Deep Storm

The MP stiffened, gave a smart salute. "Aye, aye, sir."

Spartan let his gaze rest another moment on Crane. Then he nodded to Ferrara, turned, and disappeared back into the control room.

Ferrara stepped into the pillbox and typed a series of commands on a console. There was a low buzz, then a series of tiny lights winked on around the perimeter of the airlock. The LED above the Barrier turned green. There was a clank of heavy locks disengaging, a hiss of pressurized air, and the airlock opened. Ferrara spoke into a mike built into his console, then motioned Bishop and Crane to step through, following behind.

Beyond the airlock was a chamber about twelve feet square. Two more MPs waited here, standing stiffly at attention. The beige walls were bare, and there was no instrumentation save for a small panel beside one of the guards. Crane noted that it consisted of simply a palm-geometry reader and a rubberized handle.

The airlock door closed. The MP placed one hand on the reader and the other on the handle. There was a red glow as his palm was sca

His thoughts went to Admiral Spartan. He had known several flag officers during his tours of duty, and they were all comfortable with command, used to being obeyed immediately and without question. But even on such short acquaintance Crane sensed something a little different in Spartan. He had a depth of self-possession unusual even in an admiral. Crane thought about that last look the man had given him. There was something unreadable in his dark eyes, as if you could never be sure just what his next move might be.

They glided smoothly to a stop. There was another low hum, another clank of locks springing free. The airlock was opened from outside by another group of armed MPs. "Dr. Bishop?" one asked. "Dr. Crane?"

"That's us."

"We're here to escort you to the repair hangar. Follow me, please."

They moved out quickly, two guards leading and two bringing up the rear. Ferrara, Admiral Spartan's man, followed. Normally, Crane would be irritated by such an entourage, but now he almost welcomed it. Floridly psychotic, Bishop had said. That meant the person was grossly disorganized, delusional, perhaps even violent. In such instances you tried to be calm and reassuring, establish a rapport. But when a patient was truly out of control, the first priority-the very first-was to outnumber him.

Labs and research facilities passed in a blur: the so-called classified section of the Facility seemed, outwardly at least, little different from the upper decks. Several people ran past them in the opposite direction. And now, up ahead, Crane could hear something that made his blood run cold: the sound of a man screaming.

They ducked through a hatchway and Crane found himself in a large, almost cavernous room. He blinked a moment, unaccustomed already to so much space. It appeared to be a machine shop and repair facility for robot submersibles-the rovers Bishop had mentioned.

The screaming was louder here: ragged, ululating. Small groups of workers stood nearby, held back by military police. Farther ahead, a cordon of naval perso

Bishop stepped forward, followed closely by Crane and the MPs. Seeing them approach, one of the officers broke away from the cordon to intercept them.

"Dr. Bishop," the man said over the screams. "I'm Lieutenant Travers. Ranking officer on the scene."

"Give us the details," Crane said.

Travers glanced at him, then looked back at Bishop. She gave a slight nod.

"The man is Randall Waite," he said. "Machinist first grade."

"What happened?" Crane asked.

"Nobody's quite certain. Apparently, Waite had been acting moody the last day or two-quiet, not like himself. Then, just as he was about to go off shift, he started acting out."

"Acting out," Bishop repeated.

"Starting to shout. Crazy stuff."

Crane glanced in the direction of the screams. "Is he angry? Delusional?"

"Delusional, yes. Angry, no. Seemed more like he's-in despair, sort of. Said he wanted to die."

"Go on," Crane said.

"A few people approached him. Tried to calm him down, see what was wrong. That's when he grabbed one."

Crane's eyebrows shot up. Oh, shit. That's not good.

Ninety-nine percent of all suicidal attempts were attention-getters, pleas for help. Cutters, making slash marks mostly for effect. But when a hostage was involved, it became a different situation entirely.

"That's not all," Travers muttered. "He's got a brick of C4 and a detonator."

"What?"

Travers nodded grimly.

There was a squawk from Travers's radio, and he raised it to his lips. "Travers." He listened a moment. "Very well. Hold until you get my signal."

"What was that about?" Bishop asked.

Travers nodded in the direction of a side wall, where the smoked window of a control room overlooked the hangar. "We've got a sharpshooter up there, trying to get a hard target."

"No!" Crane said. He took a breath. "No. I want to talk to him first."

Travers frowned.

"Why did you bring us down if not to defuse things?" Crane asked.

"He's grown more agitated since that call. And we didn't know about the C4 when we put out the code."

"Does your man have a hard target?" Crane pressed.

"Intermittent."

"Then there's no reason not to let me try."

Travers hesitated for a second. "Very well. But if he threatens that hostage-or if he tries to arm that detonator-I'm going to have to smoke him."

Crane nodded to Bishop, then walked slowly forward until he reached the cordon. Gently, he pushed his way through. Then he stopped.

About twenty feet ahead, a man in an orange jumpsuit stood in the shadow of the equipment bay. His eyes were red-rimmed and tearing. His chin was flecked with mucus, phlegm, and frothy blood. Sprays of vomit slashed across the orange field of his jumpsuit. Poison? Crane wondered in a detached way. But the man showed no obvious signs of abdominal pain, paralysis, or other systemic symptoms.

The man held a woman before him-about thirty, petite, with dirty-blond hair. She was dressed in an identical jumpsuit. His arm encircled her neck, and her chin was pointed upward at a painful angle, rising from the crook of Waite's elbow. A long, narrow screwdriver was pressed against her jugular vein. The woman's lips were tight, and her eyes were wide with fear.

Jutting out of the man's other hand was a whitish brick of C4 and an unarmed detonator.

The screams were shockingly loud here, and stopped only long enough for Waite to draw in fresh breaths. Crane found it hard to think over the noise.

Talk him down,the rule book went. Calm him, get him secured. Easier said than done. Crane had talked down a would-be jumper standing on a support cable of the George Washington Bridge. He'd talked down men sticking Lugers into their ears or chewing on shotgun barrels. But he'd never talked down somebody holding ten grenades' worth of plastique.

He took a breath, then another. And then he stepped forward.

"This isn't really what you want," he said.

The man's red eyes landed on him briefly, then jittered away. The screams continued.

"This isn't really what you want," Crane repeated, louder.

He couldn't hear himself over the screaming. He took another step forward.

The man's eyes shot back to him. He gripped the woman tighter, pressed the point of the screwdriver deeper into her neck.

Crane froze. He could see the woman staring at him pleadingly, her face a mask of fear. He was uncomfortably aware of how exposed he was: standing between the cordon of military officers and the man with a hostage and a brick of C4. He fought back an urge to retreat.