Crucible

by James Rollins

  Blessed by God, he did not feel any of its searing heat, nor the burn of his flesh as his pants caught fire. Instead, he held his breath, worried more about the toxic smoke billowing up from the grenade.

  His weapon’s launcher was a single-shot breech-loader, capable of firing one grenade at a time. He regretted wasting the high-explosive shell earlier. He had intended to use it to destroy the computer gear abandoned at their camp in the catacombs. Instead, he had reacted instinctively, firing at the intruders, both to protect Mendoza with his precious cargo and to eliminate the enemy. Afterward, with no time to reload, he drove Mendoza onward, choosing a quick evacuation instead.

  Still, while marching to their exit, he had slapped in a new grenade, choosing a white phosphorus round this time. Such a shell in close quarters was far more effective at discouraging an enemy. Between its lung-scarring smoke and scatter of white phosphorus particles—specks that would continue to burn, melting flesh down to the bone—such a blast would kill anything near it and contaminate surfaces for hours, making them impassable.

  Todor finally lowered his arm as the flash of light subsided. He patted the flames from his clothes and scaled the remaining rungs, which led up the shaft like a row of iron staples.

  Wrapped in toxic smoke, he continued to hold his breath as he climbed. Before firing his weapon, he had managed to ascend a quarter way up the shaft. The distance and the ricocheting bounce of the grenade had deflected the worst of the blast. Once he reached the evac helicopter, he would shed his clothes and smother any phosphorus particles that reached his skin.

  Above his head, the manhole cover had been removed.

  Mendoza tumbled out of the smoky shaft and vanished.

  Todor soon joined him, taking deep breaths after retreating several steps. The air still choked with smoke, but only from the fires ravaging Paris, not from the chemical inferno below.

  Todor searched around. They had emerged near the north end of the cemetery. A helicopter sat on the road that cut through the tombs and crypts. One of the evac team helped Mendoza, who coughed and choked, toward the spinning blades of the aircraft.

  Todor hurried after them.

  Another teammate came forward, ready to offer him assistance, but the man’s eyes widened with shock at Todor’s blistered face, at the smoke wafting from his scorched clothes, from his burnt hair. He knew he must look like some fiery demon freshly ascended from hell, but he also knew the truth—so he did not hide his smoldering glory.

  I am a soldier of God.

  He glanced back toward the smoking hole. While he did not know who had pursued them in the catacombs, the hunters clearly had military training. Still, the enemy’s cause was not righteous and just.

  Firm with this certainty, he turned his back and headed to the helicopter.

  God will not save you.

  2:12 A.M.

  Kowalski shoved Gray underwater.

  Again.

  His partner pressed him to the limestone floor of the flooded tunnel and patted his clothes with his huge mitt, forcing out every bubble trapped in his clothes. Any residual air could rekindle the phosphorus particles in Gray’s clothing or skin. They had learned this lesson the hard way after the first dunking, when the burning across Gray’s back had reignited.

  Kowalski held him down with a palm and went after Gray’s belt next.

  He batted his arms away and sputtered up out of the water. “I got it from here.”

  Gray stood and stripped off his pants. Standing in soaked boxers, he shoved back into his boots. He had already shed his outer jacket, which lay in the corridor, smoldering and flaming brightly in spots where white phosphorus still glowed.

  Kowalski looked his body up and down, clearly prepared to dunk him again. “Anything burning?”

  Only my pride.

  “Nothing that can’t wait,” Gray said instead.

  He had been lucky to survive. When the shell first blew, he had flung himself around, sprawling facedown on the floor. He expected to be killed by the blast, but then there was a blinding flash of light, thick billowing smoke. A rain of burning particles pelted his entire backside.

  He had instinctively held his breath, but then came the searing pain, unlike anything he felt before. He blacked out for several seconds, only to find Kowalski dragging him by the back of his jacket, hauling him to water to douse the fire.

  Knowing that his partner’s quick thinking had saved his life, Gray reached over and gave Kowalski’s arm a grateful squeeze. “Thanks.”

