"Exactly. Such as the technology that created the device I just showed you. Something that would help humanity to develop further, make that next leap."
There was a silence as Crane digested this.
"So what's the problem?" he asked at last.
"At first, I was as certain of all this as the rest. But lately I'm not so sure. See, everybody wants to believe there's something wonderful down there. My scientists are starry-eyed, dreaming of entire new frontiers of knowledge. The Navy spooks are drooling over the possibility of new technology that might be weaponized. But how can we be sure what's there? These markers we've found are like a trail of bread crumbs, promising tastier things. But until their signals are translated, we can't know what's really buried below them."
Asher wiped his brow again. "Then something happened. We'd always assumed, Peter, that the artifact was buried millions of years ago. But a couple of days back we discovered the burial was relatively recent-around A.D. 1400. That's when I realized that sightings, actual sightings, of the burial event might be part of the written record. So I sent a researcher around the region, visiting libraries, abbeys, universities-any place that might have eyewitness accounts. And at Grimwold Castle, an old monastery off the coast of Scotland, we found one." A dark look crossed his face. "It made for disturbing, frightening reading."
"And you're positive? That this account you found describes the actual burial, I mean."
"There's no way to be sure."
"Can I read it?"
"I'll get a copy to you. But the point is this: assuming it does describe the burial event, this eyewitness account is about as clear a go slow message as I can imagine."
Crane shrugged. "Makes sense. Especially since you haven't yet deciphered the digital signal."
"Except the Navy keeps moving ahead with greater and greater speed. Admiral Spartan and I don't see eye to eye on the matter. His worst fear is that other nations will learn of the discovery. He wants the object exposed and penetrated with all possible speed, and samples of whatever's inside retrieved for study."
"Does anybody else outside the classified sector know of this?"
"A few. Rumors circulate. Most suspect it's more than Atlantis." Abruptly, Asher rose and began pacing. "Anyway, there's another reason for caution. We know that the crust is composed of three layers-the sediment layer, the basement layer, and the oceanic layer. We've dug through the first two and are almost into the third and deepest layer. Below that is the Moho. The thing is, nobody really knows for certain what the Moho is, or what will happen when we hit it. We need to proceed with caution. But the more I've protested, the more I and the NOS have been marginalized. More military are arriving now, and they're no longer regular Navy. They're 'black ops'-and very scary."
"People like Korolis," Crane said.
At the name, a look of anger passed briefly over Asher's face. "Korolis requested them, and they're reporting directly to him. In any case, my fear is that Spartan may soon take full command of the operation, with Korolis as his enforcer. If I object too loudly, I might be relieved of my position, expelled from the station." Asher stopped pacing and stared at Crane. "And that's where you come in."
Crane stared back in surprise. "Me?"
"I'm very sorry, Peter. I never wanted to burden you with this knowledge-or this responsibility. I'd hoped the medical problem would be solved quickly and you could return to the surface, still believing we'd found Atlantis. But with the discovery of this eyewitness account, and given Spartan's increasingly aggressive behavior…well, you're the only option I have left."
"But why me? You're taking a huge risk just by telling me all this."
Asher smiled wearily. "I did my homework, remember? My people are scientists. They're too intimidated by men like Korolis to ever help me. But you: you're not only qualified to treat undersea ailments, you also served on an intelligence-gathering submarine. And I'm afraid that's just what this might soon become: an intelligence mission. And maybe more."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that every day, they're getting closer to the Moho. I can't wait any longer. One way or another, we have to know what's down there-before Spartan's digging machines get to it."
"What makes you sure I'll fall in on your side? I'm ex-military, as you point out. I might agree with Admiral Spartan."
Asher shook his head. "Not you. Now, listen-don't repeat a word of this to anybody." He hesitated. "Maybe none of this will be necessary. Maybe our analysts will finish decrypting those markers tomorrow, or the next day, and all I've said will become moot." He nodded at the man standing beside the evidence locker, who throughout the conversation hadn't said a single word. "This is John Marris. He's my own cryptanalyst, and he's working night and day on the problem. Now, what I want you to do-"
At that moment, a sharp rap sounded on the door. It was repeated again, and then again.
Crane looked at Asher. The chief scientist had frozen in place beside the chair, his lined face suddenly pale. He gave his head a violent shake.
Another rap, louder, more insistent. "Dr. Crane!" boomed a gravelly voice from the corridor.
Crane turned toward the door.
"Wait!" Asher said in a low, urgent voice.
But at that moment the door opened. And Admiral Spartan stood silhouetted in the light of the corridor, a red all-access passcard in his hand, flanked by marines with M1 carbines in their hands.
21
Spartan looked from Crane to Asher and back again, his expression unreadable. Then he took a step into the room.
"Am I interrupting something?" he asked.
The room fell uncomfortably silent. Crane glanced at Asher, who had the stunned look of a deer caught in a pair of headlights.
When there was no answer, Admiral Spartan turned to the marines. "Take him outside," he said, pointing at Crane.
One of the marines beckoned Crane forward with his rifle barrel. Crane swallowed painfully. The wonder of the last several minutes had evaporated, replaced by a painful sense of vulnerability.
He stepped into the hall with a sinking feeling. Spartan closed and locked the door behind him.
Crane waited in the narrow passageway, the marines standing silently on either side. His mouth was dry, and his heart raced uncomfortably in his chest. Sounds of raised voices began to filter through the door; he listened intently but could not make out the words. What is happening? He wasn't sure who to feel more worried about: himself or the old man in his room.
Five dreadful minutes passed. Then the door opened and Spartan emerged. He glared at Crane. "Come with me, Doctor," he said.
"Where are we going?"
"You will find it easier to just follow orders" was the clipped response.
Crane's eyes strayed back to the rifles in the hands of the marines. Clearly, he had no recourse but to obey. He marched down the corridor behind Spartan, the marines swinging into place behind him. A few passing technicians stopped to stare at their little parade. "Where-?" Crane began again, then stopped himself. Anything he said now would just dig the hole even deeper. Far better to say nothing, nothing at all…until he had to.
But the silent questions remained. How much does Spartan know? What did Asher tell him? They'd no doubt looked guilty as helclass="underline" three conspirators, meeting in secret…
This was, at heart, a military operation. He'd signed an awful lot of agreements up on the oil platform: God only knew what kind of personal rights he'd waived. It occured to him, with an unpleasant chill, that even if Spartan didn't know everything he no doubt had the means, the techniques-and, most likely, the right-to find out whatever he wanted.
They stopped before an elevator. The guards took up positions on either side while Spartan pressed the down button. Within moments the doors whisked open; Spartan stepped in, waited for the guards to usher Crane inside, then pressed the button for deck 7-the lowest non-classified level on the Facility.