The Last Oracle (Sigma Force 5)

The man’s words droned on, but Savina had stopped listening. Tears welled up in her eyes. She tilted her head back to keep them from spilling. As the man finished, Savina thanked him for the call and hung up.

She turned her back slightly from the technician and engineer.

Nicolas was dead.

Her only son.

Maybe a part of her had known this already. For the past hour, she had been unable to shake a pall of despair. Her breathing had grown heavier. Nicolas…

“General-Major?” the engineer asked softly.

His gentleness only angered her. She turned her attention to the screen. The American still hadn’t moved. As if her grief were oil, her frustration set flame to it. A fury built inside her. The American had been thwarting her all day, and now defied her.

No longer.

Tears dried in the heat of her vehemence.

Her son might be dead, but she had given birth to another child, to the dream that would rise out of the ashes here. Family blood was not the only way to leave behind a legacy. She would finish what had killed her son. She would find another figurehead to take his place. It might take longer, but it would be done. The world had stolen her son. But she had the power to strike back.

A fierceness entered her voice that made the engineer take a step back. “Enough!” She pointed to the two screens on the left. They depicted the heart of Operation Saturn. One displayed a view up the shaft toward the planted charges; the other centered on the iris set in the floor. “Initiate Saturn! On my mark!”

The engineer and technician swung to their stations. They tapped furiously.

Savina stared at the man on the screen. If he wouldn’t bring Pyotr to her, she would light a fire under the man. There would be no retreating, no escape.

“Green across the board,” the engineer said tersely. “Awaiting your mark.”

“Go!”

She took a deep breath and watched the two screens. One monitor flashed with light. She heard a distant muffled explosion. Rocks tumbled past the camera, followed by a surge of mud, smothering the view. On the other screen, the iris rolled open as a sluice of rock and mud washed down atop it with a heavy wallop. Moments later, black water flowed from above, gushing in a solid column. The engineers’ calculations proved perfect. The arc of the water sluiced straight down the open maw of the iris.

It had begun.

The world had killed her son. But her brainchild would live. Though she had initiated the operation with a fury that was equal parts hope and retribution, she could not deny a dark vein in her steel. As the water flowed, she knew she would have her revenge on the world for what it had stolen from her today.

She turned her attention to the American.

Once whetted, her vengeance sought a new target.

She was not done.

Monk picked himself off the ground. The explosion still rang in his head. Trapped in the enclosed space, the concussive force had slammed against his ears like the clap of giant hands. He had covered Pyotr with his own body.

As his head continued to ring, he helped the boy to his feet. Distantly a heavy roaring echoed from the dark tunnel behind him, sounding like the growl of some great dragon. But Monk knew what he was hearing.

The rush of water.

Tons of water.

He also knew what it all meant—the explosion, the subterranean waterfall—it meant he had failed. Operation Saturn was under way, dumping a toxic slurry into the heart of the world.

The loudspeaker squawked again by the blast doors.

“Drop your weapons!” the woman said with a mix of ice and fire, cold determination laced with anger. “Bring the boy to the door. And I suggest you move quickly. The radiation levels are rising rapidly. You have less than five minutes before you absorb a lethal dosage.”

Monk had no choice. He shrugged off the rifles and let them clatter to the tracks. Pyotr reached over and grabbed the sleeve of his stumped arm.

Together they hurried the last couple hundred yards, racing as radiation rose in the tunnel. Ahead, the blast doors slowly parted, revealing a line of five soldiers with rifles leveled.

Their welcoming committee.

Pyotr urged him faster, as if the boy knew something Monk did not.

Monk’s wounded leg lanced an agonizing spike with every step. His chest tightened. His breathing wheezed. He stared down toward his waist. He still wore his dosimeter badge. It flapped with each step. Monk could see the surface. It showed crimson, but with each passing yard, it grew a shade darker.

Despite his leg, he sped faster.

Monk and Pyotr sprinted for the doors.

As they neared the exit, a massive blast shattered like thunder, coming from out in the cavern of Chelyabinsk 88. Monk’s steps stuttered in surprise, but Pyotr tugged him onward.

The guards, equally startled, twisted around. One dropped flat in fear.

Pyotr aimed for the gap. Hitting the line, the boy leaped over the soldier’s prone form. His other hand darted and snatched a sidearm from the holster of a neighboring soldier. The boy swung and slapped the weapon into Monk’s one hand.

There was no fumbling. It had hit his palm perfectly. Monk swung out his arm. From point-blank range, he fired into the line, using a reflexive skill buried deeper than his erased memory.

He emptied the entire clip, dropping all five men.

Monk tossed the pistol aside. Pyotr dashed forward and grabbed another. He passed it to Monk, snatched his sleeve again, and they were off.

All around the cavern, more explosions rocked. Men screamed and smoke poured from several of the abandoned apartment buildings. As he ran, he spotted the screaming passage of a rocket-propelled mortar or grenade. It slammed into another of the buildings. Concrete and glass exploded outward, showering the soldiers below.

The base was under attack.

But by whom?

Gray raced the truck down the concrete ramp and through the massive doors. On the plane ride here, he had read about these complexes, these cities underground. The Soviets used to bring in orchestras and bands to play for the workers, filling subterranean amphitheaters. Still, Gray was not ready for the sheer size of the place.

Nor the chaos.

Six trucks had led the initial assault.

To soften them up, Luca had said.

Gray couldn’t argue. This was Luca’s army, not his.

He had one mission.

Gray shot through a wall of smoke. He saw rocket fire slamming into the five-story apartment buildings, collapsing entire sections. Luca was in the bed of the truck, braced with a rocket on his shoulder. Two trucks flanked to either side. Kowalski drove one, Rosauro the other.

After their trucks passed through the mouth of the tunnel, the Gypsies closed off the exit road behind them, blocking the way with a pair of logging trucks, heavy with timber. Two dozen men manned the barricade and kept anyone from leaving.