The Last Oracle (2008) sf-5

by James Rollins

  With a flash of silver, a blade appeared in the Gypsy's hand. He slapped the grip into Gray's palm. In turn, Gray tossed him the flashlight.

  Hold the beam underwater! he ordered and dove out into the growing lake.

  The current grabbed him and whipped him around the edge of the room. He didn't fight it. He let the force churn him to the far side of the cave. He knew when he'd reached it, sensing the raw power of the jetting spring below. He twisted and kicked toward the opposite wall.

  Conscious or not, only one thing could be holding Rosauro down beneath the water.

  Pressure.

  Gray dove to where the spring had drained out of the cavern. In the dim light of the flashlight, he spotted a struggling form trapped in the drainage slot.

  Rosauro had been sucked tight against the hole, one arm swallowed down its throat. Gray heard of people drowning, pinned to swimming pool drains. This was a force a hundred times as fierce.

  Gray grabbed her free arm and pulled himself down to her. He braced his legs to either side of the trough. She stared up at him. Even in the weak light, he saw the raw panic on her face.

  Gray slashed out with the dagger. He'd lost one teammate to drowning he wasn't about to lose another. The blade sliced through the straps of Rosauro's backpack. Half the bag had been sucked into the hole, holding her trapped. Once cut free, Gray dropped the dagger, grabbed her around the chest, and heaved with his legs.

  For a moment, she remained stuck. Then the pack shifted deeper into the hole, weakening the pressure enough for Gray to pop her out. He tumbled back with her in his arms. He let the spin of the current carry them toward the light and the stairwell.

  The water had risen to within a foot of the roof.

  A grinding boom of stone echoed. The current suddenly slammed harder as the cavern wall gave way behind him.

  Surging forward, Gray kicked off the bottom and up into the flooded stairwell.

  Gasping, he surfaced into Luca's arms. Luca helped Gray haul Rosauro up the stairs. She coughed and choked. Water spilled from her lips. But she took deep gulping breaths between.

  She used one breath to spit out a curse in Spanish that would burn even the hairs off Kowalski's ears.

  Behind them, the chamber flooded to the roof, and the water level suddenly churned up after them.

  Time to go, Gray said.

  He pulled Rosauro to her feet and waved Elizabeth and Luca ahead. Rosauro was weak-kneed, but with water surging at their heels, she steadied enough to run on her own. Still, she cradled her left arm, strained from the suction.

  They fled upward, chased by a flume of rising floodwaters.

  Reaching the top, Elizabeth slithered backward out the opening, hung from her hands, then dropped to the floor below.

  Go! Gray called to Luca when the man hesitated.

  Luca obeyed and disappeared.

  Gray helped Rosauro through the black marble door. She dangled from her good arm, then dropped. Gray followed her as water flooded the last step and washed over him in a wave.

  He leaped away, clearing his fingers a second before the surge of water struck the door and slammed it closed. He landed and stared up. With the marble door cut at an angle, it could only rotate in one direction. The water pressure now held it closed.

  Self-sealing.

  Turning, he heard a roar echoing from the canyon. Lightning flashed. Churning white water flowed across the valley floor. The canyon was flooding, too, but this was a natural flood not the consequence of Gray's ham-fisted fumbling.

  He stared at the volume of water coursing through the canyon.

  No wonder these buildings had been built into the cliffs.

  Gray realized one other thing.

  Luca had noted it, too, and whispered, Where is everyone?

  As if hearing his question, Masterson limped into view by the door, leaning on his cane. He'd been out of sight on the porch outside. Probably keeping an eye on the flooding waters with the others.

  Thank God, the professor said. You'd been down there bloody long enough. What did you find?

  Elizabeth stepped forward, excited. The answers to everything! It was amazing.

  It that right?

  Behind Masterson, more figures rushed into view.

  Others flooded in from the two side rooms. They all wore black, bristling with assault weapons ready at their shoulders.

  The Russian commandos.

  You'll have to tell me all about it, Masterson said. Since your father refused to.

