Deep Storm

by Lincoln Child

  Korolis had seen it all before. His good eye took everything in, while the other drifted away in a myopic haze. He closed the door quietly behind him and stepped forward.

  The admiral was standing in the middle of the office, his back to Korolis. At the sound, he turned. And now Korolis stopped in surprise. Because he now saw, over Spartan’s shoulder, one of the sentinels their excavation had uncovered. It hovered placidly in the center of the room, white light pointing toward the ductwork on the metal ceiling. The admiral had apparently been studying it.

  Korolis reflected that perhaps he should not be surprised, after all. The admiral had been behaving a little out of character the last day or two. Normally, Spartan took his recommendations almost automatically, without question. But recently the admiral had been overriding his suggestions, almost taking him to task on certain issues. Like that business about putting Ping in the brig, for example. His change in behavior seemed to date from the time of that business with Marble One. Or perhaps the admiral, too, was being affected by…

  But Korolis decided not to follow that thought to its logical conclusion.

  Spartan nodded at Korolis. “Have a seat.”

  Korolis walked past the sentinel without giving it another look and seated himself at one of two chairs before the admiral’s large desk. Spartan walked around the far side of the desk and settled himself slowly into his leather armchair.

  “Everything is proceeding according to schedule,” Korolis said. “In fact, far ahead of schedule. With the retasked procedures in place, there have been no further, ah, glitches. It’s true that operating in manual mode, with checksums on vital processes, has slowed the digging somewhat, but this has been more than offset by the lack of xenoliths in the sediment, and—”

  Spartan raised a hand, stopping Korolis in mid-sentence. “That will do, Commander.”

  Korolis felt another faint stirring of surprise. He had assumed the admiral had summoned him, as usual, for a progress report. To hide his discomfiture he picked a paperweight from the desk—a large metal cleat, a relic from the Revolutionary War frigate Vigilant—and turned it over in his hands.

  There was a brief silence in which Spartan brushed back his gunmetal-gray hair with a heavy hand. “When is Marble Two due back from the digging interface?”

  “ETA is ten hundred hours.” Korolis replaced the cleat, checked his watch. “Fifty minutes from now.”

  “Have the recovery unit do the normal post-op. Then have Marble Two secured. And tell the Marble Three team to stand down until further orders.”

  Korolis frowned. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly, sir. Have Marble Three stand down?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Stand down for how long?”

  “I can’t answer that yet.”

  “What’s happened? Have you received some word from the Pentagon?”

  “No.”

  Korolis licked his lips. “Begging your pardon, sir, but if I’m to have the men call off the dig, I’d appreciate an explanation.”

  Spartan seemed to consider this request. “Dr. Crane has been to see me.”

  “Crane, sir?”

  “He believes he’s found the cause of the medical problems.”

  “And?”

  “It has to do with the emission signals from the anomaly. He’s preparing a report; we’ll get the details then.”

  Korolis paused. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Even if Crane’s right, what does the source of the illnesses have to do with the dig?”

  “In the course of his research, he’s made another discovery. A translation of the alien signals.”

  “A translation,” Korolis repeated.

  “He believes them to be a warning.”

  “Asher believed the same thing. Crane always was his errand boy. They never had any proof.”

  Spartan looked at Korolis appraisingly for a moment. “They may have some now. And it’s funny you should mention Asher. As it turns out, it was the data on his laptop that fueled Crane’s discovery.”

  “That’s impossible!” The words were out before Korolis could stop himself.

  “Indeed?” Spartan’s tone grew milder, almost gentle. “And why is that?”

  “Because…because of the fire damage it sustained. The computer couldn’t possibly function.”

  “It turns out it wasn’t just the fire. According to Crane, somebody demagnetized the hard drive, as well.” The appraising look remained on the admiral’s face. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “Of course not. Anyway, it doesn’t seem possible Crane could have pulled any data from that hard disk. The laptop was burnt, destroyed.”

