assurance, he still worried about the alarm. The loud rush of air being sucked up the vent stopped suddenly. The only sound was his heart pounding in his ears. An inch at a time, he worked the cumbersome fan free from the aluminum duct. The razor-sharp edges of the filter’s metal casing were a continuous threat to the integrity of his suit, but he handled them well.
Finally, he took in a single deep breath and pulled until the heavy filter came free of the duct. He let it fall to the floor of the Kitchen with a loud, satisfying crash.
Buoyed by a second wind, he removed the remaining components—blowers and bags—with a great deal less effort. Now, it was time to get Rappaport out of the picture. In a short while, a powerful animosity had developed between the two of them. Rappaport was convinced of Griff’s guilt and lack of patriotism, and Griff was uncomfortable around the man’s arrogance and self-assuredness. In addition, more and more, thoughts were taking shape regarding the fact that until it became clear why Genesis was undertaking their reign of terror, Paul Rappaport seemed to be at the forefront of those who would benefit from it.
Griff’s joints ached from his having stayed so long in such an awkward position. He crossed to the wall- mounted control panel for the Kitchen’s Environment Status System—its ESS. His goal was to make the place seem even more potentially lethal than it already was.
Of the three buttons on the panel’s front face, the green one was lit, and the yellow and red ones were not. Griff keyed the input code required to change environment status, and with a push of a button the Kitchen went from a green safety level to yellow. The yellow status alerted topside communication of a potential exposure risk in the labs. Nothing too alarming, like the total evacuation and shutdown mandated by red, but nothing they would risk Rappaport being exposed to, either. It would certainly buy some time. How much, Griff had no way of knowing.
He went back to the ventilation shaft and used his Maglite flashlight to penetrate the darkness of the metal tunnel, scanning for sharp edges between duct joints that could slice open his suit before he cleared the hot zone. Fortunately, the engineers had injected sealant between the joints. The passage would be relatively smooth.
With thoughts of Angie and of what might lie ahead in Wichita, he set the flashlight down. He would need both hands free to work his way up the steep rise at the far end of the system. Detaching the air hose from his suit, he positioned himself facedown on the metal and snaked his way into the blackness.
Space in the duct was unpleasantly tight. Griff worked forward in a military crawl. The shaft was roughly the diameter of the opening in an MRI machine. His back scraped against the top of it every time he arched his hips. The darkness was now total, and the accompanying claustrophobia was becoming oppressive. His helmet and face mask made the situation even more difficult and unsettling.
Breathing through his nose, eyes closed, he wriggled ahead, feeling for any incline.
The tube seemed interminable, the air stale. Then, just as he was wondering if Melvin had given him misinformation about the course of the system, he sensed an incline beginning. At first the rise was subtle. Griff opened his eyes, but he was still engulfed in absolute darkness.
Suddenly, the incline became more severe. The shaft bent upward at an angle that was at least forty-five degrees. Instantly, the rhythm Griff had established disappeared. Movement ahead and upward became awkward, and required every bit of his strength. Without the air hose to help cool him, his suit trapped much of his body heat. He kept himself wedged in the shaft, moving through the blackness only a few inches at a time. Fatigue became a serious problem. The climb was far more difficult than he had anticipated. He fought off the increasingly desperate urge to try crawling backward to the opening.
Visions of giving up—of just stopping and dying there—began to dominate his thoughts. He drove himself ahead by remembering the guards at Florence, beating on the soles of his feet and calling him a traitor and a terrorist. He allowed his mind to relive the electric total-body pain and the blood of his Ebola infection.
The rise in the shaft increased. Griff slid backward. Frantically, he pressed his palms against the metal, finally managing to regain his leverage. Again he shimmied ahead, his arms shaking from supporting what amounted to his full body weight. Still, he managed to inch higher. He guessed the angle of the shaft to be at least seventy degrees, now.
He was nearly upright now, wedged in place, but able to use his knees for support and thrust. As Melvin had warned, this part of the ascent
Tears of pain mixed with the sweat and salted his lips. He kept his gaze fixed upward, searching for the end. Then, suddenly, his glove hit metal—the rung of the ladder! Above him, the utter darkness had given way to the gloom of dusk. He bent his head back as much as space would allow and saw the squares of the access grate, silhouetted against a darkening sky.
One rung, then another. Finally, his fingers closed on the heavy steel grate. As Melvin had warned, there was no way he would be able to shove it aside. Clutching the ladder to keep from falling back down the shaft, he cried out to the world overhead.
“Melvin! Forbush, are you there? Get me out of here! Melvin, for God’s sake, help me!”
Griff feared the suit was muffling his cries. He let go with one hand and slammed the base of his palm against the grate. Nothing. Then he heard a motor engage. An instant later, one edge of the heavy obstruction was lifted by a hook he hadn’t noticed, and the grate was dragged clear of the opening. Dizzy with exhaustion, Griff tried to lift himself out of the shaft. But the strength wasn’t there. A pair of hands reached down and grabbed Griff by his wrists.
Melvin!
Forbush lifted him clear of the shaft, disconnected his helmet, and pulled it off.
Gasping, Griff flopped over onto his back and squinted up at the fading light. His chest was heaving, desperately sucking in the wintry air. Forbush next unzipped the biocontainment suit. Underneath it, Griff was wearing only scrubs and booties. He felt a wave of frozen air envelop him, stinging his skin. His sweat instantly cooled, forming a chilling sheen that grew colder every second. Now out of his suit, Griff began shivering.
“You made it, buddy,” Forbush said. “You made it.”
“Yes, he did,” a deep voice said from behind his friend. “Good job, sport. Bloody good job.”
A huge man emerged from the far side of Melvin’s Taurus and slashed the gangly lab assistant across the back of the head with the barrel of a submachine gun. Forbush dropped like an anvil and lay on the frozen ground, rolling from side to side, moaning, and pawing at his head.
The behemoth leveled his gun at a spot between Griff’s eyes.
“Welcome to the world above, Dr. Rhodes,” he said. “You and I have some business to discuss.”
CHAPTER 52
Matt Fink pulled a tangle of rope from the open trunk of the Taurus and tossed it by Griff’s feet.
“Tie him up,” he ordered.
Melvin had made it unsteadily to his knees. Through the gloom, Griff could see blood cascading around one of his ears and down his neck.
“Shit,” Forbush said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I said tie him up!”
“How did you know we were here?” Griff asked, stalling, but also desperate to learn the answer.
Genesis had somehow been aware when Angie left the compound. Now, it appeared, they were once again a step ahead.
“I’ll ask the questions here,” the man said. “Now do as I say or I swear, I’ll shoot this jerk in the eye.”
