Gant stopped pacing and considered.
"Brandon was anything but focused. He was always asking questions. Never took anything at face value. This job always confused him. Is that it? Is that the difference?
And Gant realized, too, that he was confused himself. Confused about his marriage. Confused about his job. Confused about every mission they undertook, especially this one.
The entity had suggested that he—Gant—had a self-righteousness about his duty.
Nothing could be farther from the truth.
So many years of following orders and killing on command. Where had it gotten him? Deeper and deeper into the gray area between right and wrong.
He worked for men who made nightmares — men like General Borman, like The Tall Company. The feeling had been growing inside of Thom for several years — years in which he had watched his wife go from afraid to stoic about his job. He had watched her become yet another victim of his work.
There was no righteousness here — only orders. Orders Major Thom Gant followed because he had been trained to do so — trained as well as any attack dog.
Once, long ago, he had obeyed those orders because he wanted to. Now he obeyed because he knew nothing else; you might as well ask him to stop breathing. Yet even while he obeyed he wondered what had become of him, his life, and the lives of those around him.
Confusion. Doubt. Fear. Like Twiste, Gant allowed his emotions and confusion to blind his usually ordered and controlled mind, despite what the outside world saw. And like Twiste, "God" was held at bay. His own weakness had become his only defense.
"That’s it, isn’t it?" Gant spoke out loud again, as if everyone listening had been following his train of thought. "You can get into an ordered, disciplined mind. A mind that does not question what it sees. People like the guards upstairs. People like Haas. People like—"
Gant stopped. His mouth worked for a moment before it formed his next thought.
"People like General Borman."
He pivoted on his leg a little too fast and a sharp pain shimmied up his body.
When it dulled to a throb, he shook his head and asked, "Who else can’t you control? Who else is so blinded by emotion and confusion that you cannot get into their head?"
Sgt. "Biggy" Franco leaned easily into the corner. He was in the "old" vestibule area — the one that seemed a carbon copy of the area the Archangel team had assembled in — how long ago? — a day? Twelve hours?
Time seemed irrelevant in that dungeon, and particularly so to Franco. Time did not matter. The blood that poured from this body did not matter. The dizzy spells that came and went, they did not matter either.
What did matter? Oh, now that was the rub. What did matter to Sgt. Franco was that there was only one way into the quarantine zone on sublevel five. And only one way out.
Biggy Franco waited in a perfect position to watch that exit. Indeed, he propped himself behind an overturned desk in clear view of that door.
You missed another tackle, Biggy! You let that nigger run you right over! He went right by you! One fucking tackle and we would've won the game. You lost it for us, Biggy. You are a goddamn loser.
"I'm sorry, Dad. He was too fast. Too slippery. But I'll get the next one. He won't get by me again. Not after what they did to me. Not after they left me to be … to be dinner. They're gonna pay the piper, Dad. I'll get 'em good."
Franco had an assault rifle with an infrared scope, a clear shot at the only exit in the whole godforsaken place, and as long as he did not bleed to death, he had the patience to wait.
Don't miss another one, you worthless fuck.
"I won't, Dad. Not this time."
30
Wells was the last of the three to fall to the floor from the drop ceiling. The sound of his boots hitting echoed down the dark hall. The three soldiers held still — nary a breath — waiting to see if that sound would be greeted by attack.
Nothing came from the pitch black ahead, and therefore Campion concluded that they were safe.
"Where are we?" Galati asked in a huff.
They had taken so many turns, crawled through so many air vents, walked through so many halls that seemed familiar that it felt as if they were in a holding pattern; as if Campion’s sixth sense for finding paths through the complex had purposely delayed their progress.
All the time, at every turn, they heard the distant shuffle of the denizens of that big hole in the ground — sometimes a growl or snarl, too. But each time Campion found an escape route before the creatures — Germans, spiders, clowns, or whatever — came into view or pounced.
"This is nucking futz," Wells played on words.
"Relax, soldier," the captain replied.
"I’m just saying," Wells grunted, but he left it at that.
Campion surveyed their surroundings. Just as he had expected, a maintenance shaft had led them to a ventilation duct that had provided them a safe, sheltered route from one end of sublevel 8 to the other.
Now they assembled in a secondary passage lined with storage facilities, sealed biohazard bins, and the access room for a long-dormant industrial incinerator that had once been used to dispose of toxic materials.
How Campion knew all this, how he even knew the maintenance shaft would lead to the ventilation duct and in turn to this secondary corridor, was as much a mystery to him as to the others. None of these shortcuts appeared on his computer map. Yet like a cool pool player who makes a lucky shot, Campion acted in complete control; the best leaders inspired confidence.
Nonetheless, a nagging feeling that he was wasting time troubled the captain. Part of him kept suggesting that the main Red Lab sat around the next corner, while another part — a stronger part — suggested it would be better to take their time, to wait to complete the mission.
Wait for what?
Captain Campion relaxed his grip on his submachine gun. The area appeared safe.
A great place for a rest.
"Let’s take a rest. We’re almost to the home stretch and I want everyone sharp for this last bit because it could get hairy."
Galati and Wells shared a glance. They had stopped for a number of breaks and rests.
Campion led them into a pitch-black storage room. He pulled a glow stick from his utility belt, cracked it, then shook the chemical mixture. In a few short seconds a bright green glow illuminated a circle of the dark room.
Dusty shelves, old boxes. Nothing of interest; nothing younger than very old.
Wells gently closed the door behind them and the three sat together.
Campion removed the V.A.A.D. from the duffel bag with both hands, then rested it in front of him as if it were a sculpture worthy of admiration.
The others eyed him suspiciously. Galati and Wells knew that Campion had neither an instruction booklet nor the training to make it do what it was supposed to do.
"What are those holes there, on that thing?" Galati pointed to small circles on the sides.
"Those are the plugs for the batteries. Dr. Twiste has the batteries."
"Some assembly required, huh?" Wells said in a flippant tone.
Campion took one solitary finger and slid it lovingly along the side of the device. It ran over the battery plugs then pushed against a small compartment. That compartment swung open on a swivel, revealing a row of small buttons and a dormant light.
"Power grid activation," Campion said, but there were no words to read.
He paused, tilted his head in a manner similar to a dog tilting its head in reaction to a high-pitched noise. Then he ran his finger over the inside of the compartment.
"The batteries plug in here … then they’re activated one at a time by these switches. The device charges … when it’s at full charge the light glows green."