‘We brought scuba gear,’ said Cloke. ‘We could check beneath the waterline. There might be a gap between some of those big slabs. Some way to worm our way to the other side.’
‘The flood water is tainted with fallout,’ said Nariko. ‘You said it yourself: if anyone dives in that water, they will get seriously irradiated. It’s potential suicide.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Cloke. ‘This is a military mission. I brought you here. It’s my responsibility.’
Nariko wearily shook her head.
‘How long since you pulled basic? Twenty years? Thirty? You’re a lab tech. You spend your time behind a microscope. I trained for this shit. Confined space operations. I do it every day.’
‘This is a little bit worse than a neighbourhood house fire. A whole different league. If you get in that water you’ll pay for it. Maybe not right away, but somewhere down the line.’
‘Comes with the job.’
‘You need to keep your exposure to the absolute minimum. Make a brief survey. Be thorough. But don’t hang around.’
‘Yeah.’
‘If there’s a route through the rubble, some kind of crawl-space to the other side, we’ll send a team.’
‘Okay.’
‘Like I say. Do it quick, but get it done. We can fail but we can’t quit, understand?’
‘Yeah. I know the score.’
Lupe and Donahue pushed the Coke machine across the tiled floor of the ticket hall, inch at a time. Metal shriek. Flaking rust. They hauled the Coke machine up the stairwell. Donahue called a breathless three-count each time they hefted the heavy cabinet a step higher.
‘Hold on.’
Donahue wiped sweat from her forehead. She winced as she touched her bruised and swollen cheek.
‘Sorry about your face,’ said Lupe.
‘Sorry about yours.’
They reached the top of the stairs and paused for breath.
Donahue bent double, like she was about to vomit.
‘You all right?’ asked Lupe.
‘Yeah,’ she said, straightening up. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
‘Is it the sickness?’
Donahue clapped a hand over her mouth and fought back rising bile. She waited for nausea to subside.
‘I’ll be all right.’
Clawed fingernails raked polythene. The plastic bulged as hands tried to pull it aside and reach fresh meat.
‘Got to admire their persistence,’ said Lupe. ‘This virus, this parasite, whatever the hell it is pulling their strings. A single driving purpose.’
‘You prefer it to humans?’ asked Donahue.
‘Darwinism in action, baby. This bug wants the world more than us. You can’t win against that kind of enemy. Trust me. I’ve seen it. On the street, in the yard. Some guys have their own dark purpose. Spooky fuckers with a weird, Charles Manson charisma. They’ve got an aura, like they’ve seen further, deeper than anyone else. They’re driving headlong to hell, and nothing better get in their way. You can’t beat that intensity. All you can do is back off.’
‘Come on,’ said Donahue. ‘Give me a hand.’
They put their shoulders to the Coke cabinet and shunted it against the curtained entrance gate.
They stood back. The vending machine gently creaked and rocked as hands clawed it from behind.
Donahue leaned against the tiled wall for support. She held her head like she was waiting for pain to pass.
‘Sure you’re okay?’
‘Stop asking.’
Lupe unslung the Remington and handed it to Donahue.
‘You better take this.’
‘Thought you’d want to hang on to it,’ said Donahue.
‘Galloway is itching to start a war.’
‘You think?’
‘The guy is totally transparent. He wants to snatch Nariko’s nine milli and provoke another stand-off. Me against him. Not what we need right now. You look after that thing, okay? Keep it close.’
Donahue took the gun. She checked the safety. She checked the chamber.
‘Don’t be pointing that thing at me, though,’ said Lupe. ‘I’m done being a prisoner.’
Nariko flipped latches and threw open the lid of an equipment trunk stamped MARINE DIVISION. Folded drysuits and three full-face diving helmets. She lifted a heavy steel helmet, pulled away its protective polythene sleeve and examined the neck ring.
‘Used this stuff before?’ asked Cloke.
‘Fished plenty of bodies out the river. Jumpers. Flew upstate and helped a mine rescue one time.’
‘A mine?’
‘Half-assed coal operation. Seven guys trapped in a flooded tunnel. Local cops thought they might have found an air pocket.’
‘Find any of them alive?’
‘No.’
Cloke snapped open a lock knife. He sliced through nylon rope and pulled tarp from a wooden pallet. A stack of fibreglass air tanks.
Nariko kicked off her boots and dropped her pants. She stripped to underwear, tied loose hair in a ponytail and pulled on a heavy trilaminate drysuit. Tight neck seal, tight cuffs. Cloke helped check the chest zipper. He hefted a weight belt and buckled it round her waist.
‘Give me the gun.’
Cloke handed her the Glock.
‘Will that thing fire underwater?’
‘No idea,’ said Nariko. ‘Hope I don’t find out.’
She tucked the pistol into her weight belt.
Cloke popped two tabs of IOSAT potassium iodide from a foil strip.
‘Open your mouth.’
‘I’ve had my dose,’ said Nariko.
‘Have some more.’
He put the pills on her tongue and held a bottle of water to her lips. She swigged.
‘Don’t hang around down there. Ten minutes, at the very most. Make a swift survey of the site, then get out the water and back in the boat quick as you can.’
She nodded.
‘But don’t rush. Poor visibility and a lot of snarled metal. Don’t get caught up.’
Cloke laid the aluminium rebreather frame on the floor. A snarling rat sprayed on yellow fibreglass. He unclipped the cowling. Two AL80 diluent tanks strapped to the back. Black marker on duct tape: NITROGEN and HELIUM. A small green liquid oxygen cylinder between them, alongside a lithium hydroxide CO2 scrubber cartridge.
Final check of the breathing loop. He checked psi gauges. He checked valves. He clipped the protective cowling back in place.
He helped Nariko shoulder the heavy trimix pack and adjust nylon harness straps.
Gauntlets secured by lock rings. She held out her arm while Cloke buckled an LCD depth gauge to her wrist.
Nariko bent forwards as Cloke lowered a steel helmet over her head. A pig-snout manifold. Halogen lamps at each temple, visor secured by heavy hex bolts. He clamped the helmet to the neck ring and span lock nuts. He equalised pressure and adjusted oxygen. Faint hiss and rubber-crackle as the suit filled with air. Nariko’s ears popped.
Cloke gave a good-to-go fist knock on the helmet.
Nariko checked her wrist screen. Green. Gas mix and tank pressure flashed nominal. Five hours of breathable air.
She gestured A-OK.
Cloke clipped a Motorola radio to her weight belt. He ran the jack cable up her back to a socket in the helmet.
He stepped back and spoke into his radio.
‘Can you hear me?’
‘Five by five.’
‘Ready?’
‘Yeah.’
She lumbered across the ticket hall and headed for the stairs. She walked hunchbacked, centre of gravity thrown by the tanks strapped to her back. Cloke walked beside her, holding flippers, offering a guiding arm.
She walked past Donahue. She walked past Lupe, Wade and Sicknote. They watched her pass, silent and solemn like she was a shackled death row inmate making their final journey to the execution chamber.
Tombes spoke into his radio.