The emergency lighting came on, and in its orange glow he could see Hoskins struggling to sit up. Blood from a scalp wound flowed over the marine's nose and mouth but he was standing now, a grim expression on his face. As warning sirens began to sound in the distance he leveled his rifle, took aim. Crane ducked back behind the closing elevator door as a bullet whined past…and then the doors shut and he felt himself ascend.
51
Gordon Stamper, machinist first class, ran down the steps from deck 9 two at a time. The yellow turnout gear clung heavily to his back and shoulders; the hooks, portable radio, and other equipment clipped to his nylon gut belt rattled with every footfall. The rest of the rescue team followed, carrying oxygen supplies, tubular webbing, pick-head axes, and supplemental gear.
The call that had gone out over the emergency channel said this wasn't a drill. And yet Stamper wasn't so sure. Oh, it was clear something had happened: there'd been that godawful explosion, the brief loss of power. But the lights had come back and the Facility didn't seem any the worse for wear. He sure as hell didn't put it past the powers that be to stage something like this just to see if Rescue Operations was on its toes. The brass was always looking for ways to bust the balls of the enlisted men.
He threw open the door to deck 8. An empty corridor greeted him, doors on both sides of the hall all shut. This wasn't surprising: the end of the shift was approaching, and most administrators and researchers working on this floor would be elsewhere, grabbing a meal inside Central or, more likely, conducting wrap-up meetings in the conference rooms on deck 7.
The microphone for his portable radio was clipped to a shoulder epaulet. He clicked it on with a press of his thumb. "Stamper to Rescue One."
The radio crackled. "Rescue One, roger."
"We're on deck eight."
"Roger that."
Stamper clicked the radio off with a certain grim satisfaction. They sure as hell couldn't complain about the response this time: the call had come through only four minutes before and they were already on the scene.
Their objective was Environmental Control, which was at the other end of the level. Stamper glanced around at his team, made sure they were assembled and ready, then gave the signal to move out.
The more he thought about it, the more he was sure this was bogus, a drill. The call-as he understood it, there had only been one, frantic and half incoherent, and it had been terminated prematurely-had said something about a breach; about water. And that was bullshit, plain and simple. Everybody knew there was a protective dome between the Facility and the North Atlantic and the space between was pressurized and dry. And if it wasn't a drill, it was probably just a broken water pipe; this floor was manned by pencil-necked scientists and paper pushers, apt to faint or cry wolf at the first bead of moisture.
They moved down the corridor, gear clanking, and paused when they reached a T-shaped intersection. The left passage led to the administrative sector, a complicated warren of offices and narrow passageways. By turning right and heading through the research labs, they could reach Environmental Control faster, and-
There was a clang of metal from the direction of the labs, followed by a frantic babel of voices. He paused, listening. The voices were low, but they seemed to be coming nearer.
He cupped a hand to the side of his mouth. "Yo!"
The voices stopped.
"This is Rescue Operations!"
The excited, nervous chatter resumed, and now Stamper heard the sound of running feet. He turned back toward his team, jerking his hand in the direction of the voices.
As he rounded the corner into the research sector, Stamper caught sight of them: maybe five or six scientists, running toward him. They were wild-eyed, clothes and lab coats in disarray. One of them, a middle-aged woman, was crying softly. Their leader-a tall, thin man with curly blond hair-was half drenched in water.
About fifty feet down the corridor beyond them, the watertight hatch had been sealed.
Stamper stepped forward as the group came running up. "Gordon Stamper, team leader," he said in his most authoritative voice. "What's the problem?"
"We've got to get out of here-all of us!" the tall man said breathlessly. The woman's cries increased in volume.
"Just what, exactly, has-"
"There's no time to explain!" the man interrupted. His voice was high and uneven, perched on the edge of hysteria. "We've dogged all the hatches we could, but the pressure's just too great. They won't hold, they'll go any second-"
"Just a minute," Stamper said. "Get a grip on yourself, settle down, and tell us what's happened."
The man turned to the rest of the scientists. "You get up to deck nine, quick as you can."
The panicked group needed no further encouragement. Without another word they ran past the rescue party and disappeared down the hall, heading for the stairwell.
Stamper watched them flee, an impassive expression on his face. Then he turned back to the blond man. "Let's hear it."
The man swallowed, made a visible effort to master himself. "I was in the corridor outside the Seismo-Acoustic Sonar Lab. I had an end-of-shift meeting, and I was just verifying which conference room before heading down to deck seven. There was this…" His voice faltered, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "This huge explosion. It knocked me to the ground. When I got up, I saw…a wall of water, flooding the Environmental Control spaces at the end of the corridor. There was blood in the water, body parts. Lots of body parts."
He swallowed again. "A colleague and I ran to the outer Environmental Control hatch, dogged it shut. Then we retreated down the hall, checking the labs and gathering anyone we could find. Just as we were leaving, the hatch we'd shut blew open, water started pouring in, and the research labs started to flood. We dogged the inner hatches of the research sector as we fell back. But the pressure's just too great, they're going to go any moment, and-"
Suddenly, his voice was drowned out by a terrific boom from the spaces up ahead.
The scientist started, gave a small cry of terror. "You see! There goes the hatch! We have to get out, get out now!" And he turned and fled in the direction of the rear stairwell.
Stamper watched his retreat. Then, very deliberately, he clicked his microphone into life once again. "Stamper to Rescue One."
"Rescue One, your signal is five by five."
"Be advised we have intercepted personnel retreating from the Research sector. They have retreated up stairwell bravo two. Intel obtained from deck eight indicates a large-scale breach in the vicinity of Environmental Control."
There was a pause. "Will you repeat that last, please? Over."
"A large-scale breach. Recommend you seal off this entire grid section and send down containment crews to repair the breach and secure the deck."
Another pause. "Have you verified this yourself?"
"No."
"Please perform a visual and give us a sit rep. Over."
"Roger and out." Shit.
Stamper stared down the corridor, in the direction of the dogged hatch. He wasn't nervous, not exactly; he'd performed this drill so many times it was hard for it to seem anything but routine, even now. Yet there was something about the terror that had radiated from the group of scientists, something about the naked fear in the blond man's eyes…
He turned to his team. "Let's go."
But even as his words died away, he became aware of another sound, coming from the research spaces ahead: a low groaning, gurgling, rushing unlike anything he'd ever heard before. It spiked in volume abruptly and the hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end.