Deep Storm

10

Bishop stopped at the front desk just long enough to grab a radio. "Get Corbett!" she called to a nurse behind the desk. Then she ran out of the medical suite and down the corridor, Crane at her heels, heading toward Times Square.

As she ran, she punched a code into the radio, dialed through the bands. "This is Dr. Bishop, requesting location of code orange."

There was a brief pause before the return squawk. "Code orange location: deck five, rover repair hangar."

"Deck five, roger," Bishop replied.

An elevator stood waiting beside the sidewalk café; they ducked inside and Bishop pressed the lowest button on the panel, 7.

She turned once again to the radio. "Request nature of emergency."

Another squawk. "Incident code five-twenty-two."

"What's that stand for?" Crane asked.

She glanced at him. "Floridly psychotic."

The doors opened again, and Crane followed her out into a brightly lit intersection. Corridors led away in three directions, and Bishop ran down the one directly before them.

"What about medical supplies?" Crane asked.

"There's a temporary infirmary on deck four. We'll get an MICU kit from it if necessary."

Crane noticed this deck felt a lot more confining than the ones he'd previously seen. The corridors were narrower, the compartments more cramped. The people they passed wore either lab coats or jumpsuits. He recalled this was the science level and computer center. Despite the audible rush of ventilation, the air was heavy with the smell of lab bleach, ozone, and hot electronics.

They reached another intersection and Bishop jogged right. Glancing ahead, Crane saw something unexpected: the corridor widened dramatically and ended in a black wall. This wall was smooth and broken only by a single airlock set in its center. The airlock hatch was guarded by four MPs with rifles, and a fifth sat in a high-tech pillbox to one side. A large LED above the airlock glowed red.

"What's that?" he asked, slowing instinctively.

"The Barrier," Bishop replied.

"I'm sorry?"

"Portal to the classified levels."

As they approached, two of the MPs took up positions directly before the airlock, rifles across their chests. "Clearance, ma'am?" one of them asked.

Bishop trotted over to the pillbox. The fifth MP stepped out and passed a bulky scanner over her forearm. There was a loud beep.

The MP glanced at a small LED screen set into the top of the scanner. "You're not cleared."

"I'm Michele Bishop, chief medical officer of the Facility. I have qualified emergency access to decks four, five, and six. Check again."

The MP stepped into the pillbox and consulted a computer monitor. After a moment, he came out. "Very well. Go on through. A security escort will be waiting on the other side."

Bishop stepped toward the airlock. Crane swung into place behind her, but the guards closed rank in front of him. The MP with the scanner came forward and ran it over Crane's arm.

"This man isn't cleared, either," he said.

Bishop glanced back. "He's a doctor, here on temporary assignment."

The MP turned to face Crane. "You cannot proceed, sir."

"I'm with Dr. Bishop," Crane said.

"I'm sorry, sir," the man said, his voice hardening. "You cannot proceed."

"Look," Crane said. "There's a medical emergency, and-"

"Sir, please step back from the Barrier." The pillbox MP exchanged quick glances with the others.

"I can't do that. I'm a doctor, and I'm going to assist with the emergency, whether you like it or not." And he stepped forward again.

Immediately, the men guarding the Barrier raised their rifles, while the MP with the scanner dropped a hand to his belt and drew out his sidearm.

"Stand down, Ferrara!" came a deep voice from within the darkness of the pillbox. "Wegman, Price, you others, at ease."

As quickly as they had raised their weapons, the MPs lowered them again and stepped back. Glancing toward the pillbox, Crane saw that it was in fact a portal to a far larger chamber, apparently a control room for the Barrier. A dozen screens were set into its walls, and countless small lights blinked and glowed in the dimness. A shape within drew closer then emerged into the light: a heavyset, broad-shouldered man in a white admiral's uniform. He had iron-gray hair and brown eyes. He glanced from Crane, to Bishop, then back to Crane.

"I am Admiral Spartan," the man said.

"Admiral Spartan," Crane said. "I'm-"

"I know who you are. You're Howard Asher's asset."

Crane did not know quite how to respond to this, so he merely nodded.

Spartan looked at Bishop again. "The emergency's on five, correct?"

"Yes, sir. The rover repair hangar."

"Very well." Spartan turned to the MP named Ferrara. "Clear him for this incident only. Make sure they're accompanied by an armed escort at all times, and take a nonsensitive route to the site. See to it personally, Ferrara."

The MP stiffened, gave a smart salute. "Aye, aye, sir."

Spartan let his gaze rest another moment on Crane. Then he nodded to Ferrara, turned, and disappeared back into the control room.

