The Ares Decision

by Robert Ludlum

  “You’ll be the first to know, mate.”

  “Great,” Smith muttered, weighting the rope enough to test their grip as he slid into the hole. It gave a good foot, and he soon found himself in the same position as the soldier who had fallen, unwilling to completely abandon terra firma.

  “Off you go, then,” Howell said, repositioning his boots in the soil for maximum traction.

  Smith closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind of the fifty feet of air beneath him and the effect of the parasite whose lair they were bumbling into.

  Finally, he took a deep breath and let go, wrapping his legs around the rope and gripping the knots Howell had tied into it with white-knuckle intensity. He heard the worried shouts of the Africans as they skidded toward the hole and winced as the rope dropped another couple of feet.

  “Faster would be better than slower,” Howell called, the strain audible in his voice.

  Smith descended quickly but found little comfort in the sensation of solid ground once it was beneath his feet. He checked again to make sure his pants were tucked tightly into his boots and his sleeves into the surgical gloves. “I’m off, Sarie. Go ahead and come down.”

  She slid down awkwardly, struggling to find the knots with her feet and grunting audibly. When she got within reach, Smith grabbed her legs and eased her to the ground.

  “You made it look easier than it was,” she commented, flexing her right hand painfully.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fantastic, thank you for asking. Have you noticed how lovely it is down here?”

  He hadn’t, but now that she mentioned it, he noticed the temperature had dropped a good thirty degrees and there was a slight stirring of air. Every cloud had a silver lining. Sometimes you just had to look really, really hard.

  She helped him off with his pack, accidentally dropped it, and then began fumbling around with the top flap.

  “Scared?” he said, gently pushing her hand away and unfastening the plastic clips himself.

  “A little. The truth is, I don’t much care for confined spaces. And most of the parasites I work with don’t…” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “You?”

  “Scared? Yes. Afraid of confined places? No. I love them. In particular a nice hazmat suit.”

  She smiled, her teeth flashing in the bright sunlight coming from above. “I can see how maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.”

  A shadow passed across her and Smith looked up to see Howell peering down at them.

  “You all right down there?”

  “Can’t complain. It’s air-conditioned.”

  The Brit shook his head. “I reckon I’d rather be up here in the sun.”

  Smith knew that Peter Howell wouldn’t think twice about facing down twenty armed men with nothing but a ballpoint pen and a damp tea bag, but he’d never been a fan of microscopic creepy crawlies. Not a fair fight in his mind.

  “I’m going to see if I can find somewhere to hang a net,” Sarie said. “I’d love to get a bat spec—”

  The unmistakable crack of a gunshot floated down to them, followed by the just-as-unmistakable thud and grunt of a man stopping a bullet. A moment later their rope dropped down on top of them.

  “Peter!” Smith shouted, but Howell had disappeared and the only response was multiple bursts of machine-gun fire from at least three separate weapons.

  “Peter!” Sarie called. “What’s happening? Are you all right?”

  Another wet thud sounded above and everything went briefly dark. Realizing what was happening, Smith grabbed Sarie and yanked her out of the way before she could be crushed by the soldier falling through the cave entrance.

  Smith dropped to his knees next to the man and checked for a pulse.

  “Is he…,” Sarie started.

  “The bullet hit him in the chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.”

  Smith gave the man’s rifle to Sarie and checked his pockets for anything else they could use. Nothing but a few Ugandan shillings and a hot-pink rabbit’s foot that was apparently defective.

  “We can’t get out the way we came in. It’s too loose and too overhanging,” Smith said, grabbing her arm and leading her down the slope into the darkness. “Sarie? Are you listening?”

  Her breath was coming in short gasps and she seemed unwilling to take her eyes off the spotlit corpse lying only a few yards away. Smith positioned himself to block her view and put his hands on her shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  “Just give me a second, okay?”

  Her breathing began to slow and she closed her eyes for a moment. When they opened again, some of the fear had dissipated. “What about Peter?”

  “There’s nothing we can do for him right now. We have to concentrate on ourselves. On getting out of here.”

  “How exactly are we going to do that? I’ve never been pinned down in a cave by people with guns before. How about you?”

  “Actually, I have.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Nope. Do you feel the breeze?”

  She nodded.

  “Let’s go find out where it’s coming from.”

  The broken rocks made travel slower than he would have liked, but at least the ground was flat and not sloping endlessly toward the center of the earth. They stopped every few minutes to listen for anyone following, but everything had gone silent except for the occasional crack of stone dislodging from the roof.

  The passage narrowed and finally dead-ended into a wall with a three-foot-wide hole in it. Sarie shined her flashlight inside but it just glinted off a crystal-encrusted wall where the tube jogged right.

  “You’re going to tell me we have to go in there, aren’t you?”

  Smith held out a hand to test the air blowing from the passage. “If you’ve got any better ideas, I’m listening.”

  She just stood there, chewing her lip miserably.

  “Ladies first,” he prompted.

  “You want me to go in front? You can’t be serious.”

