “I want to get out of here!” he cried suddenly, struggling to his feet.

“What?” D’Agosta said sarcastically. “And miss your story?”

“You can’t go back alone,” Pendergast said, putting a restraining arm on his shoulder.

The struggle seemed to have exhausted Smithback, and he sagged forward. “What are you doing here?” he asked at last.

“I might ask you the same question,” Pendergast replied. “Mephisto is leading us to the Astor Tunnels—the Devil’s Attic. There was a plan to drain the Reservoir and flood the creatures out.”

“Captain Waxie’s plan,” D’Agosta added.

“But the Reservoir is full of the Mbwun lily. That’s where the creatures were growing it. And we can’t allow the plants to reach the open ocean. It’s too late to stop the water dump, so a SEAL team was sent in from the river to seal the lowest spillway tunnels below. We’re going to seal off the spaces abovethe Astor Tunnels to prevent any spillages. We’ll bottle up the flow, keep it from escaping down into the river. If we succeed, it will back up to the Bottleneck here, but nowhere else.”

Smithback remained unspeaking, his head bowed.

“We’re well armed, and fully prepared for whatever’s down there. We have maps. You’ll be safer with us. Do you understand, William?”

Margo watched as Pendergast’s mellifluous delivery worked its calming effect. Smithback’s breathing seemed to slow, and finally he nodded almost imperceptibly.

“So what were youup to, anyway?” D’Agosta asked.

Pendergast made a restraining motion with one hand, but Smithback looked in the direction of the Lieutenant. “I followed Captain Waxie and a group of policemen underneath the Reservoir,” he said quietly. “They were trying to shut off some valves. But they’d been sabotaged, or something. Then—” He stopped abruptly. “Then theycame.”

“Bill, don’t,” Margo interjected.

“I ran away,” Smithback said, swallowing hard. “Duffy and I ran away. But they caught him in the gauging station. They—”

“That’s enough,” said Pendergast quietly. There was a silence. “Sabotage, did you say?”

Smithback nodded. “I heard Duffy say that somebody had been messing with the valves.”

“That is troublesome. Troublesome indeed.” There was a look on Pendergast’s face that Margo had not seen before. “We’d better continue,” he said, shouldering the flamethrower again. “This Bottleneck is a perfect place for an ambush.” He glanced around the dark tunnel. “Mephisto?”he whispered.

There was a stirring in the darkness, then Mephisto came forward, arms folded across his chest, a wide smirk on his whiskered lips.

“I was just enjoying this touching reunion,” he said, in his silky hiss. “Now the merry band of adventurers is complete. Ho, scriblerian! I see you’ve descended farther than you dared venture on our first meeting. Grows on you, doesn’t it?”

“Not especially,” Smithback replied in a low voice.

“How nice, at least, to have one’s own Boswell at hand.” In the artificial light of the goggles, it seemed to Margo that Mephisto’s eyes glittered gold and crimson as they surveyed the group. “Will you compose an epic poem on the event? The Mephistiad. In heroic couplets, please. That’s assuming you live to tell the tale. I wonder which of us will survive, and which will leave their whitened bones to lie here, forever, in the tunnels beneath Manhattan?”

“Let’s move on,” Pendergast said.

“I see. Whiteyhere feels there has been enough talk. Perhaps he fears it will be hisbones left to the rats.”

“We need to set several series of charges directly below the Bottleneck,” Pendergast said smoothly. “If we stand here listening to your empty posturing, we won’t have time to exit before the Reservoir dumps. Then it will be your bones, as well as mine, that are left for the rats.”

“Very well, very well!” Mephisto said. “Don’t chafe.” He turned and began clambering down a large, dark tube.

“No,” Smithback said.

D’Agosta took a step toward the journalist. “Come on. I’ll take your hand.”

The vertical tube ended in a high-ceilinged tunnel, and they waited in the darkness while Pendergast set several sets of charges, then motioned them on. A few hundred yards down the tunnel, they arrived at a walkway that crossed a few feet above the level of the water. Margo felt grateful; the ankle-deep stream had been cold and foul.

“Well!” whispered Mephisto, climbing on the walkway. “Perhaps the Mayor of Grant’s Tomb can finally dry out his wingtips.”

“Perhaps the Hobo King can finally shut up,” D’Agosta growled.

A delighted hiss came from Mephisto. “Hobo King. Charming. Perhaps I should go hunting track rabbits and leave you to do your own spelunking.”

D’Agosta stiffened but held his tongue, and Mephisto led the way across the walkway into a crawl space beyond. Margo heard the roar of falling water in the distance, and soon the passage ended at a narrow waterfall. A narrow iron ladder, almost concealed by the ordure of many decades, descended into a vertical tunnel at the base of the falls.

They passed through the tunnel one at a time, dropping to an irregular bedrock floor beneath the confluence of two seventy-two-inch mains. The narrow boreholes of explosive drills lined the walls like the work of disorderly termites.

“ Nous sommes arrivés,” said Mephisto, and for the first time Margo thought she could detect nervousness behind the bluster. “The Devil’s Attic is directly beneath us.”

Motioning them to stay put, Pendergast checked his maps and then vanished noiselessly into the ancient tunnel. As the seconds turned to minutes, Margo found herself ready to jump at every drop of water from the mossy ceiling, at every stifled sneeze or restless stirring. Once again, she questioned her own motives for coming along. It was becoming increasingly hard to ignore the fact that she was hundreds of feet underground, in an obscure and long-forgotten warren of service passageways, railroad tunnels, and other spaces even more obscure, with a lurking foe that at any moment might…

There was a movement in the dark beside her. “Dear Dr. Green,” came the silky hiss of Mephisto. “I’m sorry you decided to join our little walkabout. But since you’re here, maybe you can do me a favor. Please understand I have every intention of letting your friends here take all the risk. But if something unpleasant should happen, maybe you could deliver something for me.” Margo felt a small envelope being thrust into her hand. Curiously, she began to lift it toward her goggles.

