Deep Storm by Lincoln Child
Now in this island of Atlantis there was a great empire which ruled over the whole island and several others, and over parts of the continent. But then there occurred violent earthquakes and floods, and in a single day and night of misfortune the island of Atlantis disappeared far into the depths of the sea…
END OF EXTRACT
This brief quotation from Plato was all the sheet contained. But it was enough.
Crane let the document fall to his lap, staring out the porthole without seeing. This was Asher’s coy welcome aboard—his way of telegraphing precisely what was being excavated two miles below the ocean’s surface.
Atlantis.
It seemed beyond belief. And yet all the pieces fit: the secrecy, the technology, even the expense. It was the world’s greatest mystery: the flourishing civilization of Atlantis, cut short in its prime by a cataclysmic eruption. A city beneath the sea. Who were its inhabitants? What secrets did they possess?
He waited, motionless in his seat, for the tingle of excitement to recede. And yet it did not. Perhaps, he decided, this was all a dream. Perhaps the alarm would go off in a few minutes, he’d wake up, and it would be just another sweltering day in North Miami. All this would evaporate and he’d be back to the old grind, trying to decide on a new research position. That had to be the answer. Because it wasn’t possible he was descending to an ancient, long-hidden city or that he was about to become a participant in the most complex and important archaeological excavation of all time.
“Dr. Crane?”
At the sound of Richardson’s voice, Crane roused himself abruptly.
“We’re nearing the Facility,” Richardson said.
“Already?”
“Yes, sir.”
Crane glanced quickly out the porthole. At two miles down, the ocean was an intense silty black the exterior lights could barely penetrate. And yet there was a strange, ethereal glow that came—against all logic—from below, rather than above. He leaned closer, glanced downward, and caught his breath.
There, perhaps a hundred feet below them, lay a huge metallic dome, its perimeter buried in the sea floor. About halfway down its side, an open, circular tunnel about six feet across led inward, like the mouth of a funnel; otherwise, the surface was smooth and without blemish. There were no markings or insignia of any kind. It looked exactly like the crown of a gigantic silver marble, peeping up from a bed of sand. A bathyscaphe identical to the one he was in sat tethered to an escape hatch on the far side. At the dome’s summit, a small forest of sensors and communications gear sprouted around a bulky object shaped like an inverted teacup. From all over the dome’s surface, a thousand tiny lights winked up at him like jewels, flickering in and out in the deep ocean currents.
Hidden beneath this protective dome was Deep Storm: a cutting-edge city of technological marvels. And somewhere beneath Deep Storm—as ancient as the recovery Facility was new—lay the unknown mystery and promise of Atlantis.
Staring, entranced, Crane realized he was grinning like an idiot. He glanced over at Richardson. The petty officer was watching him and grinning, too.
“Welcome to Deep Storm, sir,” he said.
4
Kevin Lindengood had worked everything out with fanatical attention. He knew the game was potentially dangerous—maybe even very dangerous. But it was a game about preparation and control. He was well prepared, and he was in complete control. And that was why there was nothing to worry about.
He leaned over the hood of his beat-up Taurus, watching the Biscayne Boulevard traffic pass by. This gas station was on one of Miami’s busiest thoroughfares. You couldn’t ask for a more public place. And a public place meant safety.
He loitered by the air pump, hose in hand, pretending to check the tires. It was a hot day, well over ninety, but Lindengood welcomed the heat. On the Storm King oil platform, he’d had enough ice and snow to last several lifetimes. Hicks and his damn iPod, Wherry and his swaggering…there was no way in hell he wanted to go back to that life. And if he played his cards right today, he wouldn’t have to.
As he straightened up from the front passenger tire, a black sedan pulled into the station and parked in the service area, a dozen feet away. With a thrill that was half excitement and half fear, Lindengood saw his contact get out of the driver’s seat. The man was wearing the clothes he had insisted on for the meeting: tank top and swimming trunks. No chance to conceal a weapon of any kind.
He glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock: the man had arrived precisely on time.
Preparation and control.
Now the man was walking toward him. In prior meetings, he’d said his name was Wallace, but had never volunteered a last name. Lindengood was fairly certain even Wallace was an alias. He was thin, with a swimmer’s physique. He wore thick tortoiseshell glasses and limped slightly as he walked, as if one leg was a bit shorter than the other. Lindengood had never seen the man in a tank top before, and he couldn’t help but be amused at how pale his skin was. Clearly, this was a fellow who spent most of his time in front of a computer.
“You got my message,” Lindengood said as the man approached.
“What’s this about?”
“I think we’d be more comfortable in my car,” Lindengood replied.
The man stood still a moment, then shrugged and slipped into the passenger seat.
Lindengood walked around the front of the car and got in behind the wheel, careful to leave the door wide open. He kept the air hose in his hand, playing with it idly. The man wasn’t going to try anything, not here—besides, he hardly looked the physical type—but on the off chance he did, Lindengood could use the air hose as a blackjack. Yet once again he reminded himself that wouldn’t be necessary: he’d transact his bit of business and then vanish. Wallace didn’t know where he lived, and Lindengood sure as hell wasn’t about to tell him.
