James Rollins - Subterranean

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SUBTERRANEAN

JAMES ROLLINS

For John Clemens

Great God! this is an awful place.

FOUND SCRAWLED IN THE JOURNAL OF THE

FAILEDSOUTHPOLE EXPLORER

ROBERTF. SCOTT

CONTENTS

EPIGRAPH

PROLOGUE

Blue ice encased the continent from horizon to...

BOOK ONE: TEAMWORK

ONE

Damned Rattlers.

TWO

Benjamin Brust watched a brown cockroach...

THREE

Ashley crossed to the young Spanish gentleman...

FOUR

For the second time in as many months, Ashley...

BOOK TWO: UNDER THE ICE

FIVE

In a plane again, Ashley thought sourly, her nose...

SIX

Just a minute longer. Then it will be over.

SEVEN

Ashley watched with a smirk as Jason darted...

EIGHT

Seven o'clock in the morning? More like midnight.

NINE

"Mom, you should have seen the fish we caught."...

BOOK THREE: CHUTES AND LADDERS

TEN

The pack was heavy, the cushioned straps cutting...

ELEVEN

Ashley pushed her board into her pack and...

TWELVE

"C'mere," Ben called to Ashley. "Look at this."

THIRTEEN

As Ashley scooted through the exit of the...

FOURTEEN

Jason plopped into his chair in the office, expelling...

FIFTEEN

Silence now. Ten long heartbeats had passed since...

SIXTEEN

"Run," Blakely said, pushing Jason from behind.

SEVENTEEN

"What do you mean, Linda's gone?" Ashley said,...

EIGHTEEN

Leaning over the green pontoon, Jason watched...

NINETEEN

Another piercing scream. It had almost reached...

TWENTY

"Try the paddles!" Blakely called above the roar...

BOOK FOUR: DRUMS AND DEATH

TWENTY-ONE

With Ashley's panicked scream, the furry grip...

TWENTY-TWO

Exhaustion lulled Michaelson from his...

TWENTY-THREE

Khalid watched as Linda embraced the frightened...

TWENTY-FOUR

Ashley took a step back, wondering if her ears...

TWENTY-FIVE

Jason knew they were in trouble when the two...

TWENTY-SIX

Ashley tugged on Harry's sleeve, noticing how...

TWENTY-SEVEN

The next morning, Ashley paced the floor of the...

TWENTY-EIGHT

Michaelson crouched over his arsenal, taking...

TWENTY-NINE

"I can't just leave her," Ben said to Mo'amba. The...

THIRTY

Ben lay awake in his cell. He knew he needed to...

BOOK FIVE: RETURN TO ALPHA

THIRTY-ONE

Linda crawled between the boulder and the...

THIRTY-TWO

The first thing that struck Jason as they got...

THIRTY-THREE

Linda realized two things as she crouched in the...

THIRTY-FOUR

Ashley was sure her son was fine. He had to be. She...

THIRTY-FIVE

Ben sat on the leather sofa in Blakely's office,...

THIRTY-SIX

That bloody Sin'jari! It all came back in a flood....

THIRTY-SEVEN

Jason sat on a soiled chair in the demolished...

EPILOGUE

Ben crawled into bed, sighing. What a day! He...

THANKS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BOOKS BY JAMES ROLLINS

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

PROLOGUE

Mount Erebus, Antarctica

BLUE ICE ENCASED THE CONTINENT FROM HORIZON TOhorizon, scoured to a gritty shine

by gale-force winds ripping shards across the frozen landscape. Nothing lived on the surface, except for

grimy patches of yellow lichen, far older than any of the men stationed at McMurdo Base.

Two miles below Mount Erebus, through glacier, permafrost, and granite, Private Peter Wombley wiped

sweat from his eyes. He dreamed of the fridge in his bunkroom stocked with a case of Coors. "This

place is insane. Damned blizzard up top and hotter than a hooker's snatch down here."

"If you quit thinkin' about it, it wouldn't be so bad," Lieutenant Brian Flattery replied. He loosened his

hand lantern from the transport motorcycle. "Let's go. We've got three more relays to calibrate before the

end of this shift."

