Deep Storm

Asher had remained silent through the brief exchange, his gaze moving from the stranger's face to the insignia on his fatigues. Now he confronted Spartan. "Who was that?"

"Surely you heard the name. Chief Petty Officer Woburn."

"More military? There must be some mistake."

Spartan shook his head. "No mistake. They're here at the request of Commander Korolis and will be taking orders directly from him. He believes more manpower is necessary to enforce security."

Asher's expression grew dark. "Additional perso

"This isn't a democracy, Doctor. Not when the safety of this Facility is concerned. And at the moment, that safety appears to be in jeopardy." And Spartan gave a subtle nod toward the group of engineers at the far corner of the platform.

Asher turned in their direction. "What's the status of the breach?"

"Successful containment, as you can see. A submersible is being dispatched from the surface, with additional plating for the exterior of the dome. A temporary seal has been applied until a more permanent one can be fabricated. That will take some time. The affected area is about four feet in length."

Asher frowned. "Four feet? For a pinhole?"

"Yes. It was only a pinhole. But that's not what it was intended to be."

For a moment Asher remained still, digesting this. "I'm not sure I understand."

Spartan nodded again toward the engineers. "You see that bulkhead where the breach occurred? It runs directly to the airlock housing, where the electrical and magnetic controls that open the hatch are located. When our emergency crews sealed the breach, they found a three-foot cut, all the way from the pinhole to the housing."

"A cut," Asher repeated slowly.

"Here, along the inside of the dome. Made by a portable laser cutter, we believe-a detailed analysis is ongoing. This cut compromised the integrity of the entire bulkhead. It could have failed at any time-although failure was more likely during a moment of stress, such as the docking impact of the Tub. Luckily, the laser cut was imperfect-it was deeper in some spots than in others. Hence, the pinhole breach. If the cut had worked as designed, the pinhole would have spread down the bulkhead to the airlock housing itself…"

"Rupturing the hatch," Asher murmured. "Causing a massive hull breach."

"A terminal hull breach."

"And this cut you mention. You're implying it wasn't an accident? That it was a deliberate act of-of sabotage?"

For a moment, Admiral Spartan did not reply. Then, slowly, he lifted an index finger and-keeping his gaze locked on Asher-laid it perpendicularly across his lips.

19

Crane pulled back from the black rubber eyepiece, blinked, then rubbed his face with both hands. He glanced around the laboratory, waiting for his vision to adapt. The images slowly sharpened: a medical technician across the room, working with a titration setup. Another technician entering data into a workstation. And just across the lab table, Michele Bishop, who-like himself-was using a portable viewer. As he watched, she, too, leaned away, and their eyes met.

"You look about as tired as I feel," she said.

Crane nodded. He was tired-bone tired. He'd been going twenty hours straight: first with a harrowing and exhausting microsurgical procedure to reattach Conrad's severed fingers, then with the seemingly endless follow-up on his hypothesis of heavy metal poisoning.

And along with the weariness was also disappointment. Because so far, no significant traces of heavy metals had been detected in the Deep Storm perso

He sighed deeply. He'd been so convinced this was the answer. It still could be, of course. But with every new test that came back negative, the chances grew increasingly remote. Just as disappointing, Jane Rand's data mining efforts had turned up nothing.

"You need to get some rest," Bishop said. "Before you become a patient here yourself."

Crane sighed again, stretched. "I guess you're right." And she was: he'd soon be too bleary-eyed to interpret the slides properly. So he stood, said his good-byes to Bishop and the staff, and exited the Medical Suite.

Although most of the Facility remained terra incognita to him, he knew his way from the Medical Suite to his quarters well enough to make the trip without conscious thought. Down to Times Square, then left past the library and theater, one flight up in the elevator, another left, then two quick rights. He yawned as he opened his stateroom door with his passcard. He just wasn't thinking clearly anymore. A good six hours of sleep would put the problem in perspective, maybe point out the answer that was eluding him.

He stepped inside, yawning again, and placed his palmtop device on the desk. He turned-and then froze.

Howard Asher was sitting in the visitor's chair, an unknown man in a lab coat standing beside him.

Crane frowned in surprise. "What are-" he began.

Asher made a brusque suppressing gesture with his right hand, then nodded to the man in the lab coat. As Crane watched, the stranger closed and locked the room and bathroom doors.

Asher cleared his throat softly. Crane had seen little of him since their squash game. His face looked worn, pained, and there was a haunted gleam in his eyes, as of someone who had been struggling with demons.

"How's the arm?" Crane asked.

"It's been rather painful the last day or two," Asher admitted.

"You need to be careful. Vascular insufficiency can lead to ulceration, even gangrene, if the nerve function is impaired. You should let me-"

But Asher cut him off with another gesture. "There's no time for that now. Look, we'll need to speak quietly. Roger's not in the adjoining quarters at present, but he could return at any time."

This was the last thing Crane had expected to hear. He nodded, mystified.

"Why don't you sit down?" And Asher motioned toward the desk chair. He waited until Crane was seated before speaking again.

"You're about to cross a threshold, Peter," he said in the same low voice. "I'm going to tell you something. And once I've told you, there will be no going back. Things will never be the same for you again, ever. The world will be a fundamentally different place. Do you understand?"

"Why do I get the sense," Crane said, "you're about to tell me I was right, back there in the squash court? That this isn't about Atlantis, at all?"

A bleak smile passed over Asher's features. "The truth is infinitely stranger."

Crane felt a chill in the pit of his stomach.

Asher placed his elbows on his knees. "Have you heard of the Mohorovicic discontinuity?"

"It sounds familiar. But I can't place it."

"It's also known as the M discontinuity, or simply the Moho."

"The Moho. I remember my marine geology professor at A

"Then you'll remember it's the boundary between the earth's crust and the mantle beneath."

Crane nodded.

"The Moho lies at different depths, depending on location. The crust is much thicker beneath the continents, for example, than beneath the oceans. The Moho is as deep as seventy miles beneath the surface of the continents, but at certain mid-oceanic ridges, it's as shallow as a few miles."

Asher leaned toward Crane, lowered his voice still further. "The Storm King oil platform is built above just such an oceanic ridge."

"So you're saying the Moho is close to the crust directly below us."