Deep Storm (20 page)

But within its steel skin, Storm King was a hive of activity. The LF2-M Deeply Submersible Resupply Unit the Tub had just returned from its daily journey to the Facility, two miles below. And now almost three dozen people were in the Recovery Chamber, waiting, as a giant winch hoisted the unmanned supply module up through an oversized hatch in the lowest level of the oil platform. Gingerly, the ungainly vessel was plucked from the ocean, then swiveled away from the hatch and lowered into a receiving bay. Under the watchful eye of a marine, two supply officers unsealed the hatch in the Tubs nose, revealing an access bulkhead. Opening this in turn, the officers began unloading the Tub, removing everything that had been stowed inside at the Facility. A remarkable diversity of objects emerged: large black waste containers, bound for the incinerator; carefully sealed confidential packets; medical samples in biohazard boxes, heading for testing too exotic to be performed in the Facility itself. One by one, the items were passed out to the waiting crew, who in turn began to disperse throughout the oil platform. Within fifteen minutes, the Recovery Chamber was empty except for the marine, the winch operator, and the two supply officers, who closed the access bulkhead and sealed the Tubs forward hatch, readying it for the next days journey.

One of the waiting crew, a Science Services courier, had come away from the Recovery Chamber with a half dozen sealed envelopes under his arm. The courier was a relatively recent arrival on the platform. He wore tortoiseshell glasses and limped slightly as he walked, almost as if one leg was a little shorter than the other. He gave his name as Wallace.

Returning to the science facilities set up on the rigs Production Level, Wallace moved briskly from lab to lab despite his limp, delivering the first five envelopes to their intended recipients. But he did not immediately deliver the last. Instead, he retreated to his tiny office, which was tucked away in a far corner.

Wallace carefully closed and locked the door behind him. Then he opened the envelope and let the contents a single CD drop into his lap. Turning to his computer, he eased the disc into the drive. A quick examination of the contents revealed a single file, labeled 108952.jpg an image, probably a photograph. He clicked on the file icon and the computer obediently displayed it on the screen: sure enough, a ghostly black-and-white image that was clearly an X-ray.

But Wallace was not interested in the image only in something it contained.

Although his credentials had been excellent and the checks on his background impeccable, Wallace was nevertheless a new arrival on the Deep Storm project, and thus held a low security rating. This meant, among other things, that his computer was only a dumb terminal, slaved to the rigs mainframe, without a hard disk of its own and crippled from running executable CD files. As a result it could run only approved software; no rogue programs could be installed on the machine.

At least, that was the theory.

Wallace pulled the keyboard to him, opened the primitive text editor that came pre-installed with the operating system, and typed in a short program:

-

Wallace examined the program, running through its steps in his head and making sure the logic was sound. He gave a grunt of satisfaction, then glanced once again at the X-ray image.

Each screen pixel of the image occupied a single byte in the jpeg file on the disc. His short but powerful program would strip out the two least significant bits from each byte, convert them from numbers to their ASCII equivalent, then display the resulting letters on the screen.

Quickly, he compiled and ran the program. A new window opened on his monitor, but it did not contain the X-ray image this time. Instead, a text message appeared.

REQUEST DELAY ON MAKING 2ND BREACH ATTEMPT PENDING NEW DEVELOPMENTS IN CLASSIFIED SECTION

He read, then reread the message, lips pursed.

With computers, it was possible to hide secret messages almost anywhere: in the background hiss of recorded music or the grainy texture of a digital photograph. Wallace was using the ancient spy technique of steganographyhiding secret information where it wouldnt be noticed instead of encrypting it and bringing it into the digital age.

He cleared the screen, erased the program, and placed the disc back in the envelope. The entire process had taken less than five minutes.

Back in the science labs sixty seconds later, a radiologist looked up as an envelope was quietly slipped onto his desk.

Oh, yes, Ive been waiting for this X-ray, the radiologist said. Thank you, Wallace.

Wallace simply smiled in reply.

Chapter 23

Passing through the Barrier into the restricted section of the Facility was much less traumatic the second time: with the newly minted ID card clipped to his breast pocket and a near-silent Admiral Spartan at his side, the process took just a few minutes. The MPs guarding the airlock stepped back smartly; the two made the brief descent to deck 6; the hatch sprang open onto a narrow corridor. Spartan stepped out and Crane followed.

The last time he had been down here, hed been running to a floridly psychotic Randall Waite, and hed had little time to notice anything. This time, Crane looked curiously around. Yet as they passed through the corridors the only outward indication they were inside the classified area was the abundance of warning signs on the pearlescent walls, the marines that seemed to be posted everywhere and the heavy rubber seals around all the door frames.

Spartan led the way to a waiting elevator, ushered Crane inside. Unlike the elevators in the upper floors, the control panel here had buttons for only decks 1 through 6. Spartan pressed the button labeled 2 and they began to descend.

You still havent told me, Crane said, breaking the silence.

There are a lot of things I havent told you, Spartan said without looking at him. Which one are you referring to, exactly?

Why you changed your mind.

Spartan considered this. Then he turned and gazed impassively at Crane. You know Ive read your dossier, right?

Asher said as much.

