Kill Switch (9780062135285)

by Rollins, James; Blackwood, Grant

  “I heard him, but how difficult can it be? I must simply avoid bumping into one of those things, correct?”

  “That about covers it,” Tucker said. “But it’s tight down there. You’ll have to crawl. It’s going to be hard work.”

  “And I’m saving my stamina for what?” Bukolov asked. “I can do this. I have not come all this way to find LUCA only to blow myself up. God will guide my hand.”

  “I didn’t know you believed in God.”

  “It’s a recent development. Considering everything you’ve put me through.”

  “All right, Doc, let’s do this.”

  “I’ll need to gather a few things first. Tools, sample dishes, collection bags.”

  “Go get them.”

  As Bukolov hurried away, Tucker returned his attention to the array of shells down below. He told Christopher, “There’s at least a couple of hundred pounds of black powder down there. It might just solve our explosives problem.”

  “Will it be enough to collapse this cavern system?”

  “No, but it’ll definitely take out this immediate set of caves.”

  Bukolov returned quickly, with everything collected into a brown leather kit with his initials on it. He eyed the hole.

  “Gentlemen, I believe I could use some assistance getting down. It’s not a far drop but now is not the time for a misstep.”

  Tucker agreed. He went first, using his arms to slowly lower himself, keeping well away from the first row of shells. Once down, he turned and helped ease Bukolov through the opening. Christopher held his arms, while Tucker guided his legs, planting the doctor’s boots on firm footing.

  “That should do, gentlemen.” Bukolov ducked low, equipped now with his own headlamp. “Shall we proceed?”

  Tucker crouched next to him. From here, there was only about four feet of clearance between the floor and the roof. The chamber extended in a gentle downward slope. The water, streaming down from above, trickled in small rivulets across the floor, carving the soft sandstone into tiny channels, like the scribblings of a mad god. The rows of shells were standing upright in the flatter and drier sections.

  “We should follow the water,” Bukolov said, pointing down the slope. “It’s what we’ve been doing since we got here.”

  “I’ll go first.”

  Dropping low, Tucker set the best course through the field of shells. He followed the trickles, wondering if he’d ever be dry again. The last pass through the deadly gauntlet required him to lie on his right hip and scoot through sideways. An inopportune thrust of an elbow set one tall brass round to rocking on its base. He was afraid even to touch it to stabilize it.

  Both men held their breath.

  But the shell steadied and went still.

  Tucker helped Bukolov past this squeeze.

  “I can do it,” the doctor complained. “I may have gray hair, but I’m not an invalid.”

  Free of the artillery, they were able to slide next to each other and crawl onward. Slowly a soft light glowed out of the darkness ahead.

  “Do you see that?” Bukolov asked. “Or are my eyes tired?”

  Tucker shaded his headlamp with his hand. Bukolov followed his example. As the darkness ahead grew blacker, the glow brightened before their eyes.

  Definitely something over there.

  As Tucker set out again, the roof slowly dropped down on top of them, forcing them to their bellies. They slid alongside each other across the wet, sandy floor. Finally, the slope dumped them into a pool of water about a foot deep. It lay inside a domed chamber about the size of a compact car’s cabin, with enough room to kneel up, but little more.

  “Amazing,” Bukolov said, craning his neck to stare around.

  The arched roof glowed with a soft silvery azure, like moonlight, but there were no cracks in the roof. The light suffused from a frilly carpet of glowing moss.

  “It’s lichen,” Bukolov said.

  Okay, lichen . . .

  “Some phosphorescent species. And look across the chamber!”

  The pond they knelt in was shaped like a crescent moon, its horns hugging a small peninsula of sandstone jutting out into the water from the far wall. Atop the surface, a dense field of buttery-white growths sprouted about six inches tall. From bulbous bases, stalks formed thick flat-topped umbrellas, with fine filaments draping from them. They gave off a slightly sulfurous smell that hung in the still air.

  “LUCA,” Bukolov murmured, awed.

