“Looks like we’re on time,” says Linehan.
“Just barely,” replies Lynx.
According to his calculations, pushback’s only a few minutes away. He starts leading Linehan along the latticed ceiling, toward the Montana’s hull. They climb up another level and find themselves in a crawlspace. Unearthly light shimmers from some opening up ahead.
“I don’t like the looks of this,” says Linehan.
“Set your visor for maximum shielding.”
The two men creep to the opening, peer out. The fleet beyond is visible—along with so much else.
“Oh my fucking God,” says Linehan.
“God’s dead,” says Lynx. “And that’s the fucking proof.”
The railcar’s accelerating once again, down tunnels whose incline has steepened noticeably. Lights flash past, playing upon the faces of the men within the car.
“What’d you say to that guy?” asks the driver.
“What needed to be said,” says the man.
“Which was?”
“We’re about to reach the end of maglev.”
Not an answer, just more instructions. It’s what the crew needs. They work the controls, seamlessly transitioning the train as maglev gives out and wheels extend. The train rolls on into the darkness of the tunnels beneath the Himalayas. Only about a fifth of the Eurasian rail fleet is capable of traveling on legacy track. That’s one of the reasons the man chose this train. As for the others—
“Are you hunting traitors?” asks the engineer.
The major laughs. “What would give you that idea?”
“You’re some kind of top-secret agent, right?”
“I am?”
“I saw the way that guy looked at you. You’re trying to move so that you’re invisible, and this is a black base and—”
“Will you shut up?” snarls the driver.
“What’s your problem—”
“Now he’s going to have to kill us—”
“He already knows we know more than we should!”
“Both of you relax,” says the man. “You’re loyal servants of Eurasia. That’s all that matters.”
The downward grade steepens even further. Now that they’ve gone beyond maglev, the engineer’s having to apply the brakes. The train sways from side to side, rattles slightly. Up ahead a pinprick of light is visible. The man seems to relax slightly.
“What the hell is that?” asks the driver.
The man just holds a finger to his lips. The light keeps on growing closer. The engineer crosses himself.
“You’re taking us to Hades,” whispers the engineer.
The man shrugs. The train rushes out into an impossibly mammoth cavern—rumbles out over a bridge that spans that cavern, moving in toward the gigantic object that’s the center of more than a thousand searchlights.
“Saints preserve us,” says the engineer—and hits the brakes. The train slides to a halt on one of the adjoining platforms. The driver glances back at the major—isn’t surprised to see what’s in his hand. He holds up his own hands with an expression of what might be resignation.
“You deserved to see it,” says the man.
And fires twice.
This is going to be bumpy,” says Spencer.
“I realize that,” says Sarmax.
They’ve done what they can. Each man has wedged himself into a corner of this particular part of the shaft, three levels down from the cockpit. Their armor’s magnetic clamps are on. But they don’t have the backup straps that the soldiers upstairs do. So they’re just going to have to see what happens next.
Which turns out to be a countdown.
“Three minutes,” says Spencer.
“Roger that,” says Sarmax.
Spencer nods—watches the ship’s zone as all systems sync with the countdown. All the exterior doors slide shut.
Except for one.
Jesus Christ,” says Haskell.
“Thought you might say that,” says Carson.
Fun and games beneath the Moon: He’s propped her up in one of the driver’s seats of the railcar—has strapped her suit in. Through the windows she can see a large cave. The railcar’s sitting on a trestle bridge in the middle of it. Tunnels in the floor lead farther downward.
“What the hell was the East doing?” she asks.
“Not was,” says Carson. “Is. I only killed the ones up here. The rest are down there digging.”
“For what?”
“A way in.”
She stares at him. “How the hell do they know about that?”
“Maybe you told them.”
“Just now? They’ve been set up here for a while.”
“But not for much longer. My charges are about to go off. We need to get the fuck out of here pronto.”
He hits the gas. She feels the vehicle lurch into life as its retrorockets fire. It starts reversing. She watches through the window as cave gives way to tunnel. The Operative works the controls, and the train does a smooth 180-degree turn—and then accelerates forward …
“We’re heading to Tsiolkovskiy,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“Is the East still holding out there?”
“Who knows?”
“Then why the hell are we going that way?”
“No one’s going to see us coming.”
The view is almost overwhelming. The Moon’s just backdrop to frenzied space warfare. Ships are strewn all around, firing at will. The L2 fleet is locked in combat with an unseen foe. The DE isn’t on the visible spectrum. It’s lighting up their screens all the same, a barrage of every type of energy weapon imaginable.
“Any idea how it’s going?” says Linehan.
“We’re destroying ’em,” replies Lynx.
Though the East is clearly putting up a fight. Parts of some of the larger ships look like plastic when it’s hit by a blowtorch. A lot of the smaller ships just aren’t there anymore. Clouds of missiles start emanating from a nearby dreadnaught—firing motors, they streak off into space.
“Probably aimed at incoming Eurasian ones,” says Lynx.
There’s a flash: an entire section of another dreadnaught suddenly gets pummeled by long-range laser. Debris and bodies pour from the ship’s interior. As quickly as it began, the flow stops.
“Sealed,” says Linehan. “They’ve cauterized what’s left.”
“Heads up,” says Lynx.
The hangar doors beside them are sliding open.
What the hell …?”
“What’s your problem?” asks Sarmax.
“Someone else just got aboard,” says Spencer.
“What difference does it make? We’ve got a few thousand assholes on this crate already.”
“Seems a little strange to be so last minute.”
Sarmax shrugs. He seems lost in his own thoughts. Spencer’s running zone on the last man aboard this ship—the last door having slid shut right as he got in. An exterior camera shows a train’s engine car reversing away along a bridge. The countdown moves under ninety seconds, and Spencer can’t find anything on the newcomer.
At all.
“This doesn’t add up,” says Spencer.
“So get some hard data,” says Sarmax.
A tremor ripples through the room they’re in. The platforms and catwalks nestled up against the largest spaceship ever built peel away in a single fluid motion.
“Here we go,” says Spencer.
They go supersonic in one easy burst, motoring down the tunnel toward Tsiolkovskiy. It’s going to take them all of twenty seconds—assuming the lines aren’t blocked. On the zone it looks good. But there’s a lot of interference around their destination …
“I’m going to need your help here,” says Carson.
“To enslave me?”
“To live through the next two minutes,” he says, firing a bracket of missiles ahead of them. She watches those missiles go hypersonic, streak into the distance. She knows he’s got a point—knows, too, that he’s got her right where he wants her: siphoning off the requisite processing power, filtering it through his own software. She tries to turn it around, but he knows what he’s doing. Especially with the help of the restraints the Eurasians placed upon her. The cage of his mind closes around hers. The missiles ahead of them start exploding. What’s left of the maglev rails starts to disintegrate as Carson detaches the car they’re in and fires its rockets. They roar toward Tsiolkovskiy’s cellars.