Reliquary

by Douglas Preston

  “The police haven’t done jack shit,” the man replied. “Look around. You’ve let this scum trash our city.”

  “We heard they killed twenty, thirty people already!” came the slurred voice of a man holding up a cellular phone. “Including Mrs. Wisher. They’re trashing the city. They got bastards from the East Village and Soho to help them out. Goddamn NYU activists. Our friends need help.”

  “Got that?” said the one in front. “So get out of the way, lady.” He took another step forward.

  “You take another step and I’ll part your hair with this;” Hayward said, slipping her hand from her gun to her baton and sliding it smoothly from the belt ring. She felt Carlin tense beside her.

  “Pretty easy for you to talk tough,” the man said scornfully. “With a gun on your belt and a goddamn human refrigerator at your side.”

  “Think you can take all five of us?” said someone in the group.

  “Maybe she thinks she can smother us all to death with those jugs of hers,” said another. Several grins broke out.

  Hayward took a deep breath, then replaced her baton. “Officer Carlin,” she said, “please take twenty steps back.”

  Carlin remained motionless.

  “Do it!” she snapped.

  Carlin stared at her for a moment. Then, without turning or taking his eyes from the group, he began walking backward down the path they had come.

  Hayward stepped deliberately up to the lead youth. “Now listen up,” she said evenly, without taking her eyes off his. “I could take off my badge and my piece, and still kick all your sorry white-bread asses back to Scarsdale, or Greenwich, or wherever it is your mothers tuck you in at night. But I don’t need to do that. See, if you refuse to follow my instructions to the letter, then your mothers won’t be tucking you in this evening. They’ll be waiting in line at Police Plaza tomorrow morning to make your bails. And all the money, or power, or influence in the world won’t be able to remove the words intent to commit felonious assault from your police record. In this state, a person convicted of a felony can never practice law. They can never hold public office. And they can never get a license to trade securities. And your daddies aren’t going to like that. Not one bit.”

  She paused a moment. “So drop your weapons,” she said coolly.

  There was a brief instant in which nobody moved.

  “I said, drop your weapons!” she yelled at the top of her voice.

  In the silence that followed, she heard the clink of an aluminum bat hitting asphalt. Then another. Then came a quieter sound: a steel blade dropping to the earth. She waited a long moment, then took a deliberate step backward.

  “Officer Carlin,” Hayward said quietly. In a moment, he was at her side.

  “Shall I frisk them?” he asked.

  Hayward shook her head. “Driver’s licenses,” she said to the group. “I want those, too. Drop them on the ground right there.”

  There was a brief pause. Then the youth in front dug a hand into his jacket pocket, removed his wallet, and let the plastic card flutter to the ground. The rest followed suit.

  “You can pick them up tomorrow afternoon at One Police Plaza,” she continued. “Ask for Sergeant Hayward. Now, I want you all to walk straight past me until you reach Central Park West. Then I want you to go your separate ways. Do not pass Go; do not collect two hundred dollars. Head straight home, and go to bed. Understand?”

  There was another silence.

  “I can’t hear you!” Carlin’s voice roared out, and the men jumped.

  “We understand,” came the chorused response.

  “Then move out,” Hayward said. The youths stood motionless, as if rooted to the spot.

  “Shake it!” she barked. The group started up, silently, heads straight ahead, walking slowly at first, then faster, toward the west. Soon they had vanished into the darkness.

  “Bunch of pricks,” said Carlin. “You think twenty or thirty were really killed?”

  Hayward snorted as she bent to pick up the weapons and licenses. “Hell, no. But if the rumors keep spreading, people like that are going to keep coming. And this situation will never get resolved.” She handed him the bats with a sigh. “Come on. We might as well report in and see if we can help out tonight. Because tomorrow, you know we’re going to get our butts reprimanded for what happened down in those tunnels.”

  “Not this time,” Carlin replied, grinning slightly.

  “You said that before.” Hayward turned toward him. “Just what are you telling me, Carlin?”

  “I’m telling you that this time, the righteous shall be rewarded. And it’s the Millers of the world who will get hung out to dry.”

  “And just when did you acquire this gift of prophecy?”

