"James Rollins - Subterranean" - читать интересную книгу автора (Romeyn Henry)

Brian cut the engine. He glanced around. The cavern was empty, but a familiar scent lingered.
Marijuana. "Goddamn it!" he exclaimed. Yanking himself from the sled, he raised his voice. "Private
Wombley! Get your ass back here on the double!"

His words echoed off the walls. There was no answer from Peter. Searching the cavern with his lantern,
Brian turned up nothing. The two motorcycles they had used to travel here were still in place across the
cave. Where was that bastard?

He marched toward the cycles. His left boot slipped in a wet patch; he flailed for a handhold on the
wallтАФand missed. With a squawk, he slammed hard on his backside. His lantern skittered across the
cavern floor, finally coming to rest with the light pointed back toward him. Warm moisture seeped
through the seat of his khakis. He ground his teeth together and swore.

Back on his feet, Brian wiped the seat of his pants, grimacing. A certain private was going to find a foot
planted three feet up his butt. He went to tuck in his shirt when he noticed his dripping palms. He gasped
and jumped back as if he could escape from his own hands.

Warm blood coated the palms.


BOOK ONE

Teamwork
ONE
Chaco Canyon, New Mexico

DAMNED RATTLERS.

Ashley Carter knocked trail dirt from her boots before climbing into her rusted Chevy pickup. She threw
her dusty cowboy hat on the seat next to her and swiped a handkerchief across her brow. Leaning over
the gear shift, she popped the glove compartment and removed the snakebite kit.

With a knuckle, she tapped the radio. Static rasped from the handheld receiver. Humming, she peeled
back the wrapper from the syringe and drew the usual amount of venom antiserum. By now she could
gauge it by sight. She shook the bottle. Almost empty. It was time to run into Albuquerque for more.

After cleaning her skin with an alcohol swab, she jabbed the needle into her arm and winced as she
administered the amber fluid. Loosening her tourniquet a notch, she wiped iodine over the two punctures
in her forearm, then applied a bandage.
 Cinching her tourniquet a bit tighter, she glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes, and she'd loosen
the tourniquet again.

She picked up the radio handpiece and pressed the button on its side. "Randy, come in. Over." Static as
she released the button.

"Randy, please pick up. Over." Her neighbor, Randy, was still on disability from a back injury at the
mine. For the past ten weeks, he had earned a few extra bucks under the table by supplying day care for
her son Jason.