Deep Storm Page 4

  “You must mean the pressure spoke. There are two of them, actually, one on either side of the Facility. Given the water pressure at these depths, the ideal shape would be a perfect sphere. The dome being only one half of an ideal sphere, those two tubes—open to the ocean—help counterbalance the pressure. They also anchor the Facility to the dome. No doubt the propeller-heads on deck seven could give you more details.”

  This second hallway they were walking through resembled the first: a ceiling busy with cabling and pipes, lots of closed doors with cryptic labels. “I also noticed a strange object attached to the top of the dome, maybe thirty feet across,” Crane said.

  “That’s the emergency escape pod. Just in case someone accidentally pulls the plug.” Asher laughed as he said this—an easy, infectious laugh.

  “Sorry, but I have to ask. That dome around us isn’t exactly small. Surely certain foreign governments have taken interest?”

  “Naturally. We’ve carefully disseminated a disinformation campaign about a secret research sub that went down at this site. They think we’re involved in reclamation operations. That doesn’t stop the occasional Russian or Chinese sub from doing a drive-by, of course, causing our military contingent all sorts of angst.”

  They passed by a door with a retinal scanner beside it and a complement of two marines, rifles at their sides, standing guard. Asher didn’t offer an explanation, and Crane didn’t ask.

  “We’re on deck twelve right now,” Asher went on. “It’s mostly support services for the rest of the Facility. Decks eleven and ten are crew quarters, including the sports complex. You’re bunking on deck ten, incidentally. We’ve got you sharing a bath with Roger Corbett, the mental health officer. Most rooms share baths—as you can imagine, space is at a premium. We’ve already got a full complement, and you’re an unexpected addition.”

  He paused before an elevator, pressed the button. “Deck nine is crew support. The medical suite—where you’ll be working—is there as well. And deck eight holds the administrative offices and research facilities.”

  There was a quiet chime and the elevator doors whispered open. Asher waved Crane in, then followed.

  The elevator was of the same strange material as the corridor. There were six unmarked buttons on the panel: Asher pushed the third from the top and the elevator began to descend.

  “Where was I? Oh, yes. And deck seven is the science level. Computer center, scientific laboratories of every description.”

  Crane shook his head. “It’s unbelievable.”

  Asher beamed, looking as proud as if the Facility were his own, rather than on loan from the government. “I’ve left out a hundred things you’ll discover for yourself. There are mess halls served by kitchens specializing in haute cuisine. Half a dozen lounges, comfortable accommodations for over four hundred persons. Basically, Peter, we’re a small city, two miles below the surface of the ocean, far from prying eyes.”

  “‘In th’ ocean’s bosom unespied,’” Crane quoted.

  Asher looked at him curiously, a half smile on his face. “That’s Andrew Marvell, isn’t it?”

  Crane nodded. “‘Bermudas.’”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a reader of poetry.”

  “Now and then. I got the habit during all that downtime on sub duty. It’s my secret vice.”

  The smile widened on Asher’s wind-tanned face. “Peter, I like you already.”

  The elevator chimed again, and the doors rolled back onto another corridor, much wider and busier than the others. Glancing out, Crane was shocked at how well-appointed the staff quarters appeared to be. There was elegant carpeting on the floor, and—miraculously—framed oil paintings on wallpapered walls. It reminded him of the lobby of a luxury hotel. People in uniforms and lab coats were walking past, chatting. Everyone had an ID badge clipped to a collar or shirt pocket.

  “The Facility is a marvel of engineering,” Asher went on. “We were extremely lucky to get the use of it. In any case, this is deck ten. Any questions before I show you to your quarters?”

  “Just one. Earlier, you said there were twelve decks. But you’ve only described six. And this elevator has only six buttons.” Crane pointed at the control panel. “What about the rest of the station?”

  “Ah.” Asher hesitated. “The lower six decks are classified.”

  “Classified?”

  Asher nodded.

  “But why? What goes on there?”

  “Sorry, Peter. I’d like to tell you, but I can’t.”

