Peregrinus Orior

by Robertson, John

  “To strengthen our greenhouse effect sufficiently to reverse the ice-albedo feedback loop, it looks like we will need to get to about eight hundred parts per million — almost double our current level. That would eventually warm us back up by about five degrees Fahrenheit and, as long as the ice hadn’t advanced too far south, would reverse the ice-albedo loop and leave us overall about one degree Fahrenheit cooler than before Peregrinus, only slightly warmer than preindustrial temperatures, which I think we’d all be very happy with. At our current rate of carbon dioxide emissions, with increased fossil fuel consumption because of the cold, and retaining coal plants, it will take us about thirty years to reach that level, if we last that long. Fortunately there will be enough greenhouse warming within about fifteen years to at least halt the feedback loop and the continued expansion of the ice. So, how do we buy fifteen years of time while holding the ice to the forty-second parallel in the meanwhile?

  “One option might be to substantially expand the nuclear program we already have underway and just pump vast amounts of heat out along the forty-second parallel. However, unless there’s a breakthrough with nuclear fusion, it would be nearly impossible to generate enough energy to halt the ice with our current fission technology, and there is no sign of such a breakthrough. In any case, we probably couldn’t build more plants fast enough at this point, even if we relaxed some of the safeguards for survival’s sake. If this was the only option available, it would be worth pursuing as a last-ditch effort, but there are some that we think are better.

  “From there we move to less direct geoengineering strategies. We have looked closely at two categories. One of those is to artificially reduce the albedo of the snow and ice in the north. The other is to temporarily but more quickly reinforce the greenhouse effect using more powerful greenhouse ingredients than carbon dioxide. Manipulating the albedo has been studied for quite some time, though most of the work has focused on raising the albedo to offset the greenhouse effect. Here we are looking at the exact opposite. There are longer-term nature-based strategies for reducing the albedo such as increased forestation, but that is impractical once the ice is already present and would take far too long in any case. The only way to drop the albedo quickly once the surface is already ice covered is to cover much of the ice with a less reflective substance.

  “Sir, it is possible to raise the albedo of ice by encouraging the growth of a naturally occurring pink algae which thrives on icy surfaces, but not at the very low temperatures now occurring in the north. We are left with a less elegant and more intrusive approach — spreading or spraying a dark-colored liquid or powder across wide swaths of the ice. The best candidate seems to be powdered charcoal in an aqueous emulsion. Charcoal is a nontoxic and largely inert compound, so covering a large surface area with a thin film of it will probably not have significant adverse future environmental effects if the ice eventually melts and the residue washes into riverbeds and lakes, though we don’t know that for sure. On the other hand, there won’t be much of an environment to worry about if the surface is deep below the ice for a long period. A charcoal emulsion could be economically and efficiently spread over large areas in Canada and our northern states using existing crop dusting aircraft. All in all we think this approach will work, is feasible to implement, and the benefits would far outweigh the risks.”

  The president relaxed a little and said, “Eli, I knew you would have a rabbit up your sleeve. What’s the catch?”

  Eli chuckled, “Yes, sir, that’s what science advisors are for, and we don’t see any obvious catch. The only real question is whether it would work quickly enough, but we think so. We also have a second rabbit for you to consider though. The other approach, rather than trying to lower the Earth’s albedo, is to quickly but temporarily strengthen its greenhouse effect beyond the gradual but long-lasting effects of increased carbon dioxide concentration. There are a number of gases that are much more potent than carbon dioxide. The best candidate is difluoromethane. A molecule of this gas will absorb about seven hundred times as much infrared radiation from the Earth’s surface as will a molecule of carbon dioxide. We’d only need a few parts per million, to substitute temporarily for higher carbon dioxide concentrations while those build up.

