… it would be on my head. This isn't an authorized mission, the responsibility stops with me. Can I truly ask them to do this? "Well, it pretty much sounds like a shit job," John said finally. "And if we wanna get there on time, we better head out soon." He smiled at David, an un– characteristically subdued one but a smile all the same. "You know me, I love a good fight. And somebody's gotta stop these assholes from spreading this stuff around, right?"

Steve and Karen were both nodding, their faces as set and determined as John's, and even knowing what they would encounter, Rebecca had made her deci– sion back in Raccoon. David felt a sudden rush of emotion for all of them, a strange, uncomfortable mix of pride and fear and warmth that he wasn't sure what to do with. After a few seconds of uncertain silence, he nodded briskly, glancing at his watch. It would take them a few hours to get to the launch site. "Right," he said. "We'd best get to storage and load up. We can go through the rest of it on our way."

As they stood to leave, David reminded himself that they were doing this because it was necessary, that each of them had made up their own mind to participate in the dangerous operation. They knew the risks. And he also knew that if anything went wrong, that knowledge would be cold comfort indeed. Karen sat in the back of the van and loaded clips, the words of the mysterious message repeating through her thoughts as she thumbed the nine– millimeter rounds into each magazine.

… Ammon's message received/blue series/enter answer for key/letters and numbers reverse/time rainbow/don't count/blue to access.

She finished another clip and set it aside with the others, absently wiping her oily fingers on the leg of her pants before picking up the next. A welcome breeze whispered through the muggy van, smelling of salt and summer-warmed sea. They'd pulled off the road south of the cove, finding a clear patch to set up not a quarter mile from the water's edge. Outside, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the dusty ground. The not-so-distant sound of soft waves against the shore was soothing, a white noise back-ground to the low voices of the others as they worked. Steve and David were propping the raft, while John checked out the motor. Rebecca was assembling a medical kit from the supplies they'd "borrowed" out of the S.T.A.R.S. equipment warehouse.

… the letters and numbers… a code? Does it relate to time? Does counting relate to the sum of the lines, or to something else?

Her mind worked the riddle relentlessly, gnawing at the words the way a dog worries a bone. What did it mean? Were the lines connected to a single concept, or did each represent a separate aspect of a bigger puzzle? Had Ammon sent the message, and if he worked for Umbrella, why?

She finished the last clip and reached for a water-proof carryall, refocusing herself to the task at hand. She knew that her thoughts would return to the strange little poem as soon as she'd completed her assigned detail. It was the way her mind worked; she just couldn't relax when presented with an ambiguity. There was always an answer, always, and finding it was just a matter of concentration, of taking the right steps in the right order. The semi-automatics were cleaned and ready, lay– ing in a neat line next to the checked radio gear on the floor of the van. They weren't taking any weapons besides the S.T.A.R.S.-issued Berettas, David insist– ing that they needed to travel light. Although Karen agreed, she was sorry they wouldn't be bringing in the assault rifles, which were equipped with night scopes. After hearing more of the details about the zombie– like creatures on their ride, she didn't know how comfortable she felt with just a handgun and a halogen flashlight.

Admit it. You're worried about this one, and have been since David broke the news. The facts are all out of order, the pieces don't fit the way they're supposed to.

It was ironic that the reasons compelling her to crack this mystery were the same ones that made her so uneasy: Trent, the S.T.A.R.S.'s apparent collusion with Umbrella, the possibility of a biohazardous incident in her home state. Who had been bribed? What had happened at Caliban Cove? What would they uncover? What did the poem mean? Not enough data. Not yet.

She'd always prided herself on her lack of imagina– tion, on her ability to find the truth based on empiri– cal evidence rather than wild, unsubstantiated intu-ition. It was the key to success in her field, and though she was aware that she sometimes came across as overly clinica – even cold – she accepted who she was, embracing the kind of peace that was found in knowing all of the facts. Whether it was examining blood spray patterns or measuring angles on an entry wound, there was a deep satisfaction for her in solving puzzles, in finding out not only why, but how. The unanswered questions about Caliban Cove were an affront to her careful thought processes. They went against her grain, smudging her very ordered sense of reality – and she knew that she wouldn't find relief until those questions were put to rest. She was finished with the weapons. She should check the utility belts again, make sure everything was locked down and ready, and then see if David had anything else for her to do… Karen hesitated, feeling a trickle of warm sweat slide down her back. No one was within sight of the open back door, and she'd already double-checked every flap and pocket on every belt. With a sudden rush of something like guilt, she reached into her vest pocket and pulled out her secret, comforted by the familiar weight of it in her hand.

God, if the guys knew, I'd never hear the end of it.

It had been given to her by her father, a remnant from his service in WWII and one of the few items she had to remember him by-an ancient anti-personnel shrapnel grenade, called a pineapple because of its crosshatched exterior. Carrying it was one of her few unpractical idiosyncrasies, one that made her feel a little silly. She'd worked hard to present herself as a thoroughly rational, intelligent woman, not prone to emotional sentimentality and in most respects, that was true. But the grenade was her rabbit's foot, and she never went on a mission without it. Besides, she had half convinced herself that it might come in handy one day…

Yeah, keep telling yourself that. The S.T.A.R.S. have digitized anti-personnel grenades with timers, even flash-bangs with computer chips. The pin on this relic probably couldn't be wrenched out with pliers… "Karen, do you need any help?"

Startled, Karen looked up and into Rebecca's ear– nest young features, the girl leaning into the back of the van. Her quick gaze fell to the grenade, her eyes lighting up with sudden curiosity.

"I thought we weren't taking any explosives… hey, is that a pineapple grenade? I've never actually seen one. Is it live?"

Karen quickly looked around, afraid that one of the team had overheard, then grinned sheepishly at the young biochemist, embarrassed by her own embar– rassment.

It's not like I got caught masturbating, for chrissake; she doesn 't know me, why the hell would she care if I'm superstitious? "Shh! They'll hear us. Come here a sec," she said, and Rebecca obediently crawled into the van, a con– spiratorial half-smile blooming on her face. In spite of herself, Karen was absurdly pleased by the young biochemist's discovery. In the seven years she'd been with the S.T.A.R.S., no one had ever found out. And she'd taken an instant liking to the girl.

"It is a pineapple, and we're not taking explosives in. You can't tell anyone, okay? I carry it for good luck." Rebecca raised her eyebrows. "You carry a live grenade around for luck?" Karen nodded, looking at her seriously. "Yes, and if John or Steve found out, they'd ride me ragged. I know it's dumb, but it's kind of a secret." "I don't think it's dumb. My friend Jill has a lucky hat…" Rebecca reached up and touched her head-band, a tied red bandana beneath mousy bangs.