Deep Storm

by Lincoln Child

  “Check the time and date stamps of the computer files. Figure out what he was doing in the minutes before he called me.”

  “Sure. Let me get a listing of all the files, sorted by date and time.” Hui turned to the computer, opened a search window, and—moving a little more quickly now—typed in a command.

  “Most of the files he was working on were in the ‘decrypt’ folder.” She pointed at the screen. “But for the last fifteen minutes the laptop was operational, it appears Dr. Asher was surfing the Web.”

  “He was?”

  Hui nodded. “I’ll open the browser, bring up the history.” A brief clatter of keystrokes. Crane rubbed his chin, puzzled. We’ll be able to access the WAN wirelessly, Asher had told Marris, just before they entered the hyperbaric chamber. It was certainly possible they had accessed the Internet…but why?

  “Here’s a list of sites they visited,” Hui said. She stepped back to give Crane room.

  He leaned in toward the screen. The list contained a dozen Web sites, most with dry governmental names. “A few sites at the Environmental Protection Agency,” he murmured. “The Nuclear Regulatory Commission. The Ocotillo Mountain Project.”

  “The list is chronological,” Hui said. “The last sites he visited are at the bottom.”

  Crane scanned the remainder of the list. “Department of Energy. The Waste Isolation Pilot Plant. That’s it.”

  He stared at the screen. Then, all of a sudden, he understood.

  “My God,” he breathed. Comprehension burned its way through him.

  “What?” Hui asked.

  He wheeled toward her. “Where is the network port in this lab? I need access to the Internet.”

  Wordlessly, she took a category-5 cable from her tool kit and connected the laptop to the Facility’s WAN. Crane moused to the last entry in the history display, clicked on it. A new browser window opened, displaying a text-heavy official site, topped by a Department of Energy seal and a title in large letters:

  WIPP—Waste Isolation Pilot Plant

  Carlsbad, New Mexico

  “Wipp,” Hui said in a very quiet voice.

  “That’s what Asher meant. Not ‘whip.’”

  “But what is it?”

  “A series of huge caverns, dug within a massive salt formation deep beneath the Chihuahuan Desert in New Mexico. Six million feet of underground storage space. Very remote. It’s going to be the nation’s first disposal facility for transuranic waste.”

  “Transuranic waste?”

  “Nuclear garbage. Radioactive by-products of the cold war and the nuclear arms race. Everything from tools and protective suits to old spacecraft batteries. Right now, the stuff is stored all over the place. But the new plan is to store it all in one central location: far beneath the desert.” He glanced at her. “And Ocotillo Mountain: that’s a heavily guarded site in southeastern California, a geologic depository for spent nuclear fuel and decommissioned weapons of mass destruction.”

  He turned back to the screen. “I attended a medical conference on the dangers of nuclear garbage and deactivated weaponry. Where to dump something so lethal is a huge problem. Hence, repositories like Ocotillo Mountain. But what’s the connection to the Deep Storm project? What was Asher driving at?”

  There was a brief silence.

  “Did he say anything else?” Hui asked. “When he called you, I mean.”

  Crane thought back for a second. “He said it was imperative, absolutely imperative, that we didn’t…and then he stopped.”

  “That we didn’t what? Continue the dig?”

  “I’m not sure. I never stopped to consider.”

  And then—suddenly—Crane understood. And as he did, he felt an almost physically overwhelming mix of triumph and fear.

  “Oh, no,” he breathed.

  “What is it?”

  “The Waste Isolation Pilot Plant? Ocotillo Mountain? That’s what we’re sitting on top of.”

  Hui turned pale. “You don’t mean—”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. All this time, we’ve been positing some benevolent, paternal race that’s planted some wondrous technology deep in the earth for mankind to discover when we’ve become sufficiently advanced to appreciate it. But that’s not it at all. The truth is the Earth has been used as a dumping ground for weapons or toxic waste—unimaginably dangerous toxic waste, too, given how advanced your friends from Cygnus Major are.”

  “That’s what Asher was trying to tell you?”

  “It’s got to be—there’s no other answer. That thing encased below the Moho, the thing Spartan is digging toward right now? It’s a time bomb.”

