Chapter 6

If the Facility’s living quarters reminded Crane of a luxury hotel, then Deck 9 seemed closer in spirit to a cruise ship.

Asher had given him an hour to shower and stow his gear, then he’d shown up to escort him to the medical suite. “Time to meet your fellow inmates,” he’d joked. On the way, he gave Crane a brief tour of the deck below his own quarters, known officially as Crew Support.

But ‘Crew Support’ didn’t begin to do level 9 justice. Asher steered him briefly past a hundred-seat theater and a fully-stocked library before leading him to a large intersection, bustling with activity. Music echoed faintly from what looked like a tiny sidewalk café. On the far side, Crane made out a pizzeria, and beside it a small oasis of plants surrounded by benches. Everything was miniaturized, compressed to fit within the relatively small footprint of the Facility, but it was so artfully contrived there was no sense of crowding or claustrophobia.

“Deck 9 has a unique layout,” Asher said. “Basically, it’s constructed around two large perpendicular corridors. The crew has dubbed this central intersection Times Square.”

Crane whistled. “Remarkable.”

“The multimedia nexus and laundry are down that way. And over there is the PX.” Asher pointed at a storefront that looked more like an upscale department store than a commissary.

Crane stared at the small knots of workers all around him: chatting, sipping coffee at small tables, reading books, typing on laptops. A few were in military uniform, but the majority wore casual clothes or labwear. He shook his head. It seemed almost unthinkable that miles of ocean lay about their heads.

“I can’t believe the military built something like this,” he said.

Asher grinned. “I doubt the original designers ever had quite this in mind. But you have to remember that this project will last for many months. Perhaps years. And leaving isn’t an option, except under the most extreme of circumstances. Unlike you, most of the workers here have no experience with submarine life. Our scientists aren’t used to living inside a steel box without doors or windows. So we do what we can to make life as bearable as possible.”

Crane, inhaling the scent of freshly ground coffee wafting from the café, decided life here would be very bearable indeed.

On the far side of the tiny park, he could make out an oversize flat-panel display, perhaps ten feet by ten, with a group of benches set before it. On closer inspection, he noticed it was actually an array of smaller displays, placed in a grid to project a single image. That image of was of dim, green-black ocean depths. Strange, almost otherworldly fish floated by: bizarrely articulated eels, colossal jellies, balloon-shaped fish with a single lighted tentacle on their. Crane recognized some of the species: fangtooth, deep sea angler, viperfish.

“Is that the view outside?” he asked.

“Yes, via a remote camera outside the dome.” Asher waved his arm around the little square. “A lot of the workers spend their off hours here, relaxing in the library or watching interactive movies in the multimedia nexus. The sports center on level 10 is also very popular: remind me to show you around it later. Also, we’ll need to get you chipped.”

“Chipped?”

“Tag you with a RFID chip.”

“Radio Frequency Identification? Is that necessary?”

“This is a very secure installation. I’m afraid so.”

“Will it hurt?” Crane asked, only half joking.

Asher chuckled. “The tag’s the size of a grain of rice, implanted subcutaneously. Now, let’s get to the medical suite. Michelle and Roger are waiting. It’s this way, at the end of the corridor.” And Asher pointed his right hand down one of the wide hallways. At the very end, past the commissary and café and half a dozen other entranceways, Crane could just make out a double set of frosted glass doors, marked with red crosses.

Once again, he noticed that Asher kept his left arm tucked in stiffly against his side. “Something wrong with your arm?” he asked as they made their way down the hallway.

“Vascular insufficiency of the upper extremity,” Asher replied lightly.

Crane frowned. “Is the pain significant?”

“No, no. I just need to be a little careful.”

“I’ll say. How long have you had the condition?”

“A little over a year. Dr. Bishop has me on a Coumadin regimen, and I exercise regularly. We have a fine set of squash courts in the sports complex.” Asher bustled down the hall, apparently eager to change the subject. Crane reflected that—if he had not been the chief scientist—such a condition would probably have kept him on dry land.

