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Ryan said.
"Me and mine, we'd have already used that mat-trans unit and gotten the hell
out of here.
That cross your mind any while you been thinking?"
"Some."
"What's it going to be?"
Conte gestured to one of his men, then took up the backpack he was given.
"You've got your explosives, Cawdor." He threw the backpack.
The canvas bag made it most of the way down the tunnel, then hit the floor and
started skidding.
Ryan stuck out a foot and stopped it. His guts knotted up as he squatted and
caught it up, his hands diving inside. It wouldn't have been hard to just blow
the bastard thing up once it got near him, and maybe it was something he would
have done himself.
Inside, though, the plas ex was unwired. A single detonator was in the side
pocket.
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"You can't give the bastard that stuff," one of Conte's men said.
"Shut up, Whittaker," Conte ordered. "There's no reason for that man to be out
there unless what he says is true."
"No fucking plague is going to kill us. Not after what Calypso did to us. It
might kill everybody else, but not us. We could start the world over. The
major would take that tack. If there is a disease, it would wipe out any
opposition we'd face."
Ryan didn't wait to hear any more. Whatever internal problems the White Sands
team was having were theirs. He raised his voice, ducking back into the
protected area. "One other thing I'd like to ask, Conte."
"What's that?"
"I need to get by this bastard thing." Ryan settled the backpack over his
shoulder, clutching the detonator in his fist.
"You said bullets don't hurt it."
"No, but I noticed earlier you people have got grenade launchers on those
rifles of yours.
Figure if you hit it with a round of white heat, it might at least be
distracted."
"You're standing damn close to the impact area, Cawdor."
"That's my problem." Ryan readied himself, watching the curling and snapping
tendrils.
"And there isn't much choice."
"I've got phosphorus rounds."
"Tell me when you're ready." Ryan inhaled deeply, pulling as much oxygen into
his system as he could, preparing for the increased demands he was going to
put on his body.
The plant-thing was lunging at him, and thorn-tipped tendrils whipped through
the air.
"Ready," Conte called.
"Do it," Ryan told him. He heard the basso whump of the M-203, then the 40 mm
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nds%2035%20-%20Bitter%20Fruit.html warhead detonated against the plant-thing.
White fire wrapped around it, casting off enough heat that it came close to
baking Ryan with it.
The plant-thing shrilled in hurt and terror, collapsing in on itself and
curling into the water.
Ryan knew it wasn't going to be enough to kill the mass, but the white heat
would hopefully leave it disoriented long enough for him to get by. He pushed
himself out of concealment, running for all he was worth, the Steyr and the
backpack thumping against his back and sides.
His senses, honed in the Deathlands, warned him of the approaching carnage
from behind. He leaped, throwing himself into a dive, arching his body to take
him under the brackish, nutrient-laden water.
No sooner did the liquid close over him than a second explosion hit the
surface just to his left. If he hadn't veered his course, it would have caught
him dead center.
The phosphorus round sent an angry cloud of heat and light coiling through the
liquid, hot enough to scald Ryan and bright enough to blind him had he kept
his eye open. He swam deep, clawing his way along the stainless-steel floor,
letting his memory be his guide.
He found the corner marking the entrance into the cryo chambers. He shrugged
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off the backpack, gathering the straps in his hand. He didn't know if Conte
had betrayed him at the end, or if it had been a subordinate breaking command.
It didn't matter.
He glanced back at the LED readout, visible through the entrance to the
chamber 0:11.
The plant-thing recovered, coming out of the boiling and steaming water. The
screams sounded alien, threatening to burst Ryan's eardrums.
The detonator was in his hand as he shoved the backpack at the edge of the
liquid-
nitrogen tanks. The LED read 0:08. He tried to set the detonator for three
seconds, ended up with five, and knew there wasn't a chance of resetting it.
He keyed it to live.
By the time he got into motion again, the plant-thing was almost on top of
him. The tendrils whipsawed around his head. One of the razor-barbed thorns
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