Crane glanced back.
Spartan pulled a card from his pocket, held it out. "When you reach Storm King, call this man. Tell him everything."
Crane glanced at the card. It was embossed with a Department of Defense seal and it read only MCPHERSON, (203) 111-1011.
"Aye, sir," he said.
"Good luck."
Crane gave the admiral a final nod. Then, quickly, he climbed the ladder and pulled himself through the hatchway.
He was in a small, vertical tube, illuminated by recessed blue LEDs. The ladder continued upward, flanked on both sides by heavy ductwork. There was a hollow clang from below as Spartan closed the outer hatch.
Climbing another two dozen steps, Crane passed through an immensely thick, collarlike portal and emerged into a low, teardrop-shaped enclosure. It was dimly illuminated in the same faint blue wash as the access tube. As he stood at the top of the ladder, letting his eyes adjust, he saw he was surrounded by two tiers of circular benches, one behind and above the other, that ran completely around the pod. A safety railing was positioned before each. Both tiers were crowded with people, some holding hands. The atmosphere was strangely hushed; hardly anyone spoke, and those who did conversed in whispers. Crane's eyes moved from face to familiar face. Bryce, the psychiatric intern. Gordon Stamper, machinist. Lab techs, pizza flippers, mechanics, librarians, PX cashiers, food service staff: a cross section of Facility workers he'd treated, worked with, or brushed elbows with over the past ten days.
Two people were conspicuously absent: Roger Corbett and Michele Bishop.
To his right was a small control panel, manned by Vanderbilt and a technician Crane didn't recognize. Vanderbilt rose and came forward.
"Admiral Spartan?" he asked.
"He's staying behind," Crane replied.
Vanderbilt nodded. Kneeling, he closed and carefully sealed the hatch. Then he turned and nodded at the tech, who worked the panel controls briefly.
A low tone sounded overhead. "Disengage now under way," the tech said.
Vanderbilt rose, wiped his hands on his lab coat. "There's a five-minute countdown while the compression sequence is completed," he said.
"Time to the surface?"
"Once we disengage from the dome, just over eight minutes. On paper, anyway."
Slinging his medical kit over his shoulder, Crane scanned the seated people on the two tiers of benches, checking for injuries. Then he returned to the control panel. Directly behind Vanderbilt sat Hui Ping. She smiled faintly as Crane took a seat beside her.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No."
A small circular porthole had been set into the portal hatch. It looked exactly like the one Crane had sat next to during his initial descent in the bathyscaphe. Now he leaned forward, looked down through it. He could see the ladder descending toward the sealed outer hatch, outlined in the pale blue light.
"Two minutes," the technician at the control panel said. "We've got good pressure."
Beside him, Hui stirred. "I've been wondering about something," she said.
"Shoot."
"Remember when you explained about Ocotillo Mountain? You said that there were two kinds of countermeasures to prevent anyone, intentionally or unintentionally, from intruding into the vaults full of old nuclear weapons-passive security measures and active ones."
"That's right."
"I can understand what the passive measures would be-warning signs, images etched on metal, things of that sort. But what would the active countermeasures be?"
"I don't know. There was little talk about them at the conference, other than to note their existence. I gathered that information about them was classified." He turned toward her. "Why do you ask?"
"Those sentinels we found-those are passive measures in their own way, like you said. They simply beam out warnings. I guess I was wondering if they have active countermeasures, as well."
"I don't know," Crane replied slowly. "That's a very good question."
"One minute," the tech murmured.
And in the silence that followed, Crane could now hear distinctly-filtering up from the hatchway beneath his feet-the sharp, steady cadence of automatic weapon fire.
60
The tunnel-boring machine and the Doodlebug had been secured in the lateral retaining tunnel. The stabilization arm had been deployed, locking Marble Three into position directly above the anomaly. These final steps had been simulated many times; the actual procedures had been executed flawlessly. From here on, they were proceeding like surgeons, using only compressed air and the robotic arms. It had gone deathly silent inside the Marble.
"Give it another shot," Korolis whispered. "Gently. Gently."
"Aye, sir," Rafferty whispered back.
The three men communicated by looks and brief murmurs. Even Dr. Flyte seemed caught up in the moment. Again Korolis wiped the sheen of sweat from his face, then pressed his eyes to the tiny view port. A kind of awed reverence hung in the air, as if they were archaeologists excavating some supremely holy tomb. His pounding headache and the strange, metallic film that coated his tongue had vanished completely.
As he watched, Rafferty sent another puff of compressed air over the bottom of the hole. A small storm of sediment and loose gabbro erupted into the yellow glow of the Marble's exterior light, to be quickly sucked away by the vacuum unit.
"Careful," Korolis murmured. "What's the distance?"
"We're there, sir," Rafferty replied.
Korolis turned back to the viewscreen. "Another jet," he said.
"Another jet, aye."
He watched as another stream of compressed air shot over the bottom of the dig interface. He could see the two large sentinels floating on either side, glittering tails moving restlessly back and forth, tendrils drifting lazily. They were like spectators at a show. And why not? It was only right they should be here. They had come not only to witness his triumph, but also to guide him through the fabulous technological riches that awaited. It was not chance that brought him here on this most critical of dives: it was destiny.
"Again," he whispered.
Another jet of air; another gray storm of matter. The viewscreen quickly cleared as the vacuum unit sucked away the particulate. Korolis gripped the control handles even more tightly.
The radio on his control panel squawked into life. "Marble Three, this is Dive Control. Marble Three, this is Dive Control. Please acknowledge-"
Without taking his eyes from the viewscreen, Korolis reached down and snapped off the radio. He could see something now-a bright sheen, almost like the reflected gleam of metal.
"One more shot," he said. "Very carefully, Dr. Rafferty. Smooth as glass."
"Very good, sir."
A ripple of compressed air shot through the dark water beneath them; a fresh confusion of gray and brown particles. And then, as it cleared, Korolis gasped.
"My God," he breathed.
The air-jetting system had cleared the base of the shaft, revealing a smooth, glassy surface. To Korolis, pressed up against the eyepiece, it looked almost like someone blowing dust from a tabletop. Beyond lay an illusion-at least, he thought it was an illusion-of nearly infinite depth: a black infinity extending below. His searchlight was reflecting from the glassy surface, but he thought he could make out another light source, dim and strange, beyond and below the bright corona.
On either side of the Marble, the large sentinels had grown agitated. No longer content to simply drift, they were moving back and forth across the narrow diameter of the tunnel.
"Extinguish the light," Korolis said.
"Sir?" Rafferty said.
"Extinguish the light, please."
Now Korolis could see more clearly.
They were suspended above a massive cavity, of which only the smallest speck had been exposed. Whether the cavity was hollow-or whether the glassy surface directly below them filled it, like glue forced into a hole-he could not be sure. The velvety blackness gave no distinct impression, save that of vast depth.