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Deep Storm

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Доступ к книге ограничен фрагменом по требованию правообладателя.

"Let me guess. You can't tell me what it is."

Asher laughed. "No, not yet. But it's such an important discovery the government is, quite literally, sparing no expense to reclaim it."

"Reclaim?"

"It's buried in the sea bed directly below this platform. Remember I called this the discovery of all time? What's going on here is, in essence, a dig: an archaeological dig like none other. And we are, quite literally, making history."

"But why all the secrecy?"

"Because if people caught wind of what we've found, it would instantly become front-page news on every paper in the world. In hours, the place would be a disaster area. Half a dozen governments, all claiming sovereignty, journalists, rubberneckers. The discovery is simply too critical to be jeopardized that way."

Crane leaned back in his chair, considering. The entire trip was becoming almost surreal. The rushed flight plans, the oil platform that wasn't a platform, the secrecy…and now this face in a box, speaking of an unimaginably important discovery.

"Call me old-fashioned," he said, "but I'd feel a lot better if you'd take the time to see me in person, talk face-to-face."

"Unfortunately, Peter, it's not that easy. Commit to the project, though, and you'll see me soon enough."

"I don't understand. Why, exactly, is it so difficult?"

Asher chuckled again. "Because at the moment, I'm several thousand feet beneath you."

Crane stared at the screen. "You mean-"

"Precisely. The Storm King oil platform is just the support structure, the resupply station. The real action is far below. That's why I'm speaking to you over this video feed."

Crane digested this a moment. "What's down there?" he asked quietly.

"Imagine a huge research station, twelve levels high, full of equipment and technology beyond cutting edge, placed on the ocean floor. That's the ERF-the heart and soul of the most extraordinary archaeological effort of all time."

"The ERF?"

"Exploratory and Recovery Facility. But we refer to it simply as the Facility. The military-you know how fond they are of buzzwords-have labeled it Deep Storm."

"I noticed the military presence. Why are the soldiers necessary?"

"I could tell you it's because the Facility is government property; because the NOA is a branch of the government. And that's true. But the real reason is because a lot of the technology we're using in the recovery project is classified."

"What about those men I saw topside, working on the rig?"

"Window dressing, for the most part. We do have to look like a functioning oil platform, after all."

"And AmShale?"

"They've been paid exceptionally well to lease us the rig, act as front office, and ask no questions."

Crane shifted in his chair. "This Facility you mention. That's where I'd be quartered?"

"Yes. It's where all the marine scientists and engineers live and work. I know how much time you've spent in submerged environments, Peter, and I think you'll be pleasantly surprised. Actually, 'amazed' is more like it. You've got to see the place to believe it-the Facility is a miracle of undersea technology."

"But why is it necessary? Working from the bottom of the sea, I mean. Why can't you run the operation from the surface?"

"The, ah, remains are buried too deep for most submersibles. Besides, submersible yield per dive is abysmally low. Trust me-once you're fully briefed, it will all make sense."

Crane nodded slowly. "I guess that leaves just one question. Why me?"

"Please, Dr. Crane. You're too modest. You're ex-military, you've served aboard stealth submarines and carriers. You know what it's like to live in confined spaces, under pressure. And I mean that both literally and figuratively."

He's done his research,Crane thought.

"You graduated second in your class from the Mayo Medical School. And due to your stint in the Navy, you're a medical doctor who has-among other things-familiarity with the disorders of divers and other seagoing workers."

"So there is a medical problem."

"Of course. The installation was completed two months ago, and the reclamation project is fully under way. However, in the last couple of weeks, several of the inhabitants of Deep Storm have been manifesting unusual symptoms."

"Caisson disease? Nitrogen narcosis?"

"More the former than the latter. But let's just say you are uniquely qualified-both as a doctor and as a former officer-to treat the affliction."

"And my tour of duty?"

