Fast Ice

by Clive Cussler

  “I’m guessing snowdrifts will be quite a surprise to all the elephants, lions and crocodiles. No wonder Ryland bought all his land around the equator.”

  Yaeger nodded. “He’s obviously run the simulation himself. His islands also remain in the liquid zone, even under this scenario. But even he can’t account for all the variables. Let me show you the third line. I call it the Doomsday Scenario.”

  “Wonderful title,” Rudi said.

  “And accurate,” Yaeger insisted. “You see, the farther out we go, the more we encounter feedback effects and inputs that are not directly related to the algae itself. For instance, as the atmosphere cools, it also thins and loses its ability to retain moisture. Both impacts cause it to be less effective at insulating the planet, allowing even more heat to radiate out into space. By chance, fallen snow and ice are white and reflective. As the snowfall spreads and lingers longer on the ground, we end up essentially coating the Earth in a reflective blanket, causing the sunlight to be bounced back into space instead of absorbed by the dark ground and the equally dark sea. These things all result in feedback loops, meaning the colder it gets, the colder it will continue to get.”

  “Snowball Earth,” Rudi noted. “Yvonne’s original theory. Doomsday for humanity. Or close to it. I’m assuming we’d build underground shelters, tap geothermal sources and scratch out a method of survival. But it wouldn’t exactly be a party.”

  Yaeger nodded. “In the worst-case scenario, the Earth slowly enters a frozen state, one from which it cannot emerge without a jolt from something large. Either massive volcanoes or some type of surface-heating system reflecting extra sunlight and heat onto the planet or even nuclear weapons and purposeful release of more greenhouse gases.”

  “Could you imagine the irony?” Rudi said.

  Yaeger shook his head.

  “Why is it so quick to take hold?” Rudi asked. “Ice ages normally take thousands of years to get going.”

  Yaeger swiveled in his seat to face Rudi more directly. “Under normal circumstances, the glaciers would melt slowly and the algae would start flowing into the sea at a trickle, only becoming a rush over decades or centuries. The algae’s own ice-forming activity would trap it in a mix of slush and brine in the coves and bays that it initially flowed into. New ice would only grow at the margins with the algae itself caught behind that.”

  Rudi could visualize that. “Go on.”

  “At that pace, it would take hundreds of years for the algae to encircle Antarctica in large enough numbers to have any effect. And based on global ocean currents, it would be centuries more before it reached the northern polar seas, where it could perform the same trick. Ryland is intending to use high-pressure turbines to pump the algae from the glacial lake directly into the ocean at incredible volumes. Instead of a trickle, we’re looking at thousands of gallons a minute. He’s got tankers full of the stuff headed toward the Northern Hemisphere, where they’ll seed the Arctic and the seas above Russia and Canada. And considering his boast, and Yvonne’s background as a biological engineer, it becomes easy to imagine him genetically engineering the algae to grow and spread faster. All which compresses a thousand years of ice formation into a decade or less.”

  “What about our ability to destroy it?” Rudi asked.

  “First we have to find it,” Yaeger said. “Then we have to figure out how to kill it in massive amounts without poisoning the entire ocean at the same time. On top of that, we have to make sure we got all of it, every single flake, because anything we missed will simply regrow. Realistically, it’s impossible to imagine we could eliminate the algae once it escaped a confined area. It’s like trying to eradicate that damned COVID virus. If you quarantine nine million people who have it and leave one of them out and walking around, all you’ve done is buy yourself time before it flares up again.”

  Rudi understood the difficulty. NUMA had recently spent millions of dollars working with the Coast Guard and the state of Florida trying to mitigate the red tides that flowed into Tampa Bay. That was a speck on the map, compared to the Arctic or Antarctic oceans, with calm waters and bases nearby. And even they hadn’t been particularly successful.

