Bruckner
He stood alongside the nuclear technician who most likely wished he was just about anywhere else on earth. Just slightly behind him were Tommy and one of the crewman as his constant guard. The other two underlings were still on their knees in the muck surrounding both sides of the bomb and the recently-excavated timer. Hawthorne had suggested they be in position to steady it—in case some unexpected movement jostled it.
Facing the device almost head-on stood Sinclair and the red-haired Entwhistle, who looked grimly anxious. Everyone had been silent as though attending a solemn ceremony, waiting for a response to their ultimatum.
When it came, Sinclair could not disguise his relief.
Everyone started moving again, in small jittery ways. Tension-reducing things like clenching and unclenching fists, shifting weight from one foot to the other.
Everyone but Erich. He remained rigid and alert.
“Do you believe them?” said Entwhistle.
“It doesn’t matter.” Sinclair holstered his weapon. “We’re leaving.”
“What?” said Hawthorne.
“Why not? We’re at a stalemate, here. We’ll tell them we’ll exchange these two for our escape, and we run to fight another day.”
“I think I see where you’re treading with this one,” said Entwhistle. “Let the bleedin’ Yanks deal with this mess. If they blow themselves to hell and back, it’s not our problem.”
Sinclair nodded. “But if they don’t, we’ll just steal the technology later.”
“After they do all the heavy lifting.” Entwhistle chuckled. “Righty-O. It’s not like we haven’t done it that way before.”
“We were seduced by the chance to take the easy road. The Guild rarely works that way.”
“It was worth the shot,” said one of the crewman. “Right?”
Sinclair shrugged. “When you realize we revealed more of our profile than normal…probably not. But it’s too late to worry about it now.”
Entwhistle smiled, straightened his mustache. “I like you’re thinking, mate.”
Sinclair wasn’t listening. He’d activated his mic and instructed the man on the submersible to inform the Americans of the change of plans.
As he spoke, Erich considered the situation with a cool head. For the first time in uncountable years, he found himself in what they called at the academy a “command situation”—a pivotal moment when a specific decision must be made.
As Sinclair spoke and everyone else listened, he felt himself pulling away and out of the scene. As if he were viewing it from a distance in some global, all-encompassing fashion. He felt like an interloper, eavesdropping on his own thoughts, a dispassionate Nietzschian observer.
And that was perhaps the strangest part of the entire metaphysical equation—Erich himself did not actually know until this same moment.
The knowledge of what must be done.
What he must do.
The notion and the intent had been circling his thoughts like predatory birds, or more appropriately, like carrion eaters, waiting to feast on the remains of his torment. But up until this moment he had forced himself to look away. To pretend it wasn’t there. The solution that had been as obvious as it was solitary from the very beginning.
How could the others not feel the terror of this place? Locked in the ice like something out of distant myth, it had waited patiently for them, but Erich realized he was the only one who truly comprehended its unspoken message of doom.
He knew he would never return to this place. But more importantly…he would never leave it.