Crucible

by James Rollins

  A loud chime sounded from the laptop, drawing both their attentions. The cluster of overlapping windows—which had been running with code only Mendoza could interpret—vanished. A dark Eden again glowed on the screen.

  “She’s done,” Mendoza announced. “From here, there’s no stopping the cascade of failures that will result in a complete meltdown.”

  Todor checked his watch, mentally setting a timer. He knew from here they had less than ninety minutes before the plant blew. He returned to his abandoned e-tablet and signaled for the helicopter to rendezvous for their evacuation from the city.

  A gasp rose behind him.

  He turned to see Mendoza bend closer to the laptop.

  On the screen, a figure had reappeared in the garden, struggling in fiery chains. The image of Eve flickered, her outline blurring and reforming, looking like a writhing wrath of fire and shadows, a flaming angel of death.

  “She’s fighting her return,” Mendoza whispered, a measure of awe in his voice.

  He didn’t care. “Shut everything down,” he ordered. “We want to be airborne in—”

  A sharp snap sounded behind him, echoing from the depths of the catacombs. It was as loud as a gunshot in the sepulchral stillness. Todor turned. He had four other men positioned around their location. They all knew to remain silent. He had been warned that the catacombs were occasionally traveled by the foolhardy—or by police seeking to flush the same out of the depths of the catacombs.

  But they seldom came this deep.

  Someone else is here.

  With his heart hammering in warning, Todor set his e-tablet down and retrieved his assault rifle: a compact British L85 paired to a Heckler & Koch grenade launcher. He pointed his other arm at the Xénese device housing their creation. It had served its purpose, but he could not risk losing this prize, especially knowing what was planned next.

  “Unhook it now,” he ordered. “Get it ready to move.”

  “But—”

  Another crack from the tunnels silenced him.

  This time, it didn’t sound like a gunshot.

  It was a gunshot.

  1:30 A.M.

  Gray cursed Kowalski’s giant clodhoppers. They had made it halfway down the tunnel when his partner lost his footing at the rear and snapped a yellowed femur under his heel.

  Everyone froze, holding their breath.

  Had they been heard?

  The answer was a stir of shadows amid the glare of lights flowing from the side tunnel. Gray dropped low, balancing on his toes amid the bones, trying his best not to be sighted in the back half of the dark tunnel.

  No luck.

  A gunshot blasted—followed by the whine of a round past his ear.

  Gray heard a pained oof from Monk.

  A glance back revealed his friend flattening against a wall and slumping lower. Beyond Monk, Kowalski simply stood in the center of the tunnel, his weapon high.

  Oh, sh—

  Gray dove headlong into the bone pile on the floor. The bullpup rifle blazed in the darkness, roaring angrily. Kowalski strafed the opening to the side tunnel, careful of Monk pressed to the wall and Gray on the floor. Rounds sparked and ricocheted off the limestone.

  “Go!” Kowalski bellowed, as he emptied the last of his magazine.

  Gray burst to his feet and rushed low, following those rounds to the cross-corridor. He skidded through bones, paused at the threshold, and peeked his head around the corner. A bleeding body lay unmoving on the ground, riddled by the bombardment and ricocheting bullets. A second dark figure appeared down the side tunnel, silhouetted against the bright room behind him.

  Having the momentary advantage, Gray aimed his SIG and squeezed off three shots, all aimed for center mass. The shadow fell, crumpling to the ground.

  Though wounded, Monk sped behind Gray and took a position on the other side of the tunnel opening. He pointed his weapon and nodded.

  Trusting Monk to cover him, Gray raced forward. He shimmied sideways, his back brushing along the left wall. He led with the SIG raised.

  Another shadow.

  Monk fired behind him. With a cry, the figure spun to the side—but not before Gray aimed for the source of that scream and pulled his trigger. The target’s head jacked back, and the body toppled.

  Gray hurried to the end of the tunnel and risked a look into the next room.

