Admit it. You’re worried about this one, and have been since David broke the news. The facts are all out of order, the pieces don’t fit the way they’re supposed to.
It was ironic that the reasons compelling her to crack this mystery were the same ones that made her so uneasy: Trent, the S.T.A.R.S.’s apparent collusion with Umbrella, the possibility of a biohazardous incident in her home state. Who had been bribed? What had happened at Caliban Cove? What would they uncover? What did the poem mean?
Not enough data. Not yet.
She’d always prided herself on her lack of imagina-tion, on her ability to find the truth based on empiri-cal evidence rather than wild, unsubstantiated intu-ition. It was the key to success in her field, and though she was aware that she sometimes came across as overly clinical—even cold—she accepted who she was, embracing the kind of peace that was found in knowing all of the facts. Whether it was examining blood spray patterns or measuring angles on an entry wound, there was a deep satisfaction for her in solving puzzles, in finding out not only why, but how. The unanswered questions about Caliban Cove were an affront to her careful thought processes. They went against her grain, smudging her very ordered sense of reality—and she knew that she wouldn’t find relief until those questions were put to rest. She was finished with the weapons. She should check the utility belts again, make sure everything was locked down and ready, and then see if David had anything else for her to do....
Karen hesitated, feeling a trickle of warm sweat slide down her back. No one was within sight of the open back door, and she’d already double-checked every flap and pocket on every belt. With a sudden rush of something like guilt, she reached into her vest pocket and pulled out her secret, comforted by the familiar weight of it in her hand.
God, if the guys knew, I’d never hear the end of it. It had been given to her by her father, a remnant from his service in WWII and one of the few items she had to remember him by—an ancient anti-personnel shrapnel grenade, called a pineapple because of its crosshatched exterior. Carrying it was one of her few unpractical idiosyncrasies, one that made her feel a little silly. She’d worked hard to present herself as a thoroughly rational, intelligent woman, not prone to emotional sentimentality—and in most respects, that was true. But the grenade was her rabbit’s foot, and she never went on a mission without it. Besides, she had half convinced herself that it might come in handy one day. . . .
Yeah, keep telling yourself that. The S.T.A.R.S. have digitized anti-personnel grenades with timers, even flash-bangs with computer chips. The pin on this relic probably couldn’t be wrenched out with pliers—
“Karen, do you need any help?”
Startled, Karen looked up and into Rebecca’s ear-nest young features, the girl leaning into the back of the van. Her quick gaze fell to the grenade, her eyes lighting up with sudden curiosity.
“I thought we weren’t taking any explosives. . . hey, is that a pineapple grenade? I’ve never actually seen one. Is it live?”
Karen quickly looked around, afraid that one of the team had overheard—then grinned sheepishly at the young biochemist, embarrassed by her own embar-rassment.
It’s not like I got caught masturbating, for chrissake; she doesn ‘t know me, why the hell would she care if I’m superstitious?
“Shh! They’ll hear us. Come here a sec,” she said, and Rebecca obediently crawled into the van, a con-spiratorial half-smile blooming on her face. In spite of herself, Karen was absurdly pleased by the young biochemist’s discovery. In the seven years she’d been with the S.T.A.R.S., no one had ever found out. And she’d taken an instant liking to the girl. “It is a pineapple, and we’re not taking explosives in. You can’t tell anyone, okay? I carry it for good luck.”
Rebecca raised her eyebrows. “You carry a live grenade around for luck?”
Karen nodded, looking at her seriously. “Yes, and if John or Steve found out, they’d ride me ragged. I know it’s dumb, but it’s kind of a secret.” “I don’t think it’s dumb. My friend Jill has a lucky hat. . . ” Rebecca reached up and touched her head-band, a tied red bandana beneath mousy bangs. “.. . and I’ve been wearing this for a couple of weeks practically. I was wearing it when we went into the Spencer facility.”
Her young face clouded slightly, and then she was smiling again, her light brown gaze direct and sincere. “I won’t say a word.”
Karen decided that she definitely liked her. She tucked the grenade back in her vest, nodding at the girl. “I appreciate that. So, are we ready out there?” Tiny lines of nervous strain appeared on Rebecca’s face. “Yeah, pretty much. John wants to run another check with the headsets, but other than that, every-thing’s done.”
Karen nodded again, wishing she could say some-thing to ease the girl’s fear. There wasn’t anything to say. Rebecca had dealt with Umbrella before, and any words that Karen might mouth would be hollow ones, might even seem patronizing. She felt some anxiety herself, she’d be a fool not to—but fear wasn’t a state that she wore often or well. As with most missions, the overriding feeling she experienced was
anticipa-tion, a kind of cerebral hunger for the truth. “Go ahead and hand out the weapons, I’ll get the rest,” Karen said finally. She could at least give her something to do.
Rebecca helped her unload the equipment as the sun dipped lower in the heavy summer sky. The winds off the water grew cooler and the first pale stars shimmered into view over the Atlantic.
As twilight crept in, they moved down to the water in an uneasy silence, loading their weapons, stretch-ing, staring out at the black waters that eddied and swirled with secrets of their own.
When the last of the daylight melted off the hori-zon, they were as ready as they were going to get. As John and David slipped the raft into the lapping darkness, Karen slipped on a black watchcap and patted the heavy lump inside her vest for luck, telling herself that she wouldn’t need it.
The truth was waiting. It was time to find out what was really going on.
SEVEH
STEVE AND DAVID CLIMBED IN, EDGING TO the front of the six-man raft as Karen and Rebecca followed. John hopped in last, and at David’s signal, started the motor with the push of a button; it was as silent as David had promised, only a faint hum that was almost lost in the sound of gently moving water. “Let’s move,” David said quietly. Rebecca took a deep breath and let it out slowly as they started north, heading for the cove.
Nobody spoke as the shore slid by to their left, shadowy, jagged shapes in the pallid light of the rising moon, an immense and whispering void to their right. Port and starboard, her mind noted randomly. Bow and stern.
She searched the blackness for a sign that marked the beginning of the private territory, but couldn’t make out much. It was a lot darker than she’d expected, and colder. The chill she felt was com-pounded by the knowledge that beneath them lay an infinite and alien world, teeming with cold-blooded life.
Rebecca saw a flash of soft light as David raised a pair of NV binoculars to watch for movement on the shore. The infrared illuminator’s glow spilled across his face for an instant before he adjusted their posi-tion, making his features strange and craggy. Now that they were actually doing it, actually on their way, she felt better than she had all day. Not relaxed, by any means—the dread was still there, the fear of the unknown and for what they might encount-er—but the feelings of helplessness, the mind-numbing anxiety she’d lived with since the incident in Raccoon, had eased, giving way to hope. We’re doing something, taking the offensive instead of waiting for them to get to us—