The medical suite was engineered like the other Facility spaces Crane had already seen: meticulously designed to cram as many things as possible into the smallest area, yet without appearing cramped. Unlike usual hospital practice, the lighting was indirect and even mellow, and piped classical music came from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Asher led the way through the waiting area, nodding to a receptionist behind the front desk.

“Like everything else in the Facility, the medical suite is state of the art,” he said as he ushered Crane past a records office and down a carpeted corridor. “Besides our doctor, we have four nurses, three interns, a diagnostician, a nutritionist, and two lab specialists. A fully-stocked emergency unit. Equipment for just about every test you can name, from simple X-rays to whole body scans. And all backed up with a comprehensive pathology lab on Deck 7.”

“Beds?”

“Forty eight, with contingencies for double that if necessary. But let’s hope it never is: we’d never get anything done.” Asher stopped outside a door marked CONFERENCE ROOM B. “Ah, here we are.”

The conference room was small and even more dimly lit than the waiting area. A large videoconferencing screen hung from one wall, while the others sported innocuous watercolors of landscapes and seascapes. Most of the space was taken up by a large, round table. At the far end sat two people, a woman and a man. Both of them wore officer’s uniforms beneath white labcoats.

As Crane entered, the man sprung up from his seat. “Roger Corbett,” he said, reaching across the table to shake Crane’s hand. He was short, with thinning mouse-colored hair and watery blue eyes. He had a small, neatly-trimmed beard of the kind favored by psychiatric interns.

“You’re the mental health officer,” Crane said, shaking the proffered hand. “I’m your new neighbor.”

“So I understand.” Corbett’s voice was low, surprisingly so for a man of his size, and he spoke slowly and deliberately, as if weighing each phrase. He wore round glasses with thin silver rims.

“Sorry to barge in on your domestic arrangements.”

“No problem. Just so you don’t snore.”

“No promises. Better keep your door closed.”

Corbett laughed.

“And this is Michele Bishop,” Asher said, indicating the woman still seated across the table. “Dr. Bishop, Dr. Peter Crane.”

Dr. Bishop nodded. “Nice to see you.”

“Likewise.” The young woman was slender, and as tall as Corbett was short, with dark blonde hair and an intense gaze. She was attractive but not stunningly so. Crane assumed she was the station’s chief medical officer. It was interesting, he decided, that she had neither stood nor offered to shake his hand.

“Please, Dr. Crane, have a seat,” Corbett said, returning to his own.

“Call me Peter.”

Asher beamed at each of them in turn like a proud parent. “Peter, I’ll leave you to the kindly ministrations of these two. They’ll bring you up to speed. Michelle, Roger, I’ll check in later.” Then, with a wink and a nod, he stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him.

“Can I get you something to drink, Peter?” Corbett asked.

“No thanks.”

“A snack of some kind?”

“I’m fine, really. The sooner we get to the medical problem, the better.”

Corbett and Bishop exchanged glances.

“Actually, Dr. Crane, it’s not ‘problem,’ ” Bishop said. “It’s ‘problems.’ ”

“Really? Well, I guess I’m not surprised. After all, if we’re dealing with some variant of Caisson Disease here, it often presents in a variety of ways.”

Caisson Disease was so named because it was first discovered—in the mid-nineteenth century—among men working in environments of compressed air. One such environment was the first caisson dug beneath New York’s East River, to support the Brooklyn Bridge. If the diggers in the caisson re-emerged into the open air too quickly after working under pressure, nitrogen bubbles formed into their bloodstreams. This caused, among other symptoms, intense pain in the arms and legs. Sufferers would frequently double over with agony, and the ailment became known—mordantly—as the Grecian Bend. This led to the nickname “the Bends.” Given the depth at which they were working and the nature of the Atlantis excavation, Crane felt certain Caisson Disease was involved one way or another.

“I assume you have a hyperbaric oxygen therapy chamber, or some other kind of recompression equipment on site, you’ve been treating the patients with?” he asked. “When we’re done here, I’d like to question them directly, if you don’t mind.”

“Actually, Doctor,” Bishop said in a clipped voice, “I think we could proceed more quickly if you’d let me outline the symptomology rather than indulge in speculation.”

