Deep Storm (40 page)

Except for the brace of marines who stood at his shoulders. The all clear sounded, and one of them nudged him. All right, Doctor. Lets move out.

As they walked toward the doors that led into the corridors of deck 1, a sense of unreality settled over Crane. Surely this was all a dream. It certainly had all the skewed, misshapen logic of a dream. Was he really being marched to the brig by two armed marines? Were they really still digging toward some terrible retribution? Had Korolis really taken over military command of the Facility?

Korolis

You dont want to do this, he said in a low voice to the marines. Their response was to pull open the double doors, escort him through.

Its not the admiral whos unfit for command, he went on as they marched down the corridor. Its Commander Korolis.

No answer.

You see the pallor of his skin? The hyperhidrosis excessive sweating? Hes got the sickness thats going around. Im a doctor; Im trained to notice these things.

Ahead, the corridor forked. One of the marines nudged Cranes shoulder with his rifle butt. Turn right.

Since Ive arrived at the Facility, Ive seen many cases. Korolis is a classic presentation.

Youll be better off if you button your lip, the marine said.

Crane glanced at the pale red walls, the closed laboratory doors. His thoughts returned to the other forced march hed made: the one with Spartan, when hed been processed and cleared for the classified sector. At the time, he hadnt known where he was being taken. This time it was different. The sense of unreality grew stronger.

I was in the military, too, he said. Youre soldiers, youve taken an oath to serve your country. Korolis is a dangerous and unstable man. By taking orders from him, what youre doing is no better than

The rifle butt slammed into his shoulder, much more violently this time. Crane sprawled onto his knees, neck snapping forward painfully.

Take it easy, Hoskins, the second marine said gruffly.

Im tired of his mouth, Hoskins said.

Crane picked himself up and wiped his hands, staring at Hoskins through narrowed eyes. His shoulder blade throbbed from the impact.

Hoskins nodded with the barrel of his gun. Get moving.

They continued down the corridor, made a left. Ahead lay the elevator. They approached it and Hoskins pressed the up button. Crane opened his mouth to reason with them again, thought better of it. Maybe the brig guards would listen to reason

With a low chime, the elevator door slid open.

At the same moment, a tremendous boom came from somewhere far overhead. The entire Facility seemed to briefly rise off its footings. The lights dimmed, brightened, dimmed again. There was a secondary explosion that shook the installation as violently as a dog might shake a rat. With an ear-splitting shriek, a piece of gray metal ducting fell from the ceiling, pinning Hoskins to the floor.

Crane acted without conscious thought. He gave the second marine a quick, disabling downward kick to the knee, then dove headlong into the elevator, pressing the floor buttons indiscriminately. His lab coat tore against the metal grille and his cell phone was knocked from its clip, skittering away across the floor.

The emergency lighting came on, and in its orange glow he could see Hoskins struggling to sit up. Blood from a scalp wound flowed over the marines nose and mouth but he was standing now, a grim expression on his face. As warning sirens began to sound in the distance he leveled his rifle, took aim. Crane ducked back behind the closing elevator door as a bullet whined pastand then the doors shut and he felt himself ascend.

Chapter 51

Gordon Stamper, machinist first class, ran down the steps from deck 9 two at a time. The yellow turnout gear clung heavily to his back and shoulders; the hooks, portable radio, and other equipment clipped to his nylon gut belt rattled with every footfall. The rest of the rescue team followed, carrying oxygen supplies, tubular webbing, pick-head axes, and supplemental gear.

The call that had gone out over the emergency channel said this wasnt a drill. And yet Stamper wasnt so sure. Oh, it was clear something had happened: thered been that godawful explosion, the brief loss of power. But the lights had come back and the Facility didnt seem any the worse for wear. He sure as hell didnt put it past the powers that be to stage something like this just to see if Rescue Operations was on its toes. The brass was always looking for ways to bust the balls of the enlisted men.

He threw open the door to deck 8. An empty corridor greeted him, doors on both sides of the hall all shut. This wasnt surprising: the end of the shift was approaching, and most administrators and researchers working on this floor would be elsewhere, grabbing a meal inside Central or, more likely, conducting wrap-up meetings in the conference rooms on deck 7.

The microphone for his portable radio was clipped to a shoulder epaulet. He clicked it on with a press of his thumb. Stamper to Rescue One.

The radio crackled. Rescue One, roger.

Were on deck eight.

Roger that.

Stamper clicked the radio off with a certain grim satisfaction. They sure as hell couldnt complain about the response this time: the call had come through only four minutes before and they were already on the scene.

Their objective was Environmental Control, which was at the other end of the level. Stamper glanced around at his team, made sure they were assembled and ready, then gave the signal to move out.

The more he thought about it, the more he was sure this was bogus, a drill. The call as he understood it, there had only been one, frantic and half incoherent, and it had been terminated prematurely had said something about a breach; about water. And that was bullshit, plain and simple. Everybody knew there was a protective dome between the Facility and the North Atlantic and the space between was pressurized and dry. And if it wasnt a drill, it was probably just a broken water pipe; this floor was manned by pencil-necked scientists and paper pushers, apt to faint or cry wolf at the first bead of moisture.

