Corbett took another step forward. Now he could see over her shoulder. She was kneading a long, claylike brick, stretching it out into a thick, off-white rope about two feet long.
Two other such ropes had already been pressed against the steel bulkhead in front of her.
Before he could stop himself, Corbett drew in a sharp breath. Instantly, Bishop dropped the puttylike brick and jumped to her feet, whirling to face him.
"You're the saboteur," Corbett said, obviously. "The one who tried to rupture the dome."
Her nostrils flared, but she said nothing.
Corbett knew he should do something-run, call for help-but he felt dazed, even paralyzed, by shock. "What is that?" he asked. "Semtex?"
Still Bishop said nothing.
Corbett's mind reeled. It's true that, despite working with her for months, he really knew very little about Michele Bishop. Even so, it seemed impossible. It can't be, it can't be. Maybe there's some mistake.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
At this, she finally spoke. "I should think that would be obvious. The southern pressure spoke is just on the other side of this bulkhead."
Somehow, hearing her speak-hearing this affirmation of treachery from her own lips-broke Corbett's mental logjam. "The pressure spokes are full of seawater," he said. "You're going to rupture the hull. Flood the Facility."
He took a step backward.
"Stay where you are." Something in her voice made Corbett freeze.
"Why are you doing this?" As he spoke, he put his hands behind his back as casually as possible.
Bishop didn't reply. She seemed to be debating her next move.
Slowly, stealthily, Corbett slipped his cell phone out of his back pocket. He opened it as quietly as possible, then dialed 1231 with the edge of his thumb. It was the extension of his intern, Bryce: a number that could be entered quickly and easily, without looking. He fumbled for the mute switch; not finding it, he moved his thumb over the cell phone's speaker, muffling it.
"We don't have any Composition-4 on this side of the Barrier," he said. "How'd you get it?"
Any indecisiveness had now left Bishop's face. She laughed mirthlessly at the question. "A lot of medical by-products get transported back and forth in the Tub. You know that. The guards aren't too eager to paw through a lot of red-bag waste. It's possible to get all sorts of things through that way. Such as this." And she dipped her hand into a pocket of the lab coat and pulled out a gun.
Corbett, still numb with surprise, looked at the gun with something like detachment. It was an ugly little weapon with an unusual glossy texture and a silencer snugged onto the barrel. He was about to ask how she'd gotten it through the metal detectors, but the glossy look provided an answer: it was a ceramic-polymer composite, expensive and illegal.
"If you flood the Facility, you'll die too," he said.
"I'm setting the detonators for ten minutes. By that time I'll be on deck twelve, headed for the escape pod."
He shook his head. "Michele, don't. Don't betray your country like this. I don't know what country you're working for, but it isn't worth it. This isn't the way."
Bishop's face abruptly darkened. "What makes you think I'm working for a foreign government?" she asked fiercely. "What makes you think I'm working for a government at all?"
"I-" Corbett began, then stopped, taken aback by this sudden outburst.
"The United States can't be allowed to get its hands on what's down there. America has already shown, time and time again, how it abuses the power it's given. We got the atomic bomb, and what did we do? Within six months we'd nuked two cities."
"You can't compare that to-"
"What do you think America will do with the technology that's down there? America can't be trusted with that kind of power."
"Technology?" Corbett asked, genuinely confused. "What technology are we talking about?"
As quickly as the outburst began, it ended. Bishop didn't answer, simply shaking her head angrily.
Into the silence came the squawk of a male voice.
Now for the first time Corbett felt real fear grip his vitals. In the heated exchange he'd forgotten to keep his thumb pressed over the cell phone's speaker.
Bishop's expression hardened further. "Let me see your hands."
Slowly, Corbett raised his hands. The cell phone was in his right.
"You…!" With a sudden movement, fast as a striking snake, Bishop pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger.
There was a puff of smoke; a sound remarkably like a sneeze; and then a terrible burning sensation exploded in Corbett's chest. A massive force threw him backward against a ventilator housing. He sank to the floor, wheezing and gargling. Just before an irresistible blackness enveloped him, he saw-dimly-Bishop stomp brutally on the cell phone, then kneel again and continue molding the brick of plastique against the outer bulkhead as rapidly as possible.
48
Crane stepped into the elevator, pressed the button labeled 1. Even before the doors had slid shut he was pacing restlessly.
What was taking Michele Bishop so long?
He'd spoken with her more than ninety minutes before. She'd said it would take no longer than half an hour to assemble the scientists.
Had something gone wrong?
At last he'd grown tired of cooling his heels in the temporary infirmary and decided to take one more crack at convincing Admiral Spartan. He had to try; the stakes were too high for him not to try. And anything-even an argument-beat sitting around.
As the elevator doors opened again, something occurred to him. He stepped out, plucked his cell phone from his pocket, dialed Central Services.
"May I help you?" a neutral female voice asked.
"Yes, I need to speak with somebody named Vanderbilt. Gene Vanderbilt, in Oceanographic Research. I don't have access to a directory."
"One moment, I'll connect you."
As Crane walked briskly down the pale red corridor, his phone clicked audibly a few times. Then a man's voice sounded: "Oceanography, this is Vanderbilt."
"Dr. Vanderbilt? Peter Crane here."
There was a brief pause. "You're Dr. Crane, right? Asher's man."
"That's correct."
"He's greatly missed."
"Has Michele Bishop contacted you?"
"Dr. Bishop? No, not recently."
Crane stopped dead. "She hasn't? And you've been in your lab?"
"Yes. For the past several hours."
Crane began to walk again, more slowly this time. "Listen, Dr. Vanderbilt. Something's happening, but I can't talk about it over the phone. I'm going to need your help, and the help of the other top scientists."
"What is it? Is there a medical emergency?"
"You could say that. I'll tell you the details in person. For now, all I can say is that it concerns the safety of the entire Facility and maybe a lot more besides."
Another pause. "Very well. What is it you want me to do?"
"Gather your senior colleagues together as quickly and quietly as possible. When you've done that, ring me back."
"It may take a few minutes. Some of them are in the classified section."
"Then get to them as quickly as possible. Tell them not to say anything to anybody. Believe me, it's vitally important, Dr. Vanderbilt-I'll explain when I see you."
"All right, Doctor." Vanderbilt's voice had become slow, thoughtful. "I'll see if I can't assemble a group in the deck twelve Conference Center."
"Call my cell, it's in the directory. I'll come up." He hung up, then clipped the phone to the pocket of his lab coat. If Spartan comes through, I'll just tell Vanderbilt everything's been resolved, he thought.
Ahead lay the double doors of the Drilling Complex. To his surprise, Crane noticed the doors were no longer guarded by marines but rather by two black ops agents armed with M16s. As he approached, one of them raised a hand for him to stop. The agent gave Crane's ID badge a careful scrutiny, then at last stepped back, pulling one of the doors open as he did so.