The Descent

Branch scanned the crowd. He knew many  of  them.  Few  came  with  less  than  a  PhD or an MD stapled to their names. Not one did not smell like the grave.  In  keeping  with Bosnia's  general  surreality,  they  had  dubbed  themselves  Wizards,  as  in  Oz.  The  UN War  Crimes  Tribunal  had  commissioned  forensics  digs  at  execution  sites  throughout Bosnia.  The  Wizards  were  their  diggers.  Day  in,  day  out,  their  job  was  to  make  the

dead speak.

Because the Serbs  had hosted most of the genocide  in  the  American-held  sector  and would  have  killed  these  professional  snoops,  Colonel  Frederickson  had  decided  to house   the   Wizards   on   base.   The   bodies   themselves   were   stored   at   a   former ball-bearing factory  on the outskirts of Kalejsia.

It  had proved  a stretch,  the First  Cav accommodating this science tribe. For the first month  or  so,  the   Wizards'  irreverence   and  antics  and   porno   flicks   had   been   a refreshing  departure.  But  over  the  year,  they'd  degenerated  into  a  tired   Animal House  schtick,  sort  of  like  M*A*S*H  of  the  dead.  They  ate  inedible  Meals  Ready  to Eat with great  relish and drank all the free  Diet Cokes.

In keeping with the weather,  when it  rained,  it  poured.  The  scientists'  numbers  had tripled  in  the  last  two  weeks.  Now  that  the  Bosnian  elections  were  over,  IFOR  was scaling  down  its  presence.  Troops  were  going  home,  bases  were  closing.  The  Wizards were  losing their shotguns. Without protection, they  knew they  could not stay.  A  large number of massacre sites were  going to go untouched.

Out  of  desperation,  Christie  Chambers,  MD,  had  issued  an  eleventh-hour  call  to arms over  the Web. From Israel  to Spain to Australia to Canyon de Chelly and Seattle, archaeologists  had  dropped  their  shovels,  lab  techs  had  taken  leave  without  pay, physicians had sacrificed tennis holidays, and professors had donated grad students  so that  the  exhumation  might  go  on.  Their  hastily  issued  ID  badges  read  like  a  Who's Who  of  the  necro  sciences.  All  in  all,  Branch  had  to  admit  they  weren't  such  bad company if you were  going to be stranded on an island like Molly.

'Contact,' Sergeant  Jefferson announced at one screen.

The  entire  room  seemed  to  draw  a  breath.  The  throng  massed  behind  her  to  see what  KH-12,  the  polar-orbiting   Keyhole   satellite,   was   seeing.  Right  and  left,   six screens  showed  the  identical  image.  McDaniels  and  Ramada  and  three  other  pilots hogged a screen for themselves.  'Branch,' one said, and they  made room for him.

The  screen  was  gorgeous  with  lime-green  geography.  A  computer   overlaid   the satellite image and radar data with a ghostly map.

'Zulu Four,' Ramada helpfully pinpointed with his Bic. Right beneath his pen, it happened again.

The  satellite image flowered with a pink heat burst.

The   sergeant   tagged   the   image  and   keyed   a   different   remote   sensor   on   her computer, this one fed  from  a  Predator  drone  circling  at  five  thousand  feet.  The  view shifted  from  thermal  to  other  radiations.  Same   coordinates,   different   colors.  She methodically  worked  more  variations  on  the  theme.  Along  one  border  of  the  screen, images  stacked  in  a  neat  row.  These  were  PowerPoint  slides,  visual  situation  reports from  previous  nights.  Center-screen  was  real  time.  'SLR.  Now  UV,'  she  enunciated. She had a rich bass voice. She could have  been singing gospel. 'Spectro, here. Gamma.'

'Stop! See it?'

A pool of bright light was spilling amorphously from Zulu Four.

'So what am I seeing  here,  please?'  one  of  the  Wizards  bawled  at  the  screen  next  to

Branch. 'What's the signature here?  Radiation, chemical, what?'

'Mostly  nitrogen,'  said  his  fat  companion.  'Same  as  last  night.  And  the  night  before that. The  oxygen  comes and goes. It's  a hydrocarbon soup down there.'

Branch listened.

Another  of  the  kids  whistled.  'Look  at  this  concentration.  Normal  atmosphere's what, eighty  percent  nitrogen?'

'Seventy-eight-point-two.'

'This has to be near ninety.'

'It  fluctuates.  Last  two  nights,  it  went  almost  ninety-six.  But  then  it  just  tapers  off. By sunrise, back to a trace  above  norm.'

Branch  noticed  he  wasn't  the  only  one  eavesdropping.  His  pilots  were  dropping  in,

too. Like him, their eyes  were  fixed on their own screens.

'I don't get it,' a boy with acne scars said.  'What  gives  this  kind  of  surge?  Where's  all the nitrogen coming from?'

Branch waited through their collective pause. Maybe  the Wizards had answers.

'I keep  telling you, guys.'

'Stop. Spare us, Barry.'

'You don't want to hear it. But I'm telling you...'

'Tell me,' said Branch. Three  pairs of eyeglasses  turned toward him.