The Descent

'To summarize,' Sandwell said, 'a situation has developed in our WestPac  sector,  at  a border  station  numbered  1492.  These  are  commanding  officers  of  sub-Pacific  bases, and they  are gathered  here to receive  our latest  intelligence and to take  my  orders.' January  knew  that  was  for  her  benefit.  The  general  was  declaring  that  he  had determined  a  course  of  action.  January  was  not  annoyed.  She  could  always  influence the outcome,  if  need  be.  The  fact  that  she  and  Thomas  were  even  in  this  room  was  a testament  to her powers.

'When  one  of  our  patrols  was  first  reported  missing,  we  assumed  they  had  come under attack.  We sent  a  rapid  response  unit  to  locate  and  assist  the  patrol.  The  rapid

response unit went missing, too. And then the lost patrol's final dispatch reached us.' Regret  pulled at January. Ali was out there,  beyond the lost patrol.  Concentrate,  she commanded herself, and focused on the general.

'It's  called  a  message  in  a  bottle,'  Sandwell  explained.  'One  patrol  member,  usually the  radioman,  carries  a  thermopylae  box.  It  continuously  gathers  and  digitizes  video images.  In  case  of  an  emergency,  it  can  be  triggered  to  transmit  automatically.  The information is thrown into geological space.

'The   problem   is,  different   subterranean   phenomena   retard   our   frequencies   at different rates.  In this case,  the  transmission  bounced  off  the  upper  mantle  and  came back up through basalt that was folded. In short, the transmission was lost in stone for five   weeks.   Finally   we   intercepted   the   message   wave   at   our   base   above   the Mathematician Seamounts. The  transmission was  badly  degraded  with  tectonic  noise. It   took   us   another   two   weeks   to   enhance   with   computers.   As   a   consequence, fifty-seven  days  have  passed  since  the  initial  incident.  During  that  time  we  lost  three more rapid response units. Now  we  know  it  was  no  attack.  Our  enemy  is  internal.  He is one of us. Video, please.'

'Final  Dispatch  –  Green  Falcon'  a  title  read.  A  dateline  jumped  up,  lower  right. ClipGal/ML1492/07-03/2304:34.

Whispering,  January  translated  for  Thomas.  'Whatever  it  is,  we're  about  to  see something from the McNamara Line  station  1492  at  the  Clipperton/Galápagos  tunnel on July 3, starting at fifty-six  minutes before midnight.'

Heat signatures  pooled  out  from  the  blackness  on  screen.  Seven  souls.  They  looked disembodied.

'Here they  are,' said Sandwell. 'SEALs. Based out of  UDT  Three,  WestPac.  A  routine search-and-destroy.'

The  patrol's  heat  signatures  resolved  on  screen.  Hot-green  souls  metamorphosed into distinct human bodies. As they  approached the cameras, the SEALs' faces  took  on individual   personalities.   There   were   a   few   white   kids,   a   couple   of   blacks,   a Chinese-American.

'These  are  edited  clips  taken  from  the  lipstick  video  worn  by  the  radio  operator. They're  putting on their light gear. The  Line is very  close now.'

'The  Line'  was  shorthand  for  a  robot  perimeter  first  conceived  during  the  Vietnam War, an automatic Maginot Line  that  would  serve  as  a  countrywide  tripwire.  Here,  in remote  parts  of  the  underworld,  the  technology  seemed  to  be  holding  the  peace. There  had been next  to no trespassing for over  three  years.

The  screen flared  to  a  lighter  blue.  Triggered  by  motion  detectors,  the  first  band  of lights  –  or  the  last,  depending  on  which  direction  one  was  traveling,  inward  or  out  – automatically  flipped  on  from  recesses  in  the  tunnel  walls.  Even  wearing  their  dark goggles, the SEALs hunched and turned  their  faces  away.  Had  they  been  hadals,  they would have  fled. Or died. That  was the idea.

'I'll  fast-forward  through  the  next  two  hundred  yards,'  Sandwell  said.  'Our  point  of interest  lies at the mouth.'

As Sandwell fast-forwarded,  the platoon seemed  to speed through  ribs  of  light.  With each successive zone they  entered,  more lights snapped on, and  the  zone  behind  them went  dark.  It  was  like  zebra  stripes.  The  carefully  woven  combinations  of  light  and other  electromagnetic  wavelengths  were  blinding  and  generally  lethal  to  life-forms bred  in  darkness.  As  the  subplanet  was  being  pacified,  choke  points  like  this  one  had been   outfitted   with   arrays   of   lights   –   infrared,   ultraviolet,   and   other   photon transmitters  –  plus  sensor-guided  lasers,  to  'keep  the  genie  bottled.'  Evidence  of  the genie began to appear. Sandwell resumed  normal speed.