Deep Storm by Lincoln Child Read Free Book Online

the same time. Asher led the way through the waiting area, nodding to a receptionist behind the front desk.
    â€œLike 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 the 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. All backed up with a comprehensive pathology lab on deck seven.”
    â€œBeds?”
    â€œForty-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 . “Here we are.”
    The room was small and even more dimly lit than the waiting area. A large videoconferencing screen hung on 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 its far end sat two people, a woman and a man. Both wore officer’s uniforms beneath white lab coats.
    As Crane entered, the man sprang 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.
    â€œYou’re the mental health officer,” Crane said, shaking the proffered hand. “I’m your new neighbor.”
    â€œSo I understand.” Corbett’s voice was low 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.
    â€œSorry to barge in on your domestic arrangements.”
    â€œJust so you don’t snore.”
    â€œNo promises. Better keep your door closed.”
    Corbett laughed.
    â€œAnd this is Michele Bishop.” Asher indicated the woman seated across the table. “Dr. Bishop, Dr. Peter Crane.”
    The woman nodded. “Nice to see you.”
    â€œLikewise,” Crane replied. The young woman was slender, as tall as Corbett was short, with dark blond 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 that she had neither stood nor offered to shake his hand.
    â€œPlease, Dr. Crane, have a seat,” Corbett said.
    â€œCall 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. Michele, Roger, I’ll check in later.” Then, with a wink and a nod, he stepped out into the corridor and closed the door.
    â€œCan I get you something to drink, Peter?” Corbett asked.
    â€œNo thanks.”
    â€œA snack of some kind?”
    â€œI’m fine, really. The sooner we get to the medical problem, the better.”
    Corbett and Bishop exchanged glances.
    â€œActually, Dr. Crane, it’s not ‘problem,’” Bishop said. “It’s ‘problems.’”
    â€œReally? 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 diagnosed in the mid-nineteenth century in men working in environments of compressed air. One environment was in the first caisson dug beneath New York’s East River to support the Brooklyn Bridge. If the diggers in the caisson reemerged into open air too quickly after working under pressure, nitrogen bubbles formed in their bloodstreams. This caused, among other symptoms, intense pain in the arms and legs. Sufferers frequently doubled over in agony, and the ailment became known—mordantly—as