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 personnel and more MPs blocked the way. Several were talking on mobile radios; others were staring ahead at an equipment bay set into the far wall. It was from there the screaming came.
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.
He remained motionless, thinking. Then-slowly-he eased himself down on the metal floor. He undid one shoe, then the other, and placed them carefully aside. He removed his socks and put them to one side, arranging them with finicky precision. Then he leaned backward, resting himself on the palms of his hands.
As he did so, he became aware of something new in the hanger: silence. The screaming had stopped. Waite was staring at him now, the screwdriver still pressed dangerously against the woman's throat.
"You don't want to do this," Crane said in a patient, reasonable tone. "There's no problem that can't be taken care of. There's nothing worth hurting yourself or somebody else over. That's just going to make it worse."
Waite did not reply. He simply stared back, wide-eyed, drawing in ragged breaths.
"What is it you want?" Crane asked. "What can we do to help you?"
At this, Waite whimpered, swallowed painfully. "Make it stop," he said.
"Make what stop?" Crane asked.
"The sounds."
"What sounds?"
"Those sounds," Waite replied in a voice that was half whisper, half sob. "The sounds that never…that never stop."
"I'll talk to you about the sounds. We can-"
But Waite had begun to whimper again, and the whimper was rising in pitch and volume. More screams were not far away.
Quickly, Crane grasped his own shirt collar, jerked downward violently. There was a loud rending of fabric and a clatter of buttons. He took off the ruined shirt, placed it beside the shoes.
Waite was staring at him again.
"We can work this out," Crane resumed. "Make the sounds stop."
Listening, Waite began to cry.
"But you're making me very nervous with that detonator."
The crying grew louder.
"Let the woman go. It's the sounds we have to fight, not her."
Waite was bawling now, tears almost squirting from his eyes.
Crane had waited, waited carefully, to use the man's Christian name. He decided to use it now. "Let the woman go, Randall. Let her go and drop the explosive. And we'll work this out. We'll make the sounds go away. I promise."
Suddenly, Waite seemed to slump. Slowly, he lowered the screwdriver. The other hand dropped to his side, the C4 falling heavily to the ground. With a cry, the woman sprinted for the military cordon. Quick as lightning, an MP who had been crouching to one side darted in, secured the C4, retreated.