The image of Sapientus as a dying man haunted Sam. Beads of perspiration had broken out on his forehead. His hands trembled and he hesitated to turn the next page. He did not want to be scorned or persecuted by the great and the good, even if he did not subscribe to the possibility of eternal damnation. And yet he knew he must turn the page of the manuscript as he could not leave the future of mankind to the inept, self-serving rabble who bickered and blustered around him. Sam took a deep breath, and turned the page.
CHAPTER 33
Sam’s mind was trapped in an endless vision of natural and manmade catastrophes that had haunted the tortured imagination of the seventeenth-century soothsayer. Great plagues decimated the populations of Europe and catastrophic fires destroyed its great cities. Conquering armies marched into neighbouring countries and political prisoners were tortured in dark dungeons by their despotic rulers. Millions died on the battlefields of the world as weapons became ever more hideous and sophisticated. Flying machines roamed the skies, dropping cargos of death and destruction on helpless populations below. Dirty black smoke spewed from colossal chimney stacks attached to factories in all corners of the globe. Massive tsunamis and cyclones pounded the planet and whole populations starved as rains and crops failed.
Sam could feel the planet choking as he pictured the ice caps receding and water levels rising. The manuscript transported his mind to an icy sea in the desolate frozen landscape he knew to be the west coast of Greenland. He saw the last of the world’s great ice caps clinging precariously to the land below. He saw the distinct features of the icy Greenland wilderness as the manuscript took him to a massive meltwater lake so large it seemed to have no beginning or end. At the western extremity of the lake, a melting iceberg the size of a mountain plugged the ice dam. The ice mountain restrained tens of millions of cubic kilometres of meltwater from gushing into the sea. Then, a mushroom-shaped explosion loomed over the ice mountain and the newsreel in his head faded to black.
* * *
‘Mr Jardine… Sam! Do you need some water? I can see you look distressed. Is it the manuscript? Perhaps you would share your thoughts with us?’ said Silverwood.
Sam tried to clear his head from Sapientus’s apocalyptic vision of the end of mankind. He was sweating and his hands were shaking as he closed the book and handed it to the impatient Frenchman on his right.
The room went silent as Sam composed himself and collected his thoughts. Prime ministers, generals and billionaires leaned forward in their seats as they waited for him to share what had disturbed him so much about the manuscript.
Sam stood and stepped onto the dais to face his illustrious audience. He looked around the room at those who had appointed themselves as the new world government.
‘It didn’t make any sense to me at all,’ he said. ‘I would say the manuscript must be an elaborate hoax. I’m going out for some air.’ He gathered his jacket and walked out of the room for a second time that day.
* * *
‘Miss Shaw, I’m with Cantara and Jack in the same café where we met an hour ago. We need your charter jet now,’ Sam said on the phone to the reporter. ‘I’ll explain in the car on the way to the airport. Just make sure it’s refuelled and ready to go.’
Five minutes later, Sam, Cantara and Jack clambered aboard a minibus emblazoned with The World Today logo, which had double-parked outside the Starbucks café.
‘Our jet is waiting for us at Leesburg Executive Airport,’ said Shaw. ‘It’s a few miles further on from Dulles, but we can be on the charter jet within ten minutes of arriving at the airport.’ She looked at Jack and scowled at the moody teenager. ‘The World Today has only given me approval for two passengers. The kid should stay behind.’
‘Jack’s coming,’ Sam said.
‘Sorry, that’s not possible. The jet only has a six-seat passenger capacity.’ Shaw put her Dr Dre headphones on her head, turned towards the window and cranked up the volume of her portable music player.
Sam looked around the minibus and studied Shaw’s production crew. He leaned across and lifted the Dr Dre’s from her ears. ‘Your make-up artist can stay at the airport,’ he said, looking at the flamboyant man in the seat behind Shaw. ‘Jack’s coming, one way or the other. Let me know if we need to book a ride with CNN instead.’ Sam pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and punched a number.
‘Fine. Have it your way.’ She looked at her production crew in the seats behind her. ‘Sorry guys, but we have a severe case of princess syndrome in the bus and for a change it’s not me.’