  As they shifted closer, Tucker felt the cracks in the floor under his knees, sucking at the cloth of his pants, marking drainage angles for this pool. The smell also grew worse.

  “It is okay to be breathing this?” Tucker said.

  “I believe so.”

  Tucker wanted to believe so, too.

  “They’re exactly like the sketches from the diary,” Bukolov said.

  He had to admit the renderings by De Klerk showed a masterful hand.

  The doctor splashed farther to the left. “Come see this! Look at where the field of bulbs and growths meet the wall.”

  Tucker leaned to look where he pointed. The bulbs and the edges of the mushrooms that touched the wall were a brownish black, as if burned by the glow of the lichen covering the wall.

  “I think the lichen is producing something toxic to the LUCA.” Bukolov swung toward Tucker. “Here might be the secret of the kill switch.”

  Tucker felt a surge that was equal parts relief and worry.

  Bukolov continued. “It’s what I had hoped to find here. Something had to be holding this organism in check down here. It couldn’t just be the isolation of the environment.”

  “Then collect samples of everything and—”

  Bukolov knelt back and brushed his fingertips across the roof, causing the glow to darken where he touched. “You don’t understand. We are looking at a microcosm of the ancient world, a pocket of the primordial history. I have so many questions.”

  “And we’ll try to answer them later.” Tucker grabbed Bukolov by the elbow and pointed from the collection kit over the man’s shoulder to the field of growth. “Get your samples while you still can.”

  A sharp bark echoed to them—followed by a second.

  Kane.

  “Get to work, Doc,” he ordered. “I’m going to find out what’s going on.”

  Hurrying, he slid and crawled his way through the field of artillery shells and back to the waterfall chamber. He hauled himself out of the hole, and Christopher helped him to his feet.

  “He just started barking,” Christopher said.

  In the pool of light cast by the single LED lamp, it appeared Anya hadn’t moved. She was still tied securely. Kane stood next to her, but he was staring toward the twin shotgun tunnels.

  “What is it?” Christopher asked.

  “I don’t know. Kane must have heard something.”

  Tucker remembered his earlier sighting of the Russian soldiers.

  Anya called over to them. “It seems we owe you some thanks, Captain Wayne. We wouldn’t have thought of this method without you. Upon your example in Russia, we decided to add another weapon to our arsenal.”

  She was staring at Kane.

  Tucker suddenly understood her veiled implication.

  Damn it, Anya, you are good.

  The thought had never occurred to him. Barring technology, what was the best way to track someone?

  Kane glanced back at him, clearly waiting for the order to pursue whatever he had sensed.

  Tucker turned to Christopher. “Stay here and be ready to help Bukolov.”

  “Is there trouble?”

  Isn’t there always?

  He pointed to Anya. “She moves . . . you shoot her.”

  “Understood.”

  Working quickly, Tucker crossed to their gear and prepared for the storm to come. He grabbed two spare magazines for his rifle, along with a red flare, stuffing them all into his thigh pockets. He then slung the AR-15 over his shoulder and picked up the Rover’
s plastic gas can.

  Once ready, he headed for the tunnels with Kane on his heels.

  It was time to test these old Boer defenses.

  11:55 P.M.

  Reaching the Cathedral, Tucker hurried across the stalagmite maze to the series of sandbag walls at the far end. He hurdled over the first two with Kane flying at his side—then he skidded to a stop at the third wall and dropped to his knees.

  Echoing up from the crooked tunnel ahead, he heard a faint barking.

  No, not barking—baying.

  The enemy had come with hounds.

  Kharzin must have sent his main body of troops, along with the dogs, straight to where he had hid the booby-trapped Range Rover. The other Russians—the ones he had spied upon earlier—were likely a smaller expeditionary force sent here to canvass the side trail as a precaution. No wonder they had seemed so lax and casual. But now that Tucker’s trap had been sprung and his ruse discovered, Kharzin had returned here, bringing all his forces to bear.

  But what was Tucker facing?

  Only one way to find out.

  He pointed to the tunnel. “QUIET SCOUT.”

