The Charlottes dead room"‑designed after a similar structure at Bell Laboratories‑was what was formally known as an anechoic chamber. An acoustical clean room containing no parallel or reflective surfaces, it absorbed sound with 99.4 percent efficiency. Because of the acoustically conductive nature of metal and water, conversations onboard submarines were always vulnerable to interception by nearby eavesdroppers or parasitic suction mics attached to the outer hull. The dead room was, in effect, a tiny chamber inside the submarine from which absolutely no sound could escape. All conversations inside this insulated box were entirely secure.
The chamber looked like a walk‑in closet whose ceiling, walls, and floor had been completely covered with foam spires jutting inward from all directions. It reminded Rachel of a cramped underwater cave where stalagmites had run wild, growing off every surface. Most unsettling, however, was the apparent lack of a floor.
The floor was a taut, meshed chicken‑wire grid strung horizontally across the room like a fishing net, giving the inhabitants the feeling that they were suspended midway up the wall. The mesh was rubberized and stiff beneath the feet. As Rachel gazed down through the webbed flooring, she felt like she was crossing a string bridge suspended over a surrealistic fractalized landscape. Three feet below, a forest of foam needles pointed ominously upward.
Instantly upon entering Rachel had sensed the disorientating lifelessness to the air, as if every bit of energy had been sucked out. Her ears felt as if theyd been stuffed with cotton. Only her breath was audible inside her head. She called out, and the effect was that of speaking into a pillow. The walls absorbed every reverberation, making the only perceivable vibrations those inside her head.
Now the captain had departed, closing the padded door behind him. Rachel, Corky, and Tolland were seated in the center of the room at a small U‑shaped table that stood on long metal stilts that descended through the mesh. On the table were affixed several gooseneck microphones, headphones, and a video console with a fish‑eye camera on top. It looked like a mini‑United Nations symposium.
As someone who worked in the U.S. intelligence community‑the worlds foremost manufacturers of hard laser microphones, underwater parabolic eavesdroppers, and other hypersensitive listening devices‑Rachel was well aware there were few places on earth where one could have a truly secure conversation. The dead room was apparently one of those places. The mics and headphones on the table enabled a face‑to‑face conference call in which people could speak freely, knowing the vibrations of their words could not escape the room. Their voices, upon entering the microphones, would be heavily encrypted for their long journey through the atmosphere.
Level check. The voice materialized suddenly inside their headphones, causing Rachel, Tolland, and Corky to jump. Do you read me, Ms. Sexton?
Rachel leaned into the microphone. Yes. Thank you. Whoever you are.
I have Director Pickering on the line for you. Hes accepting AV. I am signing off now. You will have your data stream momentarily.
Rachel heard the line go dead. There was a distant whirr of static and then a rapid series of beeps and clicks in the headphones. With startling clarity, the video screen in front of them sprang to life, and Rachel saw Director Pickering in the NRO conference room. He was alone. His head snapped up and he looked into Rachels eyes.
She felt oddly relieved to see him.
Ms. Sexton, he said, his expression perplexed and troubled. What in the world is going on?
The meteorite, sir, Rachel said. I think we may have a serious problem.