  “I don’t understand. Why not?”

  But Asher didn’t answer. He simply gave him another sly smile: half chagrined, half conspiratorial.

  6

  If the Facility’s living quarters reminded Crane of a luxury hotel, then deck 9 seemed closer in spirit to a cruise ship.

  Asher had given him an hour to shower and stow his gear, then he’d shown up to escort him to the medical suite. “Time to meet your fellow inmates,” he’d joked. On the way, he gave Crane a brief tour of the deck below his own quarters, known officially as Crew Support.

  But “Crew Support” didn’t begin to do deck 9 justice. Asher steered him briefly past a hundred-seat theater and a fully stocked digital library before leading him to a large plaza bustling with activity. Music echoed faintly from what looked like a miniature sidewalk café. On the far side of the plaza, Crane made out a pizzeria, and beside it a small oasis of greenery surrounded by benches. Everything was miniaturized to fit into the small footprint of the Facility, but it was so artfully contrived there was no sense of crowding or claustrophobia.

  “Deck nine has a unique layout,” Asher said. “Basically, it’s constructed around two large perpendicular corridors. Someone dubbed their intersection Times Square.”

  “Remarkable.”

  “The multimedia nexus and laundry are down that way. And over there is the PX.” Asher pointed at a storefront that looked more like an upscale department store than a commissary.

  Crane stared at the small knots of workers all around him: chatting, sipping coffee at small tables, reading books, typing on laptops. A few were in military uniform, but the majority wore casual clothes or lab wear. He shook his head; it seemed almost unthinkable that miles of ocean lay above their heads.

  “I can’t believe the military built something like this,” he said.

  Asher grinned. “I doubt the original designers had this in mind. But you have to remember this project will last many months. And leaving isn’t an option, except under the most extreme circumstances. Unlike you, most of the workers here have no experience in submarines. Our scientists aren’t used to living inside a steel box without doors or windows. So we do what we can to make life as bearable as possible.”

  Crane, inhaling the scent of freshly ground coffee wafting from the café, decided life here would be very bearable indeed.

  On the far side of the tiny park, he could make out an oversize flat-panel display, perhaps ten feet by ten, with a group of benches set before it. On closer inspection, he noticed it was actually an array of smaller displays placed in a grid to project a single image. That image was dim, green-black ocean depths. Strange, almost otherworldly fish floated by: bizarrely articulated eels, colossal jellies, balloon-shaped fish with a single lighted tentacle on their heads. Crane recognized some of the species: fangtooth, deep sea angler, viperfish.

  “Is that the view outside?” he asked.

  “Yes, via a remote camera outside the dome.” Asher waved his arm around the little square. “A lot of the workers spend their off hours here, relaxing in the library or watching interactive movies in the multimedia nexus. The sports center on deck ten is also very popular: remind me to show you around it later. Also, we’ll need to get you chipped.”

  “Chipped?”

  “Tag you with a RFID chip.”

  “Radio frequency identification? Is that necessary?”

  “This is a very secure installation. I’m afraid so.”

  �
�Will it hurt?” Crane asked, only half joking.

  Asher chuckled. “The tag’s the size of a grain of rice, implanted subcutaneously. Now, let’s get to the medical suite. Michele and Roger are waiting. It’s this way, at the end of the corridor.” And Asher pointed with his right hand down one of the wide hallways. At the end, past the PX and café and a half dozen other entranceways, Crane could just make out a double set of frosted glass doors, marked with red crosses.

  Once again, he noticed Asher kept his left arm tucked in stiffly against his side. “Something wrong with your arm?” he asked as they made their way down the hallway.

  “Vascular insufficiency of the upper extremity,” Asher replied.

  Crane frowned. “Is the pain significant?”

  “No, no. I just need to be a little careful.”

  “I’ll say you do. How long have you had the condition?”

