At 3:17 in the morning, the earth moved. Not the gentle, low-frequency tremor that Marcus had grown accustomed to as background geological noise in the geothermal cavity—this was a targeted, high-amplitude seismic pulse with the distinct mechanical signature of industrial explosive detonation.
Marcus was awake instantly, his hand already on Talon's shoulder as the raptor rose from its resting position with every feather erect and its echolocation pulse spiking to combat frequency.
BOOM. The second detonation was larger. Dust and fine basalt grit showered from the gallery ceiling.
The geothermal steam vents fluctuated wildly, pressure spiking then dropping as the shock wave propagated through the fault-line network. Reyes and Patel were both awake, on their feet, equipment clutched.
"That's shaped charge detonation," Patel said immediately, his voice controlled but tight. "Two kilograms minimum, surface-placed over a subsurface target. Someone above us is drilling."
Marcus was already on his radio. "Reyes—can you raise the university on the satellite relay?"
"Trying." She clicked through channels. Static. Then: "Satellite relay is being jammed. Local frequency suppression."
Deliberate jamming. Marcus felt the implications land cold and heavy. He had filed his initial expedition survey request with the university's standard geological permit office three weeks ago. The permit was public record—a necessary, transparent part of academic fieldwork protocol.
Which meant anyone monitoring geological permit filings in eastern Nevada—anyone with resources to track academic expeditions in resource-rich territories—had known exactly where Marcus Vance was drilling, and exactly what his thermal anomaly readings suggested. BOOM. BOOM.
The third and fourth detonations came close together, and this time the gallery shook hard enough to send a section of the connecting tunnel entrance crumbling inward. Talon moved to the tunnel entrance instantly, sniffing the falling dust, and turned back to Marcus with an expression the paleontologist had already learned to read: not that way.
"The shaft," Marcus said. "The descent shaft we came down—"
Patel shook his head, already checking his geological sensor. "The detonations are directly above the shaft. If they're using seismic charges to open a new entry point for heavy equipment, they've collapsed our exit route. Look."
He turned the sensor screen toward Marcus. The shaft signal was gone—replaced by a solid red block of collapsed rock. They were sealed in.
Talon clicked three times. Paused. Clicked twice more.
Marcus looked at the raptor. Talon had turned away from the collapsed tunnel entrance and was facing the deeper interior of the oasis cavern, his amber-gold eyes reflecting the geothermal vapor light, his echolocation pulse steady and directed—pointing deeper into the earth. He knows another way.
Marcus made the decision in three seconds flat. "Pack everything essential. Water, food, all the data drives. Leave the heavy rigs—we can't carry them through tight passages. Talon—" He met those amber eyes. "Lead."
The raptor turned and moved into the depths of the geothermal oasis without hesitation. Above them, through two hundred feet of basalt, the sounds of industrial heavy equipment grinding and the sharp percussion of professional drilling teams working at maximum speed filled the Nevada morning. The Vanguard Resource Corporation had arrived at Ash Ridge.