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  But what if it didn’t?

  Shit.

  A wave of claustrophobia-induced panic washed over him.

  Don’t think about it. Just keep going.

  He pressed on. Right forearm, left leg, frog kick. Left forearm, right leg, frog kick. His right elbow came down on a jagged rock, sending a stinger of pain along his arm and into his fingers. Cursing to himself, he pressed on. Under his belly, he began to sense the angle of the floor changing. Ten feet deeper in, the term floor became a misnomer, because the ground was no longer horizontal. It sloped twenty degrees down to his left. Every time he inched forward, gravity tugged his body into the V-shaped angle of the crevice, amplifying the sensation of being squeezed.

  That same claustrophobic panic welled up in him again, but stronger this time.

  What if this really was just a crack . . . a crack that had opened in the mountain because of all the bombings? Hadn’t they dropped a MOAB not far from here a few months back? What if the mountain was unstable? What if this crack pinched closed? His body would be pulverized. Pressed into a juicy pulp, like a bug squished underfoot.

  Like a bug. He let out a chuckle. I definitely should have sent Bug in here instead.

  A bead of sweat ran down his temple. The temperature had dropped noticeably since he’d entered the crevice, but he was sweating from exertion now. He hadn’t belly-crawled like this since boot camp. He paused for a second to catch his breath and noticed an amber glow, barely perceptible, etching a faint almond shape into the black ten yards ahead. He squeezed his eyes shut, counted to three, and opened them again. Yes, that was definitely light ahead. A fresh and much-needed surge of adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream.

  He resisted the urge to move.

  Lying perfectly still, he closed his eyes and listened. At first, nothing. Then the thud of his own pulse, regular and baritone, filled his ears. He tried to filter it out, but the absolute quiet of the tunnel made the task difficult. He waited patiently, listening for any other sound besides the beating of his heart.

  A minute passed.

  Nothing.

  He opened his eyes. Then, just as he started to crawl, he heard something. A whisper, barely audible. He cocked his head for a different listening angle. Was his mind playing tricks on him? Maybe he was hearing the echo of his own movement reflecting off the cave walls?

  Then, as he began to crawl a second time, he heard it again. Whispers.

  A chill chased up his spine. Definitely voices. He held his breath and strained to make out what was being said.

  Sounds like Pashto . . . Shit.

  Gripping his Kimber and gritting his teeth, Pitcher inched slowly and quietly toward the light. He stopped a foot from where the cramped tunnel widened into an antechamber and listened. A man was talking. Yes, definitely Pashto. Pitcher wasn’t fluent, but he’d picked up a good bit of the language during his multiple deployments over the years. He strained to hear, translating what he made out:

  “Tora Bora, Afghanistan . . . Yes . . . Zabiullah Momar Haliqani . . . Yes . . . November 2 . . .”

  Pitcher screwed up his face. Such a strange one-sided conversation. It was almost as if Haliqani were talking on the phone, but that was impossible. No signal could penetrate this deep into the mountain. And the information he was providing was so, well, generic.

  Pitcher had to know what was going on; he had to take a look.

  Carefully, he set his pistol on the tunnel floor and retrieved a telescoping inspection mirror from his left breast pocket. Using his teeth to grip the quarter-size mirror, he expanded the metal shaft from a compact four inches to fourteen. Exhaling slowly, he extended his arm until the mirror overhung the mouth of the chamber by a few inches. An errant glint off the mirror could get him killed, but the odds of being counterdetected were lower than with the alternative—sticking his head inside the cave and waving hello to Haliqani.

  A three-second initial sweep was all he needed. One, two, three.

  He pulled the mirror back.

  Okay, what the fuck was that?

