Diablo Mesa(78)

Antonetti’s reply was to mutter under his breath, bang a few pots, and tell Max, the skinny youth next to him—sous chef, saucier, and kitchen dogsbody all rolled into one—to hold off on the beurre noisette.

Banks went back out into the dining room. “Twenty!” he yelled at the diners, letting them know how soon they’d have to get the hell out. This bit of thoughtfulness was rewarded by groans, derisory hoots, and a variety of rude gestures.

He stepped back out into the evening. As he did so, Kuznetsov and one of the postdocs, Scott, wandered up. So did Mitty, Skip Kelly’s big dog. Apparently he was hungry, too.

“Chow’s going to be a little late, boys,” Banks informed them. “I told Tony to hold off a little while.”

“Why the hell did you do that?” asked Kuznetsov, aggrieved. On occasion, Antonetti had gone full prima donna and promptly served “second seating,” regardless of whether all his clientele was back in camp or not.

“Because I saw the jeeps below the mesa,” Banks said. “Maybe a quarter of an hour out.”

“They look a lot closer than that,” said Scott.

Banks turned back toward the distant landscape. Sure enough, the headlights were now closer—and up on the mesa. For whatever reason, Tappan was really putting a wiggle on. At this rate, the jeeps would be in camp in less than ten minutes.

The three stood in the reflected light of the dining car, watching. Something else about the vehicles seemed unusual in addition to their speed. Banks squinted to see beyond the flare of the headlights. The occupants appeared to be strangers—strangers in uniforms.

The short, dark Kuznetsov, also increasingly perplexed, said something in Russian.

And then, almost before he knew what had happened, the two jeeps roared around the last turn and into the complex, slowing abruptly, swerving and throwing up dust. They came to a stop on either side of Banks. Four headlights now framed the little group. Soldiers jumped out of each jeep. They were moving fast, all armed with submachine guns and a variety of tactical gear, including night-vision goggles that hung loosely around their necks.

Banks blinked at the jeeps. There was no mistake: these were the vehicles Tappan and the rest had taken out that morning. A prick of anxiety thrust itself into his confusion. He turned toward the dining car, but it was too late: he was surrounded by soldiers in camo with their weapons unshipped, pointed at the ground but ready for immediate use.

The soldier in charge—a major, apparently, oak leaves being the only recognizable element of his uniform—spoke rapidly to his men, issuing orders in a low tone. They saluted, then three of them ran off into the darkness of the camp, separating, while the other two trotted into the dining car.

The major looked at the three of them in turn. “On your way to dinner, sport?” he asked, his gaze settling on Banks. “Whatever’s cooking in there smells good.”

Nobody answered. Banks continued to struggle with confusion. The major spoke with an American accent. These troops had to be United States Army—nothing else made sense. But why were they here, heavily armed, driving jeeps belonging to Tappan’s excavation? Something told him to stay quiet and let the major do the talking.

The major glanced through the windows of the Airstream. “Looks like a full house. Why haven’t you joined them?”

“That’s the first shift, finishing dinner.” It was Scott, the postdoc, who spoke.

“Shut your cake hole,” Banks snapped at him.

Hearing this, the major snorted a laugh. Banks could hear the two soldiers inside, speaking loudly.

“Where’s Lucas and the rest?” Kuznetsov asked.

“He and the rest of your team uncovered something extremely dangerous.”

“What?” Scott asked immediately.

“Apparently, some kind of virus not native to Earth.”

This information loosened Banks’s tongue. “So where’s Tappan?”

“He and the others are at a military compound northwest of here. They’re not in great shape, I’m afraid. A large mobilization is underway.” The major nodded toward the dining hall. “Let’s head inside. What I have to tell you concerns everyone.”

They hustled in. Banks noticed that all six new arrivals had been moving with great rapidity. Terror is the best of guards.

…Now, why had that, of all lines, just come to him? And where had he heard it before?

Once they’d filed in, one of the two soldiers already inside turned toward the major. “They’re all accounted for except one man, down at the motor pool.”

“Roger.” Reaching for a radio attached to a shoulder strap, the major repeated this information. Then he nodded to the two soldiers. One ducked back toward the galley, while the other stayed at the front of the mess. Banks noticed his finger lay in the ready position directly above the trigger guard.

The major took a moment to sweep the room with his eyes. To Banks, he seemed oddly pleased—as if, from an operational standpoint, someone had already done his work for him.

The men and women at the table had pushed aside their coffee and desserts and were looking at the soldiers with a mixture of uncertainty and increasing apprehension. One of the machinists, a man named Wallensky, stood up. “Hey, Greg,” he said to Banks. “What’s up?”

“Something’s gone wrong.”