  “When I learned that our friend Beal, who you helped into the ambulance back there, is the son of one Steven X. Beal.”

  “Steven Beal, the state senator?” Hayward asked, eyes widening.

  Carlin nodded. “He doesn’t like people to know,” he said. “Afraid people will think he’s pulling influence to get an easy ride or something. But that crack on his head must have loosened his tongue a bit.”

  Hayward stood motionless a moment. Then, shaking her head, she turned back in the direction of the Great Lawn.

  “Sergeant?” Carlin asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Why did you ask me to step away from those punks like that?”

  Hayward paused. “I wanted to show them that I wasn’t afraid. And that I meant business.”

  “Would you have?”

  “Would I have what?”

  “You know,” Carlin gestured. “Kicked their asses back to Scarsdale, and all that.”

  Hayward looked at him, raising her chin slightly. “What do you think?”

  “I think—” Carlin hesitated a moment. “I think you’re one scary lady, Ms. Hayward.”

  = 56 =

  AS THE LAUNCH sliced through the dark waters of the Hudson River, Snow suited up belowdecks, feeling the hull tremble with the muffled rumble of the big twin diesels. There was barely enough room to stand amongst the loran gear, geopositioning satellite units, sonar equipment, and arms lockers. He noted that it was a wet suit, not the usual sealed dry suit the police team wore, and instantly regretted his suggestion to go in through the treatment plant. Too late, he thought, struggling with the suit. The boat lurched and he pitched forward, banging his head painfully against a bulkhead.

  He rubbed his forehead with a curse. It hurt, all right. So he wasn’t dreaming. He really was in a boat full of Navy SEALs, armed to the teeth, bound for God only knew what kind of mission. Fear and excitement surged through him simultaneously. This, he knew, meant a chance at redemption. Maybe his only chance. He’d make damn sure he didn’t screw it up.

  He adjusted the lantern visor, snugged on the last glove, and went topside. Commander Rachlin, who had gone forward and was speaking with the coxswain, turned at his approach. “Where the hell’s your paint? And what took you?”

  “The equipment is a little different from what I’m used to, sir.”

  “Well, you got from now until insertion to get used to it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rachlin jerked his head toward Snow. “Donovan, get him fixed up.”

  Donovan came over and wordlessly began smearing black and green greasepaint across Snow’s cheeks and forehead.

  Rachlin motioned the rest of the team to gather round. “Now listen up,” he said, unrolling a plastic map on one thigh. “We’re going in via the main settling tank above the West Side Lateral. According to Snow here, it’s the quickest way in.” His finger traced a route on the map. “Once at the first riser, we’ll follow our plotted course until we reach this place, here, where the tunnels branch. That’s our rally point. Once we’re in position, teams Alpha, Beta, and Gamma will each take one of these tunnels. I’ll lead Alpha, and ride point. Snow and Donovan are Team Delta. They catch the milk run, staying in the rear and covering our as
ses. Questions?”

  Snow had several, but he decided against asking any of them. His face burned from the rough strokes of Donovan’s gloved hand, and the thick greasepaint smelled like rancid tallow.

  The Commander nodded. “We’ll go in, place the charges, and come out. Nice and simple, just like exercises at the ’phib base. The charges will seal off the lower drainage tunnels that feed into the Lateral. Another team is going down from the street, sealing access from above. Real pros, from the sound of it.” The Commander made a snorting sound through his mask. “They told us to use NVDs. If you can believe that.”

  “NVDs?” Snow echoed.

  “Night-vision devices, darlin’. But try wearing one over a wet suit and mask.” He spat over the side. “We’re not afraid of the dark. And anything that wants to come take a piece of us, let them try. Still, I like to see what I’m blowin’ away.”

  He stepped forward. “All right. Hastings, Clapton, Beecham, you catch AW duty this mission. I want one weapons carrier per team. Lorenzo, Campion, Donovan, carry the pyros. You’ll be the candymen, along with myself. We’ve got redundant charges, so expect a heavy load. Now shoulder up.”

  Snow watched as the men slung automatic weapons over their shoulders. “What about me?” he heard himself asking.

  Rachlin turned toward him. “I don’t know. What about you?”