  Kowalski was shoved into view at the outer door, hands on his head. His right eyebrow was split, bleeding down his face. Soldiers forced him to his knees.

  They killed Abe, he growled out. Shot him like a dog.

  Masterson shrugged. And why not? He was achuta. Dogs are treated better in

  India.

  The soldiers spread out around them.

  Elizabeth stared at the professor, stunned, hardly able to speak. Still, heat fired through her words, realizing the depth of the betrayal here. It was you!

  You betrayed my father!

  I had no choice, Elizabeth. He'd been getting too close to the truth.

  Gray went cold. He understood the game that had been played out here. Masterson had been paid to keep an eye on Dr. Polk's research, to feed his data to his superiors but once Elizabeth's father got too close, he had to be taken out of the game.

  Who was behind it all?

  Masterson must have recognized the icy fury in Gray's eyes. He backed a step away, though there was nothing Gray could do. Masterson waved his cane.

  Commander Pierce, it seems for now you and the others are needed alive. But maybe not the big fellow here.

  He pointed his cane at Kowalski.

  Kill him.

  Kowalski's eyes got huge.

  Gray lunged forward, but three rifle barrels butted against his chest.

  Elizabeth shouted out, Please, Hayden, no! I beg you!

  Gray heard the catch in her voice, so did Masterson.

  The professor glanced between Elizabeth and Kowalski then rolled his eyes.

  Fine. Only because I owe your father. But at the first sign of trouble from any of you, we start shooting.

  Masterson stared over to Gray. You wanted to know where Archibald went? He turned and headed away. You should be careful what you wish for.

  THIRD

  15

  September 7, 5:05 A. M.

  Southern Ural Mountains

  Monk poled through the swamps as best he could with one hand. But they dared not stop. They'd been hunted throughout the night. Stabilizing the oar-pole in the crook of his stumped arm, he pulled and shoved with his good hand. The raft glided silently across the drowned landscape.

  Over the course of the night, his eyes had adjusted to the wan light from the moon. He had grown skilled at maneuvering the raft. They had several close calls as an airboat searched the swamps for them. The whining noise of its fan and its bright searchlight gave Monk plenty of warning to seek shelter. Also thick mists hung low over the water, which helped keep them hidden.

  Still, they'd almost been caught once, when Monk had misjudged a sluggish current and struck a tree with a loud crack. The airboat had heard and come rushing over. He tried his best to hide under the branches of a willow, but they were sure to be spotted if the searchers looked too closely.

  Their salvation came from an unexpected place.

  As the airboat slowed and throttled down, Kiska had folded her hands over her mouth, took a deep breath, then let out a low bleating complaint of an elk cow.

  They'd heard the calls periodically throughout the night. Monk remembered how the girl had demonstrated her talent, an ear for perfect pitch and mimicry, mirroring birdcalls with an uncanny accuracy. The hunters had still searched, but less thoroughly, and moved onward after a minute.

  Still they could not count on such luck forever. And worse yet, Monk knew they were slowly being herded closer toward Lake Karachay and its pall o
f radioactivity. The airboat swept the safer regions of the swamp, which only left them one recourse: to stray closer and closer in the direction of the lake.

  Every hour, Monk risked lighting a single match to check the color of their dosimeters. The pink warning had darkened to full red. Konstantin had informed

  Monk matter-of-factly that one full day at that dosage was lethal. As Monk poled through floating rafts of weed and algae, his skin itched with the grainy sense that he was slowly being poisoned.

  And the children were even more susceptible.

  The trio slept fitfully, curled with Marta on the raft. An edge of terror kept them jumping at every croak and hoot from the nighttime swamp. Marta had finally taken to the trees. She had done so periodically, even drawing off the hunters once by hooting and luring the airboat in the opposite direction. Her diversion bought them a full hour of reprieve.

  She was one smart ape.

  Monk prayed she was as smart as he hoped for a danger greater than the threat of radiation poisoning loomed.