“You’ve been paid, and paid well,” Wallace said in his quiet voice. “Your part of the job is finished.”
“I know that,” Lindengood replied, careful to keep his own voice firm and confident. “It’s just that, now that I know a little more about your, um, operation, I’m beginning to think I was underpaid.”
“You don’t know anything about any operation.”
“I know that it’s far from kosher. Look, I’m the one who found you, remember?”
Wallace didn’t answer. He simply stared back, his expression neutral, almost placid. Outside, the air compressor chuffed, then chimed, as it maintained pressure.
“See, I was one of the last of the crew to leave Storm King,” Lindengood went on. “It happened a week after we’d finished our little business, and I’d fed you the last of the data. All these government types, all these scientists, began swarming over the place. And I got to thinking. Something huge, really huge, was taking place. It was a lot bigger than I’d ever thought. So just the fact you were interested in what I had to sell meant your people must have resources—and deep pockets.”
“What’s your point?” Wallace said.
Lindengood licked his lips. “My point is certain officials would be very, very eager to learn of your interest in Storm King.”
“Are you threatening us?” Wallace asked. His quiet voice had gone silky.
“I don’t want to use that word. Let’s say I’m trying to redress an imbalance. Clearly my original fee wasn’t nearly enough. Hey, I’m the guy who first discovered the readings, reported the anomaly. Doesn’t that count for anything? And I passed the information on to you: all the readouts, the triangulation data, the telemetry from the deep-sea probe. Everything. And I’m the only one who could have done it—I made the connection, saw the data. No one else knows.”
“No one else,” Wallace repeated.
“Without me, your people wouldn’t even have known about the project. You wouldn’t have your own—I presume?—assets in place.”
Wallace took off his glasses, began polishing them on the tank top. “How much were you thinking?”
“And then you’ll go away for good. Is that it?”
Lindengood nodded. “You’ll never hear from me again.”
Wallace considered this for a moment, still polishing. “It’ll take me a day or two to get the money together. We’ll have to meet again.”
“Two days is fine,” Lindengood replied. “We can meet here, the same—”
Quick as a striking snake, Wallace’s right fist shot out, index and middle knuckles extended, hammering Lindengood in the solar plexus. A crippling pain blossomed deep in his gut. Lindengood opened his mouth but no sound emerged. Involuntarily he bent forward, fighting to get his wind back, hands clutching his midriff. Now Wallace’s right hand grabbed Lindengood by the hair and pulled him down onto the seat while brutally twisting his head around. Staring eyes wide with agony, Lindengood saw Wallace look first left, then right—glasses forgotten—checking that his actions were unobserved. Still holding Lindengood by the hair, he reached over to close the driver’s door. As the man sat back again, Lindengood saw he had the air hose in his other hand.
“You, my friend, have just become a liability,” Wallace said.
At last, Lindengood found he could speak. But as he drew in breath to yell, Wallace thrust the air hose into the back of his throat.
Lindengood retched and bucked violently. He pulled up from the seat despite the restraint, hair tearing out at the roots. Wallace grabbed a second, larger handful of hair, pulled him back, and with a brutal movement shoved the air hose directly down his windpipe.
Blood filled Lindengood’s mouth and throat and he let out a gargling scream. But then Wallace clamped down on the compressor handle; air shot from the nozzle with terrible, overwhelming force; and a pain unlike anything Lindengood had ever remotely imagined exploded in his chest.
5
The voice that echoed over the talkback mike was pitched slightly high, as if the person on the other end was sucking helium. “Another five minutes, Dr. Crane, and you can pass through airlock C.”
“Thank God.” Peter Crane swung his legs off the metal bench where he’d been dozing, stretched, and checked his watch. It was 4 A.M.—but he suspected that, if the Facility was anything like a submarine, day and night held little meaning.
Six hours had passed since he’d left the bathyscaphe and entered the maze of airlocks known as the Compression Complex. He’d been cooling his heels since, waiting through the Facility’s unusual acclimatization period. As a doctor, he was curious about this: he had no idea what it might consist of or what technology was involved. All that Asher had told him was that it made working at great depths easier. Perhaps they’d modified the atmospheric composition: reduced the amount of nitrogen and added some exotic gas. Whatever the case, it was clearly an important breakthrough—no doubt one of the classified elements that made this mission so hush-hush.
Every two hours, he had been instructed by the same disembodied chipmunk voice to pass into a new chamber. Each was identical: a large saunalike cube with tiers of metal bunks. The only difference had been the color. The first compression chamber had been military gray; the second, pale blue; and the third—rather surprisingly—red.
After finishing a short dossier on Atlantis he’d found in the initial chamber, Crane spent the time dozing or paging through a thick anthology of poetry he’d brought along. Or thinking. He spent a lot of time staring up at the metal ceiling—and the miles of water pressing down on him—and thinking.
He wondered about the cataclysm that could have sunk the city of Atlantis to such a depth; about the lost civilization that had once flourished. It could not be the Greeks, or the Phoenicians, or the Minoans, or any of the other usual suspects favored by historians. As the dossier made clear, nobody knew anything about Atlantean civilization—not really. Although Crane was surprised the city was situated this far north, the dossier also explained that, even in the original sources, its actual location was obscure. Plato himself knew next to nothing about its citizenry or civilization. Perhaps, Crane mused, that was one reason it had remained hidden so long.
