The Blood Gospel by James Rollins, Rebecca Cantrell Page B

courage she thought she’d lost, she forced a smile. “And let you have all the fun?”
    He gave her one more worried look before returning to his men.
    On either side, men tossed ropes over the edge. Blue blankets laid along the fissure’s lip cushioned the ropes and lessened friction between the rope lines and sharp, broken stone. They seemed to know what they were doing. She double-checked the ropes anyway.
    Sanderson stepped up behind her. He wasn’t going down, only helping the others gear up. He passed her something the length and width of a pen.
    “Sarge told me to give you an atropine dart,” he said. “Best to stick it in your sock.”
    “What does it do?”
    “If you’re exposed to the mystery gas, pop the cap and jab yourself in the thigh.”
    Fear fluttered in her chest at the idea of that. “I thought there was no active gas down there.”
    “It’s just a precaution, but be careful. Stuff’s strong. Don’t use it unless you know you’re exposed. Atropine jacks your heart rate through the roof. Strong enough to blow up your ticker if you’re not poisoned. Quick, too.”
    “Shouldn’t we be wearing biocontainment suits?”
    “Too bulky to rappel in. And the straps would tear the fabric. Don’t worry, at the first sign of symptoms—nausea, bleeding—just use the needle. You should live long enough for us to pull you out.”
    She scrutinized his freckled face to see if he was joking, trying to scare her.
    He squeezed her shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”
    She didn’t feel fine . Breathing a bit faster, she lifted her pant leg and wedged the dart deep into her sock.
    Lieutenant Perlman, along with two other soldiers—a young Israeli and an older American—walked up to the fissure. The American had bushy brown hair and carried a satchel over one shoulder. She read the name stenciled on his fatigues: McKay .
    On his bag were three prominent letters: EOD .
    He caught her looking. “Explosive Ordnance Disposal. I blow stuff up.”
    They must be planning on detonating any intact canisters they found down there. She should be more worried, but the shock of Heinrich’s death had left her too numb to panic.
    McKay held out a hand. She shook it. He was a large man, a few cheeseburgers away from having a gut, and a decade older than the others. She guessed he was in his early forties. He smiled broadly while shaking her hand.
    “Best-looking climbing partner I’ve had in ages.” He winked, and she tried to smile back.
    He moved to the edge of the fissure as if stepping up to a curb. She stepped next to him and looked down. Shadows obscured the bottom. The fissure was broad enough to rappel down without worry, but she still shivered. The jagged, ugly thing didn’t belong on this mountain.
    McKay and Cooper secured their rappelling gear to a pair of ropes.
    She stepped to a free line and did the same, pulling it tight twice to check.
    Another of Jordan’s team—a woman named Tyson—knelt beside the crevasse. She had fed a long hose down into the hole. Next to her camouflaged knee rested a gas chromatograph.
    “What’s the reading, Tyson?” Jordan called.
    “Spikes of nitrogen, oxygen, argon.” She kept her eyes on her screen. “A trace of everything you’d expect. No bad gases, Sarge.”
    “Keep monitoring, Corporal.” Jordan faced them. “And everyone keep your atropine at the ready.”
    “What’re we waiting for, Sergeant?” Cooper hung over the abyss. His line looked too thin to support his bulk, but his eyes danced with adrenaline. A born climber.
    Jordan circled his arm in the air. “Rangers lead the way!”
    With a whoop from Cooper and a tired sigh from McKay, the pair walked backward down the cliff face, as easily as if they were on horizontal ground.
    The Israelis clipped on next and dropped over the edge.
    Tyson fiddled with her monitoring equipment. She wasn’t harnessed up, so she must be staying up here, too.
    That left Erin and Jordan. He came forward with a large