  “No offense, Sarie, but if you freak out, I’d rather have you in front of me than behind me. Just take it slow and watch for drops-offs. I’ll be right with you the whole way.”

  She stood there for a lot longer than he would have liked, staring into the darkness while he listened for any sign that they were being followed. Peter would hold off the attackers as long as he could, but with no way to know how many there were or what kind of firepower they were packing, it was impossible to estimate how much time they had.

  Finally, she picked up the rifle they’d taken off the dead soldier and slithered inside.

  Time ceased to exist in the tiny passage, and Smith had to keep checking the glowing hands of his watch to confirm that minutes and not hours had passed. Sarie stopped a few times for brief hyperventilation breaks but then soldiered on, never uttering so much as a single complaint.

  They went on like that for another fifteen minutes before she stopped—a little more abruptly than she had before. “Jon? I think we might have a problem.”

  “That’s okay. I’m right here with you. Are you all right?”

  “Ja. But I’m on a ledge and the flashlight doesn’t go far enough to see the bottom.”

  “Is there a loose rock? Toss it down and count until you hear it hit.”

  “Okay. Hold on.”

  Her answer didn’t come as soon as he’d hoped.

  “Six seconds.”

  “That’s going to be a little longer than our rope. Does the ledge lead anywhere?”

  “It goes right.”

  “How wide is it?”

  “Half a meter.”

  “Can you get out on it?”

  “Without falling, you mean?”

  “That would be best.”

  He heard her sigh and then the scrape of the rifle as she pushed it farther out in front of her.

  “Damn!” she said, her shout echoing off the stone walls. He was about to ask what had happened but then heard the metal
lic clatter of the rifle hitting the ground far below.

  Great.

  “It’s okay, Sarie. No problem. Focus on what you’re doing.”

  He gripped her ankle as she turned the corner, though he doubted he could stop her if she fell. More likely they’d both go over.

  “All right,” she said, struggling to keep her breathing under control. “I’m out. I’m on the ledge. But it stops in front of me. There’s a meter gap before it starts again.”

  “Can you stand up?”

  “No way in hell.”

  “The only way you’re going to make it across a gap that wide is by jumping it.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” she snapped. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer. “I’m sorry, Jon. I know you’re just trying to help. But the ledge I’m on is narrow enough that my left side is hanging in the air and the wall above me just feels like a bunch of dirt and mud. There’s no way I could keep my balance.”

  “I understand,” he said calmly. “Here’s what you’re going to do: you’re going to slide straight back until your hips are even with the hole I’m in. Understand?”

  “Yeah. Okay. Back. Back is good.”

  The illumination from the flashlight in her hand played off the cave walls as she carefully reversed herself.

  “That’s far enough. You’re doing great.”

  He slid a hand down the back of her cargo pants, getting a solid grip on the heavy cotton waistband.

  “I’d like to get to know you better, too, Jon. But do you really think this is the time?”

  They both laughed, longer and harder than the joke probably warranted, but it helped drain off a little of the tension.

  “Okay, Sarie. I’ve got myself wedged in here like a tick. I’m not coming out and I’m not letting go. So just stand up and don’t worry about falling.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “It was pretty easy, actually.”

  They laughed again and he dug harder into the contours of the wall as her hips rose. When her shoulders came even with the top of the hole he was in, he started pulling, causing her back to scrape against the rock as she straightened.

  “Move right and look around on the wall for something solid to hold on to.”

  “Yeah…Okay, I found something. It feels pretty solid.”

  “Your turn to help me, then.”

  Less than a minute later he was on his feet, spine pressed into the wall and toes hanging over a pit as black as outer space. They eased right and he took one of her hands, steadying her as she crossed the gap.

  They circumnavigated the chamber carefully, the breeze strengthening the farther they went. When it turned into a wind powerful enough to affect their already precarious balance, they stopped.

  “Turn off your light a second, Sarie.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just humor me.”

  She flicked the switch and he waited for his eyes to adjust. As they did, the blackness turned gray with the dim glow of sunlight.

  44

  Northern Uganda

  November 25—1549 Hours GMT+3

  GIVE ME YOUR HAND.”

  Smith never thought he’d actually be happy to have the Ugandan sun pounding down on him, but he was having a hard time remembering anything feeling so good. The hole he was hovering over was about the same size as the one they’d entered but had the benefit of opening over a pile of shattered boulders that reached to within six feet of it.

  He grabbed Sarie’s hand and pulled her through, making sure neither of them rose higher than the top of the grass. She lay on her back for a few moments, staring into the sky and gulping at the humid air.

  “Thank you, Jon.”

  “It was a team effort.”

  A single shot sounded in the distance and he peeked over the grass in the direction it had come from.

  “They’re still shooting,” Sarie said. “It never stops…”

  “Yeah, but that’s exactly what we wanted to hear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If someone’s still shooting, it means there’s still someone to shoot at. At least one of the good guys is still alive.”

  “What are we going to do about it?”

