Deep Storm (14 page)

Crane frowned. Its your call to make, of course. But seventy-two hours ago, this simple mood disorder took a hostage, then jammed a screwdriver into his own throat.

Corbett took a sip of his latte. Waite clearly has some issues to grapple with, and we have no idea how long hes been internalizing. Sometimes this stuff manifests as a cri de coeur. People here are under a great deal of stress no matter how well we vet them, we can never predict all possible behavior trees. I plan to follow up with daily sessions in his quarters, keep him under close observation.

Fine, Crane said. At least it will get Korolis and his goons out of the Medical Suite.

He glanced back at Bishop. Any new cases?

She consulted her palmtop. A technician came in complaining of spastic colon. Another reported palpitations. And theres a maintenance worker with non-specific symptomology: sleeplessness, inability to focus.

I see. Thank you. Crane looked from one to the other. Shall we get on with it, then?

Get on with what? Bishop asked. Im not exactly sure why you called this meeting.

Crane looked across the table at her, wondering if every step would be a struggle. I called this meeting, Dr. Bishop, to determine just what were dealing with here.

Bishop leaned back in her chair. Have we narrowed it down to any single agent?

Its a single agent, all right. We just dont know what it is.

Bishop crossed her arms, looked at him intently.

A quarter of the people on this station have symptoms of illness, Crane went on. Thats no coincidence. Health problems dont occur in isolation. Its true that I assumed, early on, it was caisson disease. I was wrong to make that assumption before knowing the facts. But nevertheless something is going on here.

But theres no common symptom, Corbett said. At least, none specific.

But there must be some commonality we just havent found it yet. Weve been too busy running around putting out fires to look at the big picture. We have to step back, make a differential diagnosis.

How do you suggest we do that? Bishop asked.

Just like they taught us in med school. Observe the symptoms, propose possible explanations, eliminate each hypothesis as its proven wrong. Lets start by making a list. He took a sheet of paper from his folder, pulled out a pen. Then he glanced at the two palmtops, gleaming on the polished wood. Sorry, he said with a small laugh. I prefer doing this the old-fashioned way.

Corbett smiled and nodded, took another sip. The rich smell of espresso perfumed the conference room.

We know now that the air of the station has no unusual gases or other atmospherics were to keep that to ourselves, by the way so we can eliminate that as a possibility. What does that leave us? Dr. Bishop, youve mentioned several complaints of nausea. That suggests poison: either systemic, something eaten or drunk, or general: interaction with some toxin here on the station.

Or it could just mean bad cases of nerves, Bishop replied.

True. Crane made a notation. Theres a good argument for this being psychological Waite has shown us that. Were in a strange and stressful environment.

What about infection? Corbett asked. An outbreak of some unknown nature?

Another possibility. Deep Storm, or one of its inhabitants, might be a reservoir of some disease. Viral, fungal, bacterial. Some or all the patients coming to us might be vectors.

Im not sure I agree, Bishop said. The only thing I can think of that would manifest in so many different ways would be the side effects of drug use.

An excellent suggestion. Drugs could also be the causal agent. Crane made another notation. Was everybody given a series of shots, say, before being admitted to the station? Or a certain prescription vitamin? Are workers being administered any kind of medication to keep them alert?

Not that I know of, Bishop said.

We should look into it. Theres also the possibility of illegal drugs.

Like methamphetamine, Corbett added.

Or Ecstasy. It inhibits glutamate transmission; it can cause behavior similar to that displayed by Waite.

Diet might be a possibility, Bishop said. The nutritionist staff here has developed a special high-protein, low-carbohydrate diet. The Navy is using our Facility as a test bed.

Interesting. We should examine the bloods again, see if nutrition might play a role. Crane looked from Bishop to Corbett, pleased to find the two participating. Were developing a good set of possibilities lets see if theres anything we can rule out. We know the symptoms arent confined to a certain area of the station or a specific job type. Could they be age or gender related?

Bishop tapped at her palmtop. No. The patients skew across all ages, and the gender ratio of the patients is the same as for the entire population.

Very well. At least we have something to go on. Crane examined his notes. At first glance it seems that poison, or perhaps drugs, is most promising. Heavy metal poisoning, for example, could explain the wide variety of symptoms. Infectious disease is a distant third, but still worth checking out. He glanced at Corbett. Whos the strongest tech in the Medical Suite?

Corbett thought a minute. Jane Rand.

See if you can get her to pull together all the records we have on every patient whos come in, program a data agent to mine everything for any hidden correspondences. Have her check everything, from employment records to medical results. He paused. Can she check the patients cafeteria selections as well?

Corbett tapped a few keys on his palmtop, then glanced up and nodded.

Add that to the list. See if anything comes up. Then compare the records of the patients to the Deep Storm population that is not ill: maybe there is an area of difference. He glanced at Bishop. Dr. Bishop, if you could reexamine the blood work for anything that might hint at poison or drug use?

Okay, Bishop said.

Please have your people take hair samples from every patient whos come by the medical suite in the last two weeks. And going forward, we should probably take blood and urine samples from all new patients even if all theyve got is a splinter. In fact, lets run a complete battery of tests, EKG, echo, EEG, the works.

I told you before, we dont have an electroencephalograph here, said Bishop.

Any chance we can get one?

She shrugged. In time.