  “Crane had help.”

  “From who?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  “It sounds like a lot of crap to me. How do you know he isn’t just making it all up?”

  “If that was his intention, he wouldn’t have waited this long to tell me. Besides, I’m not sure why he’d do that. And in any case his findings appear to have a troubling degree of consistency.”

  Korolis realized he was breathing quickly. He felt an unpleasant chill shudder through him; a moment later, it was followed by a sensation of intense warmth. Sweat popped out on his forehead.

  He sat forward in his chair. “Sir,” he said. “I must ask you to rethink this decision. We’re only one or two dive sessions away from the Moho.”

  “All the more reason to be cautious, Commander.”

  “Sir, we’re so close. We can’t stop.”

  “You saw what happened to Marble One. It’s taken us eighteen months to get where we are; I don’t want to put all that progress in jeopardy. Another day or two will make little difference.”

  “Every hour makes a difference. Who knows what foreign governments might be plotting against us? We have to get down there, harvest what we can, as quickly as we can. Before that saboteur tries again.”

  “I will not have this entire project imperiled by rash or impetuous actions.”

  “Sir!” Korolis shouted.

  “Commander!” Spartan raised his voice only slightly, but the effect was startling. Korolis forced himself into silence, his breath still faster now, and shallow.

  Spartan was staring at him again.

  “You don’t look very well,” the admiral said evenly. “I’m forced to wonder if perhaps the illness that’s spread throughout the Facility isn’t affecting you as well.”

  At this speculation—so ironically close to his own, earlier diagnosis of Spartan—Korolis felt a surge of real anger. He hadn’t mentioned the recent and worsening headaches to anyone; they were just due to tension, he was sure of that. He gripped the arms of his chair with something close to ferocity.

  “Believe me, I’m as eager to reach the anomaly as you are,” Spartan continued. “But we brought Dr. Crane down here for a reason. I helped pick him. And now I have no choice but to pay attention to his findings. I’m going to assemble a team of our top military scientists to review his conclusions. We can proceed from there. Meanwhile, I want you to report to Dr. Bishop for a full—”

  With a sudden move that was half instinct, half unconscious, Korolis leapt out of his chair, scooped the heavy cleat from the desk, and dashed it against Spartan’s temple. The admiral went gray; his eyes rolled back to unbroken white; and he slumped out of his chair, falling heavily to the floor.

  Korolis stood over him, breathing hard, for close to a minute. Then, his calm returning, he placed the cleat back on the desk, smoothed down his shirt front. He glanced at the phone, paused briefly to collect his thoughts, then picked up the receiver and punched in a number.

  It was answered on the second ring. “Woburn.”

  “Chief.”

  “Sir!” Korolis could almost hear the black ops leader snapping to attention.

  “Admiral Spartan has become mentally incompetent. He is no longer himself. I am therefore assuming command. Please have a watch set outside his quar
ters.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And meet me in the Drilling Complex, on the double.”

  47

  Roger Corbett was in his office, making notes on the patient who had just come in complaining of panic attacks and agoraphobia, when the phone rang. He put his digital notepad and stylus aside and picked up the handset.

  “Dr. Corbett,” he said.

  “Roger? It’s Peter Crane.”

  “Hi, Peter. Let me guess—my snores have been filtering through our shared bathroom, right?”

  It had been meant as a bit of levity, but somehow Crane didn’t sound interested in small talk. “I’ve been waiting to hear from Michele. Any idea where she is?”

  “No. I haven’t seen her for some time.”

  “She was supposed to get back to me forty-five minutes ago. I’ve tried her mobile, but she isn’t picking up. I’m a little concerned.”

  “I’ll see if I can’t track her down. Anything I can help with?”

  There was a pause. “No thanks, Roger. Just see if you can locate Michele, please.”

  “Will do.” Corbett replaced the phone, then stood up, stepped out of his office, and walked down the hall.