  There was no point in further conversation. The facts were clear. It would be impossible to put the genie back in the bottle once Ryland let it out. In this case, an ounce of prevention would be worth ten million tons of cure. “We have no choice,” Rudi said. “We have to send Kurt and his team in. My only question is, how do we get them through the storm?”

  42

  CHINESE FISHING TRAWLER

  SIXTEEN HUNDRED MILES SOUTH OF CAPE TOWN

  Kurt and Joe stood over a chart in the navigator’s compartment on the Chinese trawler. As the trawler rolled to port, Joe grabbed the edge of the table to hold himself in place.

  Kurt pinned the chart down with one hand and then threw the other against the bulkhead to keep himself balanced. When his coffee mug began sliding toward the edge of the table, he released the chart and snatched the mug out of midair before it could throw itself to the deck.

  “Nice catch,” Joe said.

  “They should make these things with magnets on the bottom,” Kurt joked.

  “We’re going to need more than magnets,” Joe replied. “We’re going to need a miracle.”

  The chart they’d found was ten years old, annotated in Chinese and not all that detailed. Joe had a straightedge and pencil. Kurt was getting condition reports off a National Weather Service radio bulletin. It was a far cry from the high-tech, real-time system NUMA used, yet the basic question was the same. How do we get there from here?

  With Paul and Gamay looking on, Kurt marked the landing zone. “If we’re right, Ryland’s pumping station is here. The last satellite pass before the storm showed two heat plumes. One large and one negligible. We have to assume the large flare is a result of the turbines and the geothermal layer they’ve tapped into.”

  Joe measured once, scribbled some numbers and then measured again. Shaking his head, he looked up. “We’re still too far out. Even with the extra fuel we loaded on the Jayhawk and a one-way trip in mind.”

  At that moment Zama came in. “How goes it, my friends?”

  “Up and down,” Kurt said. “How’s the ship?”

  “About the same. My men and the Chinese crew who stayed aboard have shored up all the hatches using two-by-fours and other materials. But they’re nervous. And they don’t know what we’re getting into. Do you?”

  As Zama spoke, the trawler rolled with another swell. Kurt switched the coffee mug to the other hand and braced against the opposite bulkhead. “It’s going to get worse overnight.”

  Zama didn’t look happy. “Then we’re going to be shipping water,” Zama told him. “It only takes one hatch or port to fail and we’ll have flooding inside.”

  Kurt wasn’t about to put Zama and his men in danger. “You’ve done more than enough already. I promise you we’ll get off this boat so you turn back north before the bad stuff hits. We just need to get a little closer first.” He pointed to the map and Joe’s measuring stick. “We’re at least two hundred miles out of range. Can you coax any more speed out of this tub?”

  “The diesel is old and running hot,” Zama said. “I can’t risk calling for more power. Losing the engine in this storm will be fatal for all of us.”

  “Actually,” Joe said, looking up from the chart, “I was wrong. We have to leave now or abort the whole mission.”

  Kurt turned back to Joe. “You just said we’re too far away.”

  “We are,” Joe said. “But we’re going to get farther away the longer we wait.”

  Kurt knew better than to fence with Joe on something mathematical. He had an engineer’s mind and did numbers like a computer. “Care to explain?”

  Joe held out a hand. “Coffee mug.”

  Kurt handed it over, and Joe placed it down o
n the chart on a specific spot. “This is the center of the storm.”

  Kurt nodded, looking on with everyone else.

  “We’re in the Southern Hemisphere,” Joe added. “Storms spin clockwise down here, not counterclockwise like they do up north.” As he spoke, Joe drew circles around the mug. “That means if we leave now and track west for about thirty minutes, we’ll get ourselves a tailwind for the rest of the journey.”

  He reached down and moved the mug. “If we wait and the storm gets to here, we’ll be fighting a crosswind. Not fun to fly in and not helpful to get us where we’re going.”

  Reaching down, Joe moved the mug again. “Six hours from now, when the storm gets to this point, it will be blowing across the continent and back toward the coast. That’s a hundred-knot headwind at our altitude. Meaning six hours from now, we’ll actually be farther out of range than we are now, even with the distance we gain by continuing to sail south.”

