He tore past the deserted offices, cubicles, and equipment bays of Green. Most of the evacuation seemed to be wrapping up; the labyrinth of hallways was almost completely deserted. It was a matter of two minutes to get through the wing to the barrier at the far end. Ducking through the strips of plastic sheeting, he ran across the covered pontoon bridge to Yellow. The air was worse here, the heat growing increasingly intense. Another moment and he was through the far barrier and at the Staging Area.
He stopped. The vast space looked as if it had been struck by a tornado. Racks of instrumentation had been overturned, spewing high-tech equipment across the concrete. The leads and power cables that snaked across the floor were blackened and charred, several spitting and arcing sparks. The rows of monitoring equipment were all dark. And the Maw itself, the centerpiece of the room, was a smoking ruin, huge curls of metal peeled back upon themselves, the torn and blackened shreds of the top ring of the Umbilicus testament to the explosion that had doomed the final expedition into chamber three.
And there-before the Maw-was Jennifer Rush. Her hospital gown was torn, and her normally perfectly coiffed hair wild. In one hand, she held up a small red canister that, Logan realized, must contain nitroglycerin.
Ethan Rush was standing about five feet away from her. His hands were reaching out in supplication. “Jennifer,” he was saying. “Please. It’s Ethan.”
Jennifer Rush looked at him, red-rimmed eyes cloudy.
Logan came up behind him, but Rush gave him a signal to keep back. “Jennifer, it’s okay. Put down the container and come with me.”
She blinked. “Infidel,” she said.
As he stood there, Logan felt a chill course through him. He recognized the voice-it was the gravelly, dry, distant voice he’d heard in the two crossings he had witnessed. His impression of a malign presence-which he had first felt at the accident by the generator, and sensed all too frequently since-spiked sharply, and he felt his heart start to hammer in his chest.
“Honey,” Rush was saying, “just come with me. Please. Everything’s going to be all right.” He took another step forward, then stopped again as Jennifer raised the container threateningly.
“Thou hast passed the third gate,” she said in that same terrible voice. “Now thou shalt burn in unquenchable fire. And my tomb will be sealed anew- and for all time.” She retreated toward the Maw, hand outstretched, as if to drop the canister into its depths.
The radio in Logan’s hand squawked. He retreated toward the doorway, lifted the radio to his lips. “Logan here.”
“Logan!” came the thin, scratchy voice of Valentino. “Get back here. Get back here now! I’ve recalled all search and rescue teams. The fires have reached the central converter, the main storage tank is about to blow!”
Logan put down the radio. “Ethan,” he said in as calm a voice as he could manage. “Ethan, we have to go.”
“No!” the doctor said, not turning to look at him. “I’m not leaving her. I’m not going to let her die-not a second time!”
“Logan!” came Valentino’s urgent voice. “That tank won’t last another sixty seconds! The final boats are leaving-!”
Logan snapped off the radio. Now he turned toward Jennifer Rush.
“Your highness,” he said. “Come with us.”
She turned, red-rimmed eyes swiveling his way as if seeing him for the first time.
“You can leave this place now,” Logan said. “You’re free. You’ve won.”
For a moment, she swayed, as if from great weariness. A new expression came over her face-one of uncertainty and doubt. She blinked, staring at Logan.
“Jen,” Rush said, “he’s right. Let’s go. Step away from the pit.” And he walked to her, arms once again outstretched.
Suddenly, Jennifer swiveled back toward her husband. As she looked at him, her eyes glazed over once again-and a strange smile formed on her lips.
“The pit!” she cried in a great, ringing voice. “The black god of the deepest pit will seize him! And his limbs will be scattered to the uttermost corners of the earth! ” And then-with a sound that could either have been a bark of victory or a sob of despair, or perhaps a combination of both-she hurled the canister of nitroglycerin toward the concrete floor between her feet and those of her husband.
Instantly, Logan turned away but was knocked to his knees by the force of the explosion. He felt a spray of wet matter stripe its way up the small of his back.
“No,” he murmured.
Staggering to his feet, not looking back, he made his way as quickly as he could across the pontoon bridge and through the ruined corridors of Green, the smoke now so thick he could barely see.
The marina was, miraculously, as empty now as it had been jammed with people just ten minutes before. All the vessels were gone. A riot of papyri, scarabs, statuettes, evidence bags, gold figurines, coins, gems, printouts, broken crates, and countless other jetsam-much of it invaluable-lay scattered around the flooring, catwalks, and jetties.
Above the ever-increasing roar of the flames, he heard the honk of a nautical horn. A small tender had just left the dock, the last to depart the Station. Beyond it, Logan could make out a long line of other craft, some large, like the two airboats, others tiny, all stretched out across the Sudd, heading away as quickly as the foul swamp would permit.
The tender honked again, turned around, and approached the farthest jetty of the marina. On impulse, Logan reached down, scooped up a handful from the treasure strewn at his feet, pushed it into the pocket of the lab coat. Then he raced along the catwalk, tore down the jetty, and leaped from its end into the rear of the tender. The little craft banked around and resumed its course, following the caravan of retreating vessels.
“Thanks,” Logan said, gasping for breath.
“Better keep your head down,” the pilot said in return.
Logan ducked into what served as the vessel’s hold: a small space barely large enough for a few life jackets and a spare can of gasoline. And then-with a violence he thought would have been reserved for Armageddon, and Armageddon alone-the Station tore itself apart behind them with a roar that seemed to rend the universe and that turned the sky, and the surrounding earth, as black as night.
57
The motley procession of vessels steamed north in the fading light of afternoon. They had at last left the swampy hell of the Sudd behind and were headed for the upper cataracts of the Nile.
Whether the craft were going to attempt to pass the cataracts and head into Egypt proper, or whether they would land at some intermediate point and relocate the expedition to trucks or aircraft, Logan didn’t know-and he didn’t much care. After transferring from the tender to one of the large airboats, he had spent the journey staring moodily out of a porthole, watching the passing landscape but seeing nothing, wrapped in a coarse ship’s blanket. The overall mood of the ship seemed to match his own: shock, grief, uncertainty. People huddled in small groups, talking in low tones or comforting one another.
As the sun began to set, Logan stirred. He stood up, put the blanket aside, and walked out onto the deck. Not once during the journey had he looked back at the destruction and burning ruin they’d left behind; he did not look back now. Instead, he walked forward in search of coffee. He found some in a cramped galley near the bow. Within were Valentino and a few of his men, standing in a half circle around an espresso machine. Valentino nodded to him and wordlessly passed him a demitasse.
Cradling the cup, Logan walked sternward, then climbed the stairs to the vessel’s upper deck. Here he found Tina Romero, sitting on a deck chair, wrapped in her own blanket. She had managed to clean herself up, but in spots her hair was still sprinkled with flecks of dried mud.
He sat down beside her, passed her the espresso. She smiled wanly, took a sip.