  Kane jumped over the sandbags and dove into the shaft. Using his phone, Tucker monitored his partner’s progress. Once Kane reached the straight corridor, Tucker touched his throat mike.

  “HOLD. BELLY.”

  Kane stopped and lowered himself flat, well hidden by rubble.

  Right now the corridor appeared empty with no evidence of trespass. The pile of rocks blocking the way outside looked untouched. So far, the hounds hadn’t found this back door to the cavern system—at least not for the moment. But they would.

  Through Kane’s radio, the baying already grew louder.

  Hurrying, Tucker began removing sandbags from the middle of the barricade. After creating a sufficient-sized hole, he wedged the gas can into the gap. He then replaced the sandbags, taking care to hide any trace of the can.

  All the while, Tucker monitored the phone’s screen, using Kane to extend his vision. Movement drew his full attention back to the screen. In the gray-green glow of Kane’s night-vision camera, the slivers of light at the far end of the corridor began to break wider. More light blazed through as rocks were pulled away.

  Shadows shifted out there.

  They’d been discovered.

  Tucker whispered to Kane, “QUIET RETURN.”

  The camera jiggled as the shepherd belly-crawled backward. After retreating for a spell, Kane finally turned and came running back. Moments later, he emerged and hurdled the sandbags.

  Good boy.

  After rechecking the placement of the gas can, Tucker pulled out a flare and jammed it between a pair of sandbags near the bottom. For now, he kept it unlit.

  He turned to his partner. “STAY.”

  With a final rub along Kane’s neck, he stepped over the sandbags, planted his rifle to his shoulder, and ducked into the shaft. He crawled until he was at the last corner of the crooked corridor. He kept hidden out of sight, peeking around the bend with his rifle extended. He quickly dowsed his headlamp and flipped the scope to night-vision mode. With his eye to the scope, he waited.

  The first Spetsnaz appeared, peeking out from the straight passageway, bathed in the moonlight flowing from the open door behind him.

  Tucker laid the crosshairs between the man’s eyes and squeezed the trigger. The blast stung his ears. He didn’t need to see the man crumple to know he was successful.

  Tucker ducked away and retreated as the bullets peppered down the shaft, likely fired blindly by the second soldier in line. He knew the enemy dared not lob or fire a grenade into such a confined space, or it risked collapsing the very tunnel they had come to find and ruin any chances of reaching the prize. As far as they knew, this was the only way inside.

  Still, he never trusted the enemy to think logically.

  Especially with one of their comrades dead.

  So he fled on his hands and knees.

  If nothing else, the ambush would give the others pause, force them to move slowly, but it wouldn’t last long.

  He reached the end of the tunnel, regained his feet, and hopped over the first sandbag wall. Crouching down, he ruffled Kane’s neck and did a quick inspection of the gas can and flare. Satisfied, he headed back over the series of sandbag fences.

  As he hopped over the last one, a booming cry echoed from the far side of the Cathedral.

  It was Christopher, calling from the mouth of the shotgun tunnels across the way.

  “Tucker . . . watch out!”

  40

  March 22, 12:18 A.M.

  Groot Karas Mountains, Namibia

  Kane let out a deep snarl, leaped to his feet, and took off across the Cathedral floor, heading in Christopher’s direction. For the shepherd to break his last command to stay could only mean one thing.

  An immediate and real danger.

  Tucker stared down the length of the dark Cathedral.

  At the other end, a star glowed, marking Christopher’s headlamp.

  Between here and there lay a gulf of darkness. Kane vanished into it. Tucker lifted his rifle’s scope and used its night-vision capabilities to pierce the blackness. Out there, he watched a figure dashing between the stalagmites. Kane rushed at full sprint toward the shape. The jittering flight of the other was difficult to track through the forest of tall rock.

  Then the shape cleared a stalagmite, her face perfectly caught by the scope for the briefest instant—then gone as she dodged away, doing her best to stay in cover, knowing he was armed.

  Anya.

  Free.

  How?

  He caught another brief glimpse, watched her lift an arm, the flash of gunmetal in her hand, a revolver, the Smith & Wesson he had given to Bukolov.

