Deep Storm - Страница 2

Доступ к книге ограничен фрагменом по требованию правообладателя.

The chopper slowed, turned, and settled down within the green hexagon of the landing zone. As Crane reached back for his bags, he noticed someone was standing at the edge, waiting: a tall, thin woman in an oilskin jacket. He thanked the pilot, opened the passenger door, and stepped out into bracing air, instinctively ducking under the whirring blades.

The woman held out her hand at his approach. "Dr. Crane?"

Crane shook the hand. "Yes."

"This way, please." The woman led the way off the landing platform, down a short set of stairs, and along a metal catwalk to a closed, submarine-style hatch. She did not give her name.

A uniformed seaman stood guard outside the hatch, rifle at his side. He nodded as they approached, opened the hatch, then closed and secured it behind them.

Beyond lay a brightly lit corridor, studded along both sides with open doors. There was no frantic hum of turbines, no deep throbbing of drilling equipment. The smell of oil, though detectable, was faint, almost as if efforts had been made to remove it.

Crane followed the woman, bags slung over his shoulder, glancing curiously into the rooms as he passed. There were laboratories full of whiteboards and workstations; computer centers; communications suites. Topside had been quiet, but there was plenty of activity here.

Crane decided he'd venture some questions. "Are the divers in a hyperbaric chamber? Can I see them now?"

"This way, please," the woman repeated.

They turned a corner, descended a staircase, and entered another hallway, wider and longer than the first. The rooms they passed were larger: machine shops, storage bays for high-tech equipment Crane didn't recognize. He frowned. Although Storm King resembled an oil rig in all outward appearances, it was clearly no longer in the business of pumping crude.

What the hell is going on here?

"Have any vascular specialists or pulmonologists been flown in from Iceland?" he asked.

The woman didn't answer, and Crane shrugged. He'd come this far-he could stand to wait another couple of minutes.

The woman stopped before a closed gray metal door. "Mr. Lassiter is waiting for you."

Lassiter? That wasn't a name he recognized. The person who'd spoken to him over the phone, briefed him about the problem at the rig, had been named Simon. He glanced at the door. There was the nameplate, white letters on black plastic, spelling out E. LASSITER, EX-TERNAL LIAISON.

Crane turned back to the woman in the oilskin jacket, but she was already moving back down the corridor. He shifted his bags, knocked on the door.

"Enter," came the crisp voice from within.

Lassiter was a tall, thin man with closely cropped blond hair. He stood up as Crane entered, came around his desk, shook hands. He wasn't wearing a military uniform, but with his haircut and his brisk, economical movements he might as well have been. The office was small and just as efficient looking as its tenant. The desk was almost studiously bare: there was a single manila envelope on it, sealed, and a digital recorder.

"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."

"Actually, Dr. Crane, there is no Mr. Simon. But I'm here, and I'll be happy to explain what I can."

Crane frowned. "I was told there were medical issues with the divers maintaining the rig's underwater equipment. Was that a deception, too?"

"Only in part. There has been a lot of deception, and for that I'm sorry. But it was necessary. We had to be sure. You see, secrecy is absolutely critical to this project. Because what we have here, Peter-may I call you Peter?-is the scientific and historical discovery of the century."

"The century?" Crane repeated, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice.

"You're right to be skeptical. But this is no deception. It's the last thing from it. Still, 'discovery of the century' may not be quite accurate."

"I didn't think so," Crane replied.

"I should have called it the greatest discovery of all time."

2

Crane stared at the image on the screen. Dr. Asher was smiling back at him in a friendly, almost paternal way. But there was nothing in the smile that suggested a joke.

"I couldn't tell you the truth until you were physically here. And until you'd been fully vetted. We used your travel time to complete that process. Fact is, there's much I can't tell you, even now."

Crane looked over his shoulder. The library was empty. "Why? Isn't this line secure?"

"Oh, it's secure. But we need to know you're fully committed to the project first."

Crane waited, saying nothing.

"What little I can tell you is nevertheless highly secret. Even if you decline our offer, you will still be bound by all the confidentiality agreements you signed."

"I understand," Crane said.

"Very well." Asher hesitated. "Peter, the platform you're on right now is suspended over something more than an oil field. Something much more."

"What's that?" Crane asked automatically.

Asher smiled mysteriously. "Suffice to say the well drillers discovered something nearly two years ago. Something so fantastic that, overnight, the platform stopped pumping oil and took on a new and highly secret role."