  He paused a moment, thinking fast now. “That medical conference I mentioned? Finding a place to dump nuclear garbage is only part of the problem. The real problem is that the stuff is going to stay radioactive for longer than recorded history. How are we going to warn somebody, ten thousand years in the future, that they’d better stay away from Carlsbad or Ocotillo Mountain? Civilization as we know it will have been transformed utterly. So the Department of Energy is seeding the sites with what they’re calling ‘passive institutional controls.’”

  “Warning markers.”

  “Exactly. Not just one kind, either, but a wide variety—pictures, symbols, text. To tell our descendants the site has been isolated and sealed off for good reason. There were rumors of active controls, as well.”

  “But how can you be sure what’s below us is dangerous?”

  “Don’t you see? Those sentinels we uncovered as we’ve dug—they’re ‘institutional controls,’ too, in their own way. And those signals they’re sending out are warnings.”

  “They’re just mathematical expressions.”

  “But think what kind of expressions they are. They’re impossible. When Asher first decrypted the message and thought he’d gotten it wrong, you know what he said? ‘Division by zero is forbidden by all the laws of the universe.’ And that’s the key word: forbidden. Every single expression those sentinals are transmitting—zero to the power of zero, the others—they’re all forbidden.”

  “Because whoever did this couldn’t use a warning that was language based.”

  “Precisely. Only mathematical formulas are universal.” He shook his head. “And to think of Flyte, and his talk of irrational numbers. He was more right than he knew. I think.”

  “Who?”

  He gave a soft laugh. “Never mind.”

  Hui thought for a moment. “Why did they start with just one expression—and then begin broadcasting thousands?”

  Crane shrugged. “Maybe they thought that division by zero was the simplest, most basic—that’s why it was so pervasive. Maybe my touch triggered new behavior in the sentinel. Or maybe the fact that we hadn’t stopped digging convinced the devices that we hadn’t taken the hint—that we needed supplements.”

  He turned abruptly, took a step toward the door. All of a sudden, a sense of terrible urgency filled him: with every new minute, the digging brought them closer to an unthinkable oblivion.

  “Where are you going?” Hui asked.

  “You’re looking at one guy who finally has taken the hint.”

  “What about me? Where should I go?”

  “Stay here. It’s as safe as anywhere—probably safer, because it’s already been searched.” He took her hand again, gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be back for you—soon.”

  She took a deep breath. “Okay. Maybe I’ll take another look at that initial transmission. The one Dr. Asher didn’t translate.”

  “Excellent idea,” Crane smiled. Then he stepped up to the lab door, paused to listen, and quickly slipped out into the corridor.

  44

  Admiral Spartan stood silently, looking at Crane. They were standing in a quiet corner of the observation chamber, and the only light came from the long window overlooking the Drilling Complex. The light was not sufficient to betray the expression on the admiral’s face.

  Crane glanced at the tech
nicians and engineers, sitting at their monitoring stations. Then he looked down into the hangar. A crew of workers was prepping one of the remaining two Marbles for its descent. Even from this vantage point, there seemed to be a palpable excitement in the air: it seemed they were now just days, perhaps hours, from reaching the Moho, and any of the next few trips could be the breakthrough dive.

  He returned his gaze to Spartan.

  The admiral seemed to rouse himself from deep contemplation. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Let me get this straight. All the mysterious illnesses, the psychological problems, are the result of a signal?”

  “It’s the same digital signal the sentinels first transmitted via light waves. Except this other signal is transmitted in some way our technology can’t pick up. And it triggers a highly abnormal spiking of theta waves in the brain. See, the brain works on electricity,” Crane explained. “When that electricity misfires, it affects the autonomous nervous system. That in turn can cause nausea, visual field defects, arrhythmia—all the neurological deficits we’ve been seeing. It can also affect the frontal lobe of the brain. And that in turn accounts for the problems with memory and concentration, changes in character, even psychotic episodes.”

  “How can we counteract it? Negate its effects?”

  “The signal? We can’t even track it. The only solution is to avoid it. Stop the dig, get people to the surface, away from the source.”

  Spartan gave a dismissive shake of his head. “And this signal is transmitting a mathematical expression.”

  “Asher decoded several signals. All mathematical expressions, all impossible.”

  “You’re saying they’re a warning of some kind.”

  “The expressions are all forbidden by universal law. What better way to signal danger, when language isn’t an option?”

