“What about those men I saw topside, working on the rig?”
“Window dressing, for the most part. We do have to look like a functioning oil platform, after all.”
“And AmShale?”
“They’ve been paid exceptionally well to lease us the rig, act as front office, and ask no questions.”
Crane shifted in his chair. “This Facility you mention. That’s where I’d be quartered?”
“Yes. It’s where all the marine scientists and engineers live and work. I know how much time you’ve spent in submerged environments, Peter, and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. Actually, ‘amazed’ is more like it. You’ve got to see the place to believe it—the Facility is a miracle of undersea technology.”
“But why is it necessary? Working from the bottom of the sea, I mean. Why can’t you run the operation from the surface?”
“The, ah, remains are buried too deep for most submersibles. Besides, submersible yield per dive is abysmally low. Trust me—once you’re fully briefed, it will all make sense.”
Crane nodded slowly. “I guess that leaves just one question. Why me?”
“Please, Dr. Crane. You’re too modest. You’re ex-military, you’ve served aboard stealth submarines and carriers. You know what it’s like to live in confined spaces, under pressure. And I mean that both literally and figuratively.”
He’s done his research, Crane thought.
“You graduated second in your class from the Mayo Medical School. And due to your stint in the Navy, you’re a medical doctor who has—among other things—familiarity with the disorders of divers and other seagoing workers.”
“So there is a medical problem.”
“Of course. The installation was completed two months ago, and the reclamation project is fully under way. However, in the last couple of weeks, several of the inhabitants of Deep Storm have been manifesting unusual symptoms.”
“Caisson disease? Nitrogen narcosis?”
“More the former than the latter. But let’s just say you are uniquely qualified—both as a doctor and as a former officer—to treat the affliction.”
“And my tour of duty?”
“Your tour of duty will be, in effect, as long as it takes to diagnose and treat the problem. My best guess is you’ll be with us for two to three weeks. But even if you were to effect a miracle cure, you’d still be at the Facility a minimum of six days. Not to go into details, but because of the tremendous atmospheric pressure at this depth we’ve developed a unique acclimatization process. The upside is that it allows people to operate at depth with significantly greater ease than in the past. The downside is that the process for entering or leaving the station is quite lengthy. And, as you can imagine, it can’t be rushed.”
“I can imagine.” Crane had seen more than his share of fatal cases of decompression sickness.
“That’s all there is, actually. Except of course to remind you again that, even if you decide against the assignment, you are under a strict code of secrecy never to mention your visit here or to reveal what has passed between us.”
Crane nodded. He knew Asher had to be evasive. Still, the lack of information was irritating. Here he was, being asked to give up several weeks of his life for an assignment he knew next to nothing about.
And yet he had no ties preventing him from spending a few weeks on Deep Storm. He was recently divorced, without kids, and at present trying to decide between two research positions. No doubt Asher knew this, too.
An unimaginably important discovery. Despite the secrecy—or perhaps because of it—Crane felt his heart accelerating at the mere thought of being part of such an adventure. And he realized that, without even being aware of it, he’d already reached a decision.
Asher smiled again. “Well, then,” he said, “if there are no more questions, I’ll terminate the video feed and give you some time to think it over.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Crane replied. “I don’t need to think over history being made. Just point me in the right direction.”
At this, Asher’s smile grew broader. “That direction would be down, Peter. Straight down.”
3
Peter Crane had spent almost four years of his life inside submarines, but this was the first time he’d ever had a window seat.
He’d killed several hours on the Storm King platform, first submitting to lengthy physical and psychological examinations, then hanging about the library, waiting for concealing darkness to fall. At last he was escorted to a special staging platform beneath the rig, where a Navy bathyscaphe awaited, tethered to a concrete footing. The sea heaved treacherously against the footing, and the gangplank leading to the bathyscaphe’s access hatch had redundant guide ropes. Crane crossed over to the tiny conning tower. From there, he climbed down a metal ladder, slick with condensation, past the pressure hatch, through the float chamber, and into a cramped pressure sphere, where a very young officer was already at the controls.