Deep Storm (39 page)

The complex was bustling. Crane paused just inside the entrance, looking around. Marines and black ops agents were stationed in strategic locations. Technicians and maintenance crews moved briskly about the crowded hangar. The greatest concentration of activity was at the center, where one of the two remaining Marbles hung from its robotic clamp. The laser scaffold stood nearby.

Loudspeakers in the corners of the ceiling coughed static. Attention, came a clipped voice. Marble Three descent initiating in ten minutes. Dive control officers, report to your stations.

Crane took a deep breath. Then he began walking toward the Marble, where the three-person crew wearing distinctive white jumpsuits were surrounded by technicians. If Spartan wasnt nearby, he knew, at least somebody could point him in the right direction.

As he approached, one of the crew members turned to look at him. Crane stopped in surprise. Above the white jumpsuit, he recognized the lined face and unruly white hair of Dr. Flyte.

Seeing him, Flytes eyes widened. He separated himself from the group and walked over to Crane.

Dr. Flyte, Crane said. Why are you wearing a uniform?

Flyte looked back at him. His delicate, birdlike features seemed drawn and nervous. I do not wish to wear it oh, no! My job is to repair the arm, improve the arm, teach others of its mysteries not to wield it myself. But he would insist. The Olympian is a difficult foe to oppose. He glanced over his shoulder furtively, lowered his voice. I have to be here, but you dont. You must leave. Its as I told you: everything is broken.

I need to find Crane began. Then he fell silent abruptly. Because somebody else was approaching: Commander Korolis. With fresh surprise, Crane saw he, too, was wearing the white jumpsuit of the Marble crew.

Get back to the Marble, Korolis told the old man. Then he turned his pale, exotrophic eyes to Crane. What are you doing here? he said.

Im looking for Admiral Spartan.

Hes unavailable. Korolis had dispensed with his earlier, hypocritical veneer of civility. Now his tone, his expression, his very manner, exuded hostility and suspicion.

I need to speak with him.

Impossible, Korolis snapped.

Why is that, Commander?

Hes had a breakdown. Ive assumed command.

A breakdown? Could this be what was keeping Bishop? But as soon as the thought occurred to him, he rejected it. If the head of the Facility had suffered some kind of seizure or collapse, Corbett, or one of the medical interns, or Bishop herself would have told him.

And that meant only one thing: none of the medical staff had been notified.

Alarm bells went off in Cranes head. Suddenly he realized just how precarious his present position had become.

Attention, came the voice from the loudspeaker. Crew insertion now commencing. Sealant team, prepare to restore and verify hull integrity.

Dont do it, Crane heard himself say.

Korolis frowned. Dont do what? His eyes were red rimmed, and his voice, normally soft, was loud and breathless.

Dont make the dive.

Sir! a worker from a monitoring station called out to Korolis.

The commander turned toward him. What is it?

Theres someone who needs to speak with you. Bryce, an intern in the Medical Suite.

Tell him Im busy.

Sir, he says its of the utmost importance

That and here Korolis shot out an arm, pointing it daggerlike at Marble Threeis the only important thing at the moment.

Very good, sir. The man hung up the phone, returned to his instruments.

Korolis turned back to Crane. And why shouldnt I make the dive?

Its too dangerous. Its a fools errand.

Korolis took a step closer. Beads of sweat were visible on his forehead and temples. I heard about your little theory. You know what I think, Doctor? I think youre the one thats dangerous. A danger to morale. A danger to this very mission.

He stared at Crane a moment longer. Then, abruptly, he wheeled toward a brace of marines. Hoskins! Menendez!

They shot to attention. Sir!

Korolis jerked a thumb at Crane. This man is under military arrest. Once the Marble is safely launched and the all clear is sounded, take him to the brig and post an armed guard outside his cell.

And before Crane could protest, the commander walked back to Marble Three, where an unhappy-looking Dr. Flyte and his fellow crew member were already slipping into its silvery maw.

Chapter 49

Roger Corbett lay in a spreading pool of his own warm blood, wrapped in a fog of pain. At times it seemed he was dreaming; at others, as if he were already dead, floating in some limitless dark oblivion. Thoughts, feelings, associations drifted in and out, seemingly without his ability to control them. A minute might have passed, or ten; he didnt know. There was only one thing he was certain of: he could not let the crouching figure with the gun realize he was still alive.

The pain was intense now, but pain was good: it helped him fight against the terrible lassitude that kept trying to drag him down forever.

As he lay there, he felt a pang of regret. His three oclock appointment would be waiting for him. She was probably there now, tapping her foot and glancing at her watch. Shed been making such progress in anger management it seemed a pity that

Then the faintness returned, washing over him, and he surrendered to dark dreams. In them, he was a diver who had swum too deep. And now the surface was a mere smudge of faint light far, far above, and his lungs were already bursting as he kicked his way upward, swimming as fast as he could, yet with so very much farther to go

He forced himself back to consciousness. The figure in the corner was done.

She rose in the darkness and turned toward him, her eyes shining faintly with the light from the adjoining chamber. Corbett held his breath and lay motionless, his own eyes mere slits. Leaving the duffel where it lay, she took a step toward him, then another. Then she stopped once again. There was a dull gleam as the barrel of her gun rose toward him.

