Donovan was exploring the cavern, examining the shorings and aged bricks. In a few minutes, he stepped noiselessly back toward the equipment cache, ghostly in the light of the flare.
“Smells like shit down here,” he said at last, squatting down beside Snow.
Snow didn’t bother to make the obvious reply.
“Not bad swimming, for a civ,” the SEAL continued, adjusting his Webb belt. Apparently, Snow’s performance in the tunnels had convinced Donovan it wouldn’t be beneath his dignity to speak with him. “You’re the guy that pulled the two bodies out of the Cloaca, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Snow replied defensively. He wondered what Donovan had heard.
“Crazy damn job, looking for dead bodies.” Donovan laughed.
No crazier than killing Vietcong or packing explosives under some poor bastard’s hull, Snow thought. Aloud, he said, “We don’t just look for dead bodies. That day, we were actually looking for a cache of heroin somebody’d thrown off a bridge.”
“Heroin, huh? Must’ve been some pretty messed-up fish down there for a while.”
Snow ventured a laugh, but even to himself it sounded forced and awkward. What the hell’s the matter with you? Be cool, like Donovan.“I’ll bet the Cloaca hasn’t seen a live fish for two hundred years.”
“Got a point there,” Donovan said, heaving himself to his feet again. “Man, I don’t envy you. I’d rather do a week of PT than swim five minutes in this muck.”
Snow saw the SEAL look at his harpoon gun with a smirk. “You’d best have a real weapon, just in case we have to go in.” Donovan rummaged in one of the kit bags and pulled out a machine gun with a cruel-looking metal tube fixed to the underside of its barrel. “Ever fire an M-16 before?” he asked.
“The Tactical guys let us try some on the range during the Academy graduation picnic,” Snow said.
A look of incredulity mixed with amusement crossed Donovan’s features. “Is that right. The Academy graduation picnic. And I’ll bet your mother made you a sack lunch.” He tossed the rifle toward Snow, then reached into the bag and passed over some magazine pouches. “Those are 30-round clips. They’ll empty in less then two seconds on full automatic, so keep your trigger finger light. Not exactly new technology, but tried and true.” He passed over another pouch. “That forward trigger is for the XM-148. The grenade launcher attachment. Here are two 40-millimeter canister rounds, just in case you get ambitious.”
“Donovan?” Snow had to ask. “What’s a chunk boy?”
A long slow grin spread across the SEAL’S painted face. “No harm in telling, I guess. It’s the unlucky stiff who catches hi-mag duty for the operation.”
“Hi-mag duty?” Snow was as much in the dark as he’d been before.
“White magnesium flares. Mandatory issue for all night ops, even stealth runs like this. Stupid-ass regulation, but that’s the way it is. They’re ultra, ultra bright. Twist off the top to arm the detonator, toss one a safe distance, and you’ve got half a million candlepower on impact. But they’re not too stable, if you know what I mean. All it takes is one bullet in that bag, even something small like a .22, and boom! Chunk boy. If you know what I mean.” He chuckled, then wandered off again.
Snow shifted position, trying to hold the bag as far from his torso as possible. Except for the fitful sputtering of the flare, there was silence for several minutes. Then Snow heard Donovan’s low chuckle again. “Man, take a look at this! Can you believe some crazy bastard’s been wandering around here? In bare feet, no less.”
Putting the rifle aside, Snow stood up and came over for a look. A set of bare footprints tracked through the mud. Fresh, too: the mud around the edges was damp, not dry.
“Big mother,” Donovan murmured. “Must be a size fourteen triple-E, at least.” He laughed again.
Snow stared at the strangely broad footprint, the feeling of menace increasing. As Donovan’s laughter subsided, Snow heard a distant rumble. “What was that?” he asked.
“What?” Donovan asked, kneeling and adjusting his H-harness.
“Isn’t it too early to set off the charges?” Snow asked.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“I did.” Suddenly, Snow’s heart was hammering in his rib-cage.
Donovan listened, but there was only silence. “Chill, sport,” he said. “You’re starting to hear things.”
“I think we should check it with the Patrol Leader.”
Donovan shook his head. “Yeah, and piss him off good.” He glanced at his watch. “Strict noise discipline, remember? The op site isn’t even a click away from here. They’ll be back in ten minutes. Then we can get the hell out of this toilet.” He spat fervently into the stagnant mud.
The flare guttered and died, plunging the vault into darkness.
“Shit,” Donovan muttered. “Snow, hand me another from that ditty bag near your feet.”
There was another rumble, which slowly resolved into the faint muffled staccato of gunfire. It seemed to shiver through the ancient walls, rising and falling like a distant storm.
In the dark, Snow could hear Donovan rise quickly to his feet, finger punching the comm set. “Team Alpha, Patrol Leader, do you read?” he hissed.
A mass of static came crackling over the frequency.
There was a rolling shudder in the ground. “That was a damn grenade,” Donovan said. “Alpha! Beta! Come in!”
The ground shuddered again.
“Snow, get your weapon.” Snow heard the long rattle of a well-oiled bolt being drawn back. “What a cluster-hump this is turning into. Alpha, do you read?”
“Five by five.” Rachlin’s voice came crackling over the comm set. “We’ve lost communications with Gamma. Stand by.”
“Roger that,” Donovan said.
There was a brief, tense silence, then the Commander’s voice returned.
“Delta, Gamma must-have run into difficulties setting their charges. Handle the redundancy. We’ve already set our charges and will check Beta’s status.”
“Aye-aye.” A light snapped on, and Donovan looked at Snow. “Let’s move,” he said. “We’ll have to set Gamma’s charges.” Twisting the light into his shoulder snap, he set off at a lope, running low, his rifle held perpendicular to his chest. Taking a deep breath, Snow followed him into the tunnel. Glancing down, he noticed footprints in the flickering illumination—more prints here, crossing and crisscrossing in a crazed welter, too numerous to pick out the SEAL booties of Gamma team. He swallowed hard.
Within minutes, Donovan slowed at what looked like an old siding, surrounded by a mass of pylons. “Shouldn’t be much farther,” he muttered, switching off his light and listening carefully.
“Where are they?” Snow heard himself asking. He wasn’t surprised when Donovan didn’t bother to answer.
“We’re back at the rally point,” came the voice of Rachlin in his comm set. “I repeat: charges successfully set. Going to check on Beta now.”
“Come on,” Donovan said, moving forward again. Suddenly, he stopped.
“You smell that?” he whispered.
Snow opened his mouth, then closed it again as the stench hit him. He turned away instinctively. It was an overripe, earthy smell, its pungency overwhelming the stink of the drainage tunnel. And there was something else: the strangely sweet smell of a butcher’s shop.
Donovan shook his head as if to clear it, then tensed to move forward again. At that moment, the comm unit buzzed in Snow’s ear. There was a hiss, then Rachlin’s voice suddenly came through: “... attack. Drop flares…”
Snow wondered if he’d heard right. Rachlin had spoken with abnormal calmness. Then there was a burst of static from the comm unit, and a rattle that sounded like gunfire.
“Alpha!” Donovan yelled. “You reading? Over.”
“That’s a rog,” came Rachlin’s voice. “We’re under attack. Couldn’t reach Beta. We’re setting their charges now. Beecham, there!”