  “We’re not going to do anything. You’re going to wait here. I’m going to see if I can get to them.”

  “No way. We stay together. When it comes to Caleb Bahame, you’re better off going down fighting than sitting around waiting to get caught.”

  It was hard to fault her logic. Leaving her in the middle of guerrilla-controlled territory wasn’t exactly an act of chivalry.

  “Fine,” Smith said, starting to drag himself through the grass with his elbows. “Stay right behind me. Remember: low and slow.”

  Their luck held and no more shots were fired in the hour and a half it took them to cover what he calculated was no more than a quarter mile.

  Cover became more sparse as they approached the cave entrance, forcing him to signal Sarie to stop and continue on without her. He flattened himself on the ground, timing his advance with the movement of the wind over the grass. After another fifteen minutes, the ground cover thinned to the point that going any farther would be guaranteed to expose him. Fortunately, it was far enough. He could see Peter Howell sitting with his back against a low boulder next to the man who had so wisely tried to convince them to go back to Kampala.

  The brief flash of pride Smith felt at having managed to sneak up on his friend was short-lived. Howell’s head suddenly swiveled in his direction, the concern visible in his eyes as he reached for his rifle.

  Maybe next time.

  “Don’t shoot,” Smith said in a loud whisper. “It’s me.”

  Howell turned as far toward him as he could without breaking cover. Behind, the African held up a hand in greeting and then began dialing his sat phone—undoubtedly to inform Sembutu that Smith was still alive.

  “Is Sarie all right?” Howell said.

  “A little beat-up, but nothing serious.”

  “I was starting to think you’d buggered off back to Cape Town.”

  “Stopped for lunch. What’s the situation?”

  “Not good, mate. We’ve lost two men and we’re pretty well pinned down. Every once in a while they fire off a round to remind us they’re still there, and I reckon they’re either sending men around to try to flank us or waiting for reinforcements.” He thumbed toward the African speaking urgently into his phone. “Okot and I figure our only chance is to wait until dark and try to get out to the east. But I doubt they’re going to let the sun go down without throwing something at us we’re not going to like.”

  Okot stuffed the phone back in the pocket of his fatigues and picked up his weapon. Howell never saw the rifle butt that smashed into the back of his head and sent him pitching face-first into the dirt.

  Smith tried to raise his pistol, but the African was already lined up on his head. He called back to his men, and a moment later one of them was waving a dirty white handkerchief above the grass.

  45

  Outside Washington, DC, USA

  November 25—1159 Hours GMT–5

  RANDI RUSSELL DRIFTED UP behind a slightly listing Honda and waited for a place to pass while NPR faded to static. When the winding rural road straightened, she slammed the Chevy Aveo’s accelerator to the floor and tapped the wheel impatiently as it limped up to seventy.

  She’d sold her Porsche along with her house a few years ago, finally fed up with dealing with them from halfway across the world. Now, on the rare occasion she was stateside, she stayed in a tiny farmhouse her college roommate had renovated but never found the time to use. The property was perfect—two hours from DC in traffic, quiet, and built around a huge fireplace that was the ideal place to unwind before her next assignment.

  All Things Considered finally completely died, and she flipped off the radio, turning her attention fully to Jon Smith. He still hadn’t responded to the message she’d left, and a more
insistent call to USAMRIID had once again gotten her nothing but the party line—Colonel Smith had taken personal leave and was unreachable at this time.

  Her friend at TSA had come through, tracking Jon to Cape Town, South Africa. Interestingly, just the continent the late Brandon Gazenga had built his career around.

  She had a plane reservation for tomorrow, made under an alias the CIA knew nothing about. A girl could never be too safe.

  The road turned steep and she pressed the accelerator to the floor again, barely maintaining forty miles an hour as patches of snow began to appear in the trees. Honestly, a quick trip to the Cape wouldn’t be a bad change of pace. She despised being cold and most likely she’d find Jon lying on his surfboard catching rays. Heck, maybe she’d pack a bikini and stay on a few days.

  Or maybe not.

  Their relationship was one of the few things in life she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around. Fate constantly threw them together, usually along with a few near-death experiences and a soul-wrenching personal disaster or two. As close as they’d become, she wasn’t sure how many more meetings they were both going to survive.

  As Randi crested the hill, the engine began to lose power, lurching weakly and finally cutting out as she rolled the tiny Chevrolet onto the shoulder. A few twists of the ignition key produced precisely nothing. Not even dash lights.

  The stupid thing had less than ten thousand miles on it and not so much as a scratch in the paint or a chip in the windshield. After spending the last year on a camel that spit on her every time she got within ten feet, was a little reliable transportation too much to ask?

  Knowing from experience that there was no cell reception, Randi got out and looked down at the hood for a moment before reaching into the back for her gym bag. It was four rolling miles to the house, with temperatures just below freezing under a partly cloudy sky. A nice jog, a cup of tea, and a quick call to AAA or an hour digging around in an engine that was probably suffering from an unfathomable computer glitch? Not a terribly hard decision.