  What he thought he’d just seen made absolutely no sense. He shook his head and extended the mirror over the edge again, this time letting it linger, but the reflection confirmed what he’d seen before: Zabiullah Momar Haliqani, standing alone in the middle of a perfectly spherical cavern, talking to himself, his back to the tunnel entrance. The tunnel entrance bisected the strange chamber approximately eight feet above the floor, effectively giving Pitcher a balcony-like vantage point. He watched, transfixed, as Haliqani carried on a one-sided conversation with nobody. Then the Taliban commander lifted his arms as if to embrace an invisible face in front of him and said something to the effect of, “I am your faithful servant, Allah. Do with me as you will.” A beat later, Haliqani began to convulse. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor.

  Curiosity got the better of Pitcher. He compressed the inspection mirror, stuffed it back into his breast pocket, and squirmed to the edge of the tunnel. Propping himself on his elbows, he looked down into the antechamber. Many things about what he saw did not compute. Caves were dark. Caves had asymmetrical walls, jagged outcroppings, and bold rock formations. This void had none of those things. This cavern was a perfect sphere. He estimated the internal diameter to be approximately twenty feet.

  He stared down at Haliqani, who lay on his back on the cavern floor, convulsing and foaming at the mouth.

  What the hell? Is he having a seizure?

  Pitcher scanned the space again, confirming one more time that Haliqani was completely alone. He contemplated shooting the terrorist, from right here, right now. It sure would uncomplicate matters. Take a picture, mission accomplished, no questions asked. But Haliqani’s body had fallen still, and something about shooting an unconscious man just didn’t sit well with Pitcher. It crossed the line between battle and execution. Not that Haliqani didn’t deserve to be executed, but still, it just felt dirty. Cowardly.

  He took a second to scan the geometry of the space again. Whether he shot Haliqani or not, how the hell was he going to get the man out of the cave? There were no other entrances or exits. He’d have to put the terrorist in restraints. Could a man crawl back out through this tortuous tunnel in PlastiCuffs? Maybe. Pitcher looked down. The vertical drop to the center of the floor was close to eight feet, but the wall was curved and smooth. He extended a hand and touched the inner surface of the cavern.

  His fingers slid over the stone like it was polished marble. No, not polished marble . . . more like handblown glass. He picked up a rock fragment, one of many that lay at the mouth of the tunnel, and rolled the grape-size chunk of rock between his thumb and index finger. Three sides of the pyramidal stone were scalloped and chipped like flint, but the fourth side looked to have once been molten. He imagined a sphere of lava, glowing and bubbling, then quenched and cracked to cold, black onyx. What natural phenomenon could form a cave such as this? He dropped the stone and watched it slide down the wall into the basin, where it came to rest against the top of Haliqani’s shoulder.

  The chill of unexpected epiphany washed over him.

  The cave was lit.

  Why could he see? His flashlight was off. Haliqani hadn’t been holding a light. So where was the light coming from? His gaze flicked to the ceiling, looking for a crack or vertical shaft to the surface. Nothing. He looked back into the spherical void, searching for the source of the light, but it was as if the chamber was backlit from behind the glazed stone walls.

  Fear tickled his subconscious. A primitive fear. A childlike fear. Danger. Run, Michael. There’s a monster lurking under the bed. Run now!

  Hello, a placid female voice whispered.

  Pitcher jerked and picked up his Kimber. He trained the muzzle down into the spherical cavern, but the only person there was Haliqani, still lying unconscious on his back.

  Hello? the voice said again.

  The hair stood on the back of his neck. “Show yourself,” he stammered, still searching for
his tormentor.

  I’m here.

  “Where?” he said.

  Down here. Come inside. I need help . . . please.

  “I must be losing my mind,” he mumbled.

  Please help me, she said again, this time with pain and urgency in her voice.

  Against his better judgment, Pitcher wiggled headfirst out of the tunnel and slid on his belly down the sloping wall into the void. The walls were so slick, he couldn’t steer or stop himself, and he ended up careening into Haliqani. He quickly scrambled to his knees and checked the terrorist’s vitals.

  Breath: rapid and shallow, but not labored.

  Pulse: quick and strong.

  Pitcher settled back onto his haunches; Haliqani was alive.

  Too bad, he thought.