An uneasy silence descended on the minibus as it crossed the Potomac River and headed towards Arlington. Sam stared out of the window while his mind replayed the cataclysmic visions he had experienced while reading the manuscript. He questioned the wisdom of what he was about to do and the nature of the messages he had received. The strange symbols and pictures in the manuscript were open to interpretation, but he could not have imagined the death bed scene. The stench of death, the musty renaissance period garments and the scent of candles still pervaded his nostrils. It was as if he had been present in the room by the side of the catholic priest as the soothsayer breathed his last.
He swore in frustration as the heavy traffic ground to a halt on West Broad Street prior to the Leesburg Road on-ramp.
‘We shouldn’t be too long,’ said the driver. ‘It’s the usual pre-Easter rush.’
Sam looked out of the window at a shop across the road called ‘The Alamo Guys’. A gun store! He unbuckled his seat belt and tapped Jack on the shoulder. ‘Quickly, come with me,’ he said.
‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ said Shaw in frustration. She flicked her hair and crossed her long legs in annoyance.
‘See if you can double-park for a few minutes. We’ll be back soon,’ Sam told the driver.
Jack and Sam sprinted across the road and into the gun store, where racks of lethal weapons were on display. A man in ‘Alamo Guys’ overalls approached Sam. He had a scraggy goatee beard and wore his laid-back attitude like a badge of honour.
‘Hey, man. What’re you looking for?’ he asked Sam.
‘What’s the most powerful sniper rifle in your store?’ Sam replied.
‘We have a couple of Remington M24s in stock. Would you like to try one in our firing range around the back, sir?’
‘Have you got a Draggie?’ interrupted Jack.
‘A what?’ asked the salesman.
‘A Dragunov SVD.’
‘Is the rifle for him?’ the salesman asked Sam. ‘I don’t want to be rude but Virginia laws state the owner must be eighteen years of age. This little guy looks like he should be in in school taking algebra lessons.’
‘No, it’s for me,’ Sam replied hastily. ‘But back to the question; do you have any Dragunovs?’
‘I will have to check with the manager, sir. But I do know we have a PSL, which is a Romanian-made variant.’
Sam raised his eyebrows at Jack.
‘Aye, they’re all right, I suppose. They have shorter stocks, which’ll be useful if we’re going to have to wear thick coats in t’ snow.’
‘We’ll take it,’ Sam said, reaching for his credit card. He paused before handing it over. ‘Oh. And do you have anything in the machine gun range?’
‘Strictly speaking, sir, we are not allowed to sell fully automatic weapons in Virginia, but I assume this is for use outside of the state?’
‘Of course.’
‘The M16 is an excellent assault rifle for the discerning gun enthusiast.’
Jack shook his head at Sam.
‘And we have a couple of Heckler & Koch G3s out the back.’
Jack nodded.
‘We’ll take them both and fifty rounds for each gun,’ Sam replied.
‘I presume you’re licensed?’ asked the sales assistant.
‘Of course, but we’re in a bit of a hurry. We’re on assignment with Charlotte Shaw from The World Today. My licence is in the minibus and we’re running late for our fli
ght.’
‘No shit! I’ve always thought Charlotte Shaw was hot. I’d love to meet her one day.’
‘I’ll make sure she invites you to the studio the next time she’s back in town.’
‘That’s so cool. Thanks, man. Wait till I tell the boys out the back,’ he said, writing out the invoice. ‘Just make sure you email me a scanned copy of your licence when you get the chance. I could get into real trouble if you do one of those mass shootings at a school or something.’
‘I’ll be onto it as soon as I can,’ said Sam. ‘Do you take Amex?’
CHAPTER 34
Goose Bay Airport, Labrador, Canada
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ Sam demanded as Chuck Crawford climbed the steps of the Cessna Citation CJ4 at Goose Bay Airport in Labrador, Canada, where they had landed to refuel.
‘Good afternoon to you too,’ Crawford responded as he ducked his head in the doorway of the Citation and strolled to the empty leather seat at the back of the luxury charter jet next to Charlotte Shaw. He was carrying a large leather bag of personal effects and was dressed in jeans, a lumberjack-style shirt and a thick blue woollen jumper.