The captain of the USS Spectre was most impressed with your conduct. He said you single-handedly saved the sub.

Captain Naseby likes to exaggerate.

I have to say, Dr. Crane, Im a little unclear on what you did.

The mission was classified. I cant speak about it, sir.

Spartan gave a mirthless chuckle. I know all about the mission. It was to provide firsthand intel on the construction of a uranium enrichment plant on the shores of the Yellow Sea. And, if necessary, destroy it with a dirty torpedo in such a way as to make it look like an accidental explosion.

Crane looked at Spartan in surprise. Then he realized the government probably had very few secrets from the military leader of something as classified as the Facility.

I didnt mean the mission, Spartan continued. I meant, Im unclear as to your role in saving the vessel.

Crane was silent a moment, remembering. Crewmen began to die, he began, in a particularly horrible way. Their sinuses were eaten away, and their brains turned to a kind of furry jelly. It happened in a matter of hours. Two dozen died on the first day alone. We were operating under a communications blackout, couldnt leave our patrol. There was panic on board, talk of sabotage, of poison gas. When a dozen more died overnight, chaos resulted. There was a breakdown in the chain of command, incipient mutiny. Lynch mobs began roaming the sub, looking for the traitor.

And your role?

I realized that what everyone assumed to be the effect of some kind of poisonous gas might instead be mucormycosis.

Im sorry?

A rare but deadly fungal disease. I was able to cobble together the necessary materials to test tissue from the dead crew members, and I found their bodies were riddled with Rhizopus oryzae, the fungus responsible.

And thats what was killing the crew of the Spectre.

Yes. A particularly noxious variant of the fungus had incubated in the bilges of the sub.

How did you stop its spread?

I medicated the rest of the crew. Brought them into a state of controlled alkalosis that the spores could not tolerate.

And saved the ship.

Crane smiled. Like I said, Admiral. Captain Naseby likes to exaggerate.

It doesnt appear to be exaggeration. You kept your head, found the cause, then worked with the materials at hand to effect a solution.

The elevator doors whispered open and they stepped out. What does that have to do with our current problem? Crane asked.

Lets not be disingenuous, Dr. Crane. The parallels are numerous, and you can see them as well as I. Spartan walked briskly to an intersection, turned down another corridor. Ive been monitoring your progress, Doctor. And Ive decided it would be prudent to afford you another level of trust.

Thats the reason youve given me classified access, Crane said. Itll help me crack this more quickly.

The reason, as you say, lies beyond that door. And Spartan pointed to a hatchway at the end of the corridor, flanked by the omnipresent marines.

At a gesture from the admiral, one of the marines cranked open the hatchway and pulled it wide. Crane began to move forward, then stopped again. Beyond the hatch lay a well of blackness.

Spartan stepped through the hatch, then glanced back. Coming?

Crane ducked through the dark hatchway. He looked around in astonishment.

They were in a long, narrow observation chamber, overlooking a vast equipment hangar that stretched beneath them. Technicians sat in two long lines on either side of Crane, monitoring banks of terminals. There was a beeping of electronics, the clatter of keys, the murmur of hushed voices. Beyond the glass wall of the observation chamber, down on the hangar deck, other technicians in white coats scurried around, pushing equipment or making notations on palmtop computers. But Crane ignored all this. His eyes were focused on the thing suspended by incredibly heavy cable, just over the floor of the hangar.

It was a sphere of metal titanium, perhaps, or something even more precious roughly ten feet in diameter. It was polished to a mirror finish, so bright it shone like a second sun within the confines of the bay, and Crane could only look at it through squinted eyes. It appeared to be absolutely round. The only blemish on its surface was a tiny forest of sensors, lights, and robotic equipment that hung from its underside like moss on a ships hull. Two other identical metal spheres sat in cushioned and reinforced berths against a far wall.

What is that? he asked in a whisper.

That, Dr. Crane, is the Marble. Its what everything else hereeverything else works in support of.

Is that what is doing the digging?

No. A double-shielded tunnel-boring machine, depth modified, does that. The Marbles current job is to follow the boring machine, shoring up the fresh sections of shaft with steel bands. Later when the shaft is complete the Marbles job will shift to exploration and, ah, recovery.

Is it autonomous?

No. There is no way all its functions can be automated. It has revolving crews of three.

Crews? I dont see any hatch.

Admiral Spartan gave a dry bark that might have been a laugh. At the depths we are working, Doctor, there can be no hatch. Because of the pressure, the Marble must be perfectly round it cant depart from the spherical in any way.

So how do you get the crew in and out?

Once the crew is inside, the skin of the Marble is welded shut, then the weld is polished to a mirror finish.

Crane whistled.

Yes. Thats why each shift is twenty-four hours: entry and exit is so time-consuming. Luckily, as you can see, we have two backups, so while one is at work another can be prepped and resupplied. That way, work can continue around the clock.

They lapsed into silence. Crane found himself unable to take his eyes from the brilliantly shining sphere. It was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Even so, it was hard to imagine three people crammed into such a tight space. He noticed a nearby viewscreen, showing a grainy image of the technicians hovering around the Marble: apparently, it was a video feed from inside the Marble itself.