Deep Storm(2)
“You can stow your gear there,” Lassiter said, indicating a far corner. “Please sit down.”
“Thanks.” Crane took the proffered seat. “I’m eager to learn just what the emergency is. My escort here didn’t have much to say on the subject.”
“Actually, neither will I.” Lassiter gave a smile, which disappeared as quickly as it came. “My job is to ask you a few questions.”
Crane digested this. “Go ahead,” he said after a moment.
Lassiter pressed a button on the recorder. “This recording is taking place on June second. Present are myself—Edward Lassiter—and Dr. Peter Crane. Location is the ERF Support and Supply Station.” Lassiter glanced over the desk at Crane. “Dr. Crane, you are aware that your tour of service here cannot be fixed to a specific length?”
“Yes.”
“And you understand that you must never divulge anything you witness here, or recount your actions while at the Facility?”
“Yes.”
“And are you willing to sign an affidavit to that effect?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“No.”
“Were you born a citizen of the United States, or are you naturalized?”
“I was born in New York City.”
“Are you taking medication for any ongoing physical condition?”
“No.”
“Do you abuse alcohol or drugs with any regularity?”
Crane had fielded the questions with growing surprise. “Unless you call the occasional weekend six-pack ‘abuse,’ then no.”
Lassiter didn’t smile. “Are you claustrophobic, Dr. Crane?”
“No.”
Lassiter put the recorder on pause. Then he picked up the manila envelope, tore it open with a finger, pulled out half a dozen sheets of paper, and passed them across the table. “If you could please read and sign each of these,” he said, plucking a pen from a pocket and placing it beside the sheets.
Crane picked them up and began to read. As he did so, his surprise turned to disbelief. There were three separate nondisclosure agreements, an Official Secrets Act affidavit, and something called a Binding Cooperation Initiative. All were branded documents of the U.S. government, all required signature, and all threatened dire consequences if any of their articles were breached.
Crane put the documents down, aware of Lassiter’s gaze upon him. This was too much. Maybe he should thank Lassiter politely, then excuse himself and head back to Florida.
But how, exactly, was he going to do that? AmShale had paid a great deal of money to get him here. The helicopter had already left. He was having trouble deciding between two research projects at the moment. And besides, he had never been one to turn down a challenge, especially one as mysterious as this.
He picked up the pen and, without giving himself time to reconsider, signed all the documents.
“Thank you,” Lassiter said. He started the recorder again. “Let the transcript show that Dr. Crane has signed the requisite forms.” Then, snapping off the recorder, he stood. “If you’ll follow me, Doctor, I think you’ll get your answers.”
He led the way out of the office through a labyrinthine administrative area, up an elevator, and into a well-furnished library stocked with books, magazines, and computer workstations. Lassiter gestured toward a table on the far side of the room, which held only a computer monitor. “I’ll come back for you,” he said, then turned and left the room.
Crane sat where directed. There was nobody else in the library, and he was beginning to wonder what would happen next when the computer screen winked on in front of him. It showed the face of a gray-haired, deeply tanned man in his late sixties. Some kind of introductory video, Crane thought. But when the face smiled directly at him, he realized he wasn’t looking at a computer monitor, but rather a closed-circuit television screen with a tiny camera embedded in its upper frame.
“Hello, Dr. Crane,” the man said. He smiled, his kindly face breaking into a host of creases. “My name is Howard Asher.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Crane told the screen.
“I’m the chief scientist of the National Oceanic Agency. Have you heard of it?”
“Isn’t that the ocean-management arm of the National Oceanographic Division?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m a little confused, Dr. Asher—it’s ‘Doctor,’ right?”
“Right. But call me Howard.”
“Howard. What does the NOA have to do with an oil rig? And where’s Mr. Simon, the person who I spoke with on the phone? The one who arranged all this? He said he’d be here to meet me.”