Deep Storm

53

"We're six minutes out from the interface, sir."

"Thank you, Dr. Rafferty." Commander Korolis shifted on the small pilot's seat, nodding his satisfaction. He glanced approvingly at the dive engineer. The man was not only extremely loyal to him but also was one of the top military scientists on the Facility, a physicist by training. Handpicked by him and 100 percent dependable. Only the best talent was good enough for this particular dive.

Descent number 241 was well under way, and there would be no screw-ups this time.

Korolis glanced over the controls once again. He'd run them in the simulator a dozen times, and in any case they weren't all that different from those of a submarine. There would be no surprises.

As he looked at the gauges he felt a spike of pain at his temples. He winced: had he thought of it, he'd have taken a handful of Tylenol before boarding. He straightened, forcing the pain away: no headache was going to detract from this moment.

He turned back to Rafferty. "Doodlebug status?"

"Green across the board, sir."

"Excellent."

The descent was going like clockwork. In just a few minutes, they would arrive at the dig interface. And then, with any luck, soon…soon…

He spoke to Rafferty again. "Has that reading been confirmed?"

"Yes, sir. Sensor reports from Marble Two's last dive indicate the oceanic layer is at maximal penetration."

Maximal penetration.They had done it. They had bored through the third-and deepest-layer of the earth's crust.

No, there would be no surprises. Except for the most important one: the riches that lay in store directly below, at the Mohorovicic discontinuity.

Whoever said the price of freedom was eternal vigilance was right-as far as that went. But Korolis knew there was more to it than that, much more. It was not enough to be watchful-one had to act, to seize the nettle. If the opportunity presented itself, it had to be taken, no matter what the difficulty. America stood alone, the only remaining superpower; the rest of the world, out of either jealousy or hatred, was arrayed against her, hoping for her to fall. Hostile governments were bleeding her dry through trade imbalances while at the same time increasing their armies and refining their own weapons of mass destruction. In such a desperate climate it was his duty-it was all their duties-to do whatever was necessary to ensure America stayed strong.

The nuclear fraternity was large, and getting larger. Nukes were no longer enough to intimidate or impress or keep at bay. What was needed was something new-something whose power was so awesome it would guarantee America's position for the indefinite future.

And that meant appropriating-by any and all means necessary-technology to keep her ahead of the herd. And that technology lay directly beneath them. Technology that could transmit messages from beneath the earth's crust. Technology that could store almost infinite reservoirs of energy in a tiny, iridescent chip.

The thought of passing up such technology was inconceivable. The thought of someone else claiming it was unacceptable.

"Four minutes out," said Rafferty.

"Very well." Korolis glanced from the engineer to the third occupant of Marble Three: the wiry old man with the blizzard of unruly white hair. Dr. Flyte, for once saying next to nothing. Korolis frowned. The man's presence on the Facility had been an unfortunate necessity: as the foremost authority on cybernetics and miniaturization, he'd been the only person capable of devising the complex robotic arm the Marble employed. The man might have been a genius, but he was notoriously eccentric, and-in the opinion of Korolis-a security liability. As a result, he had been kept secretly aboard the Facility, more or less against his will. It seemed the best solution: not only had it kept the all-too-talkative old fellow from speaking to the wrong people, but also Flyte's presence on the Facility meant he could maintain the robotic arms and train others in their complexity.

Korolis shifted in his seat. He'd chosen Flyte for this dive because-as with Rafferty-he'd wanted the very best. And who better to man the controls of the robotic arm than its inventor?

Another throb of pain seared his temples, but Korolis willed himself to ignore it. Nothing was going to get in the way of completing this dive; he would not allow his work to be impeded by human frailty. Something momentous was about to happen.

And it was entirely fitting that he be here in person, to make the discovery himself. After all, nobody else could be trusted. Admiral Spartan had proven himself weak-dangerously weak. This was not a time for going soft or for second-guessing. Spartan had been doing too much of both, lately, to retain the helm of an operation as critical as this one.

In recent days, it had grown clear to Korolis that the admiral was becoming unfit for command. The surprise, even dismay, he'd shown at Asher's death-the single greatest impediment to their progress-had been only the first sign. And his unmanly grief over what happened to Marble One, in truth just a casualty of war. But the admiral's willingness to listen to the poisonous, traitorous words of Peter Crane-that could not be borne.

At the thought of Crane, Korolis's expression darkened. He'd known Crane would be a troublemaker from the first time he'd met him in the Medical Suite. Monitoring the doctor's quarters, overhearing the long conversation with Asher, had merely cemented his conviction. All that cowardly talk about danger, about scrubbing the mission…Erasing Asher's hard disk, as he himself had done-and isolating the equally suspicious Hui Ping so she could not assist with any data retrieval-should have been enough to keep the old crackpot's crazy ideas, his alarmist pet theories, from infecting others. How was he to know that bastard Crane would be able to retrieve the data? If in fact he had, if it wasn't all a lie; no doubt the man was capable of anything…

He calmed himself with the thought that the man was in the brig by now. There would be plenty of time to deal with him later.

The radio crackled. "Dive Control to Marble Three."

Korolis took the mike. "Dive Control, go ahead."

"Sir, there's a situation we need to brief you on."

"Proceed."

"A few moments ago, the Facility was hit by what appears to have been an explosion."

"An explosion?"

"Yes, sir."

"What kind of explosion? Machinery failure? Detonation?"

"Unknown at the present time, sir."

"What was the location?"

"Deck eight, sir."

"What's the present status?"

"No damage reports have come back yet, sir-automatic detectors are off-line and the situation's still a little fluid. Power has been fully restored. There seems to be some issues with the environmental controls. Damage control and rescue teams have been dispatched; we're waiting for a sit rep."

"Well, pass it on when you get it. Meanwhile, have Chief Woburn take a squad up to do his own recon."

"Very good, sir."

"'Hades is relentless and unyielding,'" Dr. Flyte said, more to himself than anyone else. Then he lapsed into a quiet, singsong recitation in what Korolis assumed to be ancient Greek.

"Over and out." Korolis replaced the mike. Woburn could be relied on to deal effectively with the situation-he and his agents had been carefully selected for their reliability and their devotion to him, forged over countless clandestine missions in past years.

He now realized that, in the back of his mind, he'd always known this would happen: that he would need the loyalty and support of the black ops team; that at the ultimate moment he would be here, inside the Marble, to claim the prize.

Rafferty looked over from his perch. "Two minutes to interface."

"Spin up the tunnel-boring machine." Korolis turned to the old man. "Dr. Flyte?"

The cybernetics engineer fell silent, glancing back with his bright blue eyes.

"Commence final diagnostics on the robotic array, if you please."

The response was another quotation. "'Son of Atreus, what manner of speech has escaped the barrier of your teeth?'" But-a little grudgingly-Flyte busied himself at his station.

As Korolis turned back to his own control panel, he allowed himself a grim little smile. Let Chief Woburn clean up the mess overhead. His own destiny lay below-three hundred meters beneath their feet.