Free Deep Storm by Lincoln Child Page B

Spartan. He had known several flag officers during his tours of duty, and they were all comfortable with command, used to being obeyed immediately and without question. But even on such short acquaintance Crane sensed something a little different in Spartan. He had a depth of self-possession unusual even in an admiral. Crane thought about that last look the man had given him. There was something unreadable in his dark eyes, as if you could never be sure just what his next move might be.
    They glided smoothly to a stop. There was another low hum, another clank of locks springing free. The airlock was opened from outside by another group of armed MPs. “Dr. Bishop?” one asked. “Dr. Crane?”
    â€œThat’s us.”
    â€œWe’re here to escort you to the repair hangar. Follow me, please.”
    They moved out quickly, two guards leading and two bringing up the rear. Ferrara, Admiral Spartan’s man, followed. Normally, Crane would be irritated by such an entourage, but now he almost welcomed it.
Floridly psychotic,
Bishop had said. That meant the person was grossly disorganized, delusional, perhaps even violent. In such instances you tried to be calm and reassuring, establish a rapport. But when a patient was truly out of control, the first priority—the very first—was to outnumber him.
    Labs and research facilities passed in a blur: the so-called classified section of the Facility seemed, outwardly at least, little different from the upper decks. Several people ran past them in the opposite direction. And now, up ahead, Crane could hear something that made his blood run cold: the sound of a man screaming.
    They ducked through a hatchway and Crane found himself in a large, almost cavernous room. He blinked a moment, unaccustomed already to so much space. It appeared to be a machine shop and repair facility for robot submersibles—the rovers Bishop had mentioned.
    The screaming was louder here: ragged, ululating. Small groups of workers stood nearby, held back by military police. Farther ahead, a cordon of naval personnel and more MPs blocked the way. Several were talking on mobile radios; others were staring ahead at an equipment bay set into the far wall. It was from there the screaming came.
    Bishop stepped forward, followed closely by Crane and the MPs. Seeing them approach, one of the officers broke away from the cordon to intercept them.
    â€œDr. Bishop,” the man said over the screams. “I’m Lieutenant Travers. Ranking officer on the scene.”
    â€œGive us the details,” Crane said.
    Travers glanced at him, then looked back at Bishop. She gave a slight nod.
    â€œThe man is Randall Waite,” he said. “Machinist first grade.”
    â€œWhat happened?” Crane asked.
    â€œNobody’s quite certain. Apparently, Waite had been acting moody the last day or two—quiet, not like himself. Then, just as he was about to go off shift, he started acting out.”
    â€œActing out,” Bishop repeated.
    â€œStarting to shout. Crazy stuff.”
    Crane glanced in the direction of the screams. “Is he angry? Delusional?”
    â€œDelusional, yes. Angry, no. Seemed more like he’s—in despair, sort of. Said he wanted to die.”
    â€œGo on,” Crane said.
    â€œA few people approached him. Tried to calm him down, see what was wrong. That’s when he grabbed one.”
    Crane’s eyebrows shot up.
Oh, shit. That’s not good.
    Ninety-nine percent of all suicidal attempts were attention-getters, pleas for help. Cutters, making slash marks mostly for effect. But when a hostage was involved, it became a different situation entirely.
    â€œThat’s not all,” Travers muttered. “He’s got a brick of C4 and a detonator.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Travers nodded grimly.
    There was a squawk from Travers’s radio, and he raised it to his lips. “Travers.” He listened a moment. “Very well.