  In the reception area, four people were waiting. This in itself was very unusual—Bishop ran a tight, efficient ship, and normally there was never more than one patient waiting to be seen. Corbett stepped into the nurse’s station. His psychiatric intern—a gravely serious young man named Bryce—was seated beside the receiving nurse, filling out a supplies request form.

  “Any idea where Dr. Bishop is?” Corbett asked.

  Bryce shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “She stepped out over an hour ago,” the nurse offered.

  Corbett turned to her. “Did she say where she was going?”

  “No, Doctor.”

  Corbett stared out at the reception area. Then he retreated back down the hall to his office. He brought up the internal directory on his digital notepad, looked up an extension, picked up the phone, and dialed.

  “Monitoring Services, Wolverton,” came a gruff voice.

  “This is Dr. Corbett in the Medical Suite. I need you to run a trace on Michele Bishop.”

  “Can I have your passphrase, Doctor?”

  Corbett gave it. The faint sound of keystrokes filtered over the phone. Then Wolverton spoke again. “She’s currently in the Environmental Control spaces, deck eight.”

  “Environmental Control?” Corbett wondered aloud.

  “Is there anything else, Doctor?”

  “That will be all, thanks.” Slowly, thoughtfully, Corbett hung up the phone. Then he picked up his mobile and—stopping just long enough in reception to tell Bryce he was temporarily in charge—left the Medical Suite.

  Environmental Control was a large, essentially unmanned warren of dimly lit compartments in a far corner of deck 8. It was filled with furnaces, compressors, humidification systems, electrostatic precipitators, and other devices designed to make the air on board the Facility as comfortable and germ free as possible. Although the floors and walls hummed with the spinning of a dozen turbines, there was remarkably little noise. The watchful, listening silence felt oppressive to Corbett. He opened his mouth to call Bishop’s name, but something about that silence made him reconsider. He moved quietly through the first compartment, into a second, and then into a third.

  This last space was full of massive air ducts and steel-encased “filter farms” that rose from floor to ceiling. It was even darker than the previous two compartments, and Corbett threaded his way slowly between the ducts, looking from one side to the other. Had Bishop already left? Perhaps the tech in Monitoring had been mistaken and she’d never been here. It seemed a highly unlikely spot, and…

  Suddenly, Corbett caught sight of her. She was kneeling before a bulkhead at the far end of the room, back to him, utterly absorbed in something. For a brief moment he thought she must be administering CPR; but then, squinting through the dim light, he realized what he’d thought was a body was actually an oversized black duffel bag. He took a step closer. Strange: her elbows were rocking back and forth as if she were, in fact, performing cardiac massage. Corbett frowned, perplexed. Judging by the faint grunts of effort, whatever she was up to took some doing.

  Corbett took another step forward. Now he could see over her shoulder. She was kneading a long, claylike brick, stretching it out into a thick, off-white rope about two feet long.

  Two other such ropes had already been pressed against the steel bulkhead in front of her.

  Before he could stop himself, Corbett drew in a sharp breath. Instantly, Bishop dropped the puttylike brick and jumped to her feet, whirling to face him.

  “You’re the saboteur,” Corbett said, obviously. “The one who tried to rupture the dome.”

  Her nostrils flared, but she said nothing.

  Corbett knew he should do something—run, call for help—but he felt dazed, even paralyzed, by shock. “What is that?” he asked. “Semtex?”

  Still Bishop said nothing.

  Corbett’s mind reeled. It’s true that, despite working with her for months, he really knew very little about Michele Bishop. Even so, it seemed impossible. It can’t be, it can’t be. Maybe there’s some mistake.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  At this, she finally spoke. “I should think that would be obvious. The southern pressure spoke is just on the other side of this bulkhead.”

  Somehow, hearing her speak—hearing this affirmation of treachery from her own lips—broke Corbett’s mental logjam. “The pressure spokes are full of seawater,” he said. “You’re going to rupture the hull. Flood the Facility.”