They moved down the corridor, gear clanking, and paused when they reached a T-shaped intersection. The left passage led to the administrative sector, a complicated warren of offices and narrow passageways. By turning right and heading through the research labs, they could reach Environmental Control faster, and

There was a clang of metal from the direction of the labs, followed by a frantic babel of voices. He paused, listening. The voices were low, but they seemed to be coming nearer.

He cupped a hand to the side of his mouth. Yo!

The voices stopped.

This is Rescue Operations!

The excited, nervous chatter resumed, and now Stamper heard the sound of running feet. He turned back toward his team, jerking his hand in the direction of the voices.

As he rounded the corner into the research sector, Stamper caught sight of them: maybe five or six scientists, running toward him. They were wild-eyed, clothes and lab coats in disarray. One of them, a middle-aged woman, was crying softly. Their leader a tall, thin man with curly blond hair was half drenched in water.

About fifty feet down the corridor beyond them, the watertight hatch had been sealed.

Stamper stepped forward as the group came running up. Gordon Stamper, team leader, he said in his most authoritative voice. Whats the problem?

Weve got to get out of hereall of us! the tall man said breathlessly. The womans cries increased in volume.

Just what, exactly, has

Theres no time to explain! the man interrupted. His voice was high and uneven, perched on the edge of hysteria. Weve dogged all the hatches we could, but the pressures just too great. They wont hold, theyll go any second

Just a minute, Stamper said. Get a grip on yourself, settle down, and tell us whats happened.

The man turned to the rest of the scientists. You get up to deck nine, quick as you can.

The panicked group needed no further encouragement. Without another word they ran past the rescue party and disappeared down the hall, heading for the stairwell.

Stamper watched them flee, an impassive expression on his face. Then he turned back to the blond man. Lets hear it.

The man swallowed, made a visible effort to master himself. I was in the corridor outside the Seismo-Acoustic Sonar Lab. I had an end-of-shift meeting, and I was just verifying which conference room before heading down to deck seven. There was this His voice faltered, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. This huge explosion. It knocked me to the ground. When I got up, I sawa wall of water, flooding the Environmental Control spaces at the end of the corridor. There was blood in the water, body parts. Lots of body parts.

He swallowed again. A colleague and I ran to the outer Environmental Control hatch, dogged it shut. Then we retreated down the hall, checking the labs and gathering anyone we could find. Just as we were leaving, the hatch wed shut blew open, water started pouring in, and the research labs started to flood. We dogged the inner hatches of the research sector as we fell back. But the pressures just too great, theyre going to go any moment, and

Suddenly, his voice was drowned out by a terrific boom from the spaces up ahead.

The scientist started, gave a small cry of terror. You see! There goes the hatch! We have to get out, get out now! And he turned and fled in the direction of the rear stairwell.

Stamper watched his retreat. Then, very deliberately, he clicked his microphone into life once again. Stamper to Rescue One.

Rescue One, your signal is five by five.

Be advised we have intercepted personnel retreating from the Research sector. They have retreated up stairwell bravo two. Intel obtained from deck eight indicates a large-scale breach in the vicinity of Environmental Control.

There was a pause. Will you repeat that last, please? Over.

A large-scale breach. Recommend you seal off this entire grid section and send down containment crews to repair the breach and secure the deck.

Another pause. Have you verified this yourself?

No.

Please perform a visual and give us a sit rep. Over.

Roger and out. Shit.

Stamper stared down the corridor, in the direction of the dogged hatch. He wasnt nervous, not exactly; hed performed this drill so many times it was hard for it to seem anything but routine, even now. Yet there was something about the terror that had radiated from the group of scientists, something about the naked fear in the blond mans eyes

He turned to his team. Lets go.

But even as his words died away, he became aware of another sound, coming from the research spaces ahead: a low groaning, gurgling, rushing unlike anything hed ever heard before. It spiked in volume abruptly and the hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end.

Almost without realizing it, he took an involuntary step backward.

Stamper? one of the rescue crew said behind them.

And then, with an almost animal squeal, the dogs securing the hatch ahead of them flew out of their housings, one after the other, with reports like pistol shots. The hatch popped from its housing like a champagne cork. And a living mass of water boiled toward them.

For an instant, Stamper just stared, frozen with shock and horror.

It was terrifying, the way it came at them with single-minded, predatory hunger. It ate up everything in its path with a rushing, hissing, sucking noise. Stamper had no idea water could make that kind of a sound. And it was a horrible color, a slippery reddish black, with spumes of blood-colored froth throwing off a misty spindrift. Its violence was appalling. Things bobbed in the water, chairs and lab tables and instruments and computers and other matter he did not care to look at. The smell filled his nostrils: a chill, salty, coppery odor that with its promise of great inky depths was somehow even more frightening than sight alone