Renshaw pulled the plank clear of the door, and a long rectangular hole appeared in the door where the plank had been. Through that rectangular hole Schofield could see the curved outer tunnel of B-deck stretching away from him.
Renshaw worked quickly. He grabbed the next plank with his bare hands and hurriedly pulled it away.
The hole on the door got wider.
Schofield started removing the vertical planks with him, and soon the hole was wide enough for a man to fit through.
"Stand back," Schofield said.
Renshaw took a step back as Schofield dived, headfirst, through the hole in the door. He rolled to his feet on the other side and immediately ran off down the tunnel.
"Wait!" Renshaw yelled. "Where are you going!"
"E-deck!" Schofield's voice echoed back.
And then suddenly Schofield was gone and Renshaw was alone in his room, staring at the empty square hole he had made in the door.
He peered out through it after Schofield.
"I never dived through it like that," he said.
Schofield ran.
The walls of the curved outer tunnel streaked past him. He was breathing hard. His heart pounded loudly inside his head. He turned left, headed toward the central shaft.
A thousand thoughts ran through his mind as he raced through the tunnels of B-deck.
He thought of the tattoo on the shoulder plate of the man who had shot him. A cobra. A snake.
Snake.
The mere concept was too bizarre for Schofield to comprehend. Snake was a highly decorated Marine. One of the longest-serving members in the Corps, let alone Schofield's unit. Why would he throw it all away by doing something like this? Why would he kill his own men?
And then Schofield thought about Mother.
Snake was down on E-deck with Mother.
It made sense. Snake had already killed Samurai, the weakest member of Schofield's team. Mother?with one leg and heavily dosed up on methadone?would be another easy target.
Schofield hit the B-deck catwalk on the fly. He ran for the rung-ladder and slid down it fast C-deck. He slid down the next rung-ladder?D-deek?and then the next.
He was on E-deck now. He ran across the pool deck, past the lapping waves of the pool, and headed for the south tunnel.
He entered the south tunnel and saw the door to Mother's storeroom.
Schofield approached the open doorway to the storeroom cautiously. He unholstered his Maghook?he still couldn't use his pistol in the gaseous environment of the station?and held it out in front of him like a gun.
He approached the doorway, came to it. Then he took one last deep breath and then...
... he turned fast into the doorway, his Maghook up and ready.
He saw the scene inside.
And his jaw dropped.
"Holy shit," he breathed.
They were on the floor of the storeroom.
Mother and Snake.
At first, Schofield just stared at them, stared at the scene.
Mother was stretched out on the floor, with her back up against one of the walls. She had her good leg extended across the room, pressed up against Snake's throat, pinning him to a thick wooden shelf filled with scuba tanks. Her boot was pressed hard against his throat, pushing his chin upward, squeezing his face back against the sturdy wooden shelf. She also held her Colt automatic pistol cupped in her hands, extended in the perfect shooting position. Pointed right at Snake's face.
The gaseous environment of the station obviously didn't bother her.
Mother glared at Snake down the barrel of her gun. Blood dripped freely from two deep gashes above her left eye. It dripped down off her eyebrow, smacking down onto her left cheek like droplets of water from a leaking tap. Mother didn't notice the blood?she just stared right through it, into the eyes of the man who had tried to kill her.
For his part, Snake was pinned to the wooden shelf. Every now and then he would attempt to struggle, but Mother had all the leverage. Whenever he tried to wriggle out of her hold, she would press down hard on his Adam's apple with her big Size 12. Mother was choking him with her foot.
The room around them looked like a bomb had hit it.
Wooden shelves lay twisted on the floor, splintered and shattered. Scuba tanks rolled aimlessly across the floor. A knife?Snake's?lay on the floor. Blood dripped off its blade.
Slowly, Mother turned her head and looked over at Schofield, who was still just standing in the doorway, stunned.
Her chest heaved up and down. She was still breathing hard from the fight.