This took Crane by surprise. He looked at her, unsure why she had responded so tartly. “Sorry if I’m over-eager or presumptuous. It’s been a long trip, and I’m very curious. Go right ahead.”

“We initially became aware something was wrong almost two weeks ago. At first it seemed more a psychological issue than a physiological one. Roger here, in his role as the Facility’s psychologist, noticed a spike in the number of walk-in visits.”

Crane glanced at Corbett. “What were the complaints?”

“Some people complained of sleep disturbances,” Corbett said. “Others mentioned malaise. A few cases of eating disorders. The most common complaint seemed difficulty in focusing on what they were doing.”

“A few days later, the physical symptoms began,” Bishop said. “Constipation. Nausea. Neurasthenia.”

“People are probably working double shifts down here,” Crane replied. “I’m not surprised they’re feeling fatigued.”

“Others complained of muscle tics and spasms.”

“Just tics?” Crane asked. “No associated pain?”

Bishop looked at him with mild reproach, as if to say, if there had been pain, I would have mentioned it, wouldn’t I?

“These people aren’t presenting with Caisson Disease,” Crane went on. “At least no variant I’m aware of. But I guess I don’t see the concern. Problems with concentration or focus, constipation, nausea... that’s all non-specific. It could simply be work-induced stress. It’s an unusual environment and an unusual assignment, after all.”

“I’m not through,” Bishop said. “Over the last week, the problems have grown worse. Three cases of cardiac arrhythmia in people with no history of heart disorders. A woman with bilateral weakness of the hands and face. And two other patients suffered what appeared to be transient ischemic attacks.”

“TIAs?” Crane said. “How extensive?”

“Partial paralysis, slurred speech, lasting in each case less than twenty-four hours.”

“What were their ages?”

“Late twenties and early thirties.”

“Really?” Crane frowned. “That seems awfully young for a stroke. Two strokes, at that. You did neurological workups?”

“Dr. Crane, a little professional courtesy, please. Of course we did neurological workups. Non-contrast cranial CT scans; EKGs to check for cardio embolic event triggers; you name it. There’s no EEG on the station—as you no doubt know they’re mainly used for seizures or coma—but in any case it wasn’t necessary here. Everything was completely normal.”

Once again the tartness had crept into her tone. She’s territorial, Crane thought. This is her turf, and she doesn’t like me stepping on it.

“Even so,” he said, “it’s the first evidence of dysbarism I’ve heard today.”

“Dysbarism?” Corbett asked, blinking through his round glasses.

“Decompression sickness. Caisson Disease.”

Bishop sighed. “Actually, I believe that Caisson’s Disease is the one thing we can safely rule out.”

“Why? I assumed—” And Crane fell silent. He realized that Asher had never told him outright what the problem was. Given the nature of the Deep Storm station, he’d assumed Caisson Disease. But it was beginning to seem he had made that assumption too quickly.

“I’m sorry,” he went on, more slowly. “I guess I don’t understand why, exactly, you people asked for me.”

“Howard Asher asked for you,” Bishop said. And for the first time, she smiled.

A brief silence fell over the conference room.

“Have you been able to isolate any commonalities?” Crane asked at last. “Do the patients all work on the same level, or in the same general area of the Facility?”

Bishop shook her head. “We’ve received patients from most of the levels and from all general work areas.”

“So there’s no common vector. And no common complaint. It all seems like coincidence to me. Just how many patients, total, have you received?”

“Roger and I figured that out while we were waiting for you.” Bishop took a sheet of paper from her labcoat pocket and glanced at it. “The Facility has been operational now almost five months. On average, between mental health services and medical, we see perhaps twelve, fifteen patients a week. In the past, nothing worse than a case of strep. But since this thing started, we’ve seen one hundred and three.”

Crane was stunned. “One hundred and three? My God, that’s—”

“More than a quarter of the population, Dr. Crane. And far, far too large a number to be coincidence.”

And she stuffed the paper back into her labcoat with something almost like triumph.

DEEP STORM is copyright © 2007 by Lincoln Child.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this text, or any portion thereof, in any form.
DEEP STORM will be available in the United States in January 2007 from Doubleday Books, http://www.randomhouse.com