The Descent

They  did  not  know  the  history  of  man's  meanderings  underground,  the  lore  of  his tentative  exploration. They  hadn't entered  this Bosnian maw for  love  of  caving.  These were  normal  enough  men  in  normal  enough  times,  none  obsessed  with  climbing  the highest mountain or soloing an  ocean.  Not  one  saw  himself  as  a  Columbus  or  a  Balboa or  a  Magellan  or  a  Cook  or  a  Galileo,  discovering  new  lands,  new  pathways,  a  new planet. They  didn't mean to go where  they  went. And yet  they  opened this hadal door. After  two  days  in  the  strange  winding  corridor,  Branch's  platoon  reached  its  limit. They  grew  afraid.  For  where  the  tunnels  forked  for  the  hundredth  time  and  plunged still lower, they  came upon a footprint. And it was not exactly  human.  Someone  took  a Polaroid photo and then they di-di maued it back to the surface.

The  footprint  in  that  GI's  Polaroid  photo  entered  the  special  state   of  paranoia

usually  reserved  for  nuclear  accidents  and  other  military  slips.  It  was  designated  a Black   Op.   The   National   Security   Council   convened.   The   next   morning,   NATO commanders  met  near  Brussels.  In  top  secrecy,  the  armed  forces  of  ten  countries poised to explore the rest  of Branch's nightmare.

Branch  stood  before  the  council  of  generals.  'I  don't  know  what  they  were,'  he  said, once  more  describing  his  night  of  the  crash  in  Bosnia.  'But  they  were  feeding  on  the dead, and they  were  not like us.'

The  generals  passed  around  the  photo  of  that  animal  track.  It  showed  a  bare  foot, wide  and  flat,  with  the  big  toe  separate,  like  a  thumb.  'Are  those  horns  growing  on your head, Major?' one asked.

'The  doctors  call  them  osteophytes.'  Branch  fingered  his  skull.  He  could  have  been the bastard  child  of  an  accidental  mating  between  species.  'They  started  coming  back when we went down.'

There  was,  the  generals  finally  accepted,  more  to  this  than  just  a  coal  hole  in  the Balkans.  Suddenly,  Branch  found  himself  being  treated  not  like  damaged  goods,  but like  an  accidental  prophet.  He  was  magically  restored  to  his  command  and  given  free rein  to  go  wherever  his  senses  led  him.  His  eight  troops  became  eight  hundred.  Soon other armies joined in. The  eight hundred became eighty  thousand, then more. Beginning  with  the  coal  mines  at  Zulu  Four,  NATO  recon  patrols  went  deeper  and wider  and  began  to  piece  together  a  whole  network  of  tunnels  thousands  of  meters below  Europe.  Every  path  connected  another,  however  intricately.  Enter  Italy  and you  might  exit  in  Slovakia  or  Spain  or  Macedonia  or  southern  France.  But  there  was no  mistaking  a  more  central  direction  to  the  system.  The  caves  and  pathways  and sinkholes all led down.

Secrecy  remained tight. There  were  injuries, to be sure,  and  a  few  fatalities.  But  the casualties  were  all  caused  by  roofs  collapsing  or  ropes  breaking  or  soldiers  tripping into holes: occupational hazards and human error.  Every  learning curve  has its price. The  secret  held, even  after  a civilian cave  diver  by  the name  of  Harrigan  penetrated a limestone  sinkhole  called  Jacob's  Well  in  south  Texas,  which  supposedly  transected the Edwards Aquifer. He claimed to have  found  a  series  of  feeder  passages  at  a  depth of  minus  five  thousand  feet,  which  went  deeper  still.  Further,  he  swore  the  walls contained  paintings  by  Mayan  or  Aztec  hands.  A  mile  deep!  The  media  picked  it  up, checked  around,  and  promptly  cast  it  aside  as  either  a  hoax  or  narcosis.  A  day  after the   Texan   was   made   a   fool   in   public,   he   disappeared.   Locals   reckoned   the embarrassment   had   been   too   much   for   him.   In   fact,   Harrigan   had   just   been shanghaied  by  the  SEALs,  handed  a  juicy  consultant's  fee,  sworn  to  national  secrecy, and put to work unraveling sub-America.

The  hunt  was  on.  Once  the  psychological  barrier  of  'minus-five'  was  broken  –  that magical  five-thousand-foot  level   that   intimidated  cavers   the   way   eight   thousand meters  once  did  Himalayan  mountaineers  –  the  progress  plunged  quickly.  One  of Branch's  long-range  patrols  of  Army  Rangers  hit  minus-seven  within  a  week  after Harrigan went public. By month five, the  military  penetration  had  logged  a  harrowing minus-fifteen.  The  underworld  was   ubiquitous  and  surprisingly   accessible.   Every continent harbored systems.  Every  city.