  The big man shrugged. At some point, he had found the time to shove a cold cigar in his mouth. He turned away and lit the stogie off Gray’s abandoned jacket. “What now?”

  Gray stared toward the distant glow marking the grenade blast several tunnels away, where white phosphorus still burned. Even this far away, the air stank with an acrid hint of garlic from the chemical smoke, warning them away.

  He waved Kowalski in the other direction. “We’re not done with those bastards yet.”

  “We’re not?” Kowalski complained. “They surely bugged out of here by now.”

  Maybe, but until I know for sure . . .

  He led Kowalski away.

  His partner puffed on his cigar. “Where the hell are we going?”

  Gray returned and stood under the shaft they had stopped at earlier, when he had inspected the damp boot prints of his quarry. He craned his neck, feeling a couple phosphorus particles burning at his nape as his skin dried. He inspected those sheer walls. There was no ladder here. Still, he pointed up.

  “That way,” he said.

  “That way? You’re nuts.”

  Gray demonstrated. With the tunnel roof only inches above his head, he leaped high, pinioned his arms across the shaft, and tucked his legs up. He then planted his boots against the far wall and his back against the other. Straddled across the shaft, he employed a technique called chimneying to climb. Shimmying his back, then his legs, he quickly scaled his way upward.

  Kowalski grumbled, but followed, his large bulk filling the well below.

  Gray finally reached the manhole cover. He braced himself tightly below it, then pushed his palms against the underside of the steel lid. He grimaced at its weight, slipping frighteningly for a breath. But it finally moved. He lifted and walked it aside, enough for him to squeeze up and out.

  He rolled free with a heavy sigh of relief, then helped Kowalski out, which was like pulling a bull out of a bog. Once they were both on their feet, Gray searched the cemetery. Fires blazed all around, but so far, the surrounding walls continued to hold the worst of the massive conflagration outside, where it roared in fiery frustration.

  Still, the heat was oven-hot in here, the air choking with smoke.

  Movement caught Gray’s attention to the north.

  A helicopter rose near the cemetery gate, sweeping up through swirling clouds of smoke and flaming ash.

  That’s gotta be them.

  “We’re too late.” Gray balled a fist and bit back a curse.

  “Maybe not.” Kowalski turned Gray by the shoulders to face the south.

  Half-masked by the swirling smoke, another helicopter sat idling on a patch of grass, its rotors spinning as the pilot kept the engine hot. The aircraft was painted bright yellow with a familiar red cross near its tail assembly.

  “What’s an air ambulance doing out here?” he mumbled.

  “Maybe dropping off the dead.” Kowalski headed toward it. “Let’s go ask.”

  They rushed across the graveyard, weaving past tombs and monuments. Gray reached the helicopter first. He ducked under the spinning blades and pounded on the window. The pilot jumped, startled. The man had been looking the other way, staring toward one of the tombs—only then did Gray recognize the mausoleum, the same one that hid the secret entrance to the catacombs.

  He frowned, trying to get his bearings on all of this.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  He pounded again. “Open up!” he yelled.<
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  The pilot showed clear reluctance, plainly shocked by a crazed, half-naked man at his door. Still, Gray knew the chopper’s presence had to bear on the threat in the cemetery. Why else land here?

  “I’m Commander Grayson Pierce!” he said, identifying himself.

  It didn’t help.

  What did was Kowalski coming up behind him and pointing his freshly reloaded bullpup at the cockpit, at the pilot. “Fella said, open up.”

  Gray pushed the rifle barrel down. “We just want to talk.”

  The pilot didn’t open the door, but he did slide open a small side window, just enough to yell back. “Putain! What do you want?”

  “Despite appearances, I’m with the U.S. military,” Gray explained. “We need help. Why are you here?”

  The pilot cast his gaze up and down Gray’s form, looking doubtful, but he elaborated. “Something tres important. Someone is trying to blow up a nuclear plant?”

  What the hell?