  To the east, the dark skies paled with the approach of dawn. Without the cover of night, they would quickly be discovered. To survive, they had to find a way of escaping their tail.

  That meant leaving a trail of bread crumbs.

  Konstantin and Kiska had shredded the wrappings from their protein bars and gathered their empty water bottles. As Monk churned a path through the weeds, disturbing a clear track through the vegetation, the two children had dropped bits and pieces of garbage into the water.

  Not too much, Monk warned in a whisper. Spread them farther apart.

  Monk had spent the last hour searching for the perfect spot in the dark swamp.

  He'd finally found it: a long curving course, lined by dense willow groves and black patches of fir trees. Their timing had to be perfect. They would have only one shot. But with the far shore still a good two miles away and dawn fast approaching, they were doomed if they didn't take the risk.

  The final member of their party, Pyotr, sat in the middle of the raft, his arms wrapped around his legs. As he rocked in place, he stared toward the stern of the raft, as if watching his friends spread their bread crumbs, but Monk knew the boy's gaze stretched much farther.

  Reaching the end of the watery course, Monk swung the pole to the front and prodded it deep. He bolstered it with his shoulder and stopped the raft. This is where they'd make their stand.

  Borsakov sat next to the airboat's pilot. The seats were perched high above the flat-bottomed aluminum hull. Ahead of them crouched two of his soldiers; one manned the searchlight at the boat's prow, the other kept a rifle ready at his shoulder.

  After five hours of searching, Borsakov's ears ached from all the noise. Behind him, the engine rumbled as the giant fan spun. The broken metal guard over the blades rattled and banged with every turn. The prop-wash that propelled the craft shook reeds and branches behind the boat.

  The pilot wore the only set of earphones. He rested one hand on the steering stick, the other on the throttle. The smell of smoke and diesel fuel masked the mossy dampness of the swamp. They idled through a shallow section of open water.

  The searchlight swept the reeds that rimmed the edges.

  Over the course of the night, they'd seen wild boar and elk, scared eagles from nests, glided past beaver dams and through clouds of insects. Their searchlight had reflected off thousands of smaller eyes, denizens of the swamp.

  Still, they'd seen no sign of the escapees.

  And on their last tank of fuel, they had until

  A simian scream cut through the engine's rumble. It came from the right. The soldiers at the prow heard it, too. Both searchlight and rifle swung in that direction. Borsakov touched the pilot's shoulder and pointed.

  In the flash of light, something large swung across a narrow gap in the treeline, then disappeared into the forest. Borsakov knew one of the laboratory animals had also vanished with the children. A chimpanzee.

  The engine roared louder as the pilot pushed the throttle stick forward. The boat sped toward the gap, gliding up on a cushion of air. The craft slowed as they reached the edge of the open water. The reeds here were bent, where someone had pushed through to reach a side channel.

  Finally

  Borsakov pointed ahead.

  Past the gap, a narrow channel snaked ahead, lined by willows and choked by floating patches of weed. The craft sped up. The searchlight swept to all sides, piercing through the darkness. The rifleman reached down to the water and scooped up an empty plastic water bottle.

  Someone had definitely been through here.

  Borsakov waved the pilot to a faster clip, sensing his targets couldn't be far.

  The course ambled in gentle curves. The boat followed swiftly, sweeping right and left.

  The searchlight revealed more debris floating in the water, bits of trash and more bottles. Too much. Something was wrong here. Their prey had never been this foolish. Suspicious, Borsakov reached to the pilot and squeezed his shoulder. He motioned him to slow down.

  Monk heard the engine's roar lower to a rumble.

  Crouched with the children, he watched the airboat glide into view around the last bend in the channel, plainly throttling down, going too slowly.

  Not good.

  The searchlight speared forward, gliding across the water straight at them. They would be spotted in a second. Their only hope

  from out of the dark forest to the left, a dark shadow leaped headlong over the boat. It flew high, clearing the blades, but from its clenched feet, a handful of dark objects were tossed at the boat.

  They struck the giant fan like bomb loads.

