Deep Storm

45

Michele Bishop sat at the desk in her tidy office. She was intently scrutinizing an X-ray on her monitor, her dark blond hair falling over her eyes, chin perched lightly on carefully varnished fingernails. Outside, the Medical Suite was draped in a profound stillness.

Inches from her elbow, the phone rang, shattering the silence. Bishop jumped in her seat. Then she reached for the phone. "Medical, Bishop."

"Michele? It's Peter."

"Dr. Crane?" She frowned. It sounded like him, all right; but his normally phlegmatic, almost lazy voice was rushed and breathless. She pressed the power button on the edge of her monitor, then sat back in her seat as the screen went black.

"I'm in the temporary infirmary on deck four. I need your help, badly."

"Very well."

A pause. "Are you okay? You sound…preoccupied."

"I'm fine," Bishop said.

"We've got a crisis on our hands." Another pause, longer this time. "Look. I can't tell you everything yet. But what's down below us-it isn't Atlantis."

"I guessed that much."

"I've discovered what we're digging toward is something incredibly dangerous."

"What is it?"

"I can't tell you that. Not yet, anyway. There's no time to waste. One way or another, we have to make Spartan stop. Look, here's what I need you to do. Round up the scientists and technicians-the ones you know best. Rational, nonmilitary. Reasonable people you can trust. People who are well connected. Any names come to mind?"

She hesitated a moment. "Yes. Gene Vanderbilt, head of Oceanographic Research. And there's-"

"That's fine. Call me back on my mobile when they're assembled. I'll come up and explain everything then."

"What's going on, Peter?" she asked.

"I've figured it out. What's making people sick. I've told Spartan, but he won't listen. If we can't convince Spartan, we'll have to get a message to the surface, tell them what's happening down here, get them to exercise higher authority. Can you do this?"

She did not reply.

"Michele, look. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye. But it's the safety of the entire Facility we're talking about here-and maybe a lot more than that. With Asher gone, I need help from his staff-those that believed in him and what he stood for. Spartan's men are only days, hours, away from their goal. We're doctors, we took an oath. We have to keep the men and women in our care out of harm's way-or at least try our best. Will you help me?"

"Yes," she murmured.

"How long will it take?"

She paused, eyes darting around the room. "Not long. Fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour."

"I knew you'd come through."

She bit her lip gently. "So Spartan's not going to stop the dig?"

"You know Spartan. I gave it my best shot."

"If he won't stop of his own accord, nobody else is going to be able to convince him."

"We have to try. Look, call me back, all right?"

"I will."

"Thanks, Michele." And the phone abruptly went dead.

Silence returned to the office. Bishop sat in her chair, motionless, looking at the phone for perhaps sixty seconds. Then, slowly, she returned it to the cradle, a thoughtful-almost resigned-expression on her face.