  Snow paused. “I’d like to do something. To help, I mean.”

  Rachlin stared at him for a moment. Then a small smile appeared briefly on his lips. “Okay,” he said. “You get to be chunk boy for this op.”

  “Chunk boy?” Snow asked.

  “Chunk boy.” The Commander nodded. “Beecham! Toss the kit over here.” Rachlin caught the waterproof rubber duffel that was thrown to him, then placed it over Snow’s neck. “That stays on until we reach the exit point,” he muttered.

  “I’ll need a weapon, sir,” Snow said.

  “Get him something.” Somebody thrust the butt of a harpoon gun into Snow’s gut, and he quickly looped the strap over his shoulder. He thought he heard somebody sniggering quietly, but he ignored it. Snow had speared plenty of fish in the Sea of Cortez, but he’d never seen spears quite as long or as evil-looking as the ones that hung from the underbelly of this gun, fat explosive charges packed at their ends.

  “Don’t shoot any crocodiles,” Donovan said. “They’re endangered.” It was the first time he’d spoken.

  The throb of the engines grew deeper, and the boat eased up to a cement landing beneath the dark outline of the Lower Hudson Sewage Treatment Plant. Snow looked up at the enormous concrete structure with a sinking feeling. It was fully automated, supposedly state of the art, but he’d heard the facility had seen nothing but problems since going on-line almost five years before. He hoped to God he was right about going in through the main settling tanks.

  “Think we ought to alert them that we’re coming?” Snow asked.

  Rachlin looked at him, faint amusement on his face. “Way ahead of you. Took care of things while you were belowdecks. They’ll be expecting us.”

  A Jacob’s ladder was thrown over the side, and the men quickly scrambled down to the landing. Snow looked around, orienting himself. He recognized the area from the Basic tour: the control room was not far off. The team followed him up a metal staircase, then past a large array of aeration and settling tanks. The smell of methane and sewage hung in the air like a mephitic fog. At the far end of the tanks, Snow stopped at a metal door, bright yellow against the monotonous gray of the facility, with painted red letters: DO NOT OPEN DOOR, ALARM WILL SOUND. Rachlin brushed Snow aside and kicked the door open, revealing a spare cement corridor blazing with white fluorescent light. A siren began, low and insistent.

  “Move out,” Rachlin said quietly.

  Snow led them up a double flight of stairs, and onto a landing marked CONTROL. There was a set of doors on the landing, with a carded entry system set into the wall beside them. The Commander stood back, preparing to kick in the doors again. Then, reconsidering, he moved forward and nudged one with his hand. It swung open, unlocked.

  Beyond was a vast room, flooded with light and full of the odor of treated sewage. Monitoring equipment and regulators lined the walls. In the center, a lone supervisor sat at the control station. He hung up the phone on his desk, his hair disheveled, blinking as if the telephone had roused him out of a sound sleep.

  “Do you know who that was,” he exclaimed, pointing at the phone. “Holy God, that was the Deputy Director of the—”

  “Good,” Rachlin replied. “Then I won’t have to waste any time. We need you to shut down the main outflow propeller right now.”

  The man blinked at Rachlin as if seeing him for the first time. Then his gaze traveled down the line of SEALs, growing more wide-eyed as he went.

  “Damn,” he said almost reverently, staring at Snow’s harpoon gun. “He wasn’t kidding, was he?”

  “Hurry up, now, darlin’,” Rachlin drawled, “or we’ll throw you in the tank and let your fat old carcass shut it down for us.”

  The man jumped to his feet, trotted over to a panel, and flipped several levers, “Five minutes is the most I can spare,” he said over his shoulder as he moved toward another bank of controls. “Any longer, and everything west of Lenox Avenue will back up.”

  “Five minutes is all we’ll need.” Rachlin looked at his watch. “Get us to the settling tank.”

  Panting softly, the supervisor led the team back out to the landing, down one flight, and along a narrow corridor. At the far end, he opened a small access door and descended a spiral staircase of painted red metal. The staircase opened onto a small walkway that hung suspended a few feet above a foamy, roiling surface.

