Zahm whirled to face them, a 9mm semiautomatic clutched in his right hand. He looked at Fisher, then at Gillespie, and she could almost hear the ticking of his thoughts:
Fisher ordered Zahm to lose the gun.
Zahm set down his weapon. “Fisher,” he cried, as though to a long-lost friend.
Fisher shot Gillespie a look, then motioned her to the exhaust vents ahead to search for Ames. She rushed forward, past Zahm, and began her search, while behind her, the conversation continued:
“You just couldn’t sit still, could you?” Fisher asked. “Couldn’t have stayed in Portugal, enjoyed your villa and your mojitos and your boat.”
“Boring. Too damned boring.”
“Then you’re going to hate prison.”
“You can put me in, but you can’t keep me there.”
From somewhere in the space above, Ames yelled, “You’re both wrong!”
“He’s not in here,” Fisher called to her. “The echo’s wrong. He’s above us — ballistics, second level. He’s yelling down the exhaust shaft.”
Gillespie glanced up into the exhaust shaft, but she couldn’t see a thing. She switched on her flashlight, aimed it up, and still nothing but piping covered in a thick layer of carbon.
Fisher was suddenly on the radio to Hansen: “Move now, back to the ramp. All of you get topside as fast as you can.”
“What’s going on?” Gillespie asked.
“Do it. Blast your way through whoever’s up there, but don’t slow down.”
“Roger.”
Gillespie was about to question Fisher when Ames shouted again: “Okay, Chucky, here it comes… ”
Fisher screamed to her, “We’re leaving. Move!”
She was still confused but wouldn’t argue and began jogging back to him.
From the far end of the space came a crash. She turned back to see an Anvil case about the size of a footlocker bounce off the middle exhaust funnel and slam into the wall behind it.
Zahm craned his neck and stared at the case. “Son of a bitch! Ames!”
A second case dropped, this one so big that Ames must’ve used all his might to push it over the side. It was as large as a gun safe, Gillespie guessed. It struck the floor so hard that it broke open. Dozens of cylindrical objects spilled out and rolled across the concrete. And yet another case dropped. Then another, while Zahm continued shouting at the top of his lungs. He even screamed for Fisher to go up there and shoot the bastard.
Ames shouted, “Missed one. Here it comes!”
Gillespie stole a look over her shoulder at the exhaust vent, just as a white object about the size of a brick plummeted out of sight to the bottom of the tube.
“Aw, bloody hell,” cried Zahm.
Gillespie shouted to Fisher, “What?”
He had two words for her. “Semtex! Run!”
42
Gillespie’s legs were burning as she and Fisher retreated at full tilt toward the door at the far end of the zone. They were, Gillespie estimated, about sixty or seventy feet from the exit when the Semtex detonated.
A slightly muffled boom came first, followed by a single echo; then through that hollow ringing came several more explosions, grenades perhaps, and, finally, a deafening explosion that stole the air from her lungs and threatened to burst her eardrums.
Not two seconds later, the shock wave swept her into the air and sent her hurtling, end over end, like a Barbie doll flung by an angry four-year-old. The floor and ceiling spun, and there was utter disorientation until she thought she whacked against the door and suddenly dropped, as though someone had thrown the GRAVITY ON switch. She hit the floor, facedown. Felt her shoulder pop. Her arms and legs continued to burn.
She tried to look up, but a wave of nausea took hold, the room still spinning. Was that Fisher calling her name? Her shoulder throbbed now. She thought she could move her legs despite the fire.
What was that sound? Like Niagara Falls…
Finally, she glanced at the far end of the zone. The entire back wall was gone, and the concrete blast funnels now lay in mountains of rubble. In their place was a massive hole like the business end of a huge, fully opened fire hose. Car-sized pieces of rock were already being swept aside by the jetting water and unstoppable current.
Fisher crawled toward her, and, remarkably, her headset was still clipped tightly to her head. “What the hell was that?” called Hansen.
“Level four is blasted open,” Fisher answered. “The lake’s coming in.” He looked at her. “Can you walk?”
“The hell with that,” she said, glancing back at the oncoming water. “I can run!”
She rolled over, pulled herself painfully to her feet, felt some sharp pains in the shoulder, but otherwise she could indeed run. They sprinted together toward the ramp, around the railing, and started up the incline. She paused a second as the world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis.
The first wave of water surged through the intersection, sweeping so quickly down the corridor that she thought it’d be only a minute before the entire level was flooded. The hissing and crashing of water against doors and blasting into the various zones was entirely surreal. She got the chilling feeling they were aboard a sinking ship, and the ice-cold water did nothing to dispel that sensation.
A second wave crashed into their legs, shoving them back and into the side railing.
She looked over at Fisher.
He was gone.
“Sam!”
She looked back the ramp, now fully engulfed, the water like boiling oil in the flickering light.
And then a head appeared. Fisher was there, but his face was covered in blood. He must’ve bashed his nose, blood was streaming from his nostrils. She started back toward him, clutching the railing, but the current was beginning to carry him back and away. She reached out just as Valentina came up behind her, grabbed her arm.
“No, I’m okay,” Fisher cried. “Keep going!” Then his gaze turned to Valentina. “Take her!”
Gillespie tried to pull away, but Valentina was far stronger and dragged her back up the ramp.
Meanwhile, Noboru, who’d come down right after Valentina, positioned himself over the railing and was leaning over, trying to reach Fisher, while Hansen darted behind and grabbed onto his legs. Fisher shouted something about them taking off, but they kept trying to reach him. Finally, Noboru caught a hand, and they brought Fisher back onto the ramp.
“He’s okay,” said Valentina. “We’re going now!”
Gillespie nodded.
Hansen didn’t believe Fisher when he said he was okay, but there wasn’t time to discuss it. He and Noboru hurried back up the ramp. When he looked back, Fisher was limping, barely able to keep up.
“Your foot,” cried Hansen.
“Fell asleep.”
The water suddenly lapped over Fisher’s ankles. Hansen started back to him. “I can help you, Sam.”
“Get everybody topside. I’m right behind you.”
This was an argument Hansen would not win. He nodded and double-timed back up the ramp.
At the top, with the water rising rapidly, he turned back for Fisher, who was gone. Hansen cursed and tried to call him on the radio. Nothing.
