Slither Read Free

Annabelle, for a pictorial on segmented marine bottom dwellers, and since Pritchard's Key technically remained a military reservation, however
nonoperational, Trent was sent as the team's official
escort.
    Hence, the circumstances that had planted Nora's
derriere on the hard troop bench of an old helicopter.
    What a festival of joy my life has become ...
    "Crabs, fish, sharks, even killer whales," Annabelle
distinguished. "I've photographed them all, at some
pretty deep depths." She hitched in her seat, to shed an
imaginary discomfort, but Nora knew it was a pose.
She's sticking her tits out so the grunts will get all riled
up. Nora felt certain of it. She's the tribal queen and
she's marking her turf, showing the skinny girl that
she's got no chance.
    "But I've never shot marine worms," the blonde
went on. "What's so special about this one?"
    It infuriated Nora the way Annabelle focused her questions toward Loren and not Nora herself, who was
the more qualified expert.

    "It's the rarest Polychaete," Loren answered. "And
it's probably also the most stunning to look at. Brilliant
red stripes run between its parapodia-the rings
around its body."
    Now a hint of concern came into Annabelle's tone.
"How big is it? The idea of, like, really big worms?
Yuck. That would gross me out. Spiders, roaches, and
big worms. That's it for me."
    "Then have no fear, because the Polychaete scarlata
never grows more than a couple of inches long."
    "That we know of," Nora pointed out.
    Did Annabelle actually glare at the comment?
    Loren laughed it off. "Oh, Professor Craig is only kidding, Annabelle. It's impossible for a warm water worm
such as this to get any longer than an inch or two."
    "Oh, thank God!" the blonde laughed, but when she
brushed a tress of hair off her brow, she did it with her
middle finger.
    A display for Nora's benefit?
    Nora put her cheek in her hand. This is going to be a
peachy trip.
    The aircraft noisily touched down on a long-since overgrown helipad carved into one edge of the island. "Oh
no! The little lizards!" Annabelle fretted at the window. Nora smiled when she peeked out, saw the helicopter's air-blast blowing countless dozens of little
anole lizards out of the palm trees.
    "They're so cute!" Annabelle continued to object.
"We're killing them!"
    Shut up, you airhead, Nora thought. If those things
were bigger, they'd eat you alive.
    "Debark! Heads down, single file!" barked the warrant officer.

    Nora was first off, and so slight in frame that the rotor wind almost knocked her down. They all jogged
away from the riotous noise.
    "So this is Pritchard's Key," Annabelle remarked.
    "It's a lot bigger than it looks," Trent added. "Ten
square miles, and dense. I'll bet there are parts of it
that no one's ever set foot on."
    "But I still don't understand what the island has to
do with the military."
    "Some kind of radar station, I think," Nora said. She
had to shield her eyes from the bar of sunlight flashing
like a guillotine blade. Palm trees clotted with the
greenest underbrush seemed to explode everywhere
she looked.
    "No, a missile station," Loren corrected. "The locals
over in Clearwater used to call it Nike Island."
    Annabelle's brow creased. "What do sneakers have
to do with missiles?"
    Nora laughed out loud.
    "The Nike Missile Program wrapped up in the mideighties," Trent explained. "It was an army tactical airdefense missile that was first deployed in NATO
countries in the late fifties, designed to shoot down enemy aircraft. As the missile became obsolete we started
pulling them out of Europe and planting them in the
continental United States. Our biggest fear back then
was Leonid Brezhnev and his new Backfire Bomber.
The Nike was no longer the fastest antifighter missile,
but it still had great range against potential bomber
threats. The army put fifteen Nikes right here on this
island, to protect MacDill Air Force Base and the
army's munition depot in Jacksonville.