Suddenly she turned sharply. A moment later, Corbett heard it, too: voices, sounding faintly over the whine of compressors.

Others two at least, maybe more must have entered the first compartment of Environmental Control. Sudden hope brought a measure of clarity back to him, helped steady his flagging senses. His gambit had worked. Bryce was sending help.

The voices came closer.

She stepped over him, gun at the ready, and slid up to the hatch leading to the second chamber. Opening his eyes a little wider, Corbett watched her peer carefully around the corner. The curved line of her hair, the barrel of the gun, were silhouetted by the yellow halo of light. Then she slipped through the hatch into the second chamber, ducked behind a turbine, and was lost from his view.

The voices continued. They no longer seemed to be getting any closer. He guessed they were still in the first compartment, somewhere between Bishop and the main exit from Environmental Control. From the few words he could make out, they sounded like maintenance workers, checking one of the innumerable pieces of equipment.

That meant the cavalry hadnt arrived at least, not yet. Maybe it wasnt going to.

Corbett put out a hand, tried to raise himself to a sitting position, but his hand slipped and skidded on the bloody floor. A spear of pain lanced through his chest, and he bit his upper lip savagely to keep from crying out.

He lay there, breathing shallowly, letting the pain ease somewhat. Then, planting his feet on the metal floor, he pushed himself forward, slowly, toward the far bulkhead.

It was agonizingly slow. One foot, two feet, a yard. Bloody bubbles frothed in the back of his throat. His shirt and coat were sodden with blood and acted like a dragline, slowing him still further. Halfway to the far wall he stopped briefly when faintness threatened to engulf him again. But he could not stop for long; if he did, he knew he would never start again. Once more, he planted his feet, forced himself a few inches at a time across the floor.

Now at last his head bumped against the far wall. With a sob of pain, he forced his gaze upward. Just above were the fat ropes of Semtex, four in all, pressed against the metal bulkhead in parallel lines. Into each had been set a detonator.

Focusing his strength, Corbett lifted an arm, fumbled for the nearest detonator, and plucked it from the shaped charge. Searing pain filled his chest again and he fell back, gasping. He could hear blood dripping from his elbow and wrist onto the bare floor.

From his supine position he examined the detonator. He could dimly make out a battery, a manual timer, two thin plates of metal separated by foil, a coil of optical fiber. Everything was miniaturized. He knew only a little about explosive ordnance but it looked like a long-period-delay slapper. When the timer went off, the foil would be exploded electrically, and the plates would deliver the initial shock to the charge.

He placed the detonator as gently as possible on the floor. Ten minutes, shed said; he figured he had maybe four or five left.

Three detonators to go.

Marshaling his strength, he lifted his arm again, strained for the next detonator, plucked it free careful not to accidentally readjust its timer and fell heavily back again.

This time the pain was much worse and he almost slipped into unconsciousness. The blood boiled in his throat and he choked and coughed. A minute passed while he recovered enough strength to continue.

The third shaped charge was out of reach. Digging in his heels once again, he pushed himself along the floor until he was near. Then he looped his hand upward a third time, pulled the detonator free, swung it back to the floor.

The pain was now so intense he did not think he could move to the fourth. He lay in the darkness, struggling to remain conscious, listening to the low murmur of voices. They seemed to be involved in an endless argument over some bit of engineering trivia.

How much time did he have left? A minute? Two?

He wondered where, exactly, Bishop was. No doubt she was crouched behind some piece of machinery, listening impatiently to the chitchat, waiting for the workers to move on so she could safely escape.

Why hadnt she just shot them? The gun was silenced. There could be only one reason: the hybrid weapon had a small magazine, maybe just two rounds. And she couldnt run past them; that would give the game away. She still had a chance to escape. But not if two more people took up the hue and cry

No. She wouldnt run past them. Shed retreat to the Semtex and readjust the timers on the detonators, buy herself some more time.

He realized hed been too preoccupied with his task, too overwhelmed by pain, to grasp this before. Shed be back and at any moment.

Desperation gave Corbett renewed conviction. With his last reserves of energy he swung his arm up one more time, his hand closing over the fourth and last detonator.

Just as he did so, a shape appeared in the hatchway to the second compartment, silhouetted in deep black relief. Catching sight of him, she gave a muttered curse and leapt inward.

Corbett jerked in surprise and dismay. As he did so, his fingers pinched together involuntarily; there was a crackling sound and a tiny puff of smoke from the detonator a terrible suspension of time that lasted a millisecond, yet that to Corbett seemed to go on and on and on and then, with an unimaginably violent scream, the universe came apart in an apocalypse of fire and steel. And water.

Chapter 50

Outer doors closed, a voice droned over the speaker system. Pressure seal activated. Marble Three in the pipeline. Estimated time to dig interface: nineteen minutes, thirty seconds.

From a far corner, Peter Crane watched in frustrated rage as the huge robotic clamp now empty of its burden swung away from the water lock and back to its resting position. While the Marble was being painstakingly sealed, then lowered through the lock, hed looked around at the Drilling Complex staff, hunting for a sympathetic glance, a furtive nod, anything that might signal a potential accomplice. But there had been none: the engineers, technicians, and support staff were already resuming their normal duties, busying themselves with the familiar motions of a dig session in progress. Nobody seemed to notice he was there.