  “You really going down in that?” the man asked, looking them over once again with the same expression of disbelief on his jowled face.

  Snow looked down at the foamy, scum-laden surface, nose wrinkling involuntarily, regretting he’d been in the office that evening, and deeply regretting that he’d suggested this as an entry point. First the Humboldt Kill, and now—

  “That’s an affirmative,” the Commander replied.

  The man licked his lips. “You’ll find the main feeder five feet below the surface, on the east side of the tank,” he said. “Watch out for the propeller valve. I’ve turned it off, but the residual flow will still be turning the blades.”

  Rachlin nodded. “And the first riser is where exactly?”

  “Three hundred twenty feet down the feeder,” the supervisor said. “Keep to your left as the pipes divide.”

  “That’s all we need to know,” Rachlin said. “Get on upstairs, now, and fire everything back up as soon as you get there.”

  The man paused, still staring at the group.

  “Move!” Rachlin barked, and the man scampered up the staircase.

  Snow went first, falling backwards into the bubbling vat, followed by Donovan. When he gingerly opened his eyes, he was surprised at how clear the effluent was: thin, not treacly, and with the faintest milky cast. The others jumped in. He could feel the wetness creeping against his skin, and tried not to think about it.

  Snow swam forward against the slight current. Ahead, he could see the stalled propellers of the outflow valve blocking the circular pipe beyond, the steel blades still turning slowly. He stopped and let Rachlin and the other teams catch up, until the seven SEALs were all hanging suspended beside them. Rachlin pointed to Snow, then made an exaggerated count with his fingers. At three, Snow and Donovan darted through the propellers. Alpha Team was next, then Beta, then Gamma.

  Snow found himself within a massive stainless steel pipe, leading on into vast, dark depths.

  The same creeping terror he’d felt in the mud of Humboldt Kill threatened to bubble once again to the surface, but he fought it back, slowing his breathing, mentally counting his heartbeats. No panic, not this time.

  Rachlin and his partner swam through the blades, then Rachlin made a sharp gesture to S
now to continue. He quickly moved ahead, leading the other teams down the tunnel. Behind him, Snow heard the whine of a turbine, and the propeller began to pick up speed. The current around him quickened noticeably. No going back now, even if he wanted to.

  The tunnel angled downward, forking once, then twice. Snow kept to the left each time. After what seemed like an eternity of swimming, the squad stopped at last beside the first vent riser, a narrow steel shaft barely wider than his shoulders. Rachlin indicated that he would take the lead from here. Following the SEALs, Snow swam downward, awash in bubbles from the preceding air tanks. After several yards, the Commander stopped the descent, then led them into a horizontal tube even narrower than the riser. Snow squeezed in behind Donovan, breathing hard as his tanks bounced from wall to wall in time to the motion of his swimming.

  Suddenly, gleaming steel gave way to old iron pipe, covered with a spongy coating of rust. The passage of the previous divers swirled the effluent an opaque orange against Snow’s mask. He struggled forward, feeling the reassuring turbulence from Donovan’s unseen fins. They stopped briefly while Rachlin consulted his map with the aid of a submersible penlight. Then two more bends, another short rise, and Snow felt the surface of the water break around his head. They were in a huge ancient passageway, perhaps sixteen feet in diameter and full to half its depth in sluggishly flowing liquid. The Main Lateral.

  “Snow and Donovan to the rear,” came the muffled voice of Rachlin. “Stay on the surface but keep breathing tank air. This atmosphere’s likely to be loaded with methane. Proceed in standard formation.” The Commander quickly consulted a plastic map hooked to his suit, and then started forward.

  The group spread out, swimming along the surface, tracing a circuitous route through the system of pipes. Snow prided himself on his ability as a distance swimmer, but he felt distinctly outclassed by the seven men moving easily through the water ahead of him.

  The passageway opened at last into a large pentagonal chamber, yellow stalactites dripping water from the vaulted ceiling. Snow stared with amazement at a massive iron chain hanging from a metal eye cleat set in the vault’s apex. A trickle of water ran down the chain, off a great rusted hook at its end, and dribbled into the pool. There was a cement landing streaked with rust. Three large, dry tunnels branched off from the walls of the chamber.