  Kurt looked the chart over. It made sense. “Ride the wind and hope it holds. That’s your plan?”

  Joe tossed the pen onto the chart. “You got a better idea?”

  Kurt did not. He glanced around the room as the ship pitched forward once more. “And what if the storm doesn’t follow the expected track?”

  Joe hesitated. “Then we might still make the ice shelf.”

  Kurt had a sense that was wishful thinking. He turned to Paul and Gamay. “We can save weight by leaving you two behind.”

  Gamay and Paul shared a look. Gamay spoke for both of them. “Much as I love the aroma of fish guts,” she said, “you’re not leaving us on this rusting tub. If we do get there, you’re going to need my help identifying the algae.”

  “And my help with figuring out their geothermal setup,” Paul said. “You blow up the wrong thing, you might just make it worse.”

  Kurt appreciated their bravery almost as much as the thin attempt to make it seem as if they were doing anything but volunteering. Truth was, they would need all the help they could get.

  43

  Unshackling the Jayhawk’s chains proved to be the most dangerous task so far. They were driving through twenty-foot seas now, with the occasional thirty-foot swell every five or ten minutes.

  With Joe and the Trouts secured inside the helicopter, Kurt and Zama worked in the wind and the rain. The deck was rising and falling like a slow-motion roller coaster. Spray was blasting up over the bow of the ship and pelting them with each passing wave.

  Once Kurt released the bear trap, only two straps remained. They were anchored to a single point. The safest way to launch was to allow the Jayhawk to build up to full power and then cut both straps loose.

  Kurt turned to Zama, shouting to be heard over the wind. “These last two have to stay hooked until we’re lifting off. Otherwise we might go over the side before we can get airborne.”

  “Understood,” Zama said.

  Another wave rolled under the ship. The trawler rose up, balanced on the crest for a moment and then slid back down the far side.

  “We’ll launch at the top of a swell,” Kurt said. “That will give us a boost.” He handed Zama a fire ax. “When you see the straps pulled tight, cut them at the base. One chop. Hit it hard and strong.”

  Zama took the ax and gripped it. “Are we close enough for you?” he asked. “Does this plan of yours stand a chance of getting you to your destination?”

  “If Joe says we can get there, we’ll get there,” Kurt replied. “We have to try. I’m just hoping you and the crew can get safely out of the storm.”

  “We’ll head east once you launch,” Zama said. “With the waves behind us, it’ll be an easy ride. In a few hours we’ll begin a turn back to the north. That will keep us clear of the worst problems.”

  “Good to hear.” Kurt extended a hand.

  Zama grasped it firmly. “Things always seem to get interesting when you are around, my friend. I wish you good fortune. And a safe return.”

  “You as well,” Kurt said. “Thanks for your help. Drinks are on me when I get back to Cape Town.”

  “That I will not allow,” Zama said. “But we can argue about it at the bar.”

  “Fair enough,” Kurt said.

  He released Zama’s hand and turned toward the helicopter. The rotors were spinning now, the navigation lights were on, while the rotating red beacon beneath the fuselage flashed every few seconds.

  Climbing into the Jayhawk, Kurt pulled the door shut. Only now, out of the driving rain and spray, did the feeling of being soaking wet sink in.

  “Strap yourself in,” Joe said. “This is gonna be a wild one.”

  Kurt dried his face with a hand towel and buckled the harness as Joe brought the helicopter up to full power.

  With the rotors howling above them, the ship bottomed in the trough of a wave and began to rise. Joe angled the cyclic so the helicopter would lean into the wind and pulled back on the collective. The Jayhawk strained against the last of the straps, the engine running at full takeoff power.

  Outside on the deck, Zama felt the ship begin rising toward the top of the swell. He saw the helicopter pulling on its leash. He stepped forward, leaning into the wind as he brought the ax up. He felt the trawler begin to level off. Now, he thought.

