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.”
“Let me guess. You can’t tell me what it is.”
Asher laughed. “No, not yet. But it’s such an important discovery the government is, quite literally, sparing no expense to reclaim it.”
“Reclaim?”
“It’s buried in the sea bed directly below this platform. Remember I called this the discovery of all time? What’s going on here is, in essence, a dig: an archaeological dig like none other. And we are, quite literally, making history.”
“But why all the secrecy?”
“Because if people caught wind of what we’ve found, it would instantly become front-page news on every paper in the world. In hours, the place would be a disaster area. Half a dozen governments, all claiming sovereignty, journalists, rubberneckers. The discovery is simply too critical to be jeopardized that way.”
Crane leaned back in his chair, considering. The entire trip was becoming almost surreal. The rushed flight plans, the oil platform that wasn’t a platform, the secrecy…and now this face in a box, speaking of an unimaginably important discovery.
“Call me old-fashioned,” he said, “but I’d feel a lot better if you’d take the time to see me in person, talk face-to-face.”
“Unfortunately, Peter, it’s not that easy. Commit to the project, though, and you’ll see me soon enough.”
“I don’t understand. Why, exactly, is it so difficult?”
Asher chuckled again. “Because at the moment, I’m several thousand feet beneath you.”
Crane stared at the screen. “You mean—”
“Precisely. The Storm King oil platform is just the support structure, the resupply station. The real action is far below. That’s why I’m speaking to you over this video feed.”
Crane digested this a moment. “What’s down there?” he asked quietly.
“Imagine a huge research station, twelve levels high, full of equipment and technology beyond cutting edge, placed on the ocean floor. That’s the ERF—the heart and soul of the most extraordinary archaeological effort of all time.”
“The ERF?”
“Exploratory and Recovery Facility. But we refer to it simply as the Facility. The military—you know how fond they are of buzzwords—have labeled it Deep Storm.”
“I noticed the military presence. Why are the soldiers necessary?”
“I could tell you it’s because the Facility is government property; because the NOA is a branch of the government. And that’s true. But the real reason is because a lot of the technology we’re using in the recovery project is classified.”
“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.
“Take any seat, Dr. Crane,” the man said.
Far above, a hatch clanged shut, then another, the sound reverberating dully through the submersible.
Crane glanced around at the cabin. Aside from the empty seats—arranged in three rows of two—every square inch of the walls and decking was covered by gauges, ducts, tubes, and instrumentation. The only exception was what looked like a narrow but extremely massive hatch set into the far wall. A smell hung in the close space—lubricating oil, dampness, perspiration—that instantly brought back his own years wearing the dolphins.
He sat down, put his bags on the adjoining seat, and turned toward the window: a small metal ring, studded around its circumference by steel bolts. He frowned. Crane had a submariner’s innate respect for a thick steel hull, and this porthole seemed an alarming, needless luxury.
The sailor must have noticed his look, because he chuckled. “Don’t worry. It’s a special composite, built directly into the hull. We’ve come a long way since the old quartz windows of the Trieste.”
Crane laughed in return. “Didn’t know I was being so obvious.”
“That’s how I separate the military from the civilians,” the youth said. “You used to be a sub jockey, right? Name’s Richardson.”
Crane nodded. Richardson was wearing the chevrons of a petty officer first class, and the insignia above the chevrons showed his rating was that of operations specialist.
“I did a two-year stint on boomers,” Crane replied. “Then two more on fast attacks.”
“Gotcha.”
A distant scraping sounded from above: Crane guessed it was the gangplank being withdrawn. Then, from somewhere amid the tangle of instrumentation, came the faint squawk of a radio. “Echo Tango Foxtrot, cleared for descent.”
Richardson grabbed a mike. “Constant One, this is Echo Tango Foxtrot. Aye, aye.”
There was a low hiss of air, the muffled whisper of propellers. The bathyscaphe bobbed gently on the waves for a moment. The hiss grew briefly louder, then gave way to the sound of water flooding the ballast tanks. Immediately, the submersible began to settle. Richardson leaned over the controls and switched on a bank of exterior lights. Abruptly, the blackness outside the window was replaced by a storm of white bubbles.