  His view was obscured by a forest of stone pillars holding up a low roof. Still, he spotted an array of computer equipment and open metal transport crates on the far side. Movement drew his attention to the left. A scrawny-looking man hauled a steel frame housing a glass-and-titanium sphere toward an exit.

  Gray recognized the unique design.

  Mara’s Xénese device.

  Knowing he could not let it be taken, he exposed himself long enough to point his SIG. Before he could fire, another figure stepped forward, blocking his shot. The giant looked like Kowalski’s ugly brother. The man had a rifle at his shoulder.

  Gazes locked over their respective weapons.

  Recognizing the threat, Gray took one fast pot shot and jumped back toward the tunnel. He collided into Monk and tackled his friend farther down the tunnel.

  “Back, back, back.”

  Gray had spotted the grenade launch—

  The blast threw them both to the ground. Shattered stone clattered all around, followed by a thick cloud of smoke and rock dust.

  Deafened and dazed, Gray crawled on his hands and knees back to the entrance, which was miraculously still intact. Through the pall, he saw the room was empty. The enemy had fled—taking Mara’s device.

  Swearing, he gained his feet.

  Monk joined him; so did Kowalski.

  Gray waved the big man to the far side, to keep watch on that other exit. He turned to Monk. A rip in the upper sleeve of the man’s flight jacket showed a puff of blood-soaked downy feathers.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Just a graze.” Monk’s eyes were on the room. One of the stone pillars had been blasted to smoking rubble. “We were lucky your shot threw off the guy’s aim. If that grenade had made it into the tunnel . . .”

  The top stone of the pillar—still cemented to the roof—broke off and crashed down. Overhead, a crack skittered outward from the spot.

  “Maybe it wasn’t an accident,” Gray said. “Maybe the bastard was attempting to collapse this room.”

  And if so, why?

  Concerned, Gray hurried to the opposite side. In the right corner, the spread of computer and electronic gear had been shielded by other pillars from the worst of the explosion. A knee-high server bank lay toppled on its side, blown over by the blast. It dangled cables. Gray pictured the stolen device attached there. One cord still ran to a laptop abandoned on a table.

  Something bright drew him a few steps to another table. He righted a laptop, noting its screen glowing in the pall of rock dust. The image showed a sunlit forest with a woman standing in a flowery glade. Ignoring this for now, he leaned over the table’s edge, where something shimmered more brilliantly on the floor.

  Flowing from hexagonal glass windows, a blue radiance revealed another sphere. It was identical to the other Gray had glimpsed.

  A second Xénese device.

  He looked over at the exit guarded by Kowalski.

  Someone must’ve engineered a duplicate.

  Still, Gray could not risk letting the enemy escape with even one such device. Monk hovered near the equipment, his face racked with concern, holding a wadded-up glove to his wound.

  “What now?” Monk asked.

  “You stay here.” Gray cut off any objection before it could be raised. “Guard all of this. We can’t risk it falling into the wrong hands.”

  Monk frowned but nodded, clearly recognizing the importance of what was here.

  Gray headed over to Kowalski. “We’re going after that bastard. Try to stop him before he gets away with that other device.”

  “Be careful,” Monk called after them.


  As Gray started to leave with Kowalski, the crack along the roof widened with a groaning complaint of stressed rock. He turned and caught Monk’s eye.

  You be careful, too.

  22

  December 26, 1:43 A.M. CET

  Paris, France

  This is all my fault.

  Mara stared out the back window of the emergency helicopter. The rotors churned through the smoke, stirring it enough to open fleeting views of the burning city, brief glimpses into hell. Flames raged everywhere. Buildings burned, cars packed roadways, small dark figures darted wildly, seeking any refuge.

  Behind them, the headquarters of Orange S.A. had become a fiery torch. A ring of flames slowly climbed its length, consuming floor after floor, leaving behind a gutted, smoky ruin.

  Minutes ago, the air ambulance had been dispatched to Orange S.A., landing on the rooftop helipad. It had been summoned after Jason’s frantic satellite call to his boss. He had shared how they were trapped and about Eve’s next target.

  The Nogent Nuclear Power Plant.