As the hours slowly passed, his feeling of disbelief refused to ebb. It all seemed miraculous. Not just that it had all happened so quickly, not just that the project was so breathtakingly important—but that they’d wanted him. He hadn’t stressed the point to Asher, but the fact was he remained unsure why they’d so particularly required his services. After all, his specialty wasn’t hematology or toxicology. You are uniquely qualified—both as a doctor and as a former officer—to treat the affliction, Asher had said. True, he was well versed in the disorders of those who lived in undersea environments, but there were other doctors who could make the same claim.
He stretched again, then shrugged. He’d learn the reason soon enough. And besides, it didn’t really matter; being here was simply his good fortune. He wondered what strange and wonderful artifacts had been unearthed, what ancient secrets might already have been rediscovered.
There was a loud clank, and the hatchway in the far wall opened. “Please step through the airlock and into the passageway beyond,” the voice said.
Crane did as instructed and found himself in a dimly lit cylindrical passage about twenty feet long with another closed hatch at the end. He stopped, waiting. The airlock behind him closed again with another sharp clank. There was a rush of escaping air, so violent that Crane’s ears popped painfully. Then at last the forward hatch opened and yellow light flooded in. A figure stood in the hatchway, haloed in light, one arm outstretched in welcome. As Crane stepped out of the passageway and into the chamber beyond, he recognized the smiling face of Howard Asher.
“Dr. Crane!” Asher said, taking his hand and shaking it warmly. “Welcome to the Facility.”
“Thanks,” Crane replied. “Though I feel I’ve been here awhile already.”
Asher chuckled. “We kept meaning to install DVD players in the compression chambers to help pass the acclimation time. But now that the station is fully staffed there didn’t seem any point. And we weren’t anticipating any visitors. How did you find the reading material?”
“Incredible. Have you really discovered—”
But Asher stayed the question by raising his finger to his nose, winking, and giving Crane a conspiratorial smile. “The reality is more incredible than you can imagine. But first things first. Let me show you to your quarters. It’s been a long trip, and I’m sure you’d like to freshen up.”
Crane let Asher take one of his bags. “I’d like to know more about the acclimatization process.”
“Of course, of course. This way, Peter. Did I already ask if I could call you Peter?” And he led the way with another smile.
Crane looked around curiously. They were in a square, low-ceilinged vestibule with gray-tinted windows lining the opposing walls. Behind one of the windows sat two technicians at a bank of controls, staring back at him. One of them saluted.
At the end of the vestibule, a white hallway led off into the top level of the Facility. Asher was already heading down it, bag slung over one shoulder, and Crane hastened behind him. The hall was narrow—of course—but not nearly as cramped as he’d expected. The lighting was unexpected, too: warm and incandescent, quite unlike the harsh fluorescence of submarines. The atmosphere was yet another surprise: warm and pleasingly humid. There was a faint, almost undetectable smell in the air Crane didn’t recognize: coppery, metallic. He wondered if it was related to the atmosphere technology the Facility employed.
As they walked, they passed several closed doors, white like the hallway. Some bore individual’s names, others abbreviated titles like ELEC PROC or SUBSTAT II. A worker—a young man wearing a jumpsuit—opened one of the doors as they passed by. He nodded to Asher, looked curiously at Crane, then headed back toward the vestibule. Peering inside, Crane got a look at a room full of rack-mounted blade servers and a small jungle of networking hardware.
Crane realized the walls and doors were not painted wh
“What is this material?” he asked.
“Newly developed alloy. Light, nonreactive, exceptionally strong.”
They reached an intersection and Asher turned left. From the image, Crane had assumed the chief scientist of the National Ocean Service to be in his late sixties, but he was obviously a decade younger. What Crane had taken for age lines was really the weathering of a life spent at sea. Asher walked quickly, and he toted Crane’s heavy bag as if it were nothing. For all his apparent healthiness, however, the man kept his left arm cradled against his side. “These upper levels of the Facility are a warren of offices and dormitories, and they can be disorienting at first,” he said. “If you ever get lost, refer to the schematic diagrams at major intersections.”
Crane was impatient to learn more about the medical issues and the dig itself, but he decided to let Asher set the agenda. “Tell me about the Facility,” he said.
“Twelve decks high, and exactly one hundred eighty meters per side. Its base is embedded into the matrix of the ocean floor, and a protective titanium dome has been placed over it.”
“I saw the dome on the way down. That’s some piece of engineering.”
“It is indeed. This Facility we’re in sits beneath it like a pea under a shell, and the open space between is fully pressurized. With the dome and our own hull, there are two layers of metal between us and the ocean. And it’s some metal, too: the skin of the Facility is HY250, a new kind of aerospace steel, with a fracture toughness above twenty thousand foot-pounds and a yield strength in the range of three hundred KSI.”
“I noticed the surface of the dome was punctured by a horizontal tube, running inward,” Crane said. “What’s the purpose of that?”