Peter grabbed his lantern and clicked it on, spearing the cavern with a blade of light, and followed.

"Hey, watch your step there," Brian said, pointing his light at a crevice in the cavern floor.

Slipping past the black slit, Peter eyed it suspiciously. Since he'd arrived three months ago, he had

learned a healthy respect for these honeycombed caverns. He leaned over the edge and pointed his light

down the crevice. It seemed to go straight to the bottom of the world. He shivered, wondering if hell had

a doorway. "Wait up!"

"I'm going to proceed to the relay," Brian said, pulling a transport sled into position at the lip of the

tunnel. "You've got a five-minute break until I return."

Peter secretly sighed in relief. He hated those "wormholes," as the troop had nicknamed the smooth

undulating passages, with diameters so small that a man could barely crawl through them. Only the

motorized sleds made transport from cavern to cavern possible through the wormholes.

Like a boy on a toboggan, Brian sprawled belly down on the sled, head pointing toward the mouth of

the tunnel. He engaged the throttle, the engine's roar echoing off the walls, doubling and tripling decibel

levels. With a final thumbs-up, Brian shoved the throttle forward. The sled shot into the narrow tunnel.

Peter crouched down to watch Brian's departure. The lights faded as the sled roared around a distant

curve. After a few moments more, even the sound of the sled whined down to nothing. Peter was alone

in the cavern.

Using his lantern, he checked the time. Brian should be back in five minutes. He smiled. Maybe even

twenty minutes if he needed to disassemble the communications relay and replace some parts. That gave

him more than enough time. He slipped a joint from his vest pocket.

Peter set down his lantern and rotated it for wide dispersal to illuminate the area. Then he leaned back

against the cavern wall, fished a match from his pocket, and struck a flame. He inhaled sharply on the

narrow joint. Ahhh! Leaning his head back, he savored the smoke deep in his chest.

Suddenly, the sound of scraping rock echoed across the cavern.

"Shit!" Peter choked on the smoke and grabbed his light. He searched the open space, sweeping his

lantern back and forth. No one. Just an empty cavern. He listened, straining, but heard nothing more. The

shadows kept jumping in the lantern light.

All at once, it seemed a lot colder and a lot darker.

He glanced at his watch. Four minutes had passed. Brian should be heading back by now. He stamped

the joint out. It was going to be a long wait.

Brian Flattery closed the panel on the side of the communications station. The unit checked out fine.

Only two more relays to check. His support staff could have handled these routine tests, but this was his

baby. The minor static was a personal affront to his expertise. Just a little fine tuning and everything would

be perfect.

He crossed over to the idling sled and slipped into position. He twisted the throttle into gear and ducked

his head a bit as he rode into the tube. Like being swallowed by a serpent, he thought. The smooth walls

flew past his head, the headlamp guiding him forward. After a minute, the sled slipped from the tunnel into

the cavern where he had left Peter.

Brian cut the engine. He glanced around. The cavern was empty, but a familiar scent lingered.

Marijuana. "Goddamn it!" he exclaimed. Yanking himself from the sled, he raised his voice. "Private

Wombley! Get your ass back here on the double!"

His words echoed off the walls. There was no answer from Peter. Searching the cavern with his lantern,

Brian turned up nothing. The two motorcycles they had used to travel here were still in place across the

cave. Where was that bastard?

He marched toward the cycles. His left boot slipped in a wet patch; he flailed for a handhold on the

wall—and missed. With a squawk, he slammed hard on his backside. His lantern skittered across the

cavern floor, finally coming to rest with the light pointed back toward him. Warm moisture seeped

through the seat of his khakis. He ground his teeth together and swore.

Back on his feet, Brian wiped the seat of his pants, grimacing. A certain private was going to find a foot

planted three feet up his butt. He went to tuck in his shirt when he noticed his dripping palms. He gasped

and jumped back as if he could escape from his own hands.

Warm blood coated the palms.

BOOK ONE

Teamwork

ONE

Chaco Canyon, New Mexico

DAMNED RATTLERS.