“No!” said Mephisto, catching her hand and thrusting it into her own pocket. “Plenty of time for that later. If necessary.”

“Why me?” Margo asked.

“Who else?” came the hiss. “That slippery G-man, Pendergast? Or maybe the large economy model of our city’s finest, standing over there? Or Smithback, the yellow journalist?”

There was a rapid footfall in the darkness, then Pendergast was back within the dim circle of their flashlights. “Excellent,” he said as Mephisto melted from her side. “Up ahead is the catwalk where I made my own descent. The charges under the Bottleneck should take care of the main Reservoir flow to the south. Now we’ll set the rest of the charges to block off any spillage from feeders beneath the north end of the Park.” The matter-of-fact tone of his voice was more appropriate for a croquet party, Margo thought, than this nightmare stalk. But she was grateful for it.

Pendergast grasped the handle of the flamethrower, undipped the nozzle guard, and pressed the primer a few times. “I’ll go first,” he said. “Then Mephisto. I trust your instincts; let me know if you sense anything wrong or out of place.”

“ Beinghere is out of place,” Mephisto said. “Ever since the Wrinklers arrived, this has been shunned ground.”

“Margo, you’ll be next,” Pendergast continued. “Take care of Smithback. Vincent, I’d like you to cover the rear. There might be a conflict.”

“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.

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.

“Campion, too,” Donovan said grimly, looking at the other SEAL. “Jesus, what would do this?”

Snow shut his eyes a moment, taking short choppy breaths, trying to keep a hold on the thin edge of his control.

“Whoever they are, they must have gone up that way,” Donovan said, indicating the pipe above their heads. “Snow, grab that magazine pouch.”

Doing as he was told, Snow leaned forward and snatched the pouch. It almost slipped out of his hands, and looking down he saw it was slick with blood and matter.

“I’ll set the charges here,” Donovan said, pulling bricks of C-4 out of his own haversack. “Cover our exit.”

Snow raised his weapon and turned his back on the SEAL, staring down toward the bend in the tunnel, flickering crazily in and out of sight in the lambent glow of the flare. His comm unit hissed briefly with the sound of static—or was it the sound of something heavy, dragging through the mud? Was that a soft, moist gibbering beneath the electrical cracklings and spittings?

The unit dropped into silence again. From the corner of his eye, he saw Donovan plunging the timer into the explosive, punching up a time. “Twenty-three fifty-five,” he said. “That gives us almost half an hour to find the PL and get the hell out of here.” He stooped, pulling the tags from the headless necks of his fallen comrades. “Move out,” he said, picking up his weapon and shoving the dog tags inside his rubber vest.

As they began to move forward again, Snow heard a sudden scrabbling from behind, and a sound like a cough. He turned to see the forms of several figures clambering down from the pipe and dropping into the muck by the fallen SEALs. Snow saw, with a sense of eerie unreality, that they were cloaked and hooded.

“Let’s go!” Donovan cried, racing toward the bend in the tunnel.

Snow followed him, panic driving his legs. They clattered down the ancient brick passage, racing from the horrible scene. As they rounded the curve, Donovan slipped in the mud and fell, tumbling head over heels in the murky gloom.

“Make a stand!” he shouted, grabbing for his weapon and snapping on a flare at the same time.

Snow turned to see the figures heading toward them, running low with a kind of sure-footedness. The brilliant flare light seemed to give them a momentary pause. Then they surged forward. There was something bestial about their scuttling that turned his blood to ice. His index finger eased forward, feeling for the trigger guard. A huge roar sounded beside him, and he realized Donovan had fired his grenade launcher. There was a flash of light, then the tunnel shook with the concussion. The weapon jerked and bucked in his hands and Snow realized that he was firing his own M-16 wildly, scattering bullets across the tunnel before them. He quickly took his finger off the trigger. Another figure rounded the bend, emerging from the smoke of the grenade into Snow’s field of fire. He aimed and touched the trigger. Its head jerked back, and for a split second Snow had the image of an impossibly wrinkled and knobby face, features hidden within great folds of skin. Then there was another roar, and the horror disappeared in the flame and smoke of Donovan’s grenade.

His gun was firing on an empty clip. Snow released his finger, ejected the clip, dug into his pocket for another, and slammed it home. They waited, poised to fire again, as the echoes gradually faded. No more figures came loping out of the smoke and the darkness.

Donovan took a deep breath. “Back to the rally point,” he said.

They turned back down the tunnel, Donovan reaching up to snap on his flashlight. A thin red beam shot into the murk ahead of them. Snow followed, breathing hard. Ahead lay Three Points, and their gear, and the way out. He found he was thinking from moment to moment now, concentrating only on getting out, getting to the surface, because anything else would mean thinking of the horrors that had scuttled out toward them, and to think of those would mean…

He suddenly ploughed into Donovan’s back. Staggering for a moment, he glanced around, trying to determine what had caused the SEAL to stop so suddenly.

Then he saw, in the beam of Donovan’s light, a group of the creatures aheadof them: ten, perhaps a dozen, standing motionless in the thick atmosphere of the outflow tunnel. Several of them were holding things, things that dangled by what looked to Snow like dense threads. He peered more closely, in mingled fascination and horror. Then he looked away quickly.