Lincoln Child - Deep Storm

"'In th' ocean's bosom unespied,'" Crane quoted.

Asher looked at him curiously, a half smile on his face. "That's Andrew Marvell, isn't it?"

Crane nodded. "'Bermudas.'"

"Don't tell me you're a reader of poetry."

"Now and then. I got the habit during all that downtime on sub duty. It's my secret vice."

The smile widened on Asher's wind-tanned face. "Peter, I like you already."

The elevator chimed again, and the doors rolled back onto another corridor, much wider and busier than the others. Glancing out, Crane was shocked at how well-appointed the staff quarters appeared to be. There was elegant carpeting on the floor, and-miraculously-framed oil paintings on wallpapered walls. It reminded him of the lobby of a luxury hotel. People in uniforms and lab coats were walking past, chatting. Everyone had an ID badge clipped to a collar or shirt pocket.

"The Facility is a marvel of engineering," Asher went on. "We were extremely lucky to get the use of it. In any case, this is deck ten. Any questions before I show you to your quarters?"

"Just one. Earlier, you said there were twelve decks. But you've only described six. And this elevator has only six buttons." Crane pointed at the control panel. "What about the rest of the station?"

"Ah." Asher hesitated. "The lower six decks are classified."

"Classified?"

Asher nodded.

"But why? What goes on there?"

"Sorry, Peter. I'd like to tell you, but I can't."

"I don't understand. Why not?"

But Asher didn't answer. He simply gave him another sly smile: half chagrined, half conspiratorial.

If the Facility's living quarters reminded Crane of a luxury hotel, then deck 9 seemed closer in spirit to a cruise ship.

Asher had given him an hour to shower and stow his gear, then he'd shown up to escort him to the medical suite. "Time to meet your fellow inmates," he'd joked. On the way, he gave Crane a brief tour of the deck below his own quarters, known officially as Crew Support.

But "Crew Support" didn't begin to do deck 9 justice. Asher steered him briefly past a hundred-seat theater and a fully stocked digital library before leading him to a large plaza bustling with activity. Music echoed faintly from what looked like a miniature sidewalk café. On the far side of the plaza, Crane made out a pizzeria, and beside it a small oasis of greenery surrounded by benches. Everything was miniaturized to fit into the small footprint of the Facility, but it was so artfully contrived there was no sense of crowding or claustrophobia.

"Deck nine has a unique layout," Asher said. "Basically, it's constructed around two large perpendicular corridors. Someone dubbed their intersection Times Square."

"Remarkable."

"The multimedia nexus and laundry are down that way. And over there is the PX." Asher pointed at a storefront that looked more like an upscale department store than a commissary.

Crane stared at the small knots of workers all around him: chatting, sipping coffee at small tables, reading books, typing on laptops. A few were in military uniform, but the majority wore casual clothes or lab wear. He shook his head; it seemed almost unthinkable that miles of ocean lay above their heads.

"I can't believe the military built something like this," he said.

Asher grinned. "I doubt the original designers had this in mind. But you have to remember this project will last many months. And leaving isn't an option, except under the most extreme circumstances. Unlike you, most of the workers here have no experience in submarines. Our scientists aren't used to living inside a steel box without doors or windows. So we do what we can to make life as bearable as possible."

Crane, inhaling the scent of freshly ground coffee wafting from the café, decided life here would be very bearable indeed.

On the far side of the tiny park, he could make out an oversize flat-panel display, perhaps ten feet by ten, with a group of benches set before it. On closer inspection, he noticed it was actually an array of smaller displays placed in a grid to project a single image. That image was dim, green-black ocean depths. Strange, almost otherworldly fish floated by: bizarrely articulated eels, colossal jellies, balloon-shaped fish with a single lighted tentacle on their heads. Crane recognized some of the species: fangtooth, deep sea angler, viperfish.

"Is that the view outside?" he asked.

"Yes, via a remote camera outside the dome." Asher waved his arm around the little square. "A lot of the workers spend their off hours here, relaxing in the library or watching interactive movies in the multimedia nexus. The sports center on deck ten is also very popular: remind me to show you around it later. Also, we'll need to get you chipped."

"Chipped?"

"Tag you with a RFID chip."

"Radio frequency identification? Is that necessary?"

"This is a very secure installation. I'm afraid so."

"Will it hurt?" Crane asked, only half joking.

Asher chuckled. "The tag's the size of a grain of rice, implanted subcutaneously. Now, let's get to the medical suite. Michele and Roger are waiting. It's this way, at the end of the corridor." And Asher pointed with his right hand down one of the wide hallways. At the end, past the PX and café and a half dozen other entranceways, Crane could just make out a double set of frosted glass doors, marked with red crosses.

Once again, he noticed Asher kept his left arm tucked in stiffly against his side. "Something wrong with your arm?" he asked as they made their way down the hallway.

"Vascular insufficiency of the upper extremity," Asher replied.

Crane frowned. "Is the pain significant?"

"No, no. I just need to be a little careful."

"I'll say you do. How long have you had the condition?"

"A little over a year. Dr. Bishop has me on a Coumadin regimen, and I exercise regularly. We have a fine set of squash courts in the sports complex." Asher bustled ahead, apparently eager to change the subject. Crane reflected that if Asher had not been the chief scientist, such a condition would probably have kept him on dry land.

The medical suite was engineered like the other spaces Crane had already seen: meticulously designed to fit as many things as possible into the smallest area, yet without appearing cramped. Unlike usual hospital practice, the lighting was kept indirect and even mellow, and piped classical music came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Asher led the way through the waiting area, nodding to a receptionist behind the front desk.

"Like everything else in the Facility, the medical suite is state-of-the-art," he said as he ushered Crane past a records office and down the carpeted corridor. "Besides our doctor, we have four nurses, three interns, a diagnostician, a nutritionist, and two lab specialists. A fully stocked emergency unit. Equipment for just about every test you can name, from simple X-rays to whole body scans. All backed up with a comprehensive pathology lab on deck seven."

"Beds?"

"Forty-eight, with contingencies for double that if necessary. But let's hope it never is: we'd never get anything done." Asher stopped outside a door marked CONFERENCE ROOM B. "Here we are."

The room was small and even more dimly lit than the waiting area. A large videoconferencing screen hung on one wall, while the others sported innocuous watercolors of landscapes and seascapes. Most of the space was taken up by a large, round table. At its far end sat two people, a woman and a man. Both wore officer's uniforms beneath white lab coats.

As Crane entered, the man sprang up from his seat. "Roger Corbett," he said, reaching across the table to shake Crane's hand. He was short, with thinning mouse-colored hair and watery blue eyes. He had a small, neatly trimmed beard of the kind favored by psychiatric interns.