Ashley Carter knocked trail dirt from her boots before climbing into her rusted Chevy pickup. She threw

her dusty cowboy hat on the seat next to her and swiped a handkerchief across her brow. Leaning over

the gear shift, she popped the glove compartment and removed the snakebite kit.

With a knuckle, she tapped the radio. Static rasped from the handheld receiver. Humming, she peeled

back the wrapper from the syringe and drew the usual amount of venom antiserum. By now she could

gauge it by sight. She shook the bottle. Almost empty. It was time to run into Albuquerque for more.

After cleaning her skin with an alcohol swab, she jabbed the needle into her arm and winced as she

administered the amber fluid. Loosening her tourniquet a notch, she wiped iodine over the two punctures

in her forearm, then applied a bandage.

Cinching her tourniquet a bit tighter, she glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes, and she'd loosen

the tourniquet again.

She picked up the radio handpiece and pressed the button on its side. "Randy, come in. Over." Static as

she released the button.

"Randy, please pick up. Over." Her neighbor, Randy, was still on disability from a back injury at the

mine. For the past ten weeks, he had earned a few extra bucks under the table by supplying day care for

her son Jason.

She started the engine and pulled back onto the parallel ruts that constituted a road. The radio belched a

garbled blast of noise, then she heard, ". . . up. Ashley, what's going on? We expected you back an hour

ago."

She raised the handpiece. "Sorry, Randy. Found a new room in the Anasazi dig. Hidden by a rockfall.

Had to check it out before the light went bad. But a diamondback had other ideas. I've got to check in

with Doc Marshall now. Be back in about an hour. Could you pop the lasagna in the oven? Over." She

hooked the receiver back on the radio.

A squelch of static. "A bite! Again! This is the fourth time since Christmas. You're pressing your luck,

Ash. This solo venturing is going to get you killed someday. But listen, after you get checked up by Doc

Marshall, hurry home. There's some Marine types here waiting for you."

She furrowed her brow. Now what did she do? She groaned and grabbed the handpiece again. "What's

up? Over."

"D'know. They're playing dumb," he said, then added in a lower voice, "and they're damned good at it.

Real G.I. Joes. You'd hate 'em."

"Just what I need. How's Jason handling it? Over."

"He's fine. Eating it up. Talking the ear off of some corporal. I think he almost got the jarhead to give him

his gun."

She smacked the steering wheel with the flat of her hand. "What are those bastards doing bringing guns

into my home? Damn, I'll be there straightaway. Hold the fort! I'm out."

She never carried a gun. Not even into the badlands of New Mexico. Damned if she was going to allow

some overgrown boys to bring weapons into her home. She slammed the truck in gear, her wheels

clawing at loose rock.

* * *

Ashley jumped from the truck, arm tucked in a blue sling, and crossed through her cacti garden, hurrying

toward a group of uniformed men huddled under the small green awning over her porch, which offered

the only shade for a hundred yards.

As she stomped up the wooden steps, the men in front backed up. Except for one man, who sported

bronze clusters on each shoulder and stood his ground.

She strode right up to him. "Who the hell do you think you are, barging in here with enough arsenal to

blow away a small Vietnamese village? I have a boy in there."

The officer's mouth flattened to a thin line. He leaned back to remove his sunglasses, revealing a cold

blue stare, void of any emotion. "Major Michaelson, ma'am. We are escorting Dr. Blakely."

She glared at him. "I don't know any Dr. Blakely."

"He knows of you, ma'am. He says you're one of the best paleoanthropologists in the country. Or so

I've heard him tell the President."

"The president of what?"

He stared at her blankly. "The President of the United States."

A sandy-haired juggernaut plowing through the uniformed men covered her surprise. "Mom! You're

home! You gotta come see." Her son eyed her sling, then grabbed the sleeve of her other arm. "C'mon."

Even though he stood only a little higher than their belt buckles, he ushered the military men aside.

Glaring, she allowed herself to be dragged through the door. As the screen door clapped shut behind

her, she headed toward the family room and noticed a leather briefcase parked on the table. It wasn't

hers.

