Deep Storm (16 page)

Sir, the marine was saying, please step out. This hatchway cannot remain open.

Sorry. And Crane hastily withdrew his other foot from the threshold. The two marines pulled the heavy hatch shut. From within came the rasp of bolts being fixed into place.

Still clinging to the railing, Crane looked around. Some distance ahead of him, and just barely visible in the faint light, rose a curved metal wall: the outer dome. Sodium lights were set into it at regular but distant intervals, providing the weak illumination. Looking upward, he followed the domes rising curve to its apex, directly above the Facility. Metal tubes rose from the Facility roof to the underside of the dome: these, he assumed, were the airlocks that provided access to the bathyscaphes and the escape pod.

His gaze fell from the dome to the accessway on which he stood. It widened ahead of him, becoming a gentle ramp that spanned the deep gulf between the Facility and the dome. The rest of the group was already heading up it, toward a large platform fixed to the wall of the dome. He took a deep breath, then let go of the railing and began to follow.

The air was far chillier here, and the bilge smell more pronounced. As he walked, his feet clattered against the metal grid of the catwalk, echoing dully in the vast space. For a moment, he had a mental picture of where he was at the bottom of the sea, walking on a narrow bridge between a twelve-story metal box and the dome that surrounded it, empty space between him and the sea bed below but found it unsettling and tried to push it away. Instead, he focused on catching up to the group, which had by now almost reached the platform.

Conrad was behind Renault and the two kitchen staffers, and Crane trotted up beside him. And here I thought Receiving would be some nice little room, he said, with a television, maybe, and magazines on the tables.

Conrad laughed. Takes some getting used to, doesnt it?

You could say that. I had no idea the space between the Facility and the dome was pressurized. I figured it was filled with water.

The Facility wasnt constructed to operate at such a depth. At this pressure, it wouldnt last a minute on its own. The dome protects us. Somebody told me they work together, like the double hull of a submarine or something. I dont really understand it, to tell you the truth.

Crane nodded. The concept did make perfect sense. In some ways, it was like a submarine, with its inner pressure hull, outer hull, and ballast tanks between.

I noticed a series of rungs on the outside of the Facility. What on earth are those for?

Like I said, it was built for much shallower water, where a protective dome wouldnt be necessary. I think those rungs were meant for divers to use when moving up or down the sides of the Facility, making repairs and such.

Glancing back, Crane noticed two large, tube-like struts that led, horizontally, from opposite ends of the dome to the Facility, at a point just slightly above its center. These, he realized, were what Asher had called pressure spokes tubes open to the sea that were yet another device to compensate somehow for the massive pressure. From this distance, they did sort of resemble two spokes of a wheel. But to Crane, they looked more like a rotisserie spit onto which the Facility had been impaled. Compensation or not, he didnt like having the sea that close to the box inside which he was living.

They had now reached the platform at the end of the ramp. It was about twenty feet square and fastened securely to the domes inner wall. An airlock hatch stood at one side, immensely thick, guarded by still more marines. This hatch, Crane felt sure, led to the deep ocean outside the dome. No doubt the Tub would dock itself here, and the supplies brought in through this airlock.

There were a dozen or so people waiting on the platform already: technicians in lab coats, maintenance workers in jumpsuits. Most had brought containers of various sizes. The maintenance crew had the largest ones: black plastic wheeled containers so bulky it must be difficult to fit them through hatchways. Crane guessed these contained waste material being sent back up to the surface.

Beside the hatch stood a control panel manned by a tall and very attractive woman in military garb. As Crane watched, she tapped a few keys, peered at a tiny display. Incoming at T minus two minutes, she said over her shoulder.

There were a few impatient sighs from the group. Late again, somebody murmured.

Cranes vertigo had now receded. His eye moved from the woman at the station to the skin of the dome itself. Its curve was gentle and perfect, designed for maximum strength, oddly pleasing to the eye. Amazing to think of the terrific pressure it was under, the almost inconceivable burden of water that pressed down upon it. It was something that, as a submariner, hed learned not to dwell on. Unconsciously, he stretched forward a hand and briefly caressed the domes surface. It was dry, smooth, and cold.

Renault, the executive chef, looked at his watch impatiently. Then he turned to Crane. So, Doctor, he said, with something like satisfaction, the Tub arrives. My men here retrieve the foodstuffs. Conrad does a checklist to make sure nothing was forgotten. All under my supervision. Satisfactory?

Yes, Crane replied.

Incoming at T minus one minute, the woman called out.

Renault drew a bit closer. You had other questions? he asked. And he glanced again at his watch as if to say, Ask now, while Im wasting valuable time anyway.

Has anybody else on your staff complained of health problems recently?

My saucier has a sinus infection. But that hasnt prevented him from reporting to work.

Crane had expected this reply. Now that hed satisfied himself on food handling, he was eager to get to work on the heavy metal possibility. His eyes began to rove: over the assembled crowd, to the attractive woman at the monitoring station, to an electrical bulkhead beside her. Drops of condensation dripped slowly from the underside of the bulkhead. He was half tempted to say good-bye and head back down the walkway to the Facility hatch only he felt pretty sure hed need Renault, and his paperwork, to get back inside.

There was a thud on the far side of the dome, and the platform trembled slightly: the Tub had docked. People began to move around, preparing for the airlock to be opened.

