He remained motionless, thinking. Then-slowly-he eased himself down on the metal floor. He undid one shoe, then the other, and placed them carefully aside. He removed his socks and put them to one side, arranging them with finicky precision. Then he leaned backward, resting himself on the palms of his hands.

As he did so, he became aware of something new in the hanger: silence. The screaming had stopped. Waite was staring at him now, the screwdriver still pressed dangerously against the woman's throat.

"You don't want to do this," Crane said in a patient, reasonable tone. "There's no problem that can't be taken care of. There's nothing worth hurting yourself or somebody else over. That's just going to make it worse."

Waite did not reply. He simply stared back, wide-eyed, drawing in ragged breaths.

"What is it you want?" Crane asked. "What can we do to help you?"

At this, Waite whimpered, swallowed painfully. "Make it stop," he said.

"Make what stop?" Crane asked.

"The sounds."

"What sounds?"

"Those sounds," Waite replied in a voice that was half whisper, half sob. "The sounds that never…that never stop."

"I'll talk to you about the sounds. We can-"

But Waite had begun to whimper again, and the whimper was rising in pitch and volume. More screams were not far away.

Quickly, Crane grasped his own shirt collar, jerked downward violently. There was a loud rending of fabric and a clatter of buttons. He took off the ruined shirt, placed it beside the shoes.

Waite was staring at him again.

"We can work this out," Crane resumed. "Make the sounds stop."

Listening, Waite began to cry.

"But you're making me very nervous with that detonator."

The crying grew louder.

"Let the woman go. It's the sounds we have to fight, not her."

Waite was bawling now, tears almost squirting from his eyes.

Crane had waited, waited carefully, to use the man's Christian name. He decided to use it now. "Let the woman go, Randall. Let her go and drop the explosive. And we'll work this out. We'll make the sounds go away. I promise."

Suddenly, Waite seemed to slump. Slowly, he lowered the screwdriver. The other hand dropped to his side, the C4 falling heavily to the ground. With a cry, the woman sprinted for the military cordon. Quick as lightning, an MP who had been crouching to one side darted in, secured the C4, retreated.

Crane took a deep breath. Then, slowly, he rose. "Thank you, Randall," he said. "Now we can help you. Now we can make the sounds go away." And he took a step forward.

At this, Waite reared back. His eyes rolled dangerously in his head. "No!" he said. "You can't make the sounds go away. Don't you understand? No one can make the sounds go away!" And with sudden, unexpected speed, he raised the screwdriver to his own throat.

"Stop!" Crane cried, dashing forward. But even as he did he saw, with horror, the point of the screwdriver disappear into the soft flesh of the man's neck.

11

When Howard Asher reached the executive conference room on deck 8, Admiral Spartan was already there, seated at the table, hands resting on the polished rosewood. He waited silently while Asher closed the door and took a seat across the table.

"I've just come from Medical," Asher said.

Spartan nodded.

"Waite sustained a deep puncture wound to the neck, and he's lost a lot of blood, but he's stable. He'll pull through."

"You didn't summon me to an emergency meeting just to tell me that," Spartan replied.

"No. But Waite is one of the reasons I asked you here."

Spartan did not reply; he merely gazed at Asher with his dark unfathomable eyes. In the brief silence that followed, Asher felt the old apprehension-which he'd managed to contain so long-creeping back again.

Science and the military made for strange bedfellows. Deep Storm, Asher knew, was at best a marriage of convenience. He and his team of scientists needed this station, and the bottomless resources of the government, in order to undertake such a mind-boggling excavation in the first place. Spartan needed the scientists and engineers to plan the dig and analyze the finds. But the recent, unexpected developments were putting a strain on an already fragile relationship.

The door opened quietly, then closed again. Asher looked back to see Commander Korolis. The man nodded, then wordlessly took a seat at the table.

Asher's apprehension increased. To him, Korolis symbolized everything was wrong about this project: secrecy, disinformation, propaganda. Asher knew that Waite was asleep in Medical, heavily sedated; otherwise, Korolis would be at the patient's side, ensuring that no word of what went on below deck 7 reached non-classified ears.

"Proceed, Dr. Asher," Spartan said.

Asher cleared his throat. "Waite is just the latest and most acute in a series of medical and psychological traumas. Over the last two weeks, this Facility has seen an alarming spike in illness, across the board."

"Which is why you've brought in Crane."

"I asked for several specialists," Asher said. "A diagnostician, a-"

"One is sufficient enough risk," Spartan replied, his voice low and even.

Asher took a deep breath. "Look. Once Waite is stable, we have to get him to the surface."

"Out of the question."

Now annoyance began mixing with Asher's apprehension. "Why is that, exactly?"

"You know the reasons as well as I do. This is a secret installation, undertaking a classified mission-"

"Classified!" Asher cried. "Confidential! Don't you understand? We have a serious medical issue here. You can't just ignore it, sweep it under the rug!"

"Dr. Asher, please." For the first time, Admiral Spartan allowed his tone to stiffen slightly. "You're overreacting. We have a fully equipped medical facility here, staffed by skilled personnel. Against my better judgment, I've bowed to your request to bring in an additional resource-over the objection, I might add, of Commander Korolis here."

This was bait, and Asher did not rise to it.

"Besides," Spartan went on, "I don't see the need for panic. Have you, or the good Dr. Crane, identified a cluster?"

"You know we haven't."

"Then let's be reasonable here. Many of your scientists aren't used to working in conditions like these. Confined to the Facility, cramped quarters, stressful working environment-" Spartan waved a meaty hand. "Irritability, sleeplessness, loss of appetite-these things are to be expected."

"It's not just scientists who are being affected," Asher replied. "So are members of the military. And what about the ministrokes? The arrhythmias? What about Waite?"

"You're talking about a very small section of the population," Korolis said. It was the first time he'd spoken. "You get enough people together, something's bound to pop up."

"The facts are these," Spartan went on. "There is no commonality. People are complaining about all sorts of things-that's what people do. Aside from Waite, there's no severity. I'm sorry, Dr. Asher, but that's the truth. Bottom line: there's no outbreak. Period."

"But-" Asher began. He fell silent when he saw the expression on Spartan's face. Scientists have no place in a military operation, that expression seemed to say. And all this whining proves it.

He decided to change the subject. "There's something else."

Spartan's eyebrows rose.

"Earlier today, Paul Easton, the marine geologist, came to see me. Turns out we're wrong about the dating."

"What dating is that?" Spartan asked.

"Of the burial event."

There was a brief silence.

Spartan shifted in his chair. "How wrong?"

"Very."

Korolis exhaled slowly between his teeth. To Asher, it sounded like the hiss of a snake.