Deep Storm

48

Crane stepped into the elevator, pressed the button labeled 1. Even before the doors had slid shut he was pacing restlessly.

What was taking Michele Bishop so long?

He'd spoken with her more than ninety minutes before. She'd said it would take no longer than half an hour to assemble the scientists.

Had something gone wrong?

At last he'd grown tired of cooling his heels in the temporary infirmary and decided to take one more crack at convincing Admiral Spartan. He had to try; the stakes were too high for him not to try. And anything-even an argument-beat sitting around.

As the elevator doors opened again, something occurred to him. He stepped out, plucked his cell phone from his pocket, dialed Central Services.

"May I help you?" a neutral female voice asked.

"Yes, I need to speak with somebody named Vanderbilt. Gene Vanderbilt, in Oceanographic Research. I don't have access to a directory."

"One moment, I'll connect you."

As Crane walked briskly down the pale red corridor, his phone clicked audibly a few times. Then a man's voice sounded: "Oceanography, this is Vanderbilt."

"Dr. Vanderbilt? Peter Crane here."

There was a brief pause. "You're Dr. Crane, right? Asher's man."

"That's correct."

"He's greatly missed."

"Has Michele Bishop contacted you?"

"Dr. Bishop? No, not recently."

Crane stopped dead. "She hasn't? And you've been in your lab?"

"Yes. For the past several hours."

Crane began to walk again, more slowly this time. "Listen, Dr. Vanderbilt. Something's happening, but I can't talk about it over the phone. I'm going to need your help, and the help of the other top scientists."

"What is it? Is there a medical emergency?"

"You could say that. I'll tell you the details in person. For now, all I can say is that it concerns the safety of the entire Facility and maybe a lot more besides."

Another pause. "Very well. What is it you want me to do?"

"Gather your senior colleagues together as quickly and quietly as possible. When you've done that, ring me back."

"It may take a few minutes. Some of them are in the classified section."

"Then get to them as quickly as possible. Tell them not to say anything to anybody. Believe me, it's vitally important, Dr. Vanderbilt-I'll explain when I see you."

"All right, Doctor." Vanderbilt's voice had become slow, thoughtful. "I'll see if I can't assemble a group in the deck twelve Conference Center."

"Call my cell, it's in the directory. I'll come up." He hung up, then clipped the phone to the pocket of his lab coat. If Spartan comes through, I'll just tell Vanderbilt everything's been resolved, he thought.

Ahead lay the double doors of the Drilling Complex. To his surprise, Crane noticed the doors were no longer guarded by marines but rather by two black ops agents armed with M16s. As he approached, one of them raised a hand for him to stop. The agent gave Crane's ID badge a careful scrutiny, then at last stepped back, pulling one of the doors open as he did so.

The complex was bustling. Crane paused just inside the entrance, looking around. Marines and black ops agents were stationed in strategic locations. Technicians and maintenance crews moved briskly about the crowded hangar. The greatest concentration of activity was at the center, where one of the two remaining Marbles hung from its robotic clamp. The laser scaffold stood nearby.

Loudspeakers in the corners of the ceiling coughed static. "Attention," came a clipped voice. "Marble Three descent initiating in ten minutes. Dive control officers, report to your stations."

Crane took a deep breath. Then he began walking toward the Marble, where the three-person crew-wearing distinctive white jumpsuits-were surrounded by technicians. If Spartan wasn't nearby, he knew, at least somebody could point him in the right direction…

As he approached, one of the crew members turned to look at him. Crane stopped in surprise. Above the white jumpsuit, he recognized the lined face and unruly white hair of Dr. Flyte.

Seeing him, Flyte's eyes widened. He separated himself from the group and walked over to Crane.

"Dr. Flyte," Crane said. "Why are you wearing a uniform?"

Flyte looked back at him. His delicate, birdlike features seemed drawn and nervous. "I do not wish to wear it-oh, no! My job is to repair the arm, improve the arm, teach others of its mysteries-not to wield it myself. But he would insist. 'The Olympian is a difficult foe to oppose.'" He glanced over his shoulder furtively, lowered his voice. "I have to be here, but you don't. You must leave. It's as I told you: everything is broken."

"I need to find-" Crane began. Then he fell silent abruptly. Because somebody else was approaching: Commander Korolis. With fresh surprise, Crane saw he, too, was wearing the white jumpsuit of the Marble crew.

"Get back to the Marble," Korolis told the old man. Then he turned his pale, exotrophic eyes to Crane. "What are you doing here?" he said.

"I'm looking for Admiral Spartan."

"He's unavailable." Korolis had dispensed with his earlier, hypocritical veneer of civility. Now his tone, his expression, his very manner, exuded hostility and suspicion.

"I need to speak with him."

"Impossible," Korolis snapped.

"Why is that, Commander?"

"He's had a breakdown. I've assumed command."

"A breakdown?" Could this be what was keeping Bishop? But as soon as the thought occurred to him, he rejected it. If the head of the Facility had suffered some kind of seizure or collapse, Corbett, or one of the medical interns, or Bishop herself would have told him.

And that meant only one thing: none of the medical staff had been notified.

Alarm bells went off in Crane's head. Suddenly he realized just how precarious his present position had become.

"Attention," came the voice from the loudspeaker. "Crew insertion now commencing. Sealant team, prepare to restore and verify hull integrity."

"Don't do it," Crane heard himself say.

Korolis frowned. "Don't do what?" His eyes were red rimmed, and his voice, normally soft, was loud and breathless.

"Don't make the dive."

"Sir!" a worker from a monitoring station called out to Korolis.

The commander turned toward him. "What is it?"

"There's someone who needs to speak with you. Bryce, an intern in the Medical Suite."

"Tell him I'm busy."

"Sir, he says it's of the utmost importance-"

"That"-and here Korolis shot out an arm, pointing it daggerlike at Marble Three-"is the only important thing at the moment."

"Very good, sir." The man hung up the phone, returned to his instruments.

Korolis turned back to Crane. "And why shouldn't I make the dive?"

"It's too dangerous. It's a fool's errand."

Korolis took a step closer. Beads of sweat were visible on his forehead and temples. "I heard about your little theory. You know what I think, Doctor? I think you're the one that's dangerous. A danger to morale. A danger to this very mission."

He stared at Crane a moment longer. Then, abruptly, he wheeled toward a brace of marines. "Hoskins! Menendez!"

They shot to attention. "Sir!"

Korolis jerked a thumb at Crane. "This man is under military arrest. Once the Marble is safely launched and the all clear is sounded, take him to the brig and post an armed guard outside his cell."

And before Crane could protest, the commander walked back to Marble Three, where an unhappy-looking Dr. Flyte and his fellow crew member were already slipping into its silvery maw.