The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,16
the map and drop toward the floor. Mac spotted it fall. He crashed to one knee, balanced the box on his thigh, and caught the softball-sized sphere in one large hand.
He expelled a huge sigh of relief.
In the stunned silence that followed, a new noise erupted. The Geiger counter hanging from Nelson’s belt burst forth with rapid clicking, far more furious than before.
“Close it up!” Nelson shouted.
Mac shoved the astrolabe into his parka’s pocket, and the two men regained a secure hold on the box. Nelson flipped the lid shut, but the Geiger’s clicking continued unabated. They all shared scared glances. Had the booby trap ignited something volatile in the heart of the device?
Mac nodded toward the cabin’s door and got them moving. “Let’s get this dumped outside before it blows up or something.”
Elena led the way, guiding with the flashlight. The beam lit the dark depths of the ship’s hold. Motion drew her eye to the roof. Large bronze hammers, hidden among the deck rafters, swung down on levered wooden beams. One after the other they slammed into the tall earthenware pots. The hammerheads punched holes in the sides. Cracks splintered outward from the impacts.
As she stood there, a black oily liquid flooded out of the giant pots, spilling across the curved bottom of the boat.
“Go, go, go!” Mac shouted.
Elena got moving again and rushed forward. As she crossed the ship’s hold, the flashlight illuminated phosphorescent green veins streaming through the black oil. There was an unnaturalness to that sheen. Definitely not whale oil.
This was confirmed when Nelson’s Geiger counter clicked even faster, matching the pounding of her heart.
“Christ, it’s glowing,” Mac said.
It took Elena another breath to understand. As the men passed with the radioactive box, the oil responded. The green veins shone with a sickly radiance, as if the emissions from the map were exciting an unstable component in the oil.
Elena slowed, but Nelson forced her from behind. “Keep moving!” he shouted. “Just get the hell out of here!”
“Wait,” she said. “Listen.”
Above the ticking of the Geiger counter, a strange sound echoed throughout the hold. She had heard it before. A quiet tapping. It seemed to rise from several of the pots now and sounded more like scratching—as if something was trying to claw its way out of those pots.
She stared back at the men. “What is—?”
A loud boom made her jump and swing around.
Across the hold, John fired his shotgun again.
Oh, no.
Mac set the box down. “You both stay here,” he warned and skirted low toward the crack in the hull.
Clutching the flashlight, Elena watched the toxic oil seep toward her. Despite the Geiger’s clicking, all she heard was that macabre scratching, like scabrous nails on a chalkboard. Goose bumps pebbled her arms. She did not know what they had triggered with that booby trap, but in her bones, she knew one certain truth.
We should not be here.
10:59 A.M.
Mac dropped flat next to John.
The Inuit elder loaded two more shells into the shotgun’s breech without looking down. His gaze remained fixed on the cascading flow of the neighboring meltwater channel. Multiple glows lit the icy depths, marking the presence of divers. Closer at hand, a dark body bled on the icy shore, outfitted in an insulated dry suit.
The bastards swam here.
Or at least, a forward assault party.
Mac heard the rev of an engine deeper down the channel, growing louder with every breath. Clearly others were coming, dashing any hope that John’s cousins had survived.
To either side of the channel, two of the underwater glows grew brighter. Black assault rifles rose low in the azure waters and strafed the side of the ancient ship. But the icy timbers held fast.
John blasted toward one of the snipers, but the shooter sank away, while the other focused his fire at the Inuit elder. Rounds peppered closer, ricocheting off the rocks. John rolled and aimed toward the source, but the second assailant was already sinking back into the depths. Elsewhere, another trio of lights brightened the water.
Mac knew the combatants could keep up this deadly game of underwater Whac-A-Mole until John ran out of shells. He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Leave it,” he warned. “Save your ammo until it can do the most good.”
John grunted in acknowledgment as he reloaded.
Mac settled next to him.
Let’s see how this plays out.
Clearly these were not simply thieves. This team was too organized, too well outfitted.
The grumble of an approaching motor filled the tunnel. A black Zodiac pontoon boat sped into