He picked up the pen and, without giving himself time to reconsider, signed all the documents.
"Thank you," Lassiter said. He started the recorder again. "Let the transcript show that Dr. Crane has signed the requisite forms." Then, snapping off the recorder, he stood. "If you'll follow me, Doctor, I think you'll get your answers."
He led the way out of the office through a labyrinthine administrative area, up an elevator, and into a well-furnished library stocked with books, magazines, and computer workstations. Lassiter gestured toward a table on the far side of the room, which held only a computer monitor. "I'll come back for you," he said, then turned and left the room.
Crane sat where directed. There was nobody else in the library, and he was beginning to wonder what would happen next when the computer screen winked on in front of him. It showed the face of a gray-haired, deeply tanned man in his late sixties. Some kind of introductory video, Crane thought. But when the face smiled directly at him, he realized he wasn't looking at a computer monitor, but rather a closed-circuit television screen with a tiny camera embedded in its upper frame.
"Hello, Dr. Crane," the man said. He smiled, his kindly face breaking into a host of creases. "My name is Howard Asher."
"Pleased to meet you," Crane told the screen.
"I'm the chief scientist of the National Oceanic Agency. Have you heard of it?"
"Isn't that the ocean-management arm of the National Oceanographic Division?"
"That's correct."
"I'm a little confused, Dr. Asher-it's 'Doctor,' right?"
"Right. But call me Howard."
"Howard. What does the NOA have to do with an oil rig? And where's Mr. Simon, the person who I spoke with on the phone? The one who arranged all this? He said he'd be here to meet me."
"Actually, Dr. Crane, there is no Mr. Simon. But I'm here, and I'll be happy to explain what I can."
Crane frowned. "I was told there were medical issues with the divers maintaining the rig's underwater equipment. Was that a deception, too?"
"Only in part. There has been a lot of deception, and for that I'm sorry. But it was necessary. We had to be sure. You see, secrecy is absolutely critical to this project. Because what we have here, Peter-may I call you Peter?-is the scientific and historical discovery of the century."
"The century?" Crane repeated, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice.
"You're right to be skeptical. But this is no deception. It's the last thing from it. Still, 'discovery of the century' may not be quite accurate."
"I didn't think so," Crane replied.
"I should have called it the greatest discovery of all time."
2
Crane stared at the image on the screen. Dr. Asher was smiling back at him in a friendly, almost paternal way. But there was nothing in the smile that suggested a joke.
"I couldn't tell you the truth until you were physically here. And until you'd been fully vetted. We used your travel time to complete that process. Fact is, there's much I can't tell you, even now."
Crane looked over his shoulder. The library was empty. "Why? Isn't this line secure?"
"Oh, it's secure. But we need to know you're fully committed to the project first."
Crane waited, saying nothing.
"What little I can tell you is nevertheless highly secret. Even if you decline our offer, you will still be bound by all the confidentiality agreements you signed."
"I understand," Crane said.
"Very well." Asher hesitated. "Peter, the platform you're on right now is suspended over something more than an oil field. Something much more."
"What's that?" Crane asked automatically.
Asher smiled mysteriously. "Suffice to say the well drillers discovered something nearly two years ago. Something so fantastic that, overnight, the platform stopped pumping oil and took on a new and highly secret role."
"Let me guess. You can't tell me what it is."
Asher laughed. "No, not yet. But it's such an important discovery the government is, quite literally, sparing no expense to reclaim it."
"Reclaim?"
"It's buried in the sea bed directly below this platform. Remember I called this the discovery of all time? What's going on here is, in essence, a dig: an archaeological dig like none other. And we are, quite literally, making history."
"But why all the secrecy?"
"Because if people caught wind of what we've found, it would instantly become front-page news on every paper in the world. In hours, the place would be a disaster area. Half a dozen governments, all claiming sovereignty, journalists, rubberneckers. The discovery is simply too critical to be jeopardized that way."
Crane leaned back in his chair, considering. The entire trip was becoming almost surreal. The rushed flight plans, the oil platform that wasn't a platform, the secrecy…and now this face in a box, speaking of an unimaginably important discovery.
"Call me old-fashioned," he said, "but I'd feel a lot better if you'd take the time to see me in person, talk face-to-face."
"Unfortunately, Peter, it's not that easy. Commit to the project, though, and you'll see me soon enough."
"I don't understand. Why, exactly, is it so difficult?"
Asher chuckled again. "Because at the moment, I'm several thousand feet beneath you."
Crane stared at the screen. "You mean-"
"Precisely. The Storm King oil platform is just the support structure, the resupply station. The real action is far below. That's why I'm speaking to you over this video feed."
Crane digested this a moment. "What's down there?" he asked quietly.
"Imagine a huge research station, twelve levels high, full of equipment and technology beyond cutting edge, placed on the ocean floor. That's the ERF-the heart and soul of the most extraordinary archaeological effort of all time."
"The ERF?"
"Exploratory and Recovery Facility. But we refer to it simply as the Facility. The military-you know how fond they are of buzzwords-have labeled it Deep Storm."
"I noticed the military presence. Why are the soldiers necessary?"
"I could tell you it's because the Facility is government property; because the NOA is a branch of the government. And that's true. But the real reason is because a lot of the technology we're using in the recovery project is classified."
"What about those men I saw topside, working on the rig?"
"Window dressing, for the most part. We do have to look like a functioning oil platform, after all."
"And AmShale?"
"They've been paid exceptionally well to lease us the rig, act as front office, and ask no questions."
Crane shifted in his chair. "This Facility you mention. That's where I'd be quartered?"
"Yes. It's where all the marine scientists and engineers live and work. I know how much time you've spent in submerged environments, Peter, and I think you'll be pleasantly surprised. Actually, 'amazed' is more like it. You've got to see the place to believe it-the Facility is a miracle of undersea technology."
"But why is it necessary? Working from the bottom of the sea, I mean. Why can't you run the operation from the surface?"
"The, ah, remains are buried too deep for most submersibles. Besides, submersible yield per dive is abysmally low. Trust me-once you're fully briefed, it will all make sense."
Crane nodded slowly. "I guess that leaves just one question. Why me?"
"Please, Dr. Crane. You're too modest. You're ex-military, you've served aboard stealth submarines and carriers. You know what it's like to live in confined spaces, under pressure. And I mean that both literally and figuratively."
He's done his research,Crane thought.
"You graduated second in your class from the Mayo Medical School. And due to your stint in the Navy, you're a medical doctor who has-among other things-familiarity with the disorders of divers and other seagoing workers."