  Kowalski shook his head. “Yep, he’s definitely here because of us.”

  The pilot pointed. “I flew in two young women. A young man. They claim they could stop it. They met another fellow here with yellow glasses, who took them below.”

  That had to be Simon.

  Gray waved to the rear of the helicopter. “Your passengers? Were they Jason Carter, Carla Carson, and Mara Silviera?”

  The pilot leaned back, surprised.

  “We’re with them.” Gray didn’t know why the others had flown here or what this threat of a nuclear attack was all about, but he could guess the source of the problem. He pointed to where the enemy had vanished. “Did you see that other helicopter lift off a minute ago?”

  “Oui.”

  “We need to go after it.”

  Gray kept this gaze on the dark skies. He had to trust that the others knew what they were doing below.

  “Non,” the pilot said in refusal. “I was ordered to stay here.”

  Kowalski lifted his rifle again. “It wasn’t a request, buddy.”

  With time running out, Gray didn’t push the barrel down. Instead, he left the threat hanging in the air. He still felt the residual phosphorus burn in the nape of his neck, across the back of his hands. He used that pain to focus on the next task.

  To hunt those bastards down.

  23

  December 26, 2:24 A.M. CET

  Paris, France

  Where the hell are you, Gray?

  Monk paced the length of the stone chamber. He checked his watch. Gray had been gone nearly an hour. Tension chewed at his nerves. Twenty minutes ago, a distant explosion had echoed through the catacombs. It was strong enough to shake some rock dust from the crack in the roof. Gray clearly had tangled again with the bastard who had blasted apart the stacked-stone pillar in this chamber, someone with a grenade launcher.

  Since then, the damned tombs had remained deathly silent.

  The silence of the grave.

  He fought not to picture Kat down here.

  Or the girls.

  He glanced again at his watch. His pacing brought him back to the computer station. Knowing he was out of his element, he hadn’t touched anything. He feared causing any accidental damage due to his ignorance. So, he did his best to perform a cursory examination of everything left behind by the enemy, making a mental inventory of what was here.

  Despite his caution, he kept returning like a curious crow to what glowed in the dim light: the radiant sphere on the floor and the open laptop. He bent again to the computer screen, needing the distraction. Still, he kept tight hold on his SIG Sauer and an ear cocked for any stealthy approach.

  On the laptop, a naked woman moved through a flowering bower of rosebushes, gently drooping lilacs, and blooming dogwoods. The resolution was so high that he was tempted to reach and pluck a raspberry from the bush on the screen. His prosthetic hand even rose at this thought. As it did, the woman lifted her own arm, extending a hand toward the bush, long fingers settling on a ripe berry damp with dew.

  What the—

  The barest whisper of voices snapped his attention back to the room’s entrance. He edged quickly over and hid behind one of the pillars. He aimed his pistol at the dark mouth of the tunnel, readying for a firefight. He would defend this equipment with his life. What was left here offered the best chance to save his girls, and he would let no one steal it away.

  He strained for some indication of the number who approached, if they were enemy reinforcements or aid sent by Gray. Then he heard someone with a French accent say faintly, Down that way. Careful of the bones.

  Monk shifted to a pillar closer to the doorway, passing through the trickle of dust from the crack overhead. Some got up his nose. He painfully stifled a sneeze.

  Then another voice, a female with a Spanish lilt: How much farther? We don’t have much time.

  Someone scolded her. Hush. Quit talking so much. We don’t know who might . . .

  Either the acoustics shifted and muffled the last words, or the speaker lowered his voice. Still, Monk recognized who had urged such caution.

  It was Kat’s right arm.

  Monk cupped his mouth. “Jason! Over here!”

  The kid answered, “Monk?”

  “No, his ghost. Come over here so I can haunt your ass.”

  A short time later, a loud crunching and hollow knocking of bones announced the arrival of a small party. The group hurried into the room, led by Simon Barbier, followed quickly by Mara, Carly, and Jason.