The scent of garlic from a baking lasagna wafted toward her from the kitchen. Her stomach responded

with a growl. She hadn't eaten since breakfast. Randy, armed with stained oven mittens, was attempting

to extract the bubbling lasagna without spilling it. The sight of such a bear of a man, dressed in an apron,

struggling with a pan of lasagna, brought a smile to her lips. He rolled his eyes at her.

As she opened her mouth to say hello, there was a sudden urgent tugging at her arm. "C'mon, Mom, see

what Dr. Blakely has. It's bitchin'."

"Watch your tongue, mister," she warned. "You know we don't allow that sort of language here. Now

show me what this is all about." She waved at Randy as she was tugged toward the family room.

Her son pointed to the briefcase and whispered, "It's in there."

The sound of rushing water from the hall bathroom drew her attention. The door opened and a tall black

man, thin as a pole and dressed in a three-piece suit, entered the hallway. He was older, his

close-cropped hair graying slightly. He pushed a pair of wire-rim spectacles farther up the bridge of his

nose. Spotting Ashley, he broke out in a sudden smile of recognition. He stepped toward her quickly,

hand proffered. "Professor Ashley Carter. Your picture in last year'sArchaeology magazine failed to do

you justice."

She knew a snow job when she heard one. Caked with trail dirt, arm in a sling, clad in mud-stained

jeans, she was no beauty queen. "Can the crap, Doc. What are you doing here?"

He dropped his hand. His eyes widened a moment, and then he smiled even broader. He had more teeth

than a shark. "I like your no-nonsense attitude," he said. "It's refreshing. I have a proposal to—"

"Not interested." She pointed to the door. "You and your entourage can hit the trail now. Thanks

anyway."

"If you'll only lis—"

"Don't make me toss your butt outta here." She snapped her arm toward the screen door.

"It pays a hundred grand for two months' work."

"Just get your—" Her arm dropped to her side. Clearing her throat, she stared at Dr. Blakely, then

raised an eyebrow. "NowI'm listening."

Since her divorce, she had been struggling to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. An

assistant professor's salary barely covered their living expenses, let alone her research projects.

"Wait," she started. "Wait a minute. Is it legal? It can't be legal."

"I assure you, Dr. Carter, this offer is legit. And that's only the beginning," Dr. Blakely continued.

"Exclusive authorship of research garnered. Guaranteed tenure at the university of your choice."

She had dreams like this after too much sausage-and-onion pizza. "How can that be possible? There are

university statutes . . . rules . . . seniority . . . How?"

"This is a project advocated by the highest people. I have been given free rein to hire whomever I want

at whatever salary I desire." He sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs, arms spread the length of the

sofa. "And I want you."

"Why?" Ashley questioned tentatively, still suspicious.

Leaning forward, he held up a hand, begging patience. He reached for his briefcase and clicked it open.

Using both hands, he carefully lifted a crystal statuette from its interior. He turned it upright toward her.

It was a human figure—judging from the pendulous breasts and gravid belly, a female figure. The fading

light caught the crystalline structure and reflected radiant bursts.

He nodded for her to take it. "What do you think?"

She hesitated, afraid to touch its fragile beauty. "Definitely primitive . . . Appears to be a type of fertility

icon."

Dr. Blakely nodded his head vigorously. "Right, right . . . Here, look closer." He raised the heavy statue,

arms shaking with the strain. "Please examine it."

She reached to take the statuette.

"It's sculpted out of a single diamond," he said. "Flawless."

Now she understood the armed escort. She withdrew her hands from such a priceless object as she

pondered the implications. "Bitchin'," she whispered.

* * *

Across the kitchen table, Ashley Carter watched as Dr. Blakely flipped the cellular phone closed and

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SUBTERRANEANJAMESROLLINSForJohnClemensGreatGod!thisisanawfulplace.FOUNDSCRAWLEDINTHEJOURNALOFTHEFAILEDSOUTHPOLEEXPLORERROBERTF.SCOTTCONTENTSEPIGRAPHPROLOGUEBlueiceencasedthecontinentfromhorizonto...BOOKONE:TEAMWORKONEDamnedRattlers.TWOBenjaminBrustwatchedabrowncockroach...THREEAshleycrossedtotheyoun...

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James Rollins - Subterranean

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