‘I asked Chuck to join us,’ Shaw replied. ‘After all, we only have a vague idea where the rig is located and no idea where to land the plane. Mind you, Chuck was pretty upset you’ve been talking with me about the Greenland rigs without consulting him first.’ Shaw smiled at the big Dakotan and uncrossed her long legs in a provocative manner.
‘Miss Shaw – always the master of the understatement,’ Crawford said as he clipped on his seat belt. ‘“Homicidal” might be a better adjective than “upset”. But we are where we are, and since the board of directors has seen fit to put me in charge while Rex Daingerfield considers his future, I see it as my duty to fix your mess, Jardine.’
Sam sniffed the air through the open door of the executive jet. ‘We must be close to the Canadian sinkholes. Why can I always smell the putrid aroma of methane when you’re around, Crawford?’
They were interrupted by the pilot of the Citation, who emerged from behind the curtain that separated the cockpit from the passenger section. He glared at Jack, who had his feet up on the back of the cream leather seat in front of him.
‘Feet down, sonny. This aircraft has just completed a million-dollar refurbishment.’ He looked at the passengers. ‘Thank you for flying with Washington DC Charter Airlines. We are at the halfway point to the Upernavik Icefjord airstrip and are taking on fuel and supplies at this little airfield at Goose Bay. Flight time will be three hours and we should have enough fuel to make the round trip back here. I wouldn’t normally subject this piece of precision engineering to the bumpy little airstrip in Greenland, but I must say your employers have been most generous, Miss Shaw.’
‘You’re too kind, Captain,’ Shaw said to the pilot.
‘There’s a refreshment centre by the curtain here,’ he said, pointing to a well-stocked bar. ‘Feel free to help yourself when the seat belt signs go off.’
When the pilot had returned to his seat, Crawford leaned forward and tapped Sam on the shoulder. ‘I don’t know how you managed to convince Rex Daingerfield or his deranged daughter to let you run the renewable energy division, but my first executive decision is to shut it down and fire all the staff.’
‘Take a deep breath and smell your own bullshit, Crawford. That’s methane gushing from the tundra in catastrophic quantities. We’re all in this up to our necks and unless we join forces to stop the sinkholes, we’re headed right back to the ice age.’
* * *
As the Citation flew over the featureless white ice and commenced its descent towards Upernavik in the late afternoon sun, Sam gazed down at the enormity of the ice shelf. He tapped Cantara on the shoulder across the aisle of the little plane.
‘How could something so massive be endangered by our own oil industry?’ he asked her.
‘It’s not just us, Sam. It’s also down to the environmental choices made by our fellow human beings.’
Sam looked at an enormous body of water below and assumed it was the Greenland Sea. He realised with a shock the sea straddled the interior of Greenland where once there had been one continuous ice shelf. He craned his neck to see beyond the wing of the Citation and realised the new inland sea was flowing towards one narrow neck of land where the mountains formed a natural channel to the ocean.
‘My God, Cantara. Look at that!’ He pointed to an iceberg that was so big, it formed an immovable barrier that blocked the flow of meltwater into the lower fjord and thence to the sea beyond.
‘It’s full of cracks, Sam. It could disintegrate at any time,’ said Cantara. ‘The resulting flood could wipe out most of Greenland.’
A wall of water a mile high was seeping over the low points of the mountain tops that formed the huge flooded upper fjord. A dozen spectacular waterfalls cascaded down the sides of the mountains, sending sprays of water hurtling towards the sky. She looked at Sam; he had turned deathly pale. ‘Are you feeling okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘It’s identical to the vision I had while reading the Sapientus manuscript... It didn’t end well.’ Sam unclipped his seatbelt and strode towards the front of the Citation. He squeezed through the gap in the curtain that separated the cockpit from the cabin and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. The pilot pulled off his headphones and turned angrily towards Sam.
‘Could I ask you to return to your seat, sir.’
‘I need you to fly towards that ice dam,’ Sam explained, pointing towards the body of the water to the west.
