Free The Fourth Rome by David Drake, Janet Morris Page A

the continuum.
     Then the team was alone, committed—at least for nine minutes until the capsule phased back into reality. Looking at the empty
     space where the temporal capsule had been, Tim Grainger felt as if he’d lost his best friend.
    Chun had found a hoary escape route leading from a priest-hole in the chapel through the catacombs to the riverbank. She was
     outdoing herself on this mission. Grainger was certain she’d chosen the underground hiding place for the TC just to torture
     him.
    Theoretically, the ARC Riders could access TC 779 anytime of day or night in an emergency, whether or not they could get into
     the chapel from above ground. The escape route was so ancient that there was a distinct possibility no Soviets were aware
     of it. It dated from Ivan the Terrible’s time and hadn’t been rediscovered until the 22nd century.
    Of course Chun convinced Team Leader Roebeck that they’d better walk the course. Thanks, Chun. They traced the length of their
     underground escape route, going all the way to the river and back to where they’d started. Never could be too sure that Central
     hadn’t missed something. A critical passage could have been blocked by natural or human caprice. Officially forgotten tunnels
     might have become some Russian splinter group’s secret headquarters.
    The ARC Riders remained silent as they wandered the catacombs, using Chun’s handheld positioner to test Central’s mapping,
     communicating only by hand sign until Roebeck was satisfied that plan and reality were compatible. That was good, because
     if Chun said one gloating thing about how Grainger was handling this spelunking, he was going to shoot her there and then.
     Claim an accidental discharge of his weapon. But she didn’t. So he focused on keeping his multifunction command and control
     membrane’s physio monitor from betraying any sign of his physical distress. You can control claustrophobia. You just have
     to concentrate.
    Finding the priesthole exactly where Central said it would be, Roebeck gave them a thumbs-up. Through Grainger’s multifunction
     control membrane, pulled down over his face, everything in the catacombs was as bright as day. The membrane filtered out the
     dust of centuries. Perhaps they could have chanced verbal communication via their membranes’ communications link, but Roebeck
     was being careful. Grainger always respected careful.
    Like wraiths, they stole into the chapel’s known extent. Here, where they might encounter a custodian or a guard, they could
     no longer rely on their command and control membranes. Grainger and the two women rolled the C and C devices down around their
     necks, where the membranes looked enough like scarves to pass muster. Then the ARC Riders climbed single file up crumbling
     stairs. Their first priority was orientation—a walkabout. It seemed safe, even prudent.
    But nothing on a new horizon is ever safe. And prudence would have meant leaving Chun behind with the craft, as far as Grainger
     was concerned. He’d argued. Roebeck had overruled him. She’d held firm, even knowing that anybody other than a white person
     was worth a second look in Moscow in ’92. Twentieth-century Moscow had a vast reserve of white people in case the rest of
     the world ever ran out. In Grainger’s timeline, that hadn’t happened. In the timeline that the Russian revisionists were trying
     to institute, it might happen. Chun’s presence set them apart. Their Oriental teammate marked them as touring foreigners or
     part of some official visiting delegation.
    So be it. Grainger knew he could get himself out of whatever he got into. He’d memorized the bolt-hole routes and alternate
     access points around Moscow that could get him back to the catacombs. So he could get back to TC 779 whatever happened. From
     several places in town. With the women in tow, or alone if it came to it.
    Each ARC Rider had a separate go-to-shit plan in addition to their joint plan. Their