50

"Outer doors closed," a voice droned over the speaker system. "Pressure seal activated. Marble Three in the pipeline. Estimated time to dig interface: nineteen minutes, thirty seconds."

From a far corner, Peter Crane watched in frustrated rage as the huge robotic clamp-now empty of its burden-swung away from the water lock and back to its resting position. While the Marble was being painstakingly sealed, then lowered through the lock, he'd looked around at the Drilling Complex staff, hunting for a sympathetic glance, a furtive nod, anything that might signal a potential accomplice. But there had been none: the engineers, technicians, and support staff were already resuming their normal duties, busying themselves with the familiar motions of a dig session in progress. Nobody seemed to notice he was there.

Except for the brace of marines who stood at his shoulders. The all clear sounded, and one of them nudged him. "All right, Doctor. Let's move out."

As they walked toward the doors that led into the corridors of deck 1, a sense of unreality settled over Crane. Surely this was all a dream. It certainly had all the skewed, misshapen logic of a dream. Was he really being marched to the brig by two armed marines? Were they really still digging toward some terrible retribution? Had Korolis really taken over military command of the Facility?

Korolis…

"You don't want to do this," he said in a low voice to the marines. Their response was to pull open the double doors, escort him through.

"It's not the admiral who's unfit for command," he went on as they marched down the corridor. "It's Commander Korolis."

No answer.

"You see the pallor of his skin? The hyperhidrosis-excessive sweating? He's got the sickness that's going around. I'm a doctor; I'm trained to notice these things."

Ahead, the corridor forked. One of the marines nudged Crane's shoulder with his rifle butt. "Turn right."

"Since I've arrived at the Facility, I've seen many cases. Korolis is a classic presentation."

"You'll be better off if you button your lip," the marine said.

Crane glanced at the pale red walls, the closed laboratory doors. His thoughts returned to the other forced march he'd made: the one with Spartan, when he'd been processed and cleared for the classified sector. At the time, he hadn't known where he was being taken. This time it was different. The sense of unreality grew stronger.

"I was in the military, too," he said. "You're soldiers, you've taken an oath to serve your country. Korolis is a dangerous and unstable man. By taking orders from him, what you're doing is no better than-"

The rifle butt slammed into his shoulder, much more violently this time. Crane sprawled onto his knees, neck snapping forward painfully.

"Take it easy, Hoskins," the second marine said gruffly.

"I'm tired of his mouth," Hoskins said.

Crane picked himself up and wiped his hands, staring at Hoskins through narrowed eyes. His shoulder blade throbbed from the impact.

Hoskins nodded with the barrel of his gun. "Get moving."

They continued down the corridor, made a left. Ahead lay the elevator. They approached it and Hoskins pressed the up button. Crane opened his mouth to reason with them again, thought better of it. Maybe the brig guards would listen to reason…

With a low chime, the elevator door slid open.

At the same moment, a tremendous boom came from somewhere far overhead. The entire Facility seemed to briefly rise off its footings. The lights dimmed, brightened, dimmed again. There was a secondary explosion that shook the installation as violently as a dog might shake a rat. With an ear-splitting shriek, a piece of gray metal ducting fell from the ceiling, pinning Hoskins to the floor.

Crane acted without conscious thought. He gave the second marine a quick, disabling downward kick to the knee, then dove headlong into the elevator, pressing the floor buttons indiscriminately. His lab coat tore against the metal grille and his cell phone was knocked from its clip, skittering away across the floor.

The emergency lighting came on, and in its orange glow he could see Hoskins struggling to sit up. Blood from a scalp wound flowed over the marine's nose and mouth but he was standing now, a grim expression on his face. As warning sirens began to sound in the distance he leveled his rifle, took aim. Crane ducked back behind the closing elevator door as a bullet whined past…and then the doors shut and he felt himself ascend.

51

Gordon Stamper, machinist first class, ran down the steps from deck 9 two at a time. The yellow turnout gear clung heavily to his back and shoulders; the hooks, portable radio, and other equipment clipped to his nylon gut belt rattled with every footfall. The rest of the rescue team followed, carrying oxygen supplies, tubular webbing, pick-head axes, and supplemental gear.

The call that had gone out over the emergency channel said this wasn't a drill. And yet Stamper wasn't so sure. Oh, it was clear something had happened: there'd been that godawful explosion, the brief loss of power. But the lights had come back and the Facility didn't seem any the worse for wear. He sure as hell didn't put it past the powers that be to stage something like this just to see if Rescue Operations was on its toes. The brass was always looking for ways to bust the balls of the enlisted men.

He threw open the door to deck 8. An empty corridor greeted him, doors on both sides of the hall all shut. This wasn't surprising: the end of the shift was approaching, and most administrators and researchers working on this floor would be elsewhere, grabbing a meal inside Central or, more likely, conducting wrap-up meetings in the conference rooms on deck 7.

The microphone for his portable radio was clipped to a shoulder epaulet. He clicked it on with a press of his thumb. "Stamper to Rescue One."

The radio crackled. "Rescue One, roger."

"We're on deck eight."

"Roger that."

Stamper clicked the radio off with a certain grim satisfaction. They sure as hell couldn't complain about the response this time: the call had come through only four minutes before and they were already on the scene.

Their objective was Environmental Control, which was at the other end of the level. Stamper glanced around at his team, made sure they were assembled and ready, then gave the signal to move out.

The more he thought about it, the more he was sure this was bogus, a drill. The call-as he understood it, there had only been one, frantic and half incoherent, and it had been terminated prematurely-had said something about a breach; about water. And that was bullshit, plain and simple. Everybody knew there was a protective dome between the Facility and the North Atlantic and the space between was pressurized and dry. And if it wasn't a drill, it was probably just a broken water pipe; this floor was manned by pencil-necked scientists and paper pushers, apt to faint or cry wolf at the first bead of moisture.

They moved down the corridor, gear clanking, and paused when they reached a T-shaped intersection. The left passage led to the administrative sector, a complicated warren of offices and narrow passageways. By turning right and heading through the research labs, they could reach Environmental Control faster, and-

There was a clang of metal from the direction of the labs, followed by a frantic babel of voices. He paused, listening. The voices were low, but they seemed to be coming nearer.

He cupped a hand to the side of his mouth. "Yo!"

The voices stopped.

"This is Rescue Operations!"

The excited, nervous chatter resumed, and now Stamper heard the sound of running feet. He turned back toward his team, jerking his hand in the direction of the voices.