"Well, Scarecrow," she said, taking another breath. "You think this was easy? Are you just gonna fucking stand there, or what?"
Pete Cameron pulled his Toyota to a stop outside 14 Newbury Street, Lake Arthur, New Mexico.
Fourteen Newbury was a pleasant-looking white weatherboard cottage. Its front garden was immaculate?perfectly cut grass, a rock garden, even a small pond. It looked like the home of a retiree?the home of someone who had the time, and the inclination, to take loving care of it.
Cameron looked at the business card again. "All right, Andrew Wilcox, let's see what you've got to say."
Cameron stepped up onto the porch and knocked on the screen door.
Thirty seconds later, the inner door opened and a man of about thirty-five appeared behind the screen. He looked young and fit, clean-shaven. He smiled pleasantly.
"Mornin'," the young man said. "How can I help you?" He had a broad Southern drawl. When he said "I" it sounded like "Ah"?How can ah help you?
Cameron said, "Yes, hi. I'm looking for a Mr. Andrew Wilcox." Cameron held up the business card. "My name is Peter Cameron. I'm a writer for the Washington Post. Mr. Wilcox sent me his card."
The smile on the young man's face vanished instantly.
His eyes swept Cameron's body as if evaluating him. Then they swept the street outside as if to see whether anyone was watching the house.
And then suddenly the man's attention returned to Cameron.
"Mr. Cameron," he said, opening the screen door. "Please, come inside. I was hoping you'd come, but I didn't expect to see you so soon. Please, please, come inside."
Cameron stepped through the doorway.
It didn't occur to him until he was fully inside the house that the man's Southern accent had completely disappeared.
"Mr. Cameron, my real name is not Andrew Wilcox," the young man now sitting opposite him said. The drawl was gone, replaced by a voice that was clear and precise, educated. East Coast.
Pete Cameron had his pad and pen out. "Can you tell me your real name?" he asked gently.
The young man seemed to think about that for a moment, and as he did so, Cameron got a better look at him. He was a tall man, handsome, too, with blond hair and a square jaw. He had broad shoulders and he looked physically fit. But there was something wrong about him.
It was the eyes, Cameron realized.
They were tinged with red. Heavy black sacks hung beneath both of them. He looked like a man on the edge, a man who hadn't slept in days.
And then, at last, the man spoke. "My real name," he said, "is Andrew Trent."
"I used to be a First Lieutenant in the Marines," Andrew Trent explained, "in command of an Atlantic-based Reconnaissance unit. But if you examine the official USMC records, you'll find that I died in an accident in Peru in March 1997."
Trent spoke in a low, even voice, a voice tinged with bitterness.
"So, you're a dead man," Pete Cameron said. "Nice, very nice. OK, first question: why me? Why did you contact me?"
"I've seen your work," Trent said. "I like it. Mother Jones. The Post. You tell it straight. You also don't just write down the first thing you hear. You check things out and because of that, people believe you. I need people to believe what I'm going to tell you."
"If it's worth telling in the first place," Cameron said. "All right, then, how is it that according to the United States Government you are officially dead?"
/> Trent offered Cameron a half-smile, a smile totally devoid of humor. "If it's worth telling in the first place," he repeated. "Mr. Cameron, what if I were to tell you that the government of the United States of America ordered that my whole unit be killed?"
Cameron was silent.
"What if I were to tell you that our government?yours and mine?planted men inside my unit for the sole purpose of killing me and my men in the event that we found something of immense technological value during a mission?
"What if I were to tell you that that was exactly what happened in Peru in March 1997? What would you think then, Mr. Cameron? If I told you all that, then do you think my story would be worth telling?"
Trent then told Cameron about what had happened inside the ruins of the Incan temple high in the mountains of Peru in March of 1997.
A team of university researchers who had been working inside the temple had apparently discovered a series of frescoes chiseled into its stone walls. Magnificent coloured frescoes that depicted scenes from Incan history.