Ferrara stepped into the pillbox and typed a series of commands on a console. There was a low buzz, then a series of tiny lights winked on around the perimeter of the airlock. The LED above the Barrier turned green. There was a clank of heavy locks disengaging, a hiss of pressurized air, and the airlock opened. Ferrara spoke into a mike built into his console, then motioned Bishop and Crane to step through, following behind.

Beyond the airlock was a chamber about twelve feet square. Two more MPs waited here, standing stiffly at attention. The beige walls were bare, and there was no instrumentation save for a small panel beside one of the guards. Crane noted that it consisted of simply a palm-geometry reader and a rubberized handle.

The airlock door closed. The MP placed one hand on the reader and the other on the handle. There was a red glow as his palm was scanned. Then he twisted the handle clockwise. Crane's stomach gave a brief lurch as they started to descend. The chamber was, in fact, an elevator.

His thoughts went to Admiral Spartan. He had known several flag officers during his tours of duty, and they were all comfortable with command, used to being obeyed immediately and without question. But even on such short acquaintance Crane sensed something a little different in Spartan. He had a depth of self-possession unusual even in an admiral. Crane thought about that last look the man had given him. There was something unreadable in his dark eyes, as if you could never be sure just what his next move might be.

They glided smoothly to a stop. There was another low hum, another clank of locks springing free. The airlock was opened from outside by another group of armed MPs. "Dr. Bishop?" one asked. "Dr. Crane?"

"That's us."

"We're here to escort you to the repair hangar. Follow me, please."

They moved out quickly, two guards leading and two bringing up the rear. Ferrara, Admiral Spartan's man, followed. Normally, Crane would be irritated by such an entourage, but now he almost welcomed it. Floridly psychotic, Bishop had said. That meant the person was grossly disorganized, delusional, perhaps even violent. In such instances you tried to be calm and reassuring, establish a rapport. But when a patient was truly out of control, the first priority-the very first-was to outnumber him.

Labs and research facilities passed in a blur: the so-called classified section of the Facility seemed, outwardly at least, little different from the upper decks. Several people ran past them in the opposite direction. And now, up ahead, Crane could hear something that made his blood run cold: the sound of a man screaming.

They ducked through a hatchway and Crane found himself in a large, almost cavernous room. He blinked a moment, unaccustomed already to so much space. It appeared to be a machine shop and repair facility for robot submersibles-the rovers Bishop had mentioned.

The screaming was louder here: ragged, ululating. Small groups of workers stood nearby, held back by military police. Farther ahead, a cordon of naval personnel and more MPs blocked the way. Several were talking on mobile radios; others were staring ahead at an equipment bay set into the far wall. It was from there the screaming came.

Bishop stepped forward, followed closely by Crane and the MPs. Seeing them approach, one of the officers broke away from the cordon to intercept them.

"Dr. Bishop," the man said over the screams. "I'm Lieutenant Travers. Ranking officer on the scene."

"Give us the details," Crane said.

Travers glanced at him, then looked back at Bishop. She gave a slight nod.

"The man is Randall Waite," he said. "Machinist first grade."

"What happened?" Crane asked.

"Nobody's quite certain. Apparently, Waite had been acting moody the last day or two-quiet, not like himself. Then, just as he was about to go off shift, he started acting out."

"Acting out," Bishop repeated.

"Starting to shout. Crazy stuff."

Crane glanced in the direction of the screams. "Is he angry? Delusional?"

"Delusional, yes. Angry, no. Seemed more like he's-in despair, sort of. Said he wanted to die."

"Go on," Crane said.

"A few people approached him. Tried to calm him down, see what was wrong. That's when he grabbed one."

Crane's eyebrows shot up. Oh, shit. That's not good.

Ninety-nine percent of all suicidal attempts were attention-getters, pleas for help. Cutters, making slash marks mostly for effect. But when a hostage was involved, it became a different situation entirely.

"That's not all," Travers muttered. "He's got a brick of C4 and a detonator."

"What?"

Travers nodded grimly.

There was a squawk from Travers's radio, and he raised it to his lips. "Travers." He listened a moment. "Very well. Hold until you get my signal."

"What was that about?" Bishop asked.

Travers nodded in the direction of a side wall, where the smoked window of a control room overlooked the hangar. "We've got a sharpshooter up there, trying to get a hard target."

"No!" Crane said. He took a breath. "No. I want to talk to him first."

Travers frowned.

"Why did you bring us down if not to defuse things?" Crane asked.

"He's grown more agitated since that call. And we didn't know about the C4 when we put out the code."

"Does your man have a hard target?" Crane pressed.

"Intermittent."

"Then there's no reason not to let me try."