  With a twist of his torso and the leverage of his powerful arms, Zama brought the ax down on the target. The blade severed the straps and bit into the steel deck beneath. The taut nylon snapped like a rubber band, vanishing in both directions, and the helicopter broke free, rising as the ship fell in the back of the wave.

  Zama watched it climb and turn off toward the west, wondering if he would ever see the men and woman aboard it again.

  44

  The first part of the flight went smoothly—if being slammed around inside a metal box was one’s definition of smooth. Joe controlled the helicopter with great skill, his focus so intense that he didn’t seem to notice the constant jolts that felt as if they’d hit something midair.

  The passengers were not so lucky. With less to focus on, they felt every bump, twist and turn. The Trouts had gone stone silent in the back of the Jayhawk. Even Kurt, who wasn’t prone to motion sickness, found himself looking forward to the moment they would turn and ride with the wind instead of fighting across it.

  “Are we there yet?” he joked.

  “I’m not sure,” Joe said.

  “Do not tell me we’re lost,” Gamay warned from the backseat.

  The Jayhawk had a moving map display on a touch screen. It linked to the precision military version of the GPS system, accurate to within sixteen inches. They weren’t lost.

  The Jayhawk continued to barrel through the storm. The hardy little helicopter had been designed for all weather conditions and upgraded per NUMA’s specific requirements. Kurt wondered if the designers had something like this in mind.

  Finally, Joe detected what he was looking for and altered course. He made a fifteen-degree turn initially and several minutes later turned almost due south, on course to the target zone.

  Kurt noticed the fuel computer estimating a range of four hundred and ninety miles. He said nothing. They had over six hundred miles to go.

  Much like the trawler with the following sea, the helicopter had a smoother flight with the wind pushing them. And while the buffeting continued, the severity was greatly reduced.

  “You two okay back there?” Kurt asked.

  “Feeling better now,” Paul said.

  “Gamay?”

  No response.

  “She’d rather not talk right now,” Paul advised. “For fear she might say something that would be used against her later.”

  An hour went by, one that started in a heavy rain squall and ended with them flying though a swirl of snow.

  Joe had every de-icing system on the aircraft set to full power and the Jayhawk never missed a beat. After ano
ther hour, he made an announcement. “You can take off those life jackets. We’re over the ice shelf. We can always skate from there.”

  They still had eighty miles to go. The computer, though, calculated a maximum range of about sixty. While the tailwind had helped tremendously, they were still looking at landing a little short.

  “Think we can stretch it?” Kurt asked.

  “It’s going to be close. May have to put us down a few miles from our hotel.”

  Kurt picked up a tablet computer that was connected to the aircraft’s navigation system. “I’ll look for a nice flat spot, should we need it.”

  Zooming in on the final target zone, Kurt scanned for flat terrain. The standard database had only limited elevation measurements. Rudi and Hiram had downloaded the information from the Navy flyover, which was hyperdetailed.

  “Bless you, Rudi,” Kurt said.

  Working in five-mile increments, Kurt earmarked three different spots that would be promising landing zones for the helicopter when it ran out of gas.

  “Don’t suppose this thing is like my old Mazda?” Kurt asked. “Where empty means you can still go thirty miles?”

  “Doubt it,” Joe said. “Never took the chance to find out, though. The wind has helped us a lot but it’s fading as we get farther away from the center of the storm.”

  As Joe finished speaking, the Jayhawk began to talk. “Low fuel,” the computer announced. “Low fuel.”

  The message repeated itself over and over until Joe found the button to silence the alarm. Even then, the warning lights continued to flash on the panel.

  Fifteen minutes later, the computer began to talk again. “Fuel critical . . . Fuel critical . . . Fuel critical . . .”

  As Joe silenced the new alarm, Kurt glanced at the estimated range. It was ten miles. Less than five minutes of flight time.