"I don't know. But those active controls you were asking about? I think Korolis might have just run into them."
"And-and the Facility?" she asked.
"Gone."
"Oh, no. No, no. All those people…" Softly, she began to weep.
Slowly, the buffeting abated. Crane glanced around the dim space. Many were sobbing or moaning; others, frightened and agitated, were being restrained and comforted by their neighbors. There seemed to be only one casualty: the man who had tumbled across the cabin. Gently, Crane freed himself from Hui and went to tend him.
"How much farther?" he called out to Vanderbilt.
The oceanographer had risen to help the tech deal with the breach. "Unknown," he called back. "Power's out; all systems have failed. We're rising on our own buoyancy now."
Crane knelt before the injured man. He was dazed but conscious, struggling to get up. Crane helped him to a sitting position, then dressed a nasty gash across his forehead, another on his right elbow. The light from below had faded completely now, and the escape pod was pitch black. Crane felt his way through ankle-deep water back to Hui.
As he took a seat, he felt someone else move past him in the dark. "We can't seal the breach," came Vanderbilt's voice. "We'd better hope we reach the surface soon."
"Eight minutes have passed already," the tech said. "They must have."
Even as he spoke, Crane noticed-or thought he noticed-the oppressive blackness of the cabin giving way to the faintest light. He felt Hui press his hand: she had noticed it, too. The headlong upward rush seemed to slow, then falter. A lambent light began to suffuse the cabin, flickering in patterns of green and deep blue.
And then came a sensation that was unmistakable. They were bobbing in a gently rolling swell.
A ragged cheer erupted across the escape pod. Hui was still weeping, but now, Crane realized, they were tears of joy.
Vanderbilt waded through the water to the escape hatch in the roof of the pod. But even as he did so there was a muffled shout from above. The clatter of footsteps sounded on the roof; the handle of the hatch turned; there was a metallic squeal as it was raised.
And then Crane saw-for the first time in almost two weeks-bright sunlight and a brilliant blue sky.
62
There was a confusion of rooms and cubicles, murmured questions. Someone shone a bright light into his left eye, then his right. A heavy terry cloth robe was draped over his shoulders. And then-full circle, as in a dream-Crane found himself back in the Storm King library, alone, facing the same computer monitor he had faced twelve days ago, the afternoon he first arrived.
He licked his lips. Perhaps it was a dream; perhaps none of this had happened. It had all been some fabulous mental confection that started out full of light and promise but slowly devolved into nightmare. And now consciousness would return; bits and fragments of the illusion would fall away like chunks of an old facade; reason would reassert itself; and the entire structure would be revealed for the preposterous dreamscape it really was.
Then the monitor winked into life, revealing a tired-looking man in a dark suit, wearing rimless glasses and sitting at a desk. And Crane knew that this, in fact, was no dream.
"Dr. Crane," the man said. "My name's McPherson. I understand Admiral Spartan gave you my card."
"Yes."
"And you're alone?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you begin at the beginning, then? Leave nothing out."
Slowly-methodically-Crane related the events of the last two weeks. For the most part, McPherson merely listened, motionless, but the occasional question he posed made it clear that much of what he was hearing was not entirely new to him. As Crane's recitation neared its end-the vindication of Asher's theory, the actions of Korolis, the final meeting with Spartan-McPherson's tired face grew even wearier. The bags beneath his eyes seemed to grow darker, and his shoulders sagged.
Crane stopped speaking, and for a time the room fell into a profound silence. At last, McPherson roused himself. "Thank you, Dr. Crane." He reached toward a control box that sat beside him, preparing to break the video connection.
"Just a minute," Crane said.
McPherson glanced back at him.
"Can't you tell me anything about the saboteurs? I mean, why would anybody do something like this?"
McPherson gave him a weary smile. "I'm afraid there are many reasons somebody would do such a thing, Dr. Crane. But to answer your question, yes, I can tell you a little. You see, we'd been tracing their lines of communication, just as Marris was planning to do. And just an hour ago, an arrest was made on Storm King."
"Here?" Crane said. "On the oil rig?"
"Dr. Bishop's contact. We don't know everything yet, but we know we're dealing with a cadre of ideologues, fiercely opposed to American interests and dedicated to neutralizing our ability to protect ourselves. Their members are mostly recruited out of colleges and universities, much as Kim Philby, Guy Burgess, and the other Cambridge spies were recruited-young people, impressionable and full of high ideals, who can easily be influenced and preyed upon. The group is very well financed, whether by a foreign government or private individuals we're not yet sure. But we'll find out soon enough. Either way, they were committed to preventing us from taking possession of whatever technology was buried down there."
There was a brief pause. "So what happens now?" Crane asked.
"You'll remain with us for a few days. You, Ms. Ping, some of the others. Once the processing and debriefing is complete, you'll be free to go."
"No. I mean, what will happen to the project? Deep Storm?"
"Dr. Crane, there is no more project. Deep Storm is gone." And with that, McPherson removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and terminated the feed.
Crane left the library and walked down the drab metal corridor beyond. He passed an office in which a small group of people sat together, speaking in low voices. In another office, a woman sat at a desk, her hands clasped together, head bowed in contemplation or prayer. Everybody seemed to be in shock. A technician walked by him, the man's gait slow, almost purposeless.
Reaching the end of the corridor, Crane pulled open the hatch. Outside, beyond the metal guardrail of the walkway, the blue-black sea ran away to infinity. He stepped out into the sea air and climbed several sets of steps to the top level of the superstructure. About a dozen of the Deep Storm survivors were clustered beside the helipad, waiting for the AmShale chopper to make its next trip back from Iceland. Standing apart from them, wearing handcuffs and leg irons and chained to a stanchion, stood a pale-skinned man with thick tortoiseshell glasses. He was flanked by two armed marines.
At the edge of the platform, away from the others, stood Hui Ping. She was staring out into the distance, watching the sun sink into the restless waves. Crane walked over to join her, and together they stood a moment in silence. Far below, in the slick of oil that lapped around the rig's support pillars, two Navy cutters prowled back and forth through a widening debris field, stopping now and then to retrieve an object.
"Done?" Hui said at last.
"For now."
"What's next?"
"We're guests of the government for a couple of days. Then I guess we go home. Try to get on with our lives."
Hui pushed a stray hair back behind her ear. "I've been trying to make sense of it all. I think I understand why Dr. Bishop killed Asher-when she heard he and Marris were tracing the saboteur's communications lines, she must have felt she had no choice. She couldn't allow herself to be stopped preemptively."
"That's how it seems to me. Asher told me he alerted all the department heads to be vigilant-including her. That was his own death warrant."
"But there's one thing I don't understand. Why we're all still here."