The Balkan Escape (Short Story): A Cassiopeia Vitt Adventure - By Steve Berry Page 0,3
and clothes were soaked and a chill began to work its way toward her skin.
“Good you find hole,” Varga said. “Save me trouble of dumping you here. Let it not be said that I not a fair man.” He tossed down his flashlight, which she caught. “At least you won’t be in dark. As long as batteries work.”
Then Varga disappeared, apparently walking off.
Only Sokolov’s face remained.
“Go left,” he whispered.
Then he, too, vanished.
The light from above receded and darkness overtook her.
She switched on the flashlight and walked to the right, specifically ignoring Sokolov’s instruction.
The walls were bone-dry, and the path ahead angled. Turning the corner, she spotted something on the floor, a red glow rhythmically pulsating, like a tiny searchlight. As she stepped close, her light revealed a digital timer attached to a thick bundle of pink material.
Numbers were clicking down.
Recognition was instant.
A bomb.
The timer at 15 seconds.
14. 13. 12.
She raced in the opposite direction, leaping forward just as the plastique exploded.
The impact shook the mountain and sent rock crumbling in an avalanche that quickly consumed the tunnel behind her. As the ceiling collapsed she scrambled to her feet and bolted away, the opening Varga and Sokolov had filled a few moments ago gone.
She dashed to another corner.
The tunnel walls behind her were imploding, rock pounding rock, dust rising in a dense storm, the air rapidly being replaced by a suffocating pall. She stared ahead and saw the tunnel end ten meters away. Even worse, another red glow pulsated at the base of a stone barricade. She ran forward and the light revealed another digital timer attached to another bundle of explosive, this clock at thirty seconds.
Go left?
Sokolov’s idea of help?
The first explosion had annihilated the tunnel behind her, blocking any escape in that direction, and a bomb lay at her feet, less than twenty seconds from exploding.
She trotted back to the corner and shone the light. The first tunnel was cannibalizing itself. A loud crack split the air as a chunk the size of a Mercedes slammed down and disintegrated into boulders.
She shielded her eyes, then peered through a veil of dust.
Her mind was keeping count. Probably less than ten seconds. She whipped the beam to the left, then right, and spotted a smile forming in the remaining wall that was quickly expanding into a yawn.
She made a decision and leaped.
Another blast pulsated the mountain.
Behind her, the entire tunnel vanished but the crush of rock onto rock became muffled by a barrier of rubble, sealing off the hole that had existed only moments before.
Rumbles continued for another minute, then faded.
She lay on her stomach and held her breath.
Absolute darkness devoured her.
She exhaled and tried the flashlight.
The bulb still worked.
She examined her prison. The chamber was not tall enough to allow her to stand, maybe a meter and a half, the ceiling and floor slanted upward. To her dismay she was trapped inside a long, narrow box sealed at both ends. Her wet clothes were caked in dust, as were her face and hair.
She cleansed her lips with a spew of breath.
The air was breathable, but motes of dust hung thick like a blizzard.
She worked the flashlight around the confines and forced any negativity from her mind. The suspended dust bounced the photons back at her like tiny stars. She swiped a clear spot of air where she could breathe.
And noticed something.
She stretched out her hand and gently probed the beam.
No, it wasn’t her imagination.
The particles were moving—slowly, nearly imperceptibly, but definitely shifting to the right.
She belly-crawled forward.
The floor sloped toward the ceiling. At the end of the chamber the floor gave way and, a few centimeters down into the blackness, she spotted a slit, a good meter long and a third that high. Rock filled the space, but not tightly. She hinged her torso down and peered through the opening. Dark beyond, but it looked like a crawl space, large enough for her to fit into.
More movement in the air encouraged her.
She tried to dislodge the rubble. The stones were stacked loosely, but held firm. She swung around so her legs stretched forward and slammed the soles of her boots into the stones.
Three whacks and the rock gave away.
She cleared a path and saw that the space was negotiable. What encouraged her even more was that the air had freshened. She was proud of herself for staying calm. Tight places, though, had never been her weakness. Heights, especially from airplanes and helicopters, bothered her. She had a rule. If she