Well, put in the request, please. Id hate to leave any stone un-turned. Oh, and speaking of that, you might ask your medical researchers to examine the earliest patient reports. If this is an outbreak of some sort, maybe we can isolate the index case. Crane stood up. I think Ill have a talk with the nutritionists, learn what I can about that special diet. Lets meet in the morning to discuss our findings.

At the door, he paused. By the way, theres something else Ive been meaning to ask you. Just who is Dr. Flyte?

Bishop and Corbett exchanged glances.

Dr. Flyte? Bishop asked.

The old Greek fellow in the bib overalls. He dropped in on my cabin, uninvited, shortly after I arrived. Strange chap, seemed to enjoy talking in riddles. Whats his job here?

There was a pause.

Sorry, Dr. Crane, Corbett said. Im not familiar with him.

No? Crane turned to Bishop. Short, wiry, with a wild mop of white hair? Told me he did highly classified work.

Theres nobody here who fits that description, Bishop replied. The oldest worker here is fifty-two.

What? Crane said. But thats impossible. I saw the old man myself.

Bishop glanced down at her palmtop, typed in a short command, peered briefly at the tiny screen. Then she looked up again. Like I said, Dr. Crane. Theres nobody named Flyte on Deep Storm.

Chapter 15

Robert Loiseau stepped back from the industrial range, removed the toque from his head, and wiped his sweaty face with the chefs towel hanging from his belt. Even though it was cool in the kitchen he was sweating like a pig. And he was only half an hour into his shift. It was shaping up to be a long, long day.

He glanced at the wall clock: half past three. The lunchtime frenzy had passed, the cleaning staff had washed the pots and pans, and the kitchen was quiet. But quiet was a relative term: hed learned long ago that working cuisine in the Navy was nothing like on dry land. There were no set eating schedules; people came and went as they pleased. And with the Facility running on three shifts, it wasnt unusual to serve somebody breakfast at 8 P.M. or lunch at 2 in the morning.

He wiped his face again, then let the towel fall back into place. It seemed he was sweating all the time these days, and not just in the kitchen. And that was only one of the things hed noticed, along with hands that shook a little and a heart that beat faster than he liked. He felt tired all the time, too; and yet he was unable to sleep. He wasnt sure when it had started, but one thing was certain: slowly but surely, it was getting worse.

Al Tanner, the pastry chef, walked past, whistling Some Enchanted Evening. He had a pastry cone draped casually over one shoulder as if it were a freshly killed goose. He ceased his whistling long enough to call out, Hey, Wazoo.

Its Wah-zoh, Loiseau muttered under his breath. Youd think that in a gourmet kitchen, people would know how to pronounce a French name. Maybe they were all just teasing him. But the fact was only Renault, the executive chef, pronounced his name properly and he rarely condescended to call people by name, preferring to beckon with a curt movement of his index finger.

With a sigh, he turned back to the range. No time for daydreaming. Right now he had to prepare some bechamel sauce: a whole lot of bechamel, in fact. Chef Renault was serving tournedos sauce Mornay and cotelettes dagneau Ecossais on the dinner menu, and both sauces used a bechamel base. Of course, Loiseau could practically prepare bechamel in his sleep. But hed learned the hard way that cooking was like running a marathon: when you paused, everyone else kept going, and if you paused too long it became impossible to catch up.

Sweat the onion, incorporate the roux As he went over his mise en place, Loiseau felt his heartbeat accelerate again and his breathing grow shallow. It was possible he was getting sick, of course. But he thought he had a better explanation for the sweaty palms and sleepless nights: anxiety. It was one thing to work on an aircraft carrier, with its cavernous hangars and endless echoing corridors. But this was different. During the protracted vetting process, with its endless interviews, he hadnt stopped to think much about actually living in Deep Storm. The pay was fantastic, and the thought of participating in a classified, cutting-edge project was a little intoxicating. Hed spent five years in the Navy, working in admirals kitchens: how different could it be, cooking beneath the sea instead of floating on it?

As it turned out, nothing could have prepared him.

Christ, its hot. He slowly added a pale roux to the mixture of milk, thyme, bay leaf, butter, and onion. As he bent over the pot, whisking vigorously, a brief sensation of dizziness washed over him and he had to step back, gulping for air. He was hyperventilating, that was the problem. Get your nerves under control, Bobby-boy. Shifts just starting and theres a ton of shit to do.

Now Tanner was coming back from the pantry, a large sack of cake flour in his hands. When he saw Loiseau, he stopped. Everything okay, fellah?

Yeah, fine, Loiseau said. Once Tanner had moved on, he wiped his face again with the towel and went immediately back to whisking: if he stopped now, the sauce would scorch and hed have to begin all over again.

Thing was, he hadnt counted on missing sunlight and fresh air quite so much. And at least aircraft carriers moved. Loiseau had never thought of himself as being claustrophobic, but living in a metal box, with no way to get out and all that ocean pressing down on your headwell, it got to you after a while. Whoever had designed Deep Storm had done an ingenious job of miniaturization and at first, when he was working in Top, the galley on deck 11, he hadnt noticed it so much. But then hed been transferred to Central, the deck 7 kitchen. And things down here were a little more cramped. When it got busy, when the flour really started to fly, so many bodies were packed in you could barely move. And that was when, these last few days, Loiseau had felt the worst. Waking up today, the first thing hed thought about was the dinnertime crush to come. And the sweats had kicked in, right there in his own damn bunk