The Descent

'So what am I seeing  here,  please?'  one  of  the  Wizards  bawled  at  the  screen  next  to

Branch. 'What's the signature here?  Radiation, chemical, what?'

'Mostly  nitrogen,'  said  his  fat  companion.  'Same  as  last  night.  And  the  night  before that. The  oxygen  comes and goes. It's  a hydrocarbon soup down there.'

Branch listened.

Another  of  the  kids  whistled.  'Look  at  this  concentration.  Normal  atmosphere's what, eighty  percent  nitrogen?'

'Seventy-eight-point-two.'

'This has to be near ninety.'

'It  fluctuates.  Last  two  nights,  it  went  almost  ninety-six.  But  then  it  just  tapers  off. By sunrise, back to a trace  above  norm.'

Branch  noticed  he  wasn't  the  only  one  eavesdropping.  His  pilots  were  dropping  in,

too. Like him, their eyes  were  fixed on their own screens.

'I don't get it,' a boy with acne scars said.  'What  gives  this  kind  of  surge?  Where's  all the nitrogen coming from?'

Branch waited through their collective pause. Maybe  the Wizards had answers.

'I keep  telling you, guys.'

'Stop. Spare us, Barry.'

'You don't want to hear it. But I'm telling you...'

'Tell me,' said Branch. Three  pairs of eyeglasses  turned toward him.

The  kid  named  Barry  looked  uncomfortable.  'I  know  it  sounds  crazy.  But  it's  the dead.  There's  no  big  mystery  here.  Animal  matter  decays.  Dead  tissue  ammonifies. That's  nitrogen, in case you forgot.'

'And then Nitrosomonas oxidizes the  ammonia  to  nitrate.  And Nitrobacter  oxidizes the  nitrate  to  other  nitrates.'  The  fat  man  was  using  a  broken-record  tone.  'The nitrates  get  taken  up  by  green  plants.  In  other  words,  the  nitrogen  never  appears aboveground. This ain't that.'

'You're   talking  about   nitrifying   bacteria.   There's   denitrifying  bacteria,   too,  you know. And that does leak above  ground.'

'Let's just say  the  nitrogen  does  come  from  decay.'  Branch  addressed  the  one  called

Barry.  'That  still doesn't account for this concentration, does it?'

Barry  was  circuitous.  'There   were   survivors,'   he  explained.   'There   always   are. That's  how  we  knew  where  to  dig.  Three  of  them  testified  that  this  was  a  major terminus. It  was in use over  a period of eleven  months.'

'I'm listening,' Branch said, not sure where  this was going.

'We've  documented  three  hundred  bodies,  but  there's  more.  Maybe  a  thousand. Maybe  a  whole  lot  more.  Five  to  seven  thousand  are  still  unaccounted  for  from Srebrenica alone. Who knows what we'll find underneath this primary  layer?  We  were just opening Zulu Four when the rain shut us down.'

'Fucking rain,' the eyeglasses  to his left muttered.

'A lot of bodies,' Branch coaxed.

'Right. A lot of bodies. A lot of decay. A lot of nitrogen release.'

'Delete.' The  fat man was playing to Branch now, shaking his head  with  pity.  'Barry's playing  with  his  food  again.  The  human  body  only  contains  three  percent  nitrogen. Let's  call  it  three  kilograms  per  body,  times  five  thousand  bodies.  Fifteen  thousand kgs. Convert  it to liters, then meters.  That's  only enough nitrogen to fill a thirty-meter cube.  Once.  But  this  is  a  lot  more  nitrogen,  and  it  disperses  every  day,  then  returns every  night. It's  not the bodies, but something associated with them.'

Branch  didn't  smile.  For  months  he'd  been  watching  the  forensics  guys  bait  one another with monkey  play, from planting a skull in the AT&T  telephone  tent  to  verbal wit  like  this  cannibalism  jive.  His  disapproval  had  less  to  do  with  their  mental  health than with his own troops' sense of right and wrong. Death was never  a joke.

He  locked  eyes  with  Barry.  The  kid  wasn't  stupid.  He'd  been  thinking  about  this.

'What  about   the   fluctuations?'   Branch  asked   him.   'How   does   decay   explain   the nitrogen coming and going?'

'What if the cause is periodic?' Branch was patient.

'What if the remains are being disturbed? But only during certain hours.'

'Delete.'

'Middle-of-the-night hours.'

'Delete.'

'When they  logically think we can't see them.' As if to confirm him, the pile moved again.

'What the fuck!'

'Impossible.'

Branch let go of Barry's  earnest  eyes  and took a look.

'Give us some close-up,' a voice called from the end of the line.

The  telephoto  jacked  closer  in  peristaltic  increments.  'That's  as  tight  as  it  gets,'  the captain said. 'That's a ten-meter  square.'

You  could  see  the  jumbled  bones  in  negative.  Hundreds  of  human  skeletons  floated in a giant tangled embrace.

'Wait...' McDaniels murmured. 'Watch.' Branch focused on the screen.

'There.'

From beneath, it appeared, the pile of dead stirred. Branch blinked.

As if getting comfortable, the bones rustled again.

'Fucking Serbs,' McDaniels cursed. No one disputed the indictment.

Of late, the Serbs  had a way  of making themselves  the theory  of choice.

Those  tales  of  children  being  forced  to  eat  their  fathers'  livers,  of  women  being raped  for  months  on  end,  of  every  perversion...  they  were  true.  Every  side  had committed atrocities in the name of God or history or boundaries or revenge.

But of  all  the  factions,  the  Serbs  were  the  best  known  for  trying  to  erase  their  sins. Until the First  Cav put a stop to it, the Serbs  had  raced  about  excavating  mass  graves and  dumping  the  remains  down  mine  shafts  or  grating  them  to  fertilizer  with  heavy machinery.

Strangely,  their terrible  industry  gave  Branch  hope.  In  destroying  evidence  of  their crime,  the  Serbs  were  trying  to  escape  punishment  or  blame.  But  on  top  of  that  –  or within   it   –   what   if   evil   could   not   exist   without   guilt?   What   if   this   was   their punishment? What if this was penance?

'So what's it going to be, Bob?'

Branch looked up, less at the voice than at its liberty  in front of subordinates.

For  Bob  was  the  colonel.  Which  meant  his  inquisitor  could  only  be  Maria-Christina Chambers, queen of the ghouls,  formidable  in  her  own  right.  Branch  had  not  seen  her when he came into the room.

A  pathology  prof  on  sabbatical  from  OU,  Chambers  had  the  gray  hair  and  pedigree to  mix  with  whomever  she  wanted.  As  a  nurse,  she'd  seen  more  combat  in  Vietnam than  most  Green  Beanies.  Legend  had  it,  she'd  even  taken  up  a  rifle  during  Tet.  She despised  microbrew,  swore  by  Coors,  and  was  forever  kicking  dirt  clods  or  talking crops like a Kansas farmboy.  Soldiers  liked  her,  including  Branch.  As  well,  the  Colonel

– Bob – and Christie had grown to be friends. But not over  this particular issue.

'We going to dodge the bastards  again?'

The  room  fell  to  such  quiet,  Branch  could  hear  the  captain  pressing  keys  on  her keyboard.

'Dr. Chambers...' A corporal tried heading her off. Chambers cut him short. 'Piss off, I'm talking to your  boss.'

'Christie,' the colonel pleaded.

Chambers  was  having  none  of  it  this  morning,  though.  To   her   credit,   she   was unarmed this time, not a flask in sight. She glared.