Free Deep Storm by Lincoln Child Page B
Authors: Lincoln Child
armed MPs. Dr. Bishop? one asked. Dr. Crane?
Thats us.
Were 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 Spartans 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.
Dr. Bishop, the man said over the screams. Im Lieutenant Travers. Ranking officer on the scene.
Give us the details, Crane said.
Travers glanced at him, then looked back at Bishop. She gave a slight nod.
The man is Randall Waite, he said. Machinist first grade.
What happened? Crane asked.
Nobodys 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.
Acting out, Bishop repeated.
Starting to shout. Crazy stuff.
Crane glanced in the direction of the screams. Is he angry? Delusional?
Delusional, yes. Angry, no. Seemed more like hes in despair, sort of. Said he wanted to die.
Go on, Crane said.
A few people approached him. Tried to calm him down, see what was wrong. Thats when he grabbed one.
Cranes eyebrows shot up. Oh, shit. Thats 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.
Thats not all, Travers muttered. Hes got a brick of C4 and a detonator.
What?
Travers nodded grimly.
There was a squawk from Traverss radio, and he raised it to his lips. Travers. He listened a moment. Very well. Hold until you get my signal.
What was that about? Bishop asked.
Travers nodded in the direction of a side wall, where the smoked window of a control room overlooked the hangar. Weve got a sharpshooter up there, trying to get a hard target.
No! Crane said. He took a breath. No. I want to talk to him first.
Travers frowned.
Why did you bring us down if not to defuse things? Crane asked.
Hes grown more agitated since that call. And we didnt know about the C4 when we put out the code.
Does your man have a hard target? Crane pressed.
Intermittent.
Then theres no reason not to let me try.
Travers hesitated for a second. Very well. But if he threatens that hostage or if he tries to arm that detonator Im going to have to smoke him.
Crane nodded to Bishop, then walked slowly forward until he reached the cordon. Gently, he pushed his way through.
Thats us.
Were 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 Spartans 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.
Dr. Bishop, the man said over the screams. Im Lieutenant Travers. Ranking officer on the scene.
Give us the details, Crane said.
Travers glanced at him, then looked back at Bishop. She gave a slight nod.
The man is Randall Waite, he said. Machinist first grade.
What happened? Crane asked.
Nobodys 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.
Acting out, Bishop repeated.
Starting to shout. Crazy stuff.
Crane glanced in the direction of the screams. Is he angry? Delusional?
Delusional, yes. Angry, no. Seemed more like hes in despair, sort of. Said he wanted to die.
Go on, Crane said.
A few people approached him. Tried to calm him down, see what was wrong. Thats when he grabbed one.
Cranes eyebrows shot up. Oh, shit. Thats 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.
Thats not all, Travers muttered. Hes got a brick of C4 and a detonator.
What?
Travers nodded grimly.
There was a squawk from Traverss radio, and he raised it to his lips. Travers. He listened a moment. Very well. Hold until you get my signal.
What was that about? Bishop asked.
Travers nodded in the direction of a side wall, where the smoked window of a control room overlooked the hangar. Weve got a sharpshooter up there, trying to get a hard target.
No! Crane said. He took a breath. No. I want to talk to him first.
Travers frowned.
Why did you bring us down if not to defuse things? Crane asked.
Hes grown more agitated since that call. And we didnt know about the C4 when we put out the code.
Does your man have a hard target? Crane pressed.
Intermittent.
Then theres no reason not to let me try.
Travers hesitated for a second. Very well. But if he threatens that hostage or if he tries to arm that detonator Im going to have to smoke him.
Crane nodded to Bishop, then walked slowly forward until he reached the cordon. Gently, he pushed his way through.
Similar Books
Oblivion
Dean Wesley Smith, Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Lost Without Them
Trista Ann Michaels
The Naked King
Sally MacKenzie
Beautiful Blue World
Suzanne LaFleur
A Magical Christmas
Heather Graham
Acid Dreams: The Complete Social History of LSD
Martin A. Lee, Bruce Shlain
Rosamanti
Noelle Clark
The American Lover
G E Griffin
Scrapyard Ship
Mark Wayne McGinnis