Deep Storm (11 page)

Ill 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 youre making me very nervous with that detonator.

The crying grew louder.

Let the woman go. Its 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 mans Christian name. He decided to use it now. Let the woman go, Randall. Let her go and drop the explosive. And well work this out. Well 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 cant make the sounds go away. Dont 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 mans neck.

Chapter 11

When Howard Asher reached the executive conference room on deck 8, Admiral Spartan was already there, seated at the table, hands resting on the polished rosewood. He waited silently while Asher closed the door and took a seat across the table.

Ive just come from Medical, Asher said.

Spartan nodded.

Waite sustained a deep puncture wound to the neck, and hes lost a lot of blood, but hes stable. Hell pull through.

You didnt summon me to an emergency meeting just to tell me that, Spartan replied.

No. But Waite is one of the reasons I asked you here.

Spartan did not reply; he merely gazed at Asher with his dark unfathomable eyes. In the brief silence that followed, Asher felt the old apprehension which hed managed to contain so long creeping back again.

Science and the military made for strange bedfellows. Deep Storm, Asher knew, was at best a marriage of convenience. He and his team of scientists needed this station, and the bottomless resources of the government, in order to undertake such a mind-boggling excavation in the first place. Spartan needed the scientists and engineers to plan the dig and analyze the finds. But the recent, unexpected developments were putting a strain on an already fragile relationship.

The door opened quietly, then closed again. Asher looked back to see Commander Korolis. The man nodded, then wordlessly took a seat at the table.

Ashers apprehension increased. To him, Korolis symbolized everything was wrong about this project: secrecy, disinformation, propaganda. Asher knew that Waite was asleep in Medical, heavily sedated; otherwise, Korolis would be at the patients side, ensuring that no word of what went on below deck 7 reached non-classified ears.

Proceed, Dr. Asher, Spartan said.

Asher cleared his throat. Waite is just the latest and most acute in a series of medical and psychological traumas. Over the last two weeks, this Facility has seen an alarming spike in illness, across the board.

Which is why youve brought in Crane.

I asked for several specialists, Asher said. A diagnostician, a

One is sufficient enough risk, Spartan replied, his voice low and even.

Asher took a deep breath. Look. Once Waite is stable, we have to get him to the surface.

Out of the question.

Now annoyance began mixing with Ashers apprehension. Why is that, exactly?

You know the reasons as well as I do. This is a secret installation, undertaking a classified mission

Classified! Asher cried. Confidential! Dont you understand? We have a serious medical issue here. You cant just ignore it, sweep it under the rug!

Dr. Asher, please. For the first time, Admiral Spartan allowed his tone to stiffen slightly. Youre overreacting. We have a fully equipped medical facility here, staffed by skilled personnel. Against my better judgment, Ive bowed to your request to bring in an additional resource over the objection, I might add, of Commander Korolis here.

This was bait, and Asher did not rise to it.

Besides, Spartan went on, I dont see the need for panic. Have you, or the good Dr. Crane, identified a cluster?

You know we havent.

Then lets be reasonable here. Many of your scientists arent used to working in conditions like these. Confined to the Facility, cramped quarters, stressful working environment Spartan waved a meaty hand. Irritability, sleeplessness, loss of appetite these things are to be expected.

Its not just scientists who are being affected, Asher replied. So are members of the military. And what about the ministrokes? The arrhythmias? What about Waite?

Youre talking about a very small section of the population, Korolis said. It was the first time hed spoken. You get enough people together, somethings bound to pop up.

The facts are these, Spartan went on. There is no commonality. People are complaining about all sorts of things thats what people do. Aside from Waite, theres no severity. Im sorry, Dr. Asher, but thats the truth. Bottom line: theres no outbreak. Period.

But Asher began. He fell silent when he saw the expression on Spartans face. Scientists have no place in a military operation, that expression seemed to say. And all this whining proves it.

He decided to change the subject. Theres something else.

Spartans eyebrows rose.

Earlier today, Paul Easton, the marine geologist, came to see me. Turns out were wrong about the dating.

What dating is that? Spartan asked.

Of the burial event.