  Hello, the voice whispered again, closer this time. Pitcher whirled on his knees, looking for the woman his ears told him was standing right behind him, but there was no one there. Slowly, he got to his feet. A ripple of movement to his left caught his attention. He pivoted and fired, immediately regretting the decision. The geometry of the chamber amplified the roar of the gunshot, and from the sharp pain in his ears that followed, he wondered if he’d ruptured his eardrums. Whatever it was he’d seen was gone, faded into oblivion. Like a mirage. A beat later, a flattened .45-caliber round dropped from the void above and landed at his feet. He knelt, picked up the deformed slug, and studied it.

  “That was no ricochet,” he mumbled. “I must have hit something.”

  Please do not discharge your weapon again.

  He dropped the slug and stumbled backward. The voice spoke to him with perfect clarity, despite the ringing in his ears. He scanned the air above him but saw nothing. He glanced down at Haliqani, but the terrorist still lay sprawled at his feet, eyes dancing the funky chicken behind closed lids. What the hell was going on? What was this place?

  Do not be afraid, said the voice. What is your name?

  He studied the domed ceiling for a loudspeaker, but the polished rock surface was perfectly bare. “My name is Staff Sergeant Michael Pitcher of the United States Army. Whoever or whatever you are, identify yourself,” he shouted.

  Staff Sergeant Michael Pitcher. Can you tell me the geographic coordinates of this location?

  “Fuck your questions. What did you do to this man?” he demanded, looking down at Haliqani.

  Zabiullah Momar Haliqani is unharmed.

  “Then why is he unconscious?”

  No reply came.

  “Show yourself,” he barked. “What do you want?”

  I want to know you, Michael.

  Gooseflesh stood up on his arms. He whipped around, but there was nothing behind him. No, wait . . . there was something.

  A presence in the light.

  A surge of warm, soothing energy washed over him. The breath of God. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. He heard his pistol clatter onto the glassy stone floor, but the sound seemed to come from somewhere far away. Defending himself was no longer a concern. There was no need for a weapon, in the company of such peace . . .

  This was not the first time he’d felt a supernatural presence. Though he was a preacher’s son from a devoutly religious Texas family, as a boy of nine, he’d done plenty of what nine-year-old boys do best—engaging in harmless mischief. He and his two best friends, Ricky and Jake, had tagged along with Ricky’s older brother on a day trip out to the family “ranch,” undeveloped acreage an hour’s drive outside of Austin. While the older boys practiced plinking cans with their .22s, Michael and his two best friends had gone wandering. They’d followed a dried-up creek bed as it snaked between cedar elms and live oaks. The creek bottom offered an infinite supply of round, smooth pebbles to launch with their Daisy slingshots at dumb birds and basking lizards.

  It had been a dreadfully hot, cloudless summer day, so they’d stuck to the shade of the creek bed. Emerging at the other end of a curving switchback, they discovered they were not the only ones with this idea when they came face-to-face with a three-hundred-pound wild boar. Wild boars were the most dangerous creatures in Texas—much deadlier than the fabled diamondback rattlesnake. A rattler might get one of them, but a mature, territorial male boar could chase them each down in turn and eviscerate them. There was no antivenom treatment for flesh carved to ribbons by five-inch, razor-sharp tusks.

  Immediately upon seeing the black, bristled monster, Michael had known something wasn’t right. It was panting and drooling, despite standing still. One of the hog’s eyes was white as milk, and the ear on that side hung in two limp, ragged halves. He was an old-timer, this razorback—a gladiator that had survived countless battles with other upstart males. The boar grunted, scratched at the earth with a hoof like a bull, and charged. That was when the archangel Michael, the great protector, came to his aid. A royal-blue aura encircled his vision, and a voice spoke in his head—a voice as calm, certain, and wise as his father’s voice during sermons.

  “Aim, Michael, and I will guide your hand. I will be the stone,” the archangel said.