  Unfortunately, this last was not news to his boss. The plant had already put out an alert about the cyberattack, warning of an imminent meltdown. The facility and surrounding town were being evacuated. She imagined the terrifying blare of sirens, the panicked populace fleeing into the night.

  Mara had briefly spoken with Director Crowe, told him that the only hope of wresting control of the facility in time would be to use her AI—to use Eve—to countermand the damage wrought at the plant. Even if they couldn’t stop the meltdown, they might be able to at least mitigate the damage.

  Apparently, this slim hope was enough to warrant their immediate rescue.

  Still, none of it mattered if they didn’t secure her device.

  “There!” Jason called from the front seat next to the pilot and pointed ahead.

  Mara leaned against the glass to get a better look. The walled-off cemetery stretched ahead of them. So far, Montparnasse had been spared, with the exception of a lone tree that burned amid the tombs and crypts, a candle in this unholy night.

  But it would not remain untouched for long.

  Beyond the far wall, the entire world was flame. From a mile away, the heat bobbled the helicopter, lashing the craft with thermals. Even with her ears covered in headphones and deafened by the aircraft’s engines, she could hear the ungodly roar of that conflagration.

  Still, they had no choice but to head straight toward that inferno.

  Carly clutched her hand, squeezing tighter with each drop and roll of the helicopter. In her other arm, she hugged the titanium case of hard drives, as if it were a life preserver. When the air ambulance had first dropped down to the smoke-shrouded roof of the telecom building, Carly looked as if she were seriously weighing whether to get on board or take her chances with the flames.

  Her friend had also looked enviously after they dropped off Father Bailey and Sister Beatrice in a park below the telecom building. The priest had a lead with French intelligence, who awaited the pair of Vatican spies with some sort of urban assault vehicle. As the helicopter lifted off again, the vehicle was already racing away, lights flashing, using empty sidewalks as roads.

  Mara stared below as they reached the cemetery. The aircraft made a sharp turn, throwing Mara against Carly. As the helicopter dropped precipitously, the pilot struggled to hold the helicopter steady in the buffeting winds.

  Carly stiffened in her seat, her fingers clamped in a viselike grip on Mara’s hand. Mara pulled her friend closer.

  Hang on, we’re almost down.

  Through the radio, Mara eavesdropped on the pilot’s communication with Jason. “Où? Where do you want me to land?”

  Jason checked the satellite phone on his lap, comparing its GPS to the last known location of Commander Pierce before his signal vanished. Jason pointed to the southeast. “Over there. Not far from the wall.”

  The helicopter tilted and rolled toward that spot. A tiny swath of open grass amid the tight press of crypts offered the best landing pad. Still, the pilot fought his controls to get into position over such a tiny target.

  The aircraft hovered, spun, dipped.

  Carly groaned next to her. “Either land or crash. I don’t care which. Just get it over with.”

  Whether the pilot heard or not, the helicopter plummeted earthward. Even Mara gasped at the abruptness of the drop—then its skids slammed into the grass.

  Jason yanked off his headphones. “Everybody out.”

  They piled from the craft, with Carly practically climbing over Mara to escape. Phone in hand, Jason led the way down a row of tombs and graves. The pilot remained with his aircraft, ready to lift them to safety if they could secure her device.

  Which was a big if.

  Without any means of communicating, there was no telling if Commander Pierce and the others had been successful in their mission. The plan was to proceed to the entrance to the catacombs and wait, to be ready in case the others returned with the prize, then use the helicopter to get away. They dared not wait anywhere else. Every minute could mean the difference between stopping the cyberattack or total destruction.

  They hurried through the smoky graveyard. Ash rained all around them, igniting new fires across the cemetery, fanned to life by their hurried arrival. Mara held an arm across her mouth and nose. Still, the heat burned her lungs, the smoke blurred her eyes.

  Jason finally gasped out, “That must be the spot.”

  They rushed toward a crumbling limestone mausoleum with a rusted door that stood partly ajar. As they neared it, the door suddenly shoved the rest of the way open.