  “A little over a year. Dr. Bishop has me on a Coumadin regimen, and I exercise regularly. We have a fine set of squash courts in the sports complex.” Asher bustled ahead, apparently eager to change the subject. Crane reflected that if Asher had not been the chief scientist, such a condition would probably have kept him on dry land.

  The medical suite was engineered like the other spaces Crane had already seen: meticulously designed to fit as many things as possible into the smallest area, yet without appearing cramped. Unlike usual hospital practice, the lighting was kept indirect and even mellow, and piped classical music came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Asher led the way through the waiting area, nodding to a receptionist behind the front desk.

  “Like everything else in the Facility, the medical suite is state-of-the-art,” he said as he ushered Crane past a records office and down the carpeted corridor. “Besides our doctor, we have four nurses, three interns, a diagnostician, a nutritionist, and two lab specialists. A fully stocked emergency unit. Equipment for just about every test you can name, from simple X-rays to whole body scans. All backed up with a comprehensive pathology lab on deck seven.”

  “Beds?”

  “Forty-eight, with contingencies for double that if necessary. But let’s hope it never is: we’d never get anything done.” Asher stopped outside a door marked CONFERENCE ROOM B. “Here we are.”

  The room was small and even more dimly lit than the waiting area. A large videoconferencing screen hung on one wall, while the others sported innocuous watercolors of landscapes and seascapes. Most of the space was taken up by a large, round table. At its far end sat two people, a woman and a man. Both wore officer’s uniforms beneath white lab coats.

  As Crane entered, the man sprang up from his seat. “Roger Corbett,” he said, reaching across the table to shake Crane’s hand. He was short, with thinning mouse-colored hair and watery blue eyes. He had a small, neatly trimmed beard of the kind favored by psychiatric interns.

  “You’re the mental health officer,” Crane said, shaking the proffered hand. “I’m your new neighbor.”

  “So I understand.” Corbett’s voice was low for a man of his size, and he spoke slowly and deliberately, as if weighing each phrase. He wore round glasses with thin silver rims.

  “Sorry to barge in on your domestic arrangements.”

  “Just so you don’t snore.”

  “No promises. Better keep your door closed.”

  Corbett laughed.

  “And this is Michele Bishop.” Asher indicated the woman seated across the table. “Dr. Bishop, Dr. Peter Crane.”

  The woman nodded. “Nice to see you.”

  “Likewise,” Crane replied. The young woman was slender, as tall as Corbett was short, with dark blond hair and an intense gaze. She was attractive but not stunningly so. Crane assumed she was the station’s chief medical officer. It was interesting that she had neither stood nor offered to shake his hand.

  “Please, Dr. Crane, have a seat,” Corbett said.

  “Call me Peter.”

  Asher beamed at each of them in turn like a proud parent. “Peter, I’ll leave you to the kindly ministrations of these two. They’ll bring you up to speed. Michele, Roger, I’ll check in later.” Then, with a wink and a nod, he stepped out into the corridor and closed the door.

  “Can I get you something to drink, Peter?” Corbett asked.

  “No thanks.”

  “A snack of some kind?”

  “I’m fine, really. The sooner we get to the medical problem, the better.”

  Corbett and Bishop exchanged glances.

  “Actually, Dr. Crane, it’s not ‘problem,’” Bishop said. “It’s ‘problems.’”

  “Really? Well, I guess I’m not surprised. After all, if we’re dealing with some variant of caisson disease here, it often presents in a variety of ways.”

  Caisson disease was so named because it was first diagnosed in the mid-nineteenth century in men working in environments of compressed air. One environment was in the first caisson dug beneath New York’s East River to support the Brooklyn Bridge. If the diggers in the caisson reemerged into open air too quickly after working under pressure, nitrogen bubbles formed in their bloodstreams. This caused, among other symptoms, intense pain in the arms and legs. Sufferers frequently doubled over in agony, and the ailment became known—mordantly—as the Grecian bend. This led to the nickname “the bends.” Given the depth at which they were currently working, Crane felt certain caisson disease was involved one way or another.