  Monk kept his weapon in hand in case their commotion drew unwanted attention or if they had been followed. “What are you all doing down here?”

  Jason rushed forward and filled him in on the details, about the threat to a neighboring nuclear plant, about an impending meltdown orchestrated by Mara’s AI.

  Monk drew the group toward the array of computer gear. He pointed to the laptop. “As in that AI?”

  Mara recognized her own handiwork and swept over to inspect everything. “My Xénese device. You recovered it.” She leaned toward the screen. “And Eve.”

  “Where’s Gray now?” Jason asked. “And Kowalski?”

  As Mara performed some arcane diagnostics, Monk told him everything that had transpired. “I’ve not heard anything more from Gray. But—” He nodded to the crack as it ominously groaned. “—we’d better get all this gear dissembled and hauled somewhere safe.”

  “No,” Mara said, her fingers still tapping at the keyboard. “We’ve got power and direct wireline access to the network infrastructure. We can’t leave.”

  Simon had been examining the connections to the huge cables running through the room. “She’s right. These trunks were all installed by Orange. From here, Eve should be able to get anywhere.”

  Monk didn’t understand. “Why does that matter?”

  Carly answered, dropping to a knee and opening a titanium case she had hauled in with her. “We’re going to convince Eve to help us. To go back out and fix the damage, and hopefully return control to the nuclear plant.”

  “Before it’s too late,” Mara added.

  “But what’s to stop the Crucible from using their Xénese device to attack the plant again?”

  Mara opened her mouth, then turned sharply. “What do you mean their device?”

  Monk realized he hadn’t filled in all the details. He described what Gray had spotted during the firefight here.

  “How could that be?” Mara asked. “I kept my designs secret.”

  Jason offered an explanation. “I doubt the University of Coimbra’s systems were irontight. If someone knew what you were working on, it wouldn’t have been hard to hack into your workload and spy over your shoulder.”

  Monk knew few networks were truly safe. Jason himself had hacked into computers at the Department of Defense when he was practically a kid. From Mara’s silence, she didn’t discount this possibility.

  “I should’ve been more careful,” she finally muttered and returned to her inspections.

 
; Simon spoke from where he fingered a set of abandoned cords that were still spliced into the telecom trunk. “Looks like something was wired into our system here.”

  The other Xénese device.

  Carly stepped over to a closed laptop on a neighboring table. It was still connected to a small server bank. She opened it, igniting the screen—then gasped. “Come see this.”

  An image was frozen on the screen: a blasted garden under a black sun. It looked like a dark mirror version of what shone on the other laptop.

  Mara reached fingers toward the screen, toward a fiery figure crushed under the weight of molten-red chains. “Eve . . . what did they do to you?”

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Jason reminded everyone. “Maybe we can run some forensics on this laptop. Examine what’s loaded on the server here. Then hopefully figure out the methodology used to attack the Nogent Nuclear Power Plant.”

  “Smart,” Carly acknowledged.

  Monk agreed, checking his watch. “Then let’s get to work.”

  A low rumble drew their eyes to the crack in the ceiling. It skittered longer, raining down a fresh stream of sandy limestone.

  “And we’d better hurry,” Monk added.

  2:29 A.M.

  As Jason and Simon worked together to hack into the abandoned server, Mara concentrated on her own station. The press of time weighed on her. She pictured a nuclear plant’s cooling towers shattering and imploding, crumbling into radioactive slag.

  “Is this the right hard drive?” Carly asked.

  Mara swiped damp sweat from her brow and glanced past the edge of her table. Her friend knelt over the open titanium case, holding aloft a USB-C cable, trying to figure out which drive held Eve’s next subroutine. During their turbulent flight here, followed by the hard hike through the catacombs, several of the drives had been knocked loose, making a disarray of the case’s order.

  Mara searched and pointed to the drive marked BGL1. “That one. And daisy-chain it to drives BGL2 and BGL3.”

  The next subroutine was massive, even larger than the HARMONY routine used for Eve’s musical education.