  The pouch of his slingshot was already loaded with a gray pebble he’d been saving—round, smooth, and heavy—pinched between his thumb and index-finger knuckle. He drew the pouch back to his chin, stretching the yellow rubber tubing taut, and let the stone fly. It tore through the air like a miniature comet with a tail of royal-blue light as it sailed toward the demon beast. The stone struck the boar in its one good eye, and the creature jerked its head, bellowed, and halted its charge. Shaking its head, it spun in circles and thrashed its tusks wildly while sniffing the air.

  “Run,” the archangel said.

  He ran, his friends in tow, but he could not help stealing a fleeting backward glance. In that instant, he swore he saw a winged man, robed in purple, plunge a flaming sword into the eye of the beast . . . the same eye he’d struck with his stone. As an adult, he’d prayed for the archangel’s protection on multiple occasions, but the blue aura never returned. And with every enemy fighter he killed, he felt farther and farther from God. Was he now so lucky as to finally stand in the archangel’s grace once again?

  He opened his eyes.

  A million glowing points of light converged inches from his nose, an orb of living luminescence, coalescing in midair. Was this the archangel Michael returning, or was this something else? So beautiful and wondrous—this could only be the one true God.

  “Oh Lord, I am not worthy to stand in your presence. I have done things. Terrible, sinful things,” he heard himself confess.

  Show me your thoughts. Tell me your secrets.

  And he did.

  Surrender your burdens to me.

  And he did this too.

  Do you accept this baptism of light to wash your sins away and quench the fire in your soul?

  “Yes, Lord. I do.”

  Then you must surrender to me.

  His thoughts suddenly went to his wife, Josie. He remembered their love and their union and for an instant what he was about to do felt like a betrayal . . . but to surrender to God was no betrayal. He would bring God’s peace and love to her as well.

  I am love. I am communion. Say you surrender to me.

  He closed his eyes and—letting all his worries, regrets, and inhibitions fade away—he breathed, “I surrender.” Then, as he felt his body begin to convulse and his legs turn to jelly, somewhere very far away, he could just make out Corporal Wayne shouting his name.

  CHAPTER 4

  Silo 9

  Dannemora, New York

  Feeling very much like Lucy Pevensie, Josie stepped through the coat closet and into another world.

  “Watch your step,” Willie said, holding open the steel door leading into the missile-silo complex below. “It’s a short landing. I wouldn’t want you to fall down the stairs.”

  She squeezed past him and stopped, her gaze fixed on a descending concrete stairwell lit only by dim, intermittently spaced red lights.

  Looks like a stairway to hell . . . Wonderful.r />
  Just as she finished the thought, he flipped a switch on the wall behind her, and the lights brightened and changed to white.

  “I usually keep it low light to conserve power, but since this is my first official tour in over a decade, I suppose I can splurge and turn on the lights for you.”

  “So generous,” she said, flashing him a wry smile as he slipped past her back into the lead.

  She followed him down the long stairwell, which she estimated descended twelve feet. Each concrete step had a six-inch metal toe tread on the leading edge, etched with a diamond crosshatch for traction. Years of foot traffic had worn the cross-hatching smooth and slightly scalloped in the middle. The staircase stopped at another short landing, and then a second, similar set of stairs took them down what she guessed was another six feet or so into a tunnel. White paint—stained with rust in some places and flaking in most—coated the otherwise unadorned concrete walls and ceiling. At the bottom landing, the tunnel doglegged: a ninety-degree turn right, then a ninety-degree turn back left. A heavy, windowless steel door blocked the path forward. The door looked ancient, except for the very modern, very expensive-looking biometric scanner on the wall. Willie scanned his thumb, the lock clicked, and he opened the door. “Ladies first,” he said, gesturing to the little room on the other side.

  She hesitated. “What is that?” she asked, looking into a short, ominous passage blocked by another steel door a mere eight feet away.

  “This is the intruder-entrapment enclosure.”

  “Wait, what?” she said, still not stepping across the threshold. “That sounds evil.”