The Breach - Ghost Country - Deep Sky

look, but almost immediately wished he hadn’t. In both halves of the cube, the metal directly around the central cavity was discolored to a dirty blue. The grain of the steel itself had been warped there, pushed outward as if by some unimaginably powerful and patient force.
    His mind suddenly full of the frantic rattle of a Geiger counter in the red, Travis retreated from the room. He realized only once he reached the hall that he’d been holding his breath.
    He turned in the corridor—not toward the third room but back the way he’d come from. The bright crack in the fuselage wall was just twenty paces away. If he stared at it much longer, he’d find himself slipping through it.
    Then, angry at himself, he pivoted and made for the third doorway. This was going to be simple:
    He’d find the victim dead and cold.
    He’d wipe his prints from the M16.
    He’d leave the plane and put three mountains between it and himself, and then he’d brew his goddamned coffee like he’d set out to do.
    He was certain of all that until he walked through the third doorway, and then he was certain of nothing.
    The victim was dead and cold. But this was not going to be simple.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Travis had experienced the surreal before: moments as impossible to accept as they were to deny. What he found inside the third room took him back to one of those, the feeling channeling the past like an obscure scent not encountered in years. Sterile courtroom. Strobing fluorescent lights reflected on the narrow windows, all closed except one. Through the open window, the sound of a girl laughing, somewhere down the block in another reality far from this room and this judge and this sentence. He’d expected it, of course, and deserved much worse, but the gut punch of the moment had swayed him anyway: twenty-five years old, and he would be in his forties the next time he saw a night sky.
    Here was a moment as difficult to grasp.
    Here was the First Lady of the United States, dead with her eyes open, looking right through him, seated against the wall with a bloody notebook page in her hand.
    Ellen Garner. Beautiful even now. Her features, always pale and delicate, had hardly been altered by the loss of her blood, which had soaked into the carpet around her. A single bullet had punctured her abdomen.
    Beside her lay something that looked like an early-model car phone, a bulky handset connected by a black spiral cord to a suitcase. It could only be a satellite unit. Dried bloody fingerprints told the story: Mrs. Garner had crawled here from the tail just to get this thing, had taken it from its wall cabinet, found it damaged, and exposed its wires and boards in a wasted attempt to fix it.
    Travis set the M16 aside and went to her. He knelt and gently took the paper from her fingertips, which death had long since stiffened, and read:
    I hope that someone from Tangent finds this. If you are anyone else, do not contact local authorities. Go to a phone as quickly as you can, dial 112–289–0713. Ignore the consulting firm recording and enter 42551 at any time. A human will answer. Tell him/her that Box Kite is down at 67.4065 north, 151.5031 west. All dead except for two captives, taken by seven hostiles. Hostiles have almost certainly encamped within a few miles of this location—Tangent will know why, and will know what to do.
    Two blank lines followed, and then the text continued. Here the writing was faint, wandering up and down over the light blue lines, written by a much weaker hand.
    I know we are down somewhere remote. Have to assume now it is so remote, will not be found for days, and whoever finds this will be days from phone. Crash happened at 3:05 a.m. local time 26 June. If you find me more than two days after, if telephone is very far away, then ignore above message. Not enough time to call Tangent.
    Hostiles are torturing our two people for info within close range of this crash, they will not leave area until they have broken them. (Not a guess, there is a reason they can’t leave before then.) Do not know how long our people will withstand them before breaking. Days I think, but I don’t know.
    I am failing quickly—no way I can detail what is at stake. It affects you, whoever is reading this. It affects everyone. It’s bad. I understand that you won’t think you can do this, but I am asking you to kill these people.
    Arms locker at aft wall of upper cabin, combo 021602. M16 rifles inside, can do full auto. Kill everyone.