What was it Asher had just told him? Spartan may soon take full command of the operation, with Korolis as his enforcer. Crane struggled to regulate his breathing, appear calm.
The elevator drifted to a stop and the doors rolled back onto deck 7. Spartan stepped out and led the way to an unlabeled door. He opened it with his red passcard while the marines once again took up positions on either side.
The room beyond was small and bare, the only furniture a long table with two chairs set along the near side. Behind the chairs were two huge, free-standing lights, their bulbs backed by metal reflectors. They were both aimed at a spot on the far wall-a spot that was approximately head level. Seeing these lights, Crane felt his heart begin to race even faster. His worst fears were confirmed.
"Walk over to the far wall, Dr. Crane," Spartan said in an expressionless voice.
Crane walked slowly to the wall.
"Turn around, please."
Crane did as ordered.
There was a sudden, metallic snap as both lights burst into brilliance, almost physically pinning him against the wall with their candlepower. He squinted and instinctively raised his hand to his eyes.
"Stand still, Dr. Crane," came the voice of Spartan, invisible behind the wall of white light.
Crane's mind began to work frantically. Stay calm, he told himself. Stay calm. What did he have to worry about? He was a member of the medical staff. He was supposed to be here. It wasn't like he was a spy or anything…
But then he remembered the deadly serious security at the Barrier, the fear he'd just seen on Asher's face.
From behind the wall of light came a single click. There was a moment of stasis. And then, one after the other, the spotlights went out.
"Have a seat, Doctor," said Spartan. He was seated at the table now, and a folder Crane had not noticed before was open in front of him.
Warily, heart still hammering, Crane took the empty seat. Spartan put his hand on the folder and pushed it toward him. It contained a single sheet of paper with about four paragraphs of text beneath a Department of Defense letterhead.
"Sign at the bottom, please," Spartan said. And he placed a gold pen carefully on the table.
"I already signed everything when I was topside," Crane said.
Spartan shook his head. "You didn't sign this."
"May I read it first?"
"I wouldn't suggest it. You'll just frighten yourself needlessly."
Crane picked up the pen, reached for the paper, hesitated. A little distantly, he wondered if he was signing an admission of guilt pro res before he'd even confessed to harboring secret knowledge. He realized it made little difference. Taking a deep breath, he signed the sheet and pushed it back to Spartan.
The admiral closed the folder and squared it sharply on the table. Just at that moment, a knock sounded on the door.
"Come in," Spartan said.
The door opened and a naval officer stepped inside. He saluted Spartan, handed him a white envelope, saluted a second time, then turned and left the room.
Spartan held up the envelope, letting it dangle from his thumb and index finger. Then-almost teasingly-he extended his arm toward Crane.
Crane took the envelope gingerly.
"Open it," Spartan said.
After a moment's hesitation, Crane tore away one edge of the envelope and upended it into his hand. A plastic wafer-like a credit card, only thicker-fell out. One side was clear, and he could see a forest of microchips embedded within. He turned it over to find his own face staring up-as he had looked minutes before, blinded by the lights. There was a bar code beneath this photograph and the words RESTRICTED ACCESS printed in red beside them. A brass clip was fastened to one end.
"That, along with retinal and finger-matrix scans, will allow you past the Barrier," Spartan said. "Keep it safe, Doctor, and on your person at all times. There are very severe penalties for losing such a card or letting it fall into the wrong hands."
"I'm not sure I understand," Crane said.
"I'm authorizing you access to the classified section of the Facility. Over the advice of Commander Korolis, I might add."
Crane stared at the ID card as relief flooded over him. Oh, God, he thought. Oh, my God. This place is making me paranoid.
"I see," he said, still a little stupid from surprise. Then: "Thank you."
"Why?" Spartan asked. "What did you think was happening?"
And Crane could have sworn that-just for an instant-a bemused smile flitted across the admiral's features before they dissolved once again into impassivity.
22
Forty miles off the coast of Greenland, the Storm King oil platform hovered stoically between squall-dark skies and the angry sea. A passing vessel-or, more likely, a reconnaissance satellite, its orbit re-tasked by a curious foreign government-would notice nothing unusual. A few riggers moved slowly around the platform's superstructure, appearing to work the derricks or inspect equipment. But by and large, Storm King seemed as quiet as the surrounding sea was restless. It looked as if the giant platform was asleep.
But within its steel skin, Storm King was a hive of activity. The LF2-M Deeply Submersible Resupply Unit-the Tub-had just returned from its daily journey to the Facility, two miles below. And now almost three dozen people were in the Recovery Chamber, waiting, as a giant winch hoisted the unmanned supply module up through an oversized hatch in the lowest level of the oil platform. Gingerly, the ungainly vessel was plucked from the ocean, then swiveled away from the hatch and lowered into a receiving bay. Under the watchful eye of a marine, two supply officers unsealed the hatch in the Tub's nose, revealing an access bulkhead. Opening this in turn, the officers began unloading the Tub, removing everything that had been stowed inside at the Facility. A remarkable diversity of objects emerged: large black waste containers, bound for the incinerator; carefully sealed confidential packets; medical samples in biohazard boxes, heading for testing too exotic to be performed in the Facility itself. One by one, the items were passed out to the waiting crew, who in turn began to disperse throughout the oil platform. Within fifteen minutes, the Recovery Chamber was empty except for the marine, the winch operator, and the two supply officers, who closed the access bulkhead and sealed the Tub's forward hatch, readying it for the next day's journey.
One of the waiting crew, a Science Services courier, had come away from the Recovery Chamber with a half dozen sealed envelopes under his arm. The courier was a relatively recent arrival on the platform. He wore tortoiseshell glasses and limped slightly as he walked, almost as if one leg was a little shorter than the other. He gave his name as Wallace.
Returning to the science facilities set up on the rig's Production Level, Wallace moved briskly from lab to lab despite his limp, delivering the first five envelopes to their intended recipients. But he did not immediately deliver the last. Instead, he retreated to his tiny office, which was tucked away in a far corner.
Wallace carefully closed and locked the door behind him. Then he opened the envelope and let the contents-a single CD-drop into his lap. Turning to his computer, he eased the disc into the drive. A quick examination of the contents revealed a single file, labeled "108952.jpg"-an image, probably a photograph. He clicked on the file icon and the computer obediently displayed it on the screen: sure enough, a ghostly black-and-white image that was clearly an X-ray.
But Wallace was not interested in the image-only in something it contained.