  Startled, they all fell back a step.

  A lone figure ducked through the opening and stumbled into view. He pulled off a set of bug-eyed night-vision goggles and looked equally surprised to see his welcoming committee.

  “Simon?” Jason said.

  Mara lunged toward Orange’s cybersecurity chief. “Did . . . did Commander Pierce find anything down there?”

  Simon nodded. “I think so. Someone was definitely there.”

  The Crucible?

  Mara shared a concerned look with Jason.

  “And what happened?” Carly asked, still hugging the case in one arm.

  Simon shook his head and glanced back to the mausoleum. “Je n’en suis pas sûr. They sent me away.”

  Mara stared toward the crypt’s dark mouth.

  Then what the hell is happening down there?

  1:55 A.M.

  Far beneath the cemetery, Gray stopped at a crossroads in the tunnels. This section of the catacombs had been flooded long ago as rainwater pooled in these lowermost levels. The ice-cold water reached his knees.

  He shone his UV light ahead and studied the three branching tunnels through his night-vision goggles. Which way did those bastards go?

  He pointed his beam in each direction. The waters pooled in the passages to the right and ahead were pristine, clear enough to see the bones littering the limestone floor. But the waters flooding the left tunnel were milky with disturbed silt.

  As good as footprints in mud.

  Gray pointed that way and set off again, wading quickly, trying to follow as silently as possible. The watery path wound through several more turns before leading him out of the drowned corridors and back to dry passageways. He paused under what passed as a skylight down here, one of the smooth-walled shafts that led up to a distant manhole cover. The firelight piercing the steel grate shone brighter as the fires of Paris worsened, reminding Gray he needed to hurry.

  Under that fiery light, he examined the sets of wet prints on the floor. There were three distinct tread patterns to the boots. Gray straightened. The fleeing pair must have collected another one of their men on the way out.

  He set off again, watching the damp prints grow drier and fade away. He was forced to slow, to waste time at cross tunnels, searching the dust for clues.

  Then finally he heard an echo of tromping feet, furtive whisp
ers.

  Heedless of the danger, knowing he dare not lose the others, he rushed in that direction. Around a corner, he came upon a tableaux, brightly lit by flashlights affixed to weapons. Thirty yards down the next tunnel, a trio clustered at the base of a wooden ladder leading up into another of those shafts. The scrawniest of the group had already mounted the rungs, the box frame with the device lashed over one shoulder.

  Unfortunately, the giant noted Gray’s arrival, either spotting the shift of shadows or hearing some telltale scuff of his boot. He swung his weapon at Gray. Even more than the threat, the painful flare of light into his sensitive goggles drove Gray around the corner. He ripped away the goggles, dropped low, and peered back around, blinking away the retinal burn as he pointed his SIG.

  The giant had already shoved the smaller man up into the shaft, then followed behind. Gray fired twice, but the man leaped up, his legs vanishing into the low roof in a single bound.

  The lone gunman who was left in the tunnel returned Gray’s volley, strafing the passageway, forcing him back.

  Kowalski huffed and stepped over Gray. Carrying his bullpup one-handed, he shoved his arm around the corner and blindly returned fire. The chattering roar of his weapon in full-automatic mode deafened as Kowalski emptied his entire fifty rounds down the passageway in less than four seconds.

  Knowing nothing could survive that barrage, Gray burst out of hiding and ran headlong down the tunnel. Ignoring the dead gunman, he sprinted for the ladder. He estimated the shaft had to stretch forty to fifty yards.

  In other words, a long climb.

  He sprinted, knowing he needed to close the distance and get into close quarters.

  Before that bastard risked using—

  A sharp blast cut off this thought.

  A grenade shot out of the shaft and ricocheted off the floor.

  Gray skidded and backpedaled—but knew he could not get out of the way in time.

  2:04 A.M.

  Past the end of the ladder, Todor hung from an iron rung pounded into the limestone. With his other arm, he shielded his eyes as the grenade burst below. With a thunderous roar, a blinding blast wave of white fire swept his position.