“Constant One, Echo Tango Foxtrot on descent,” he said into the mike.
“What’s the depth of the Facility?” Crane asked.
“Just a shade over thirty-two hundred meters.”
Crane did a quick mental conversion. Thirty-two hundred meters was over ten thousand feet. The Facility lay two miles beneath the surface.
Outside the porthole, the storm of bubbles slowly gave way to greenish ocean. Crane peered out, looking for fish, but all he could see was a few indistinct silvery shapes just beyond the circle of light.
Now that he was actually committed, he felt his curiosity swelling. As a distraction, he turned to Richardson. “How often do you make this trip?” he asked.
“Early on, when the Facility was coming online, we were making five, sometimes six trips a day. Full house each time. But now that the operation is nominal, weeks can pass without a single descent.”
“But you still need to bring people up, right?”
“Nobody’s come up. Not yet.”
Crane was surprised by this. “Nobody?”
“No, sir.”
Crane glanced back out the window. The bathyscaphe was descending rapidly, and the greenish cast of the water was quickly growing darker.
“What’s it like inside?” he asked.
“Inside?” Richardson repeated.
“Inside the Facility.”
“Never been inside.”
Crane turned to look at him again in surprise.
“I’m just the taxi driver. The acclimation process is much too long for me to do any sightseeing. One day in and three days out, they say.”
Crane nodded. Outside the window, the water had grown still darker, and the surrounding ocean was now streaked with some kind of particulate matter. They were descending at an accelerating rate, and he yawned to clear his ears. He’d done his share of crash dives in the service, and they’d always been rather tense: officers and crew standing around, grim faced, while the sub’s hull creaked and groaned under the increasing pressure. But there was no groaning from the bathyscaphe—just the faint hiss of air and the whirring of instrument fans.
Now the blackness beyond the porthole was absolute. He peered down into the inky depths below. Somewhere down there lay a beyond-state-of-the-art facility—along with something else, something unknown, waiting for him beneath the silt and sand of the ocean floor.
As if on cue, Richardson reached for something beside his seat and passed it over. “Dr. Asher asked me to gi
ve you this. Said it might give you a bit to think about on the ride down.”
It was a large blue envelope, sealed in two places and stamped with numerous warnings: CLASSIFIED. EYES ONLY. PROPRIETARY AND HIGHLY SECRET. At one corner was a government seal and a lot of small print full of dire warnings to whoever dared violate its confidentiality pact.
Crane turned the envelope over in his hands. Now that the moment had finally come, he felt a perverse reluctance to open it. He hesitated another moment, then carefully broke the seals and upended the envelope.
A laminated sheet and a small pamphlet dropped onto his lap. He picked up the sheet and glanced at it curiously. It was a schematic diagram of what appeared to be a large military installation, or perhaps a vessel, with the legend DECK 10—PERSONNEL QUARTERS (LOWER). He looked it over a moment, then put it aside and reached for the pamphlet.
The title Code of Classified Naval Conduct was stamped onto its cover. He flipped the pages, scanning the numerous articles and lists, then closed it with a snap. What was this, Asher’s idea of a joke? He picked up the envelope and peered inside, preparing to put it aside.
Then he noticed a single folded paper stuck within. He pulled it out, unfolded it, and began to read. As he did so, he felt a strange tingle start at his fingertips and travel quickly until it had consumed his entire frame:
EXTRACT FOLLOWS
Ref No. ERF-10230a
Abstract: Atlantis
i. First recorded description
ii. Precipitating events for submergence (conjecture)
iii. Date of submergence: 9500 B.C.
Source: Plato, Timaeus dialogue
History tells of a mighty power which made an expedition against the whole of Europe. This power came out of an island in the Atlantic Ocean; it was larger than Libya and Asia put together, and was the route to other islands, and from these you might pass to the opposite continent which surrounded the true ocean.