His thrusters flare, and he’s closing on a point several klicks ahead, where a number of old mining veins come suspiciously close to this tunnel—veins that are neither American nor Eurasian, that were mined out when the Moon was just another venue for prospectors and cash-hungry combines. The Operative’s noticed that the area where those veins converge is the same place where he’s detecting traces of what might be a zone-bubble designed to maximize stealth. Rendering whatever’s inside almost invisible to detection.
But not quite. Because now the Operative’s hacking into a special set of sensors that have clearly been set up to keep an eye on this part of the tunnel. Their presence confirms what he’s suspecting. By the time he rounds the bend in the tunnel and sees the opening in the wall a short distance ahead, he’s already got a good idea of what he’s going to be facing. No rails lead into that opening. Had he hurtled past at full speed he would have missed it. But it’s positioned in such a way that a railcar equipped with rockets could easily move within.
So the Operative does, too: turns off his motors and steps inside, straight through beams that are intended to act as tripwires—but his suit’s already got the drop on them as he maneuvers through and into a cave beyond. The tripwires are convinced nothing’s tripping them. There seems to be activity up ahead. He’s in full-stealth mode now. Nothing can see him. And—as his sensors adjust—he can see all he needs to …
The razor locks in the mech, and they’re off, traversing the maintenance shafts of the Montana once again. Only now they’ve got a different objective.
“The forward docks,” says Lynx.
“What about them?”
“That’s where the cleanup crew’s basing.”
“Cleanup crew?”
“Can’t put all your enemies in a box and leave no one minding the store, can you? Wouldn’t be very prudent, would it? Someone’s got to make sure it’s all going to go to hell the way the master chef wants it, and—”
“Speak English, for fuck’s sake.”
Lynx laughs. “Szilard sent in some picked marines to ferry in the last of the riff-raff. Not to mention making sure the charges are rigged and that no one else gets off.”
“And we’re heading to where they’ve docked.”
“Sounds almost simple, doesn’t it?”
There’s some sort of barrier up ahead,” says the driver.
“That’s why I’ve been having you slow down,” says the major.
And now they’re coming to a stop. Eurasian soldiers stand in front of the blast-barrier that’s blocking the tunnel. They’ve got their weapons out. The major looks at the driver.
“Open this train’s door,” he says.
The driver’s complying. The door slides open as the train comes to a halt. A power-suited officer looks up into the cab.
“You’re a long way off course,” he says on the one-on-one, his words crackling in the major’s head.
“I need admittance,” says the major.
“I’m sure.”
“Careful how you speak to me.”
“Because you’re under arrest?”
“Because I’m an agent of the Praesidium.”
The officer stares as the major transmits codes. Even though everything seems to be falling apart for the rulers of the Eurasian Coalition, the Praesidium is still the most feared thing this continent’s seen since Mao and Stalin. The special agents who report directly to them are the stuff of legend. No one wants to meet one. Nor does anyone want to prolong any such encounter they might have.
“Sir, a thousand apologies. You’re cleared. But the two men you’ve got with you aren’t autho—”
“I’ll take care of them,” says the man.
“Sir,” says the officer—switches off the one-on-one. The blast-barrier starts to slide open.
The elevators are in motion now, and so are they. They’re hanging onto the cables, moving up the shafts, then shifting onto other cables, descending. They’re camouflaged acrobats, busy doing the one thing all good performers know how to do.
Buy time.
“Got it,” says Spencer.
“Let’s have it,” says Sarmax.
Spencer beams the data over. He hasn’t totally cracked the vehicle’s microzone, but he’s made some serious inroads. He’s figured out where all the places worth cracking are. There’s one in particular that’s looming large on all his screens, more than a kilometer above them.
“That’s it,” he says. “The cockpit.”
“How well defended?”
“So well I can’t even see how to get in.”
“I don’t think we want to get in yet anyway.”
Spencer nods. Sarmax is right. There’s no reason to fuck with the flow. This thing’s taking off, and they’re going with it. Intervention can come later. Spencer takes in the position of the craft’s cockpit and its defenses—marvels at how suspicious the Russians and the Chinese are of each other. The multileveled cockpit’s nestled in just above the forward vehicle-hangars, all approaches scrupulously divided between the soldiers of the two nations. Same with the cockpit personnel. There are two captains, both of them strapped down, along with everybody else. Spencer turns to Sarmax.
“They’re getting ready to hit it.”
“Let’s get in closer before they do.”
She’s plunging downward into herself. Darkness swirls in from all around. She can feel Tsien somewhere out there—circling her like a predator, hungry for what she contains. Fear billows up, threatening to choke her like thick smoke. She knows damn well what her captors are trying to do: turn her into something they can use.
And if they can’t do that, they’re going to destroy her. And since they’re on the brink of utter defeat, they don’t have much time. They’ll have to cut some corners. She can feel them going at it too—coming in from all sides, trying to unravel her to find out what the hell she really is. It’s tough when she doesn’t even know herself. She wants to help them—she really does. She’d do anything to avoid the pressure that’s now gripping her brain. But she can’t see a way past it. She can’t evade it: it’s all starting to come apart and so is she. Darkness starts to shimmer. Shapes start to form within it—a face emerges from out of the blackness. A voice sounds in her ear.
“Claire.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’ve got to wake up.”
“Fuck you,” she repeats.
“Fuck this,” says the voice—and then it’s fire flashing through her, causing her heart to kick into overdrive, and she comes awake in a single instant. She gasps in pain, opens her eyes—finds herself staring into the eyes of Strom Carson.
“Shit,” she says.
Blood’s everywhere. So are shattered suits. What’s left of Colonel Tsien’s seems to have been mashed against the wall.
“You killed them all,” she mutters.
“No one fucks with you and gets away with it.”
“Except for you.”
“You’ll see the light soon enough.”
Lynx steps it up, making the zone think they’re something they’re not, making the sentinels past whom they’re creeping think they’re having just another boring moment. The two men slide on through the makeshift perimeter that’s been thrown up around this portion of the Montana’s docks. They’re starting to pick up a lot of static.
“Jamming,” says Linehan.
“Not exactly,” says Lynx.
They crawl between steel girders, emerging onto the ceiling of one of the medium-sized hangars. Two corvettes dominate the floor. They look like they’re in the final stages of boarding. SpaceCom marines are positioned at the hangar’s interior doorways. The larger exterior door is shut.