  “Difluoromethane is a common refrigerant. It is also used as the pressurizing agent in the canned air products that are used for dusting keyboards and the like. It does not have any adverse impact on the ozone layer, unlike the chlorofluorocarbons once used for these purposes; and it has an atmospheric lifetime of half a decade so will automatically go away. In the amounts required it could be effectively dispersed through the upper atmosphere with minor modifications to the existing fleet of freight airliners. Like the charcoal dusting it is hard to see what could go wrong with this approach though it is possible that something unforeseen could. That seems like a small chance to take compared with the high risk of extensive glaciation which otherwise exists, though there would likely still be complaints from some.

  “Mr. President, either of these two approaches will likely work. Both involve the once-controversial subject of geoengineering, though I think the time for such sensitivities is past. I personally prefer strengthening the greenhouse effect, which is, in its origin, a natural phenomenon, rather than painting the north black. Strengthening the greenhouse effect will tend to warm the entire globe right from the start, whereas reversing the ice-albedo feedback will initially just warm the northern latitudes, taking longer before this improves the temperatures to the south. It was the greenhouse strengthening that I had in mind back when we first briefed you on the climatic effects of Peregrinus, and I mentioned that we might need to resort to geoengineering. Sir, I recommend that we start dispersing a very low concentration of difluoromethane into the atmosphere as soon as possible and then monitor the effects. If we don’t see the rate of global cooling and ice propagation stabilize very quickly, we still have the charcoal approach in reserve.”

  “Thank you, Eli,” said Jim, “I don’t see that I can do anything other than accept your recommendation. I am just very glad that there’s something we can do about this less-than-ideal scenario that seems to be emerging. I will want to have this as a multinational plan rather than just a U.S. initiative, so your work isn’t over. You will need to help me convince the rest of the main national leaders. Madam Secretary, would you please set up private meetings with each of them over the next couple of weeks and ask them to include their principal climate advisors. General Montgomery, could you work with Dr. Wayman to be ready to activate the difluoromethane dispersal as soon as I give the word?”

  Chapter 33

  Early June, 2039

  Canadian Rocky Mountains, near Golden, British Columbia

  Arthur Svenson lay in his sleeping bag enjoying a last few moments of warmth and relaxation before tackling the day’s activities. It was five o’clock in the morning with good daylight, though the twenty-three-year-old knew it would be chilly outside his small tent, especially in the early morning mountain shadow for which the lake beside him had been named. He was camped, as he had many times before, about 4,500 feet above the town of Golden in the Purcell Range. This time was different. He was by himself, except for his devoted dog, Beast, whereas in past it had always been with his dad and occasionally the whole family.

  The prior summer the Svenson family and the McCormack family had walked the six miles from the cabin where they had been living down to Golden, which was now largely deserted. The adults had collectively decided that they needed to abandon the increasingly frigid climate of the mountains and move their children to a warmer place. Tom and Trish Svenson had been able to have their New Zealand immigration permits expanded to include the McCormack family as part of their household, which they certainly had become. In fact, they were all in-laws now. Arthur Svenson and Nancy McCormack had fallen deeply in love pretty much at first sight and their parents had given them permission to marry after two years of supervised chastity. The two newlywed
s had been young by usual standards, Arthur at nineteen and Nancy at eighteen, but the old standards didn’t really apply in the aftermath of Peregrinus. It had been a small ceremony in June 2035 — just the two families in the living room of the cabin, with a priest presiding by video call. Melissa McCormack had vacated the second bedroom of the cabin and moved up to the loft with the three younger girls.

  A year after their wedding, Nancy had given birth to a healthy baby boy, carefully tended to by her mother and mother-in-law who had extensively researched and rehearsed the art of midwifery. Little Tom had been nearly two by the time they all walked down to Golden, riding most of the way on his father’s shoulders. Once in the town, Arthur and Nancy had finalized a tough decision, but one they had been contemplating for some time. They decided that they and little Tom were going to stay behind. They knew it might get colder still, but they were accustomed to living in a cold climate and were prepared to accept the risks. Arthur had completed a science degree online and could likely have found a good job to support his family in New Zealand, but his heart yearned for the mountains and the outdoors of his home. He was his father’s son, and Nancy would be happy anywhere she could be with him.