One of the frescoes in particular had captured their attention.
It depicted a scene not unlike the famous painting of the Incan king, Atahuallpa, meeting the Spanish conquistadors.
On the left-hand side of the fresco stood the Incan king, in full ceremonial dress, surrounded by his people. He was holding a golden chalice in his outstretched hands. A gift.
On the right-hand side of the fresco stood four strange-looking men. Unlike the olive-skinned Incans, their skin was bone white. And they were thin, unnaturally thin?tall, emaciated. They had large black eyes and round-domed foreheads. They also had pointed, narrow chins and?bizarrely? no mouths.
In the carved stone picture, the leader of this delegation of tall white "men" was holding a silver box in his outstretched hands, reciprocating the gesture of the Incan king in front of him.
It was an exchange of gifts.
"How long did it take them to find it?" Cameron asked dryly.
"Not long," Trent said.
As Trent explained, they found the object of their search mounted on a pedestal not far from the fresco itself, a small stone pedestal sunken into the wall of the temple.
It just sat there. All on its own. It was about the size of a shoe box and the color of chrome.
It was the silver box from the fresco.
"Those scientists couldn't believe their luck," Trent said. "They called their university back in the States right away and told them what they'd found. Told them that they may have discovered a gift from an alien civilization."
Trent shook his head. "Stupid bastards. They did it over a telephone line. An open goddamn telephone line. Hell, anyone could have heard them. My unit was sent in to protect mem from anyone who did."
Trent leaned forward in his chair.
"The problem was, it wasn't really my unit."
Trent went on to tell Cameron about what had happened after his unit's arrival at the temple?in particular, how several of his own men had turned on him when the SEAL team had arrived at the temple.
"Mr. Cameron. The order to plant men in my unit came from a government committee called the Intelligence Convergence Group," Trent said. "It's a joint committee made up of members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the National Reconnaissance Office. Put simply, its primary objective is to secure for America technological superiority over the rest of the world.
"They killed my unit, Mr. Cameron. My whole unit. And then they hunted me. For twelve days, they scoured that temple looking for me. American soldiers, hunting me. I stood squeezed into a small fissure in a wall, being dripped on by stinking seepage, for twelve days before they gave up and left."
Cameron said, "What happened to the university researchers?"
Trent shook his head. "The SEALs took them away. They were never heard from again."
Cameron fell silent.
Trent went on. "Eventually, I got out of that temple and made it back to the States. It took a while, but I got there in the end. The first place I went was my parents' house. But when I got there I saw two guys sitting in a van across the street, watching the house. They had people there, waiting for me to come back."
Trent's face went cold. "That was when I decided to find out who'd been behind it all. It didn't take me long to find a trail, and at the end of that trail. I found the ICG."
Cameron found that he was staring at Trent. He blinked out of it.
"OK. Right," he said, regaining his composure. "This ICG, you say it's a joint committee, right? Made up of members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the National Reconnaissance Office, right?"
"That's correct," Trent said.
"OK." Cameron knew about the Joint Chiefs of Staff, but he knew little about the National Reconnaissance Office. It was the intelligence agency charged with procuring, launching, and operating all of America's spy satellites. Its secrecy was legendary; it was one of the few agencies that was allowed to operate under a "black" budget?a budget that, because of the sensitivity of its subject matter, did not have to be disclosed to Senate Finance Committees. Throughout the Cold War, the U.S. Government had consistently refused to acknowledge the NRO's existence. It was only in 1991, in the face of mounting evidence, that the government finally caved in and acknowledged that it did exist.
Trent said, "The ICG is a marriage of two of the most powerful agencies in this country?the supreme commanding body of all of our armed forces and the most secret arm of our intelligence community."
"And its job is?what did you say??'to secure technological superiority' for America?"
"Its job," Trent said, "is to ensure that every major breakthrough in technology?be it the compact disc or a computer chip or stealth technology?belongs to the United States of America."