Docking successful, said the woman. Initiating hatchway decompression.

What about behavior patterns? Crane asked the chef. Has anybody behaved in an uncharacteristic or unusual manner?

Renault frowned. Unusual? In what way unusual?

Crane didnt reply. His wandering eye had returned to the bulkhead, where the condensation was dripping more quickly now. Odd, he thought. Now, why would condensation be

There was a strange, high-pitched sound almost like the spitting of a cat, so brief Crane wasnt sure hed heard it. And then, quite suddenly, a jet of water no wider than the point of a pin appeared at the spot where the drip had been. For a moment, Crane simply stared in disbelief. The jet was perfectly horizontal, like the beam of a laser, hissing and boiling, and it arrowed straight inward for at least a hundred feet, almost reaching the Facility itself before gravity began pulling it downward in a gradual arc.

There was a moment of stasis. And then came the whoop of a klaxon, the shriek of alarms. Perimeter breach! an electronic voice boomed through the echoing space. Perimeter breach! This is an emergency!

There was a cry of surprise from the people on the platform. The uniformed woman grabbed her radio, spoke into it quickly. This is Waybright at Tub Control. Weve got a pinhole perforation in the control conduit. Repeat, its here, the breach is here! Send in a containment crew on the double!

Someone screamed, and the crowd drew back to the edges of the platform. A couple of people began edging back down the walkway toward the Facility.

Its gonna widen! somebody cried.

We cant wait for the team! said Conrad. And instinctively he put out his hand to seal the breach.

Instantly, Crane darted forward. No! he cried, stretching out an arm to pull Conrad back. But before he could do so, Conrads left hand passed through the jet of water.

And, neatly as a surgeons scalpel, the pressurized water severed each finger at the second knuckle.

Then the platform became a pandemonium: screams, cries of surprise and horror, the shrill bark of commands. Conrad slumped to the floor, grasping his injured hand, mouth wide in surprise. The catwalk rang with the sound of booted feet as the Facility hatchway boomed open and men in heavy suits came running up toward them, bulky equipment in hand. Meanwhile, Crane had crouched low and careful to avoid the murderous jet of water picked up the severed fingers and placed them carefully, one after the other, in his shirt pocket.

Chapter 18

Admiral Richard Ulysses Spartan stood in one corner of the metal platform, severely erect, gazing wordlessly at the scene around him. Ten minutes earlier, when he first arrived, the waiting area fixed to the dome wall had been a little bedlam: rescue workers and medics; engineers; uniformed seamen and officers; and one hysterical, panicked scientist who refused to move. Now it was much quieter. Two armed seamen stood at the edge of the catwalk, barring entry to the platform. Some engineers and maintenance workers huddled around the metal and titanium seal that had been fixed over the pinhole leak. A single housekeeping employee knelt over the gridwork floor with a bucket, swabbing bloodstains from the metal.

Watching it all, Spartan frowned. He detested flaws and errors and was highly intolerant of them. Flaws, even small ones, had no place in any military operation. That was especially true in an installation such as this, where the stakes were so high and the environment so dangerous. The Facility was a highly complex system, a fantastic network of interdependencies. It was like the human body. The fact that it worked at all was a marvel of engineering. But remove just one key system and the resulting chain reaction would shut down everything else. The body would die. The Facility would fail.

Spartans eyes narrowed further. Truth was, that had come disturbingly close to happening just now. Worse, it was apparently due to another element even more objectionable than error a human element.

Movement appeared in his peripheral vision. Turning, Spartan saw the trim figure of Commander Korolis walking up the catwalk from the Facility. He arrived at the platform and the two guards immediately stepped aside.

Korolis approached the admiral and threw him a smart salute. Spartan nodded in return. Korolis had the condition known as exotrophia: one eye looked ahead normally, while the other pointed outward. But his condition was mild, making it difficult to know, when he was facing you, which eye was fixed: whether he was looking directly at you or not. It was an unsettling sensation that had proven rather useful in interrogation and other situations. Privately, Spartan disapproved of Koroliss single-minded obsession with military secrecy he disapproved of any kind of obsessiveness in his staff but he had to admit the man was fiercely loyal to the service.

Korolis was carrying a thin white folder tucked beneath his arm. Now he handed it to Spartan. The admiral opened it. Inside was a single printed sheet.

Spartan closed the folder without reading the contents and glanced back at Korolis. Its confirmed? he said.

Korolis nodded.

Intent, as well?

Yes, Korolis answered. It was pure dumb luck that it ruptured where it did.

Very well. And your new men?

They should arrive within minutes.

Understood. And Spartan gave him a dismissive nod.

He watched for a minute, thoughtfully, as the officer made his way back down the catwalk. It was not until Korolis had dwindled to a small shadow outside the Facility entrance that he at last dropped his eyes again to the folder, opened it, and scanned the sheet inside. If the contents made an impression on him, it was visible only in a clenching of his jaw muscles.

Raised voices roused him. The admiral looked up to see Asher arguing with the guards, who were denying him permission to climb onto the platform. Asher turned toward Spartan, and the admiral nodded his permission. The guards stepped back and Asher came over, puffing slightly.

What are you doing here, Doctor? Spartan asked mildly.