  “I assume you have a hyperbaric oxygen therapy chamber or some other kind of recompression equipment on site you’ve been treating the patients with?” he asked. “When we’re done here, I’d like to question them directly, if you don’t mind.”

  “Actually, Doctor,” Bishop said in a clipped voice, “I think we could proceed more quickly if you let me outline the symptomology, rather than make assumptions.”

  This took Crane by surprise. He looked at her, unsure why she had responded so tartly. “Sorry if I’m overeager or presumptuous. It’s been a long trip, and I’m very curious. Go right ahead.”

  “We initially became aware something was wrong about two weeks ago. At first it seemed more a psychological issue than a physiological one. Roger noticed a spike in the number of walk-in visits.”

  Crane glanced at Corbett. “What were the symptoms?”

  “Some people complained of sleep disturbances,” Corbett said. “Others, malaise. A few cases of eating disorders. The most common complaint seemed difficulty in focusing on what they were doing.”

  “Then the physical symptoms began,” Bishop said. “Constipation. Nausea. Neurasthenia.”

  “Are people working double shifts down here?” Crane asked. “If so, I’m not surprised they’re feeling fatigued.”

  “Others complained of muscle tics and spasms.”

  “Just tics?” Crane asked. “No associated pain?”

  Bishop looked at him with mild reproach, as if to say, If there had been pain, I would have mentioned it, wouldn’t I?

  “These people aren’t presenting with caisson disease,” Crane said. “At least, no variant I’m aware of. I guess I don’t see the concern. Problems with concentration or focus, constipation, nausea…that’s all non-specific. It could simply be work-induced stress. It’s an unusual environment and an unusual assignment, after all.”

  “I’m not through,” Bishop said. “Over the last week, the problems have grown worse. Three cases of cardiac arrhythmia in people with no history of heart disorders. A woman with bilateral weakness of the hands and face. And two others suffered what appeared to be transient ischemic attacks.”

  “TIAs?” Crane said. “How extensive?”

  “Partial paralysis, slurred speech, lasting in each case less than two hours.”

  “What were their ages?”

  “Late twenties and early thirties.”

  “Really?” Crane frowned. “That seems awfully young for a stroke. Two strokes, at that. You did neurological workups?”

  “Dr. Crane, please. Of course we
did neurological workups. Non-contrast cranial CT scans; EKGs to check for cardioembolic event triggers; the rest. There’s no EEG on the station—you know they’re mainly used for seizure disorders or coma—but in any case it wasn’t necessary here. Except for evidence of stroke, everything was completely normal.”

  Once again the tartness had crept into her tone. She’s territorial, Crane thought. This is her turf and she doesn’t like me stepping on it.

  “Even so,” he said, “it’s the first evidence of dysbarism I’ve heard today.”

  “Dysbarism?” Corbett asked, blinking through his round glasses.

  “Decompression sickness. Caisson disease.”

  Bishop sighed. “Actually, I believe that caisson disease is the one thing we can safely rule out.”

  “Why? I assumed—” Crane fell silent. He realized that Asher had never told him outright what the problem was. Given the nature of the Deep Storm station, he’d assumed caisson disease.

  “I’m sorry,” he went on more slowly. “I guess I don’t understand why, exactly, you people asked for me.”

  “Howard Asher asked for you,” Bishop said. And for the first time, she smiled. A brief silence fell over the conference room.

  “Have you been able to isolate any commonalities?” Crane asked. “Do the patients all work on the same level or in the same general area of the Facility?”

  Bishop shook her head. “We’ve received patients from most of the decks and from all general work areas.”

  “So there’s no common vector. And no common complaint. It all seems like coincidence to me. Just how many patients, total, have you received?”

  “Roger and I figured that out while we were waiting for you.” Bishop took a sheet of paper from her lab coat pocket and glanced at it. “The Facility has been operational almost five months. On average, between mental health services and medical, we see perhaps fifteen patients a week. In the past, nothing worse than a case of strep. But since this thing started, we’ve seen one hundred and three.”