  “What better way, Doctor? Something more articulate. More direct.”

  Crane thought he heard skepticism in Spartan’s tone. “Whoever planted these objects beneath the Moho—whoever created the sentinels—is clearly far, far more advanced than we are. Who’s to say they aren’t transmitting signals that are, as you say, more articulate—but we just aren’t smart enough yet to intercept them?”

  Spartan pursed his lips. “And we’re the proud owners of an interstellar toxic dump. Or, perhaps, a cache of doomsday weapons from some distant arms race.”

  Crane didn’t answer. The silence lengthened. Over his shoulder, he could hear the distant murmur of conversation, the clicking of keyboards.

  At last, Spartan exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry, Doctor, but it all sounds very circumstantial to me. In fact, I have to wonder whether your own theta waves aren’t beginning to spike. An alien civilization uses Earth as a waste repository, then sends out signals to warn us.”

  “No, not us. They couldn’t care less about us—the violence of the original burial event proves that. We’re insects to them. The civilization that did this probably comes from an environment of methane and sulfuric acid. Oxygen and nitrogen may even be toxic to them. They’re not concerned about us; to them the Earth is a useless planet, and we’re too primitive to deserve consideration. It’s only a freakish chance we discovered their message in the first place. They’re concerned about civilizations far more advanced. They’re warning them to stay away from Earth.”

  Spartan did not reply.

  After a moment, Crane sighed. “You’re right. It is circumstantial. There’s no way to conclusively prove what’s down there without penetrating the Moho. But that’s like saying a grenade is circumstantial until you pull the pin.”

  Still, Spartan did not respond.

  “Look,” Crane went on, hearing the urgency in his own voice. “I don’t know what’s down there exactly—I only know that it’s unimaginably dangerous. Is it worth jeopardizing the Earth to find out what’s down there? Because the stakes might be at least that high.”

  At last, Spartan roused himself. “And you’re convinced of that?”

  “I’d bet my life on it.”

  “And this deliberate erasing of Asher’s hard drive—are you sure of that, as well?”

  Crane nodded.

  “Your talents seem to extend beyond the medical profession. Did you resurrect the data yourself?”

  Crane hesitated. “I had assistance.”

  “I see.” Admiral Spartan looked back at him, expression still unreadable. “Would you know where Hui Ping is?”

  Crane kept his tone neutral. “No idea.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Doctor.”

  Crane blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You may go. I’m rather busy at the moment.”

  “But everything I’ve said—”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  Crane looked at Spartan in disbelief. “You’ll consider it? Another dive, maybe two, and it’ll be too late to consider anything.” He paused. “Admiral, there’s more at stake here than your mission, than what’s down at the bottom of that shaft. There’s also the lives of everyone on board this Facility. You have a duty, a responsibility, to them as well. Even if there’s only a remote chance that I’m right, you owe it to them to examine my findings, the report I’m preparing. Because the risk is simply too great to do otherwise.”

  “You’re dismissed, Dr. Crane.”

  “I’ve done my job—I’ve solved the mystery. Now you do yours! Stop this fool’s task, save this Facility, or I’ll—”

  Dimly, Crane became aware that he was raising his voice, and heads were turning. He abruptly fell silent.

  “Or you’ll what?” Spartan asked.

  Crane did not reply.

  “I’m glad to hear you’ve done your job. Now I suggest you leave the Drilling Complex on your own accord, Doctor. Before I have an armed detail escort you out.”

  For a moment, Crane stood where he was, rooted in place by anger and disbelief. Then, without another word, he spun on his heel and exited the observation chamber.

  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, t
ell 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.

  46

  By Facility standards, Admiral Spartan’s quarters on deck 11 were relatively commodious. The fact they were so sparsely furnished made them appear even larger. The suite of rooms—office, bedroom, conference area—were dressed in a rigidly militaristic style. Instead of paintings, the walls were decorated with commendations. An American flag hung limply beside the brilliantly polished desk. The single bookshelf behind it held numerous Navy manuals and treatises on strategy and tactics. In addition—the only evident window into Spartan’s private soul—it also held half a dozen translations of ancient texts: the Annals and Histories of Tacitus, the Strategikon of Emperor Maurice, Thucydides’ account of the Peloponnesian war.