Travers hesitated for a second. "Very well. But if he threatens that hostage-or if he tries to arm that detonator-I'm going to have to smoke him."

Crane nodded to Bishop, then walked slowly forward until he reached the cordon. Gently, he pushed his way through. Then he stopped.

About twenty feet ahead, a man in an orange jumpsuit stood in the shadow of the equipment bay. His eyes were red-rimmed and tearing. His chin was flecked with mucus, phlegm, and frothy blood. Sprays of vomit slashed across the orange field of his jumpsuit. Poison? Crane wondered in a detached way. But the man showed no obvious signs of abdominal pain, paralysis, or other systemic symptoms.

The man held a woman before him-about thirty, petite, with dirty-blond hair. She was dressed in an identical jumpsuit. His arm encircled her neck, and her chin was pointed upward at a painful angle, rising from the crook of Waite's elbow. A long, narrow screwdriver was pressed against her jugular vein. The woman's lips were tight, and her eyes were wide with fear.

Jutting out of the man's other hand was a whitish brick of C4 and an unarmed detonator.

The screams were shockingly loud here, and stopped only long enough for Waite to draw in fresh breaths. Crane found it hard to think over the noise.

Talk him down,the rule book went. Calm him, get him secured. Easier said than done. Crane had talked down a would-be jumper standing on a support cable of the George Washington Bridge. He'd talked down men sticking Lugers into their ears or chewing on shotgun barrels. But he'd never talked down somebody holding ten grenades' worth of plastique.

He took a breath, then another. And then he stepped forward.

"This isn't really what you want," he said.

The man's red eyes landed on him briefly, then jittered away. The screams continued.

"This isn't really what you want," Crane repeated, louder.

He couldn't hear himself over the screaming. He took another step forward.

The man's eyes shot back to him. He gripped the woman tighter, pressed the point of the screwdriver deeper into her neck.

Crane froze. He could see the woman staring at him pleadingly, her face a mask of fear. He was uncomfortably aware of how exposed he was: standing between the cordon of military officers and the man with a hostage and a brick of C4. He fought back an urge to retreat.

He remained motionless, thinking. Then-slowly-he eased himself down on the metal floor. He undid one shoe, then the other, and placed them carefully aside. He removed his socks and put them to one side, arranging them with finicky precision. Then he leaned backward, resting himself on the palms of his hands.

As he did so, he became aware of something new in the hanger: silence. The screaming had stopped. Waite was staring at him now, the screwdriver still pressed dangerously against the woman's throat.

"You don't want to do this," Crane said in a patient, reasonable tone. "There's no problem that can't be taken care of. There's nothing worth hurting yourself or somebody else over. That's just going to make it worse."

Waite did not reply. He simply stared back, wide-eyed, drawing in ragged breaths.

"What is it you want?" Crane asked. "What can we do to help you?"

At this, Waite whimpered, swallowed painfully. "Make it stop," he said.

"Make what stop?" Crane asked.

"The sounds."

"What sounds?"

"Those sounds," Waite replied in a voice that was half whisper, half sob. "The sounds that never…that never stop."

"I'll talk to you about the sounds. We can-"

But Waite had begun to whimper again, and the whimper was rising in pitch and volume. More screams were not far away.

Quickly, Crane grasped his own shirt collar, jerked downward violently. There was a loud rending of fabric and a clatter of buttons. He took off the ruined shirt, placed it beside the shoes.

Waite was staring at him again.

"We can work this out," Crane resumed. "Make the sounds stop."

Listening, Waite began to cry.

"But you're making me very nervous with that detonator."

The crying grew louder.

"Let the woman go. It's the sounds we have to fight, not her."

Waite was bawling now, tears almost squirting from his eyes.

Crane had waited, waited carefully, to use the man's Christian name. He decided to use it now. "Let the woman go, Randall. Let her go and drop the explosive. And we'll work this out. We'll make the sounds go away. I promise."

Suddenly, Waite seemed to slump. Slowly, he lowered the screwdriver. The other hand dropped to his side, the C4 falling heavily to the ground. With a cry, the woman sprinted for the military cordon. Quick as lightning, an MP who had been crouching to one side darted in, secured the C4, retreated.

Crane took a deep breath. Then, slowly, he rose. "Thank you, Randall," he said. "Now we can help you. Now we can make the sounds go away." And he took a step forward.

At this, Waite reared back. His eyes rolled dangerously in his head. "No!" he said. "You can't make the sounds go away. Don't you understand? No one can make the sounds go away!" And with sudden, unexpected speed, he raised the screwdriver to his own throat.

"Stop!" Crane cried, dashing forward. But even as he did he saw, with horror, the point of the screwdriver disappear into the soft flesh of the man's neck.