“What the hell is that?” she asked. “Is it … wait …”
The helicopter passed above, headed for the deck of the enormous Navy ship. A long metal box hung on chains below the chopper, paint chipped and slightly rusted — one of the containers from the Antoinette.
“Agent Plausky,” she said, hearing the tremor in her voice, “why is the Navy taking a container off my ship?”
The FBI agent came into the cabin and over to the bench where she now kneeled. He bent over to look out, watching with her as the chopper took up a position above the Hillstrom and began to maneuver the container into place.
“One of the operation’s goals is to have a creature for study. It seems a little extreme, but I guess they figured to keep it out of the sun and make sure it had no chance to escape, transporting it in a locked steel box made more sense than trying to chain it up.”
The words hit her like blows. Angie flinched with each one, but Plausky seemed to barely notice. Only when she began to shake her head and slide down to the floor of the launch did he turn toward her.
“Alive?” Angie asked. “They’re bringing one on board alive?”
Understanding lit his eyes. “Yeah. They are. But, listen, there are lots of guys with guns on that ship. And I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I’ll get you on that helicopter and you get to leave.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, feeling herself falling apart. “I can’t … I’m not getting on board with one of those things.”
Plausky crouched beside her. “Yeah, you are. Yes, Angie, just … Ssshhh, just listen. The sun’s still shining. It’s all right. Listen, all you wanted was to get out of here, and this is your shot at that. You’ll be fine.”
Frozen, she stared up at the window from where she’d landed on the floor. The sound of the chopper rotors filled her ears. She couldn’t see the helicopter or the container or even the Navy ship, not from this angle.
Angie Tyree closed her eyes and tried to think of home, of the place where she’d been a little girl. But in the darkness inside her own mind, the sirens waited, and so she forced herself to keep her eyes open. And, silently, she prayed.
76
Special Agent Tim Nadeau had no love for profanity, but he cursed a blue streak as he picked himself up off the rocks in front of the grotto mouth, the surf rolling up to soak through his shoes and pants legs before he could rise. He’d torn a hole in the knee and blood had begun to soak into the fabric. When he’d thrown out his hands to catch himself, he’d scraped skin off his left palm and ended up hitting his head on a rock anyway. Now he felt the lump rising and winced at the tenderness of it, his fingers coming away streaked with red.
“What the fuck?” he whispered.
For those few seconds, the rest of the world had retreated. Now, like throwing a switch, the rest of his senses opened up and reality rushed in. He heard voices shouting in panic and looked up. That simple movement nearly made him lose his balance, and he understood that he had a concussion. But he understood other things as well.
The left side of the bowl had given way. One of the descent team, planting explosives on the walls of the sub-chamber, had screwed up royally and a charge had detonated. Whoever had fucked it up, it no longer mattered. The Navy would have a hard time finding enough pieces of him to put in a box for a funeral. But the running and shouting up on the rim — people were being careful not to get too close now that some of it had sheared off and fallen in — told him that the guy who’d exploded was the least of their concerns.
Nadeau grabbed his radio. “Josh, it’s Tim. Come in.”
Static hiss. No answer. “Agent Hart, this is Nadeau, do you read?”
Off balance, Nadeau started to scramble across the rocks toward the nearest sailor — a blond kid who looked completely frantic.
“Hey!” he shouted, and the sailor twisted toward him. “Any casualties?”
The sailor looked mystified, so Nadeau passed him, working his way over to a severe-looking dark-haired woman wearing an ensign’s bars. She had a small comm unit tucked into her ear, the cord dangling past her cheek.
“What’s the story?” Nadeau asked. “Ensign! I’m talking to you! Did we lose anyone?”
The woman turned to him, her eyes haunted, and threw a hand up toward the ruined bowl. “Take a look! What the hell do you think?”
Steadying himself, Nadeau put a hand up to the bloody lump on his skull, his head throbbing painfully. “You can do better than that.”
The ensign shook her head. “Christ. Sorry, come with me.”
As they climbed the steep, rough hill beside the grotto, she started talking. “At least one casualty — whoever set off that charge — but they’re trying to figure out who it is. When the thing gave way, seven of my shipmates went with it, including Lieutenant Commander Sykes. Dr. Boudreau fell into the hole, too, along with the geologist she had with her.”
“What about Agent Hart?”
The ensign gave him a blank look.
“The other FBI agent who was here? With his arm in a sling? He had the woman from the Antoinette with him?”
But the ensign’s only reply was a shrug of apology.
Nadeau swore under his breath and kept climbing. When they reached the rim of what had once been the bowl, his heart sank. A third of the stone shelf that had made up the bottom of the bowl had given way, crumbling into the dark chamber far below. There was no sign of Josh and Tori, and he knew they must have fallen as well. Nadeau saw sailors moving, lowering lights into the darkness, and members of the descent team abandoning the explosives they had set on the walls below to work their way lower on their ropes, calling into the void, then pausing to listen.
Echoes were their only reply.
77
Voss stood in a cluster of Coast Guard officers and seamen on the deck of the Kodiak and watched as Lieutenant Stone switched on the detonator, under the watchful eyes of David Boudreau. A shuddery anger rattled through her with every breath and she glanced over at Ed Turcotte, who stood slightly apart from the rest of them, his eyes downcast.
“Asshole,” she muttered.
David raised an eyebrow and gave her a sidelong glance, but Voss pressed her mouth shut and didn’t say another word. She pushed away from the railing and threaded her way through the seamen, who separated to give her an exit.
“You don’t have any fight left in you at all, huh?” she said, hands balled at her sides. Voss hadn’t thrown a punch in a while and didn’t intend to start today, but her fists ached.
Turcotte looked up. “Excuse me, Agent?”
“You heard me, Ed.”
“Oh, it’s Ed now, is it? We’re friends?”
Voss laughed. “Not fucking likely.”
“I’m heartbroken.”
“We had an hour, you son of a bitch!” she snapped, raising her voice to be heard above the growing roar of the Navy helicopter that even now moved toward the Hillstrom, long rusty container swaying on chains beneath it. The sight made her sick.
“An hour for what? What would have been the point?” Turcotte asked with a hollow laugh.
“The point? Do you have any idea how much time my squad put into this case? I almost lost my partner—”
Turcotte jabbed a finger at her. “Because you put him in jeopardy!”
Voss slapped the hand away. “Fuck you!” she shouted over the helicopter’s noise. “You think anyone could have seen this coming? The whole case is slipping through our fingers, but we had a chance to search Rio’s ship, maybe salvage something to help us take down Viscaya, and you wouldn’t even let us look! It’s dereliction of duty, Ed. You turned your back on the job!”