Korolis was carrying a thin white folder tucked beneath his arm. Now he handed it to Spartan. The admiral opened it. Inside was a single printed sheet.
Spartan closed the folder without reading the contents and glanced back at Korolis. "It's confirmed?" he said.
Korolis nodded.
"Intent, as well?"
"Yes," Korolis answered. "It was pure dumb luck that it ruptured where it did."
"Very well. And your new men?"
"They should arrive within minutes."
"Understood." And Spartan gave him a dismissive nod.
He watched for a minute, thoughtfully, as the officer made his way back down the catwalk. It was not until Korolis had dwindled to a small shadow outside the Facility entrance that he at last dropped his eyes again to the folder, opened it, and scanned the sheet inside. If the contents made an impression on him, it was visible only in a clenching of his jaw muscles.
Raised voices roused him. The admiral looked up to see Asher arguing with the guards, who were denying him permission to climb onto the platform. Asher turned toward Spartan, and the admiral nodded his permission. The guards stepped back and Asher came over, puffing slightly.
"What are you doing here, Doctor?" Spartan asked mildly.
"I've come to see you."
"I gathered as much."
"You haven't returned my calls or e-mails."
"I've been rather busy," Spartan said. "Some items of importance came up."
"What I sent you was important, too. Our researcher's report on what he found in the library of Grimwold Castle. Have you read it?"
Spartan's eyes slid away for a moment, toward the engineers working on the seal, before returning to the chief scientist. "I've skimmed it."
"Then you know what I'm talking about."
"Frankly, Doctor, I'm a little surprised. For a man of science, you seem far too credulous. The entire thing could be a work of imagination. You know how superstitious people were back then: old accounts of demons, witches, sea monsters, and other rubbish are innumerable. Even if it purports to be real, there is no reason to think this account has anything to do with what we're concerned about here."
"If you'd read the document you'd have seen the parallels." Asher, normally so calm and collected, was agitated. "Of course it's possible the two are unrelated. But if nothing else, it emphasizes the need to slow down. Learn a little more about what's down there."
"The only way to do that with any certainty is to expose it. We've already learned quite a bit, found quite a bit-you of all people know that."
"Yes, and look at the results. Healthy people falling sick in alarming numbers. People with no history of emotional problems having psychotic episodes."
"You brought somebody on board to look into that. What's he been doing?"
Asher drew closer. "Working with his hands tied. Because you haven't given him access to the lower levels. Where the real story lies."
Spartan gave a wintry smile. "We've been over that. Security is paramount. Peter Crane is a security risk."
"He's a lot less of a risk than-"
But Spartan made a suppressing gesture. Asher drew back, following Spartan's eyes. A new person had stepped onto the platform: a muscular, sunburnt man in dark military fatigues, carrying a black canvas duffel. His iron-gray hair was cut very short. Catching sight of Spartan, he walked over and executed a crisp salute.
"Chief Woburn, reporting as ordered, sir," he said.
"Where are your men, Chief?" Spartan asked.
"Waiting outside the Compression Complex."
"Then join them. I'll have Commander Korolis show you to your quarters."
"Aye, aye, sir." Another salute and the officer wheeled around.
Spartan turned back to Asher. "I'll take your request under advisement."
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 personnel allotments are joint decisions, Admiral. Made by us as a team. And that insignia, the man's a-"
"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 personnel. Hair, urine, and other samples had been examined, without result. He and Bishop were now examining slides from energy-dispersive X-ray fluorescence spectrometer tests, but once again, nothing so far. The public areas of the Facility had also come up clean.
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.