"Your tour of duty will be, in effect, as long as it takes to diagnose and treat the problem. My best guess is you'll be with us for two to three weeks. But even if you were to effect a miracle cure, you'd still be at the Facility a minimum of six days. Not to go into details, but because of the tremendous atmospheric pressure at this depth we've developed a unique acclimatization process. The upside is that it allows people to operate at depth with significantly greater ease than in the past. The downside is that the process for entering or leaving the station is quite lengthy. And, as you can imagine, it can't be rushed."

"I can imagine." Crane had seen more than his share of fatal cases of decompression sickness.

"That's all there is, actually. Except of course to remind you again that, even if you decide against the assignment, you are under a strict code of secrecy never to mention your visit here or to reveal what has passed between us."

Crane nodded. He knew Asher had to be evasive. Still, the lack of information was irritating. Here he was, being asked to give up several weeks of his life for an assignment he knew next to nothing about.

And yet he had no ties preventing him from spending a few weeks on Deep Storm. He was recently divorced, without kids, and at present trying to decide between two research positions. No doubt Asher knew this, too.

An unimaginably important discovery. Despite the secrecy-or perhaps because of it-Crane felt his heart accelerating at the mere thought of being part of such an adventure. And he realized that, without even being aware of it, he'd already reached a decision.

Asher smiled again. "Well, then," he said, "if there are no more questions, I'll terminate the video feed and give you some time to think it over."

"That won't be necessary," Crane replied. "I don't need to think over history being made. Just point me in the right direction."

At this, Asher's smile grew broader. "That direction would be down, Peter. Straight down."

3

Peter Crane had spent almost four years of his life inside submarines, but this was the first time he'd ever had a window seat.

He'd killed several hours on the Storm King platform, first submitting to lengthy physical and psychological examinations, then hanging about the library, waiting for concealing darkness to fall. At last he was escorted to a special staging platform beneath the rig, where a Navy bathyscaphe awaited, tethered to a concrete footing. The sea heaved treacherously against the footing, and the gangplank leading to the bathyscaphe's access hatch had redundant guide ropes. Crane crossed over to the tiny conning tower. From there, he climbed down a metal ladder, slick with condensation, past the pressure hatch, through the float chamber, and into a cramped pressure sphere, where a very young officer was already at the controls.

"Take any seat, Dr. Crane," the man said.

Far above, a hatch clanged shut, then another, the sound reverberating dully through the submersible.

Crane glanced around at the cabin. Aside from the empty seats-arranged in three rows of two-every square inch of the walls and decking was covered by gauges, ducts, tubes, and instrumentation. The only exception was what looked like a narrow but extremely massive hatch set into the far wall. A smell hung in the close space-lubricating oil, dampness, perspiration-that instantly brought back his own years wearing the dolphins.

He sat down, put his bags on the adjoining seat, and turned toward the window: a small metal ring, studded around its circumference by steel bolts. He frowned. Crane had a submariner's innate respect for a thick steel hull, and this porthole seemed an alarming, needless luxury.

The sailor must have noticed his look, because he chuckled. "Don't worry. It's a special composite, built directly into the hull. We've come a long way since the old quartz windows of the Trieste ."

Crane laughed in return. "Didn't know I was being so obvious."

"That's how I separate the military from the civilians," the youth said. "You used to be a sub jockey, right? Name's Richardson."

Crane nodded. Richardson was wearing the chevrons of a petty officer first class, and the insignia above the chevrons showed his rating was that of operations specialist.

"I did a two-year stint on boomers," Crane replied. "Then two more on fast attacks."

"Gotcha."

A distant scraping sounded from above: Crane guessed it was the gangplank being withdrawn. Then, from somewhere amid the tangle of instrumentation, came the faint squawk of a radio. "Echo Tango Foxtrot, cleared for descent."

Richardson grabbed a mike. "Constant One, this is Echo Tango Foxtrot. Aye, aye."

There was a low hiss of air, the muffled whisper of propellers. The bathyscaphe bobbed gently on the waves for a moment. The hiss grew briefly louder, then gave way to the sound of water flooding the ballast tanks. Immediately, the submersible began to settle. Richardson leaned over the controls and switched on a bank of exterior lights. Abruptly, the blackness outside the window was replaced by a storm of white bubbles.