There was a brief silence.

Spartan shifted in his chair. How wrong?

Very.

Korolis exhaled slowly between his teeth. To Asher, it sounded like the hiss of a snake.

Specify, the admiral said at last.

Weve always assumed based on rough visual inspection and other factors that the entombment happened ten thousand years ago or even longer. Easton took that assumption a little too far. He never bothered to date the site using magnetic field reversal.

Using what? Korolis said.

A method for dating the vulcanism around the burial site. Not to get into the scientific details and here Asher glanced at Korolisbut once in a great many years, the earths magnetic field reverses. Flips. The north pole becomes the south, and vice versa. Our original dating of the burial event would have placed it in the last magnetic reversal. But it seems we were wrong.

How do you know that? Spartan asked.

Because when the earths crust becomes molten, its iron particles swivel around, align themselves with the planets magnetic field. Then, as the rock cools, they stay aligned. Its like tree rings in a way: you can date geologic events by examining that alignment.

Well, maybe its far older, then, Korolis said. Two magnetic reversals ago. The north pole would have still been north then, correct?

Correct. But the event was not far older.

So it wasnt as old as you thought, Spartan said.

Asher nodded.

I presume that, since were here, you were able to get a more accurate date.

I had Easton send out a rover, equipped with a highly sophisticated magnetometer. It can measure, very accurately, the drift of a magnetic field. We used samples from the burial site as a starting point.

Spartan frowned, shifted again. And?

The site isnt ten thousand years old, or fifty thousand. Its six hundred years old.

There was a moment of frigid silence.

Spartan was the first to speak. Does thisoversight have any bearing on our chances of success?

No.

Asher thought he detected a fleeting look of relief cross the admirals face before the expressionless mask descended again.

Then what, exactly, is the bottom line?

Isnt it obvious? This has gone from an event in the unthinkable past to an event within recorded history.

And your point, Doctor? Korolis said.

My point? My point is that there may have been eyewitnesses to the burial event. There may be written accounts.

Then we should dispatch a researcher to look into it, Spartan said.

Ive already done that.

Spartan frowned. With the proper credentials? And discretion?

His credentials are excellent medieval historian from Yale. And, yes, he has no clue as to the real reason Im interested.

Good. Spartan rose. Then if theres nothing else, Id suggest you return to Medical and see if Dr. Crane has made a miracle diagnosis.

Asher stood, as well. Hell need to be brought inside, he said in a low voice.

Spartans eyebrows shot up. Excuse me?

He should be fully briefed. Hell need access to the classified levels. Unrestricted access. And not with a phalanx of MPs, either.

Thats impossible, Dr. Asher, said Korolis. We could never allow such a security risk.

Asher kept his gaze on the admiral. Crane needs to talk to the patients, learn their movements, search for vectors, identify possible exposures. How can he do that if we keep him both gagged and blindfolded?

I have the greatest faith in your choice of specialists, Dr. Asher, Spartan said mildly. You should, too.

For a moment Asher just stood there, breathing heavily, mastering himself. We were given a mandate, Admiral, he finally said, voice husky. A joint mandate to run this Facility. Together. So far, I havent pushed the point. But if it comes down to a question of secrecy or the safety of this installation, Ill put aside secrecy in a heartbeat. And youd be wise to remember that.

Then he spun on his heel, pulled open the door, and was gone.

Chapter 12

There were two squash courts on Deep Storm, and a three-day waiting list to get court time. It was an example of Ashers clout, Crane thought, that the man had been able to get them a half-hour slot with a few minutes notice.

I never figured you for a reader of poetry, Asher said when they met on the court. But your being a squash player is a no-brainer.

Maybe its my gazelle-like physique, Crane replied. Or maybe youve just been re-reading my jacket.

Asher, juggling the little gray ball idly in his serve hand, laughed.

Crane wasnt surprised Asher wanted a meeting. After all, hed been on station now over thirty-six hours: the chief scientist would want a report. The only surprise was the suggested location. But then, he was already getting used to Ashers modus operandi: maintain an affable exterior, imply a low-key atmosphere; but make it clear that results were expected, and expected right away.