The La Jolla waited and watched as the larger chunks sank into the Pacific while what floated on the surface burned. Then it slipped beneath the currents again, unsure of why it had taken such action but knowing the job had been done.
The clusters of radar contacts turned out to be exactly what Major Gant had hoped: the cavalry. Also as he had hoped, the hatch at the rear of the security booth next to the communications cabinet was, in fact, an emergency escape tunnel.
Given the choice between staying in the infested base or coming along as a prisoner, the guard chose the latter and helped lead Major Gant and Dr. Stacy out of the complex through a small, tube-like passage that deposited them on the eastern beach beyond the perimeter patrols.
Following Gant's instructions, Captain Campion landed his Sea Knight to extract the trio of survivors while ordering the rest of the ground forces to return to the task force.
A few stray shots from the base's external sentries rang off the skin of the dual-rotor helicopter as it took to the air, but the sound of approaching Harrier jets chased the mercenaries back into the jungle.
"Thank you for the lift, Captain," Gant told his comrade as the helicopter ascended and made for open water.
"Didn't think we'd see you again, sir," Campion said, then looked to Dr. Stacy, who sat with her eyes lowered. "Or you either, Doctor."
"It was close."
"Do you think we'll get anything out of him?" Campion nodded at the former security guard, who sat at the far end with Sargent Franco looming overhead.
"He will probably tell you all he knows, which will have something to do with an anonymous bank account, a mercenary group, and ignorance in regards to the operation's true goals. Beyond that he will most certainly be worthless."
Campion considered for a second and then asked, "What do you want us to do?"
Gant turned his head toward the rear of the helicopter, and while the ramp was closed he could see back across the water and into that den of horrors. He then turned to Dr. Stacy.
"Tell me again what you saw."
That sort of shook her from a daze.
"What? Oh, where? What?"
"Doctor Stacy, concentrate. You were telling me about the items you found in storage."
"Oh … um, I found what I thought was the Phaistos disc along with a lot of other artifacts that all seemed to come from the Minoans. They, um, they inhabited Crete in the Mediterranean up until around the fifteenth century, BC."
"Ma'am? Phaistos disc?" Campion asked as his mouth twisted. The topic of conversation was so far from his expectations that it was like biting into a sour lemon when expecting a taste of prime rib.
Stacy still struggled to maintain her focus, "Ah, um, well, a round disc of clay with symbols on it. There was assumed to be only one. Waters said there were more, that the one he had wasn't the original."
"And what does that have to do with the parasitic fungus Dr. Waters created?"
She answered Gant, "You were the one who said it first. You said it seemed like the thing didn't originate with them." Her focus sharpened a little more. "I found computers and biomathematics all around these artifacts."
Gant asked, "Biomathematics?"
Campion surprised him by answering: "Using mathematics to quantify biological systems."
Gant stared at the captain for a second and then turned back to Stacy and asked, "And?"
"And I think the formula for this thing originated from that disc. I think … my God … I think they were translating it, like deciphering some mathematical code, and that's how they got started with this whole thing."
Turbulence rocked the chopper. Straps and gear around the passenger compartment rattled for a few seconds before calming again.
"You don't get it, do you?" She alternated her attention between Campion and Gant. "There isn't a doctor or researcher today who could manufacture an organism like what Waters did. It wasn't just a fungus and it wasn't just a parasite. It was adapting. Not by evolving through generations but as individual organisms."
"I get the impression you consider that very important," Gant said.
"Listen. Animals, microbes, even viruses evolve when beneficial traits are passed on to their offspring. Like immunity to diseases. Your kids might fight off the common cold better because you had a mutation in your genes and passed it on to them."
Gant scratched his chin and replied, "On the island that gas Waters deployed knocked all the animated corpses down. But back at the base they weren't affected by it."
"Exactly. That type of resistance should have taken a long time to develop, and not every one of the parasites should have had it at once. Especially when you consider that Waters created that counteragent specifically to stop the things."
"So they evolved faster. So what?" Campion asked.
"That's unnatural. And we still don't really know where the original formula for the damn things came from. And for God's sake, are you understanding me when I tell you that it looks like that formula goes all the way back to an ancient civilization that didn't even have aspirin, let alone the medical knowledge to engineer a bioweapon? Am I the only one who is in shock over this?"
"I am afraid," Gant admitted, "that the rest of us do not have your historical perspective."
"Okay then," she said. "Imagine if you found out that Oppenheimer built the first atomic bomb based on a mathematical formula he found buried in King Tut's tomb! This isn't about Waters, it's not about some well-funded eco-terrorist group that wanted to wipe out half the world's population, it's not even about zombies. It's about that disc and what it might mean. We should turn around and go recover it."
"You mean salvage Waters's work?"
"No, I…" she stammered, knocked off balance as she remembered how worried she had been that Waters could paint all scientists with a broad, scary brush. "Not like he was using it. Not like that."
Of course Thom Gant remembered something different. He remembered his friend Brandon Twiste and all the questions he had asked. He remembered being scolded by Brandon that it was his job as a veteran soldier to make things better. To question, not just to follow. He also remembered holding his friend as he died deep inside the bowels of Red Rock in Pennsylvania.
In the midst of that rush of memories he saw the containment cells and laboratories back at Darwin. He wondered if that place — his home — was any better than the chamber of horrors that Monroe, Waters, and their mysterious sponsors had built on that hidden island.
Major Gant turned to Campion and asked, "This task force, Captain, does it have a lot of firepower?"
Campion nodded as he answered, "Yes, Major. Plenty."
"Then I need to speak to whoever is in charge."
"That would be me, Major."
Gant titled his head and a small, sly smile formed on his lips.
Campion added, "Ahoy."
"Okay then, Captain. I would like to request a strike package."
Jupiter Wells stood on the open-air observation deck atop the superstructure of the USS Peleliu wearing his black BDU bottoms but only a t-shirt on top. To either side of him, as well as in front and above, stood towers, antennas, radar domes, and other elements of the high-tech ship's electronic senses.
He stared out at the horizon through thin, tired eyes. His body had been pushed to the breaking point with exhaustion and dehydration and it would take some time to come all the way back.
Still, he enjoyed the fresh air, or at least the closest thing he could get to fresh air. The smell of aviation fuel sort of competed with the typical saltwater aroma, but that was a lot better than the stifling heat of a lava flow or a dense cloud of smoke from a burning village.