  The decision had hung on what they could scrounge down in Golden. Tom had insisted that if they were going to return to the cabin, they would need to restock the staples, propane and chainsaw fuel, and they would need a reliable snowmobile and trailer to haul it all back with, and as a getaway vehicle if something ever went wrong. Arthur had agreed to that condition to gain his father’s consent and blessing. They had been able to arrange to have their consumables brought in on the same train that would take the rest of the family to Calgary, and the local skidoo dealer had happily agreed by telephone from northern Mexico to give them one of the brand-new snow machines still sitting in his abandoned showroom.

  It had been a tearful parting at the Golden train station. Tom and Trish would have made the same decision to stay, but for the young girls, all three of whom needed a chance for more social interaction and a gentler lifestyle than a backwoods cabin could provide. They all embraced and promised to stay in close touch by video chat. Little Tom was keen to visit his grandpas and grammas on the ’puter as the three of them headed back to the Svenson’s Golden home, which the three men of the combined family had previously dug access to through the roof-high snow cover. There they would wait a few weeks for the three feet of slushy summer melt snow, laying on top of twelve feet of permanent snow, to firm back up enough for the uphill ride.

  Arthur extracted himself from the small tent. It was sitting on top of a canvas tarp with a layer of spruce bows underneath as insulation from the twenty-five feet of snow sitting on the shoreline and the lake. He greeted Beast and got to work building up a decent fire of dead branches he had been able to scrounge from the part of the surrounding forest still reaching above the snow. The once plentiful deadfalls on the ground were buried too deeply to get at. Art had melted snow the prior evening to have water for coffee and he soon had the pot warmed up enough to melt the overnight ice accumulation. Venison patties and bushcakes were next. Even Beast seemed to welcome the warmth of the fire, though his shaggy coat had kept him comfortable outside despite an overnight low of twenty degrees Fahrenheit.

  While savoring his breakfast, Arthur gazed up at the snow-cloaked mountains to the southeast across the lake. He was looking forward to his little campsite coming out of the shadow when the Sun rose in the notch between two adjacent peaks, as it always had when visiting the lake as a boy with his dad. He finished his meal, making sure Beast was fed and had enough water, then began packing up his tent and gear. He strapped the gear to the toboggan and began to tie his snowshoes. These were old-fashioned shoes designed for deep snow, wood frames with catgut mesh. They were five feet long and fourteen inches wide with up-turned tips, designed to keep from digging into the snow, and fastened to Art’s boots with traditional lampwick harnesses.

  Art shouldered his deer rifle and grabbed the tow rope of the toboggan but paused sensing something was out of place. Then it came to him. Although the morning was noticeably brighter and the sky above was a deep blue, he was still in shadow. The Sun was just beginning to glimmer behind the western edge of the easternmost of the two peaks forming the vee, and it was about to rise over that ridgeline well above the bottom of the notch. Arthur thought back humorously to the words of his father on another cold morning many years ago.

  He said to himself alone, “Dad, I guess you were only half right. The Sun did rise right up through the bottom of the vee, as you predicted that day, but you weren’t right about that being the way it would always be. I really wish you were here with me to see it.” Then he took up the slack in the rope and headed back along the trail he had broken the day before.

  The reasons for his overnight journey were partly nostalgic but mostly pragmatic. He had chosen Shadow Lake as his destination and turnaround point in part to visit this favorite spot he and his dad had frequented before Peregrinus. However, his main purpose was to move a good distance beyond his usual hunting grounds in the area surrounding the cabin, which was offering fewer and fewer opportunities to him. He hoped to take either a deer or a mountain goat. A deer would be better eating, but a goat would have a nice thick white coat that could be tanned and made into a warm jacket for little Tom. Either one would meet their protein needs for about six months. In the current climate, there was no difficulty in preserving the meat that long, well frozen and stored in an ice shed surrounded on all sides by thick slabs of ice cut from the lake by chainsaw.

