Free Deep Storm by Lincoln Child Page A

cleared.”
    â€œI’m Michele Bishop, chief medical officer of the Facility. I have qualified emergency access to decks four, five, and six. Check again.”
    The MP stepped into the pillbox and consulted a computer monitor. After a moment, he came out. “Very well. Go on through. A security escort will be waiting on the other side.”
    Bishop stepped toward the airlock. Crane swung into place behind her, but the guards closed rank in front of him. The MP with the scanner came forward and ran it over Crane’s arm.
    â€œThis man isn’t cleared, either,” he said.
    Bishop glanced back. “He’s a doctor, here on temporary assignment.”
    The MP turned to face Crane. “You cannot proceed, sir.”
    â€œI’m with Dr. Bishop,” Crane said.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir,” the man said, his voice hardening. “You cannot proceed.”
    â€œLook,” Crane said. “There’s a medical emergency, and—”
    â€œSir, please step back from the Barrier.” The pillbox MP exchanged quick glances with the others.
    â€œI can’t do that. I’m a doctor, and I’m going to assist with the emergency, whether you like it or not.” And he stepped forward again.
    Immediately, the men guarding the Barrier raised their rifles, while the MP with the scanner dropped a hand to his belt and drew out his sidearm.
    â€œStand down, Ferrara!” came a deep voice from within the darkness of the pillbox. “Wegman, Price, you others, at ease.”
    As quickly as they had raised their weapons, the MPs lowered them again and stepped back. Glancing toward the pillbox, Crane saw that it was in fact a portal to a far larger chamber, apparently a control room for the Barrier. A dozen screens were set into its walls, and countless small lights blinked and glowed in the dimness. A shape within drew closer then emerged into the light: a heavyset, broad-shouldered man in a white admiral’s uniform. He had iron-gray hair and brown eyes. He glanced from Crane, to Bishop, then back to Crane.
    â€œI am Admiral Spartan,” the man said.
    â€œAdmiral Spartan,” Crane said. “I’m—”
    â€œI know who you are. You’re Howard Asher’s asset.”
    Crane did not know quite how to respond to this, so he merely nodded.
    Spartan looked at Bishop again. “The emergency’s on five, correct?”
    â€œYes, sir. The rover repair hangar.”
    â€œVery well.” Spartan turned to the MP named Ferrara. “Clear him for this incident only. Make sure they’re accompanied by an armed escort at all times, and take a nonsensitive route to the site. See to it personally, Ferrara.”
    The MP stiffened, gave a smart salute. “Aye, aye, sir.”
    Spartan let his gaze rest another moment on Crane. Then he nodded to Ferrara, turned, and disappeared back into the control room.
    Ferrara stepped into the pillbox and typed a series of commands on a console. There was a low buzz, then a series of tiny lights winked on around the perimeter of the airlock. The LED above the Barrier turned green. There was a clank of heavy locks disengaging, a hiss of pressurized air, and the airlock opened. Ferrara spoke into a mike built into his console, then motioned Bishop and Crane to step through, following behind.
    Beyond the airlock was a chamber about twelve feet square. Two more MPs waited here, standing stiffly at attention. The beige walls were bare, and there was no instrumentation save for a small panel beside one of the guards. Crane noted that it consisted of simply a palm-geometry reader and a rubberized handle.
    The airlock door closed. The MP placed one hand on the reader and the other on the handle. There was a red glow as his palm was scanned. Then he twisted the handle clockwise. Crane’s stomach gave a brief lurch as they started to descend. The chamber was, in fact, an elevator.
    His thoughts went to Admiral