Lincoln Child - Deep Storm

"You're the mental health officer," Crane said, shaking the proffered hand. "I'm your new neighbor."

"So I understand." Corbett's voice was low for a man of his size, and he spoke slowly and deliberately, as if weighing each phrase. He wore round glasses with thin silver rims.

"Sorry to barge in on your domestic arrangements."

"Just so you don't snore."

"No promises. Better keep your door closed."

Corbett laughed.

"And this is Michele Bishop." Asher indicated the woman seated across the table. "Dr. Bishop, Dr. Peter Crane."

The woman nodded. "Nice to see you."

"Likewise," Crane replied. The young woman was slender, as tall as Corbett was short, with dark blond hair and an intense gaze. She was attractive but not stunningly so. Crane assumed she was the station's chief medical officer. It was interesting that she had neither stood nor offered to shake his hand.

"Please, Dr. Crane, have a seat," Corbett said.

"Call me Peter."

Asher beamed at each of them in turn like a proud parent. "Peter, I'll leave you to the kindly ministrations of these two. They'll bring you up to speed. Michele, Roger, I'll check in later." Then, with a wink and a nod, he stepped out into the corridor and closed the door.

"Can I get you something to drink, Peter?" Corbett asked.

"No thanks."

"A snack of some kind?"

"I'm fine, really. The sooner we get to the medical problem, the better."

Corbett and Bishop exchanged glances.

"Actually, Dr. Crane, it's not 'problem,'" Bishop said. "It's 'problems.'"

"Really? Well, I guess I'm not surprised. After all, if we're dealing with some variant of caisson disease here, it often presents in a variety of ways."

Caisson disease was so named because it was first diagnosed in the mid-nineteenth century in men working in environments of compressed air. One environment was in the first caisson dug beneath New York 's East River to support the Brooklyn Bridge. If the diggers in the caisson reemerged into open air too quickly after working under pressure, nitrogen bubbles formed in their bloodstreams. This caused, among other symptoms, intense pain in the arms and legs. Sufferers frequently doubled over in agony, and the ailment became known-mordantly-as the Grecian bend. This led to the nickname "the bends." Given the depth at which they were currently working, Crane felt certain caisson disease was involved one way or another.

"I assume you have a hyperbaric oxygen therapy chamber or some other kind of recompression equipment on site you've been treating the patients with?" he asked. "When we're done here, I'd like to question them directly, if you don't mind."

"Actually, Doctor," Bishop said in a clipped voice, "I think we could proceed more quickly if you let me outline the symptomology, rather than make assumptions."

This took Crane by surprise. He looked at her, unsure why she had responded so tartly. "Sorry if I'm overeager or presumptuous. It's been a long trip, and I'm very curious. Go right ahead."

"We initially became aware something was wrong about two weeks ago. At first it seemed more a psychological issue than a physiological one. Roger noticed a spike in the number of walk-in visits."

Crane glanced at Corbett. "What were the symptoms?"

"Some people complained of sleep disturbances," Corbett said. "Others, malaise. A few cases of eating disorders. The most common complaint seemed difficulty in focusing on what they were doing."

"Then the physical symptoms began," Bishop said. "Constipation. Nausea. Neurasthenia."

"Are people working double shifts down here?" Crane asked. "If so, I'm not surprised they're feeling fatigued."

"Others complained of muscle tics and spasms."

"Just tics?" Crane asked. "No associated pain?"

Bishop looked at him with mild reproach, as if to say, If there had been pain, I would have mentioned it, wouldn't I?

"These people aren't presenting with caisson disease," Crane said. "At least, no variant I'm aware of. I guess I don't see the concern. Problems with concentration or focus, constipation, nausea…that's all non-specific. It could simply be work-induced stress. It's an unusual environment and an unusual assignment, after all."

"I'm not through," Bishop said. "Over the last week, the problems have grown worse. Three cases of cardiac arrhythmia in people with no history of heart disorders. A woman with bilateral weakness of the hands and face. And two others suffered what appeared to be transient ischemic attacks."

"TIAs?" Crane said. "How extensive?"

"Partial paralysis, slurred speech, lasting in each case less than two hours."

"What were their ages?"

"Late twenties and early thirties."

"Really?" Crane frowned. "That seems awfully young for a stroke. Two strokes, at that. You did neurological workups?"

"Dr. Crane, please. Of course we did neurological workups. Non-contrast cranial CT scans; EKGs to check for cardioembolic event triggers; the rest. There's no EEG on the station-you know they're mainly used for seizure disorders or coma-but in any case it wasn't necessary here. Except for evidence of stroke, everything was completely normal."

Once again the tartness had crept into her tone. She's territorial, Crane thought. This is her turf and she doesn't like me stepping on it.

"Even so," he said, "it's the first evidence of dysbarism I've heard today."

"Dysbarism?" Corbett asked, blinking through his round glasses.

"Decompression sickness. Caisson disease."

Bishop sighed. "Actually, I believe that caisson disease is the one thing we can safely rule out."

"Why? I assumed-" Crane fell silent. He realized that Asher had never told him outright what the problem was. Given the nature of the Deep Storm station, he'd assumed caisson disease.

"I'm sorry," he went on more slowly. "I guess I don't understand why, exactly, you people asked for me."

"Howard Asher asked for you," Bishop said. And for the first time, she smiled. A brief silence fell over the conference room.

"Have you been able to isolate any commonalities?" Crane asked. "Do the patients all work on the same level or in the same general area of the Facility?"

Bishop shook her head. "We've received patients from most of the decks and from all general work areas."

"So there's no common vector. And no common complaint. It all seems like coincidence to me. Just how many patients, total, have you received?"

"Roger and I figured that out while we were waiting for you." Bishop took a sheet of paper from her lab coat pocket and glanced at it. "The Facility has been operational almost five months. On average, between mental health services and medical, we see perhaps fifteen patients a week. In the past, nothing worse than a case of strep. But since this thing started, we've seen one hundred and three."

Crane was stunned. "One hundred and three? My God, that's-"

"A quarter of the population, Dr. Crane. And far, far too large a number to be coincidence."

And she stuffed the paper back into her pocket with something almost like triumph.

Crane stood in the silence of his quarters on deck 10, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. The room was small, and-like the rest of the Facility-softly lit. There was a narrow bed, two chairs, a walk-in dressing alcove, and a desk with a terminal that was linked to the Facility's central network. Beside the desk, a comm unit set into the wall allowed Crane to dial the Medical suite, reseve a lane at the bowling alley, even order a pizza delivery from Times Square. Save for a large flat-panel television, the light-blue walls were devoid of prints or decoration.

There were two doors of the same strange platinum-hued metal he'd seen elsewhere, but here they were tastefully edged in blond wood. One led to the outside corridor, the other to the bath he shared with Roger Corbett. The mental health officer had offered to take him to lunch at Top, the prosaically named mess on deck 11. Crane said he'd meet him there. He wanted a few minutes alone first.