Trent took a deep breath. "Mr. Cameron, I don't think I'm explaining this very well. Let me put it another way. The ICG's job is intelligence gathering or, as they call it in government-speak, 'intelligence convergence.'
"Its job is to hoard valuable information. To make sure that no one knows about it except us. And the ICG will not hesitate to kill in order to achieve that goal. Its job?its reason for being?is to ensure that certain information is for American eyes only. Because in the end, the ICG has only one ambition: to keep America in the lead?way out in the lead? ahead of the rest of the world."
"Uh-huh," Cameron said, "and you claim it does this by inserting men into elite military units?"
"Compromising frontline military units is only one part of the ICG's overall strategy, Mr. Cameron. It's also one of the easiest parts. Think about it," Trent said. "The Joint Chiefs of Staff are part of the ICG. They can ensure that men of their choosing?ultraloyal men, usually older enlisted men, sergeants, gunnery sergeants, the career soldiers?get placed in the right units. And by 'the right units' I mean the rapid-response units, the frontline units that get to battle scenes first. The Marine Recons, the Navy SEALs, the Army Rangers.
"But having men inside frontline military units is only good for getting sudden things like enemy spy satellites that fall out of the sky or meteorites that crash down to Earth.
"Look at it this way: A meteorite lands in the middle of the Brazilian jungle. We send in the Marines. The Marines secure the area and grab the meteorite. Then, if something of value is found inside that meteorite, you eliminate the Marines who found it."
"You eliminate them?"
"Think about it," Trent said bitterly. "You can't have a team of high-school-educated grunts running around with the most highly prized national secrets?secrets that could put the United States twenty years ahead of the rest of the world? bouncing around inside their heads, now can you?
"Hell, you don't need sodium nitrate to get that sort of information out of a low-level soldier. You give him a few beers, a pretty girl, and the slightest hint that he has a chance of getting a blow job and your average Marine Corporal will be telling Miss Big Tits everything he knows about the glowing green meteorite he found on a mission in th
e jungles of Brazil.
"Don't forget the value of these secrets, Mr. Cameron," Trent said. "The loss of a couple of foot soldiers does not even begin to compare with the value of a twenty-year head start on the rest of the world."
Pete Cameron interrupted him. "All right, then, how often does something like this happen? The elimination of an entire unit. I mean, it's got to be pretty rare."
Trent nodded. "It is rare. I only know of it happening on four occasions in the last fifteen years."
"Uh-huh." Cameron cocked his head doubtfully. "Mr. Trent, I see what you're saying, but something like this would require a whole network of well-placed people. High-ranking soldiers who aren't just part of the Joint Chiefs but who are well placed in the bureaucracy?"
"Mr. Cameron, do you know who Chuck Kozlowski is?"
"I've heard the name?"
"Sergeant Major Charles R. Kozlowski is Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps. Do you know what the Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps is, Mr. Cameron?"
"What?"
"The Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps is the highest-ranking noncommissioned officer in the Corps. An enlisted man, Mr. Cameron, the highest-ranking enlisted man. Chuck Kozlowski has been a Marine for thirty-three years. He's one of the most decorated soldiers in the country."
Trent paused. "He's also ICG."
Cameron stared at Trent for a long moment, then he wrote down the name.
Chuck Kozlowski.
Trent said, "He's the guardian angel of every crooked soldier in the Corps. Someone told me he even came down to Peru after my incident and personally escorted the surviving Marines?the traitors, all of them senior enlisted men?back home. He reassigned them without even a blink. I'm told he even recommended one for a fucking medal."
"Jesus...."
"That's your network, Mr. Cameron. A network that has infiltrated the enlisted ranks of the United States Marine Corps all the way to the very top?to the extent that it even determines which units its men are assigned to. But it doesn't stop there. Like I said before, compromising elite military units is only one part of the ICG's overall program. The ICG compromises a whole lot more than just the military."
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