  Art had set out the previous morning. Once he had departed from the already broken trail of his usual hunting circuit it had been slow, heavy going, as he knew it would be. The snow was so deep that the lower layers were compacted and solid, and with a crust from last summer’s melt about five feet below the surface, but five feet of loose snow was still challenging to move through, especially with a toboggan to pull and Beast bringing up the rear. His snowshoes were designed to compress a large volume of snow and keep him from sinking more than about eighteen inches, and they performed quite well as long as he didn’t lose his balance and fall to one side or the other. If he did fall it was quite an acrobatic exercise to get his feet with their awkward snowshoes back underneath him before becoming smothered upside down in the deep soft snow.

  The greatest danger from the deep snow was falling into a tree well. This was a deep hole in the snow where the branches of an evergreen tree kept the surrounding loose snow from compacting, leaving a gap of several feet around the tree, which might be covered with a foot or two of firm snow on top but dropping down ten or twenty feet below that through loose snow and air space. If a person strayed too close, the snow would collapse underneath and could leave that person suspended a dozen feet or more down, possibly upside down, while a small-scale avalanche poured down on top of them. Art was careful to keep well clear of the tops of the trees.

  For the most part Beast was able to walk on Art’s trail with his big paws spreading out wide enough to keep him from breaking through the layer of compressed snow. Sometimes the big dog did sink in the snow and then would have to be helped to fight his way back onto the trail. When this happened, the dog was trained to lie still until Art could break a solid platform of compressed snow alongside the trail to heave the dog up onto. Beast was now fourteen years old and nearing the end of his life. The big dog wasn’t as fast or as strong as he had been in his youth, but he was still smart, courageous loyal, and as fierce as ever when it came to protecting the Svenson family. Art had considered leaving him behind but knew it would break the animal’s heart, and his partner’s hearing and sense of smell were still far better than his. Then too, even though Beast was old, the huge canine was still a major cougar deterrent.

  Their uphill journey was slow as they covered the six-mile distance and three thousand feet of elevation gain. Art was conserving his own strength, using the slow shuffling pace best suited to keepin
g the tips of the snowshoes on top of the snow and the wide parts of the edges from clashing against each other. He was pausing regularly to look for game sign and to listen while Beast rested and processed the scents of the forest. It took them nearly eight hours to cover the distance, arriving late in the afternoon. They had not spotted a deer or a goat, but for the last mile of their journey Art had noticed that the budding tips of the upper branches of many of the aspen groves had been stripped off, as well as the tender new-growth bark. Art worried that in another three years or so the trees would be entirely buried and game would have nothing left to eat. For now, there were also occasional spots where visible tracks and droppings indicated the presence of game since the last snow a couple of days previously. The hunter was optimistic that on the way back, with more time to follow leads, they would encounter some game.

  Moving downhill on the broken trail was much easier, though Art kept their pace slow to be as quiet as possible, and to allow them both time to carefully examine their surroundings. Within half an hour they came across the tracks of five or six goats, cutting across their trail and heading east and slightly downhill. They left the toboggan and followed the tracks as quickly as they could, keeping silent and wary, and taking advantage of the trail broken by the small herd. An hour later Beast had begun chuffing quietly but insistently. Art had shouldered the rifle and scanned an arc of thirty degrees on each side of the trail with the scope set to eight times magnification. Sure enough, two hundred yards ahead he spotted the goats in a grove of aspen, feasting on tender spring buds that they normally wouldn’t have been able to reach.

  Art considered taking the shot from there. It was certainly feasible, but there was some light brush in between and a risk that a twig might deflect his bullet and spoil his only shot. Although there was also a risk he might be detected if he tried to move closer, he decided to take that chance. He signaled Beast to lay down and stay. Then he slid slowly and silently forward, checking the scope every twenty yards to see if the goats were showing any sign of nervousness. When he was a hundred yards away he stopped, rested the rifle on a convenient branch, picked a large ram and centered it in the crosshairs. One of the ewes would be tenderer, but Art preferred to keep the herd breeding capacity intact. He stilled his breathing and gradually loaded up the trigger. The rifle fired, the ram dropped and the rest of the herd scattered. Beast bounded up from behind and went on to claim the kill.