  Then gone again.

  New movement to the left.

  Kane.

  Then he vanished, too.

  Next came the gunfire.

  Three shots in the dark, each muzzle flash an incendiary burst through his scope—followed by a strangled yelp that tore his heart out.

  He watched a small shape skid across the floor, back into the glow of his headlamp, and come to a stop.

  Kane.

  Anya lunged out of the darkness, vaulted over the body, and came running straight at him, firing. Her first shot went wide. He shot back. Rock blasted behind her, his aim thrown off by the sight of Kane on the ground.

  Undeterred, she fired again.

  He felt a hammer blow on his hip that sent him spinning, pitching backward over the sandbags. He lost the rifle. He rolled, tried to rise to his knees, and reached for the weapon.

  “Stop!” Anya shouted.

  She was standing at the sandbag wall. The revolver was pointed at Tucker’s head, only three feet away. He ignored her and lunged for his rifle. She pulled the trigger. He heard the click. Nothing else. He had counted out her five shots, the limit of that Smith & Wesson model he had given Bukolov.

  Not the usual six-shooter, Anya.

  He grabbed the rifle, swinging it up—but too slowly, thinking he had the upper hand. He turned in time to see the revolver flying at his face, catching him across the bridge of the nose, momentarily blinding him with a flash of pain.

  She threw herself over the sandbags and bowled into him.

  They went down, her on top.

  Tucker saw a glint of a black blade—one of the old Boer bayonets he had spotted when he first descended into the cave. She drove it in a sideswipe for his throat. Both as defense and offense, he head-butted her, his forehead striking her nose. The plunging bayonet struck the stone behind his head instead of his throat.

  He rolled her, straddling her. He clamped her wrist and twisted until she screamed.

  The bayonet dropped.

  He snatched it and held the point to her throat.

  She stared up, showing no fear.

  Not of death, certainly not of him.

  From their long journey together, she knew he could
n’t kill in cold blood—no matter how much he wanted to.

  A flick of her gaze was the only warning.

  A shadow hurdled the sandbags behind him. The heavy weight struck his back, catching him by surprise and slamming him down atop Anya.

  The shape tumbled off his shoulders and gained his four legs, wobbly, panting, dazed. Kane’s lips curled in fury, his eyes fixed to his target. Even barely moving, his partner had come to his rescue, never giving up.

  Tucker stared down at Anya.

  Blood bubbled up around the bayonet plunged through her throat. When Kane had struck, with the sharp point poised under her chin, their combined weight had driven the blade home.

  Her mouth opened and closed, her eyes stared in disbelief and pain.

  “Tucker!” Christopher shouted again, sounding like he was running toward him.

  “I’m okay! Go back with Bukolov!”

  Tucker climbed off Anya, watching the pool of blood spread.

  She no longer breathed; her eyes stared glassily upward.

  Dead.

  12:36 A.M.

  He knelt and called Kane over to his side. The shepherd limped over with a soft whine and pressed himself against Tucker’s chest. He ran his hands along Kane’s belly but felt no blood. As he worked his fingers over the vest, the dog let out a wincing yelp.

  “You’re okay, buddy.”

  As gently as he could, he pried the flattened .38-caliber round from the Kevlar and tossed it away. He followed it with a hug.

  Tucker then took inventory of his own damage. Anya had clipped him with her last shot, tearing the flesh of his upper thigh. Blood soaked his pant leg, and the pain was coming on, but it was manageable for now. A few inches to the center and the high-powered .44 round would have shattered his hip, crippling him.

  Such was the changeable nature of war, where life, death, disfigurement were measured by inches and seconds. He considered his own past. How many friends had he lost to the capriciousness of fate? Take a half step to your left and you get cut in half by an AK-47. A tossed grenade bounces to the right, and you live another day, but if it bounces to the left, your legs are blown off.

  He felt an icy shudder run up his spine. His eyesight swirled. In some detached part of his mind, he thought: classic symptoms of PTSD.