Deep Storm

59

Crane stared at the marine. The man was standing inside the doorway, perhaps fifteen feet away.

He felt his hands ball into fists. Unconsciously, a plan had formed in his mind. He glanced at Vanderbilt. The oceanographer looked back and a silent understanding passed between them. Almost imperceptibly, Vanderbilt nodded.

Crane's eyes returned to the automatic rifle. There was no way he could reach it, he knew, without being gunned down. But if he could keep the marine busy, at least it would give Vanderbilt a chance to move in.

He took a step forward.

The black ops agent turned toward him. The man's eyes widened slightly, as if sensing the agent's design. Quickly, the weapon swung up to Crane's chest.

At that moment a shape came into view in the corridor beyond the staging area. "Secure that weapon," a familiar voice boomed.

The agent turned. Admiral Spartan stood in the doorway, a large gash across his forehead. The upper portion of his uniform was stiff with dried blood. A heavy sidearm lay in his right hand. He looked pale but determined.

"I said secure that weapon, soldier," he said quietly.

For a moment, nobody moved. Then the black ops agent abruptly swung the M- 16 in Spartan's direction. In a fluid motion, the admiral raised his pistol and fired. In the enclosed space, the explosion was deafening. The marine flew backward under the impact, his weapon clattering across the floor. The woman on the ladder screamed.

Spartan remained where he was a moment, his gun trained at the motionless form. Then he stepped forward, picked up the automatic rifle, and turned to Crane. Silently, Vanderbilt helped the woman back up the ladder, then motioned for Hui Ping to follow.

Crane opened his medical bag for a dressing kit, but Spartan waved it away. "Where have you been?" Crane asked.

"Locked in my cabin."

"How'd you get out?"

The admiral brandished the handgun with a mirthless smile.

"You know what's happened?"

"I know enough. Is everybody aboard the escape pod?"

"Everybody from decks nine through twelve. A hundred and twelve in all. Deck eight is completely flooded. Nobody below there can get past."

A look of pain crossed Spartan's face. "It's vital you get these people away from here as quickly as possible."

"No argument here. Let's get aboard."

The admiral shook his head. "I'm staying here."

"You can't. There's no guarantee rescue will arrive in time. Besides, Korolis is down in Marble Three right now. He could reach the Moho at any moment. God only knows what will happen then."

Spartan pointed his handgun at the marine. "More like him are on their way. They'll stop the pod's disengage sequence, prevent you from leaving. I won't allow that."

Crane frowned. "But-"

"That's an order, Dr. Crane. You're to save as many as you can. Now get aboard, please."

Crane hesitated a moment longer. Then he snapped to attention, gave the admiral a salute. Spartan returned it, a wintry smile gathering on his face. Crane turned to follow Vanderbilt up the ladder.

"Doctor?" Spartan called.

Crane glanced back.

Spartan pulled a card from his pocket, held it out. "When you reach Storm King, call this man. Tell him everything."

Crane glanced at the card. It was embossed with a Department of Defense seal and it read only MCPHERSON, (203) 111-1011.

"Aye, sir," he said.

"Good luck."

Crane gave the admiral a final nod. Then, quickly, he climbed the ladder and pulled himself through the hatchway.

He was in a small, vertical tube, illuminated by recessed blue LEDs. The ladder continued upward, flanked on both sides by heavy ductwork. There was a hollow clang from below as Spartan closed the outer hatch.

Climbing another two dozen steps, Crane passed through an immensely thick, collarlike portal and emerged into a low, teardrop-shaped enclosure. It was dimly illuminated in the same faint blue wash as the access tube. As he stood at the top of the ladder, letting his eyes adjust, he saw he was surrounded by two tiers of circular benches, one behind and above the other, that ran completely around the pod. A safety railing was positioned before each. Both tiers were crowded with people, some holding hands. The atmosphere was strangely hushed; hardly anyone spoke, and those who did conversed in whispers. Crane's eyes moved from face to familiar face. Bryce, the psychiatric intern. Gordon Stamper, machinist. Lab techs, pizza flippers, mechanics, librarians, PX cashiers, food service staff: a cross section of Facility workers he'd treated, worked with, or brushed elbows with over the past ten days.

Two people were conspicuously absent: Roger Corbett and Michele Bishop.

To his right was a small control panel, manned by Vanderbilt and a technician Crane didn't recognize. Vanderbilt rose and came forward.

"Admiral Spartan?" he asked.

"He's staying behind," Crane replied.

Vanderbilt nodded. Kneeling, he closed and carefully sealed the hatch. Then he turned and nodded at the tech, who worked the panel controls briefly.

A low tone sounded overhead. "Disengage now under way," the tech said.

Vanderbilt rose, wiped his hands on his lab coat. "There's a five-minute countdown while the compression sequence is completed," he said.

"Time to the surface?"

"Once we disengage from the dome, just over eight minutes. On paper, anyway."

Slinging his medical kit over his shoulder, Crane scanned the seated people on the two tiers of benches, checking for injuries. Then he returned to the control panel. Directly behind Vanderbilt sat Hui Ping. She smiled faintly as Crane took a seat beside her.

"Ready?" he asked.

"No."

A small circular porthole had been set into the portal hatch. It looked exactly like the one Crane had sat next to during his initial descent in the bathyscaphe. Now he leaned forward, looked down through it. He could see the ladder descending toward the sealed outer hatch, outlined in the pale blue light.

"Two minutes," the technician at the control panel said. "We've got good pressure."

Beside him, Hui stirred. "I've been wondering about something," she said.

"Shoot."

"Remember when you explained about Ocotillo Mountain? You said that there were two kinds of countermeasures to prevent anyone, intentionally or unintentionally, from intruding into the vaults full of old nuclear weapons-passive security measures and active ones."

"That's right."

"I can understand what the passive measures would be-warning signs, images etched on metal, things of that sort. But what would the active countermeasures be?"

"I don't know. There was little talk about them at the conference, other than to note their existence. I gathered that information about them was classified." He turned toward her. "Why do you ask?"

"Those sentinels we found-those are passive measures in their own way, like you said. They simply beam out warnings. I guess I was wondering if they have active countermeasures, as well."

"I don't know," Crane replied slowly. "That's a very good question."

"One minute," the tech murmured.

And in the silence that followed, Crane could now hear distinctly-filtering up from the hatchway beneath his feet-the sharp, steady cadence of automatic weapon fire.