  The shotgun shells from the cabin.

  Monk heard them pop against the blades. The fan sliced through the plastic casings, which didn't ignite, but which still exploded outward with stinging birdshot.

  Cries erupted, half surprise and half pain as the crew was struck by flying pellets. The pilot, high in his seat, ducked and dropped in fear. He hit his stick, and the engine roared to life. The boat kicked forward like a stung jackrabbit, off kilter by the turn. The pilot wrested the control stick.

  The searchlight blazed down the channel and swept over them, highlighting them in its brilliance. Monk saw the copilot scream and point.

  Too late, buddy.

  The two soldiers in front were suddenly flung backward. They struck the others.

  Tangled in a group, they hit the metal guard at the rear of the boat. The airboat jackknifed into the air and barrel-rolled.

  Monk heard a scream of agony and a stuttered grind of blades. Blood and bone sprayed out of the back of the fan like a contrail then the boat struck the water upside down, landing hard with a gasp of diesel smoke and a drowning choke from its engine. The searchlight still glowed out of the murky water.

  Monk turned away. Earlier, with the children's help, he had braided fishing line from the cabin into a translucent rope as thick as his finger then he rigged it shoulder-height across the channel. It had clotheslined the crew and flipped the unstable boat.

  From out of the trees above the raft, Marta dropped and landed leadenly to the planks. Pyotr was immediately in her arms. She sat on her haunches, gasping, panting. Still, she hugged Pyotr. Her eyes, though, were fixed on Monk, glassy and bright in the moonlight.

  Monk nodded to her, grateful, yet at the same time, slightly unnerved.

  He had needed the airboat to fly up the channel, drawn by the sure trail of their prey. Marta's bombardment had been intended only as a distraction to keep them from seeing the rope strung across the channel.

  She had done her job brilliantly.

  Pyotr clung to her. After explaining the plan earlier, the boy had sat with

  Marta and held out the shotgun shells. He spoke slowly to her in Russian, but

  Monk suspected the true understanding between the pair arose from much deeper.

  In the end, she had taken the shells in the toes of her feet, leaped into the trees, and van
ished.

  Monk poled out across the next channel. Here a sluggish current propelled them onward. Toward the distant shore. Though relieved that his trap had worked, Monk knew with certainty that they were sweeping toward even greater danger.

  But he had no choice.

  Millions of lives were at stake.

  Still, Monk studied Marta and the three children. To him, with no memory of another life, they were his world. They were all that mattered. He would do all he could to protect them.

  As he urged the raft along the current, he recalled the painful flashback at the cabin as he had half drowsed.

  The taste of cinnamon, soft lips

  What life had been stolen from him?

  And could he ever get it back?

  12:04 A. M.

  Washington, D. C.

  Just after midnight, Kat hung up the phone and stood up from the table. She glanced toward the window into the neighboring hospital room. She had finished a conference call with Director Crowe and Sean McKnight. The two were up in

  Painter's office, waging an interdepartmental war from their bunker. Both men were engaged in a power struggle across the various intelligence agencies.

  All over the fate of the girl.

  Kat, with her own background in the field, had offered what counsel she could, but she could do no more. It was up to the two of them to find some way to thwart John Mapplethorpe.

  Kat knew where she could do the most good.

  She crossed toward the door that led into the hospital room. It was guarded by an armed corpsman. She paused by the window of one-way glass and stared into the room.

  Propped by pillows in the bed, Sasha sat with a coloring book in her lap and a box of Crayola crayons. With an intravenous line still in her arm, she worked on a page, her face intent but calm.

  Sasha suddenly glanced up from her work and stared straight at Kat. The glass was mirrored on the other side; there was no way the child could see that she was there. But Kat could not shake the sense that the girl was looking at her, could see her.

  To one side, Yuri sat in a chair. He had pulled Sasha from the brink of death, proving his skill. He seemed as relieved as Kat at the girl's recovery.

  Satisfied and exhausted, he sat slumped in his seat, chin on his chest, lightly drowsing.