  He took a step backward.

  “Stay where you are.” Something in her voice made Corbett freeze.

  “Why are you doing this?” As he spoke, he put his hands behind his back as casually as possible.

  Bishop didn’t reply. She seemed to be debating her next move.

  Slowly, stealthily, Corbett slipped his cell phone out of his back pocket. He opened it as quietly as possible, then dialed 1231 with the edge of his thumb. It was the extension of his intern, Bryce: a number that could be entered quickly and easily, without looking. He fumbled for the mute switch; not finding it, he moved his thumb over the cell phone’s speaker, muffling it.

  “We don’t have any Composition-4 on this side of the Barrier,” he said. “How’d you get it?”

  Any indecisiveness had now left Bishop’s face. She laughed mirthlessly at the question. “A lot of medical by-products get transported back and forth in the Tub. You know that. The guards aren’t too eager to paw through a lot of red-bag waste. It’s possible to get all sorts of things through that way. Such as this.” And she dipped her hand into a pocket of the lab coat and pulled out a gun.

  Corbett, still numb with surprise, looked at the gun with something like detachment. It was an ugly little weapon with an unusual glossy texture and a silencer snugged onto the barrel. He was about to ask how she’d gotten it through the metal detectors, but the glossy look provided an answer: it was a ceramic-polymer composite, expensive and illegal.

  “If you flood the Facility, you’ll die too,” he said.

  “I’m setting the detonators for ten minutes. By that time I’ll be on deck twelve, headed for the escape pod.”

  He shook his head. “Michele, don’t. Don’t betray your country like this. I don’t know what country you’re working for, but it isn’t worth it. This isn’t the way.”

  Bishop’s face abruptly darkened. “What makes you think I’m working for a foreign government?” she asked fiercely. “What makes you think I’m working for a government at all?”

  “I—” Corbett began, then stopped, taken aback by this sudden outburst.

  “The United States can’t be allowed to get its hands on what’s down there. America has already shown, time and time again, how it abuses the power it’s given. We got the atomic bomb, and what did we d
o? Within six months we’d nuked two cities.”

  “You can’t compare that to—”

  “What do you think America will do with the technology that’s down there? America can’t be trusted with that kind of power.”

  “Technology?” Corbett asked, genuinely confused. “What technology are we talking about?”

  As quickly as the outburst began, it ended. Bishop didn’t answer, simply shaking her head angrily.

  Into the silence came the squawk of a male voice.

  Now for the first time Corbett felt real fear grip his vitals. In the heated exchange he’d forgotten to keep his thumb pressed over the cell phone’s speaker.

  Bishop’s expression hardened further. “Let me see your hands.”

  Slowly, Corbett raised his hands. The cell phone was in his right.

  “You…!” With a sudden movement, fast as a striking snake, Bishop pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger.

  There was a puff of smoke; a sound remarkably like a sneeze; and then a terrible burning sensation exploded in Corbett’s chest. A massive force threw him backward against a ventilator housing. He sank to the floor, wheezing and gargling. Just before an irresistible blackness enveloped him, he saw—dimly—Bishop stomp brutally on the cell phone, then kneel again and continue molding the brick of plastique against the outer bulkhead as rapidly as possible.

  48

  Crane stepped into the elevator, pressed the button labeled 1. Even before the doors had slid shut he was pacing restlessly.

  What was taking Michele Bishop so long?

  He’d spoken with her more than ninety minutes before. She’d said it would take no longer than half an hour to assemble the scientists.

  Had something gone wrong?

  At last he’d grown tired of cooling his heels in the temporary infirmary and decided to take one more crack at convincing Admiral Spartan. He had to try; the stakes were too high for him not to try. And anything—even an argument—beat sitting around.

  As the elevator doors opened again, something occurred to him. He stepped out, plucked his cell phone from his pocket, dialed Central Services.