‘That’s a negative, sir. This is not a joy flight and we won’t have sufficient fuel for the return trip.’ He turned towards his co-pilot. ‘Jim, would you deal with this asshole while I land the plane?’
‘There’s a reason we chartered this plane, captain. The Greenland authorities will need first-hand information on the imminent mega-flood that’s about to wipe out their entire country.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘That’s an ice dam to our north. If the iceberg at the end of the fjord is dislodged, the entire body of water will empty in a few hours and carve out a whole new landscape. It will raise the world’s sea levels by at least three feet and cause chaos along the entire coastline of the North Atlantic.’
‘Oh my God,’ said the co-pilot, as a massive chunk of ice split from the main iceberg. ‘I’m radioing this in to the Nuuk authorities right now.’ He scanned the frequencies on his radio and then threw his headphones onto the floor in disgust. ‘We’re out of range on all channels.’
‘Okay, let’s take a quick look,’ said the pilot as he banked the aircraft to port and flew towards the ice dam. ‘And then we’re diverting to Nuuk to report this in.’
‘The situation is worse than you might think,’ Sam said to the pilot.
‘How can anything be worse than what we’re seeing right now?’
‘We have reason to believe terrorists are about to attack the ice dam with a nuclear weapon.’
‘You cannot be freakin’ serious! When?’
‘Any time now,’ Sam replied. ‘Certainly within the next twenty-four hours.’
‘Why didn’t you contact the authorities in Washington DC?’
‘There wasn’t time to convince the authorities. This is something we have to deal with right now.’
‘What the hell. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. But if you are pulling my chain, I will personally throw you off my plane onto the ice below.’
* * *
The Citation flew low over the Daingerfield fracking site. It looked silent and abandoned but there was evidence of a recent struggle in the camp. Two windows had been smashed in the accommodation hut, and machinery and spare parts lay scattered outside the storage sheds. The steel structure of the derrick that loomed over the well head was blackened by fire, but was otherwise intact.
‘Bastards,’ said Crawford, who had joined them in the cro
wded cockpit. ‘I’ve got four engineers in the accommodation hut on maintenance duty. I hope they’re still alive.’
The Citation flew slowly towards the looming mountain that held the meltwater lake. Spray lashed the windows of the cockpit.
They were interrupted once more by the curtain swishing back. Jack entered the cockpit carrying his Romanian sniper rifle.
‘What the fuck?’ said the pilot. ‘Who gave this kid a gun?’
‘He knows the terrorists,’ Sam explained. ‘He fought with them in Syria.’
‘I saw someone down there,’ Jack said. ‘He was rushing towards the iceberg.’
‘Are you sure, sonny? I didn’t see anyone.’
‘There he is!’ Jack pointed to the starboard side of the plane. ‘He’s got a rifle and he’s aiming it straight at us.’
The pilot banked to port to evade the shooter. As they did so, a stream of bullets peppered the underside of the Citation.
‘That’s it. We’re getting out of here,’ said the pilot. ‘I can’t risk the lives of the people on the plane. If we crash this far north, our chances of survival are bleak.’
‘We’re losing fuel fast from the starboard tank, Captain. The terrorist must have holed it,’ said the co-pilot. The master warning light flashed on the top left corner of the instrument panel.
‘That was Rashid,’ Jack said. ‘He’s the platoon’s explosives expert. Looks like he’s heading towards the iceberg. He’ll be there in ten minutes, I’d say.’
‘We’ve got a fire in the port engine,’ said the pilot, looking at the panel indicator. ‘I’m shutting it down.’ He pushed the port engine fire extinguisher button on the control panel.
‘Engine two fail,’ he said to his co-pilot.
‘Check,’ replied the co-pilot.’
‘Thrust lever two idle.’
‘Confirmed.’
‘Engine master two off,’ he said, shutting off the fuel from the stricken engine. The pilot fought the joystick as the plane lurched to port. The plane righted itself as the pilot increased the thrust in the starboard engine.
The Last Oracle: A Climate Fiction Thriller (Sam Jardine Crime Thrillers Book 3) Page 26