The Last Oracle: A Climate Fiction Thriller (Sam Jardine Crime Thrillers Book 3)

by Christopher Hepworth

  ‘We’re almost out of fuel in the starboard engine. I’m transferring the fuel from the port tank,’ said the co-pilot. ‘It might give us another five or ten minutes’ flying time.’

  ‘Activating the Emergency Locator Transmitter now,’ said the pilot. I’m going to turn the aircraft around so we can land the Citation on the ice near the rig before we lose both engines.’

  ‘We started construction on a small airstrip behind the rig,’ said Crawford.

  ‘How long is it?’

  ‘It’s not finished yet, but I’d guess two thousand feet.’

  ‘Not long enough, especially as we’ve lost reverse thrust in the port engine, but it’ll have to do.’

  He turned around to face the three passengers. ‘I’d suggest you get back to your seats now, gentlemen. You will have more chance of surviving a crash-landing in the back.’

  ‘I’d like to take a shot at Rashid before he reaches the warhead,’ Jack said to Sam.

  ‘How’re you going to do that, sonny? We’re about to crash-land.’

  ‘I’ve seen it done in Syria. Assad’s troops would fire at us through the open cabin door of their troop carriers. They didn’t hit owt mind you, but then they weren’t good shots.’

  ‘No way,’ said the pilot. ‘We’re flying too fast and I don’t have full control of the aircraft. You won’t get a clean shot. Besides, I need whatever fuel we have left to attempt a safe landing.’

  ‘Captain, the terrorist’s about to detonate a nuclear warhead,’ Sam said. If by some miracle we survive the explosion, we’ll be wiped out by the mega-flood once the dam breaks. We have no choice, Jack has to take a shot.’

  ‘Can this kid even shoot?’ said the pilot, looking at Jack.

  ‘He was the best sniper in Syria,’ Sam replied. ’I’ve seen him shoot the knife out of an executioner’s hand from two hundred yards.’

  There was silence in the cockpit except for the incessant bleeping from the master warning light as the two pilots considered their predicament.

  ‘Nuclear warhead?’ said the pilot. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Jack. ‘I saw it in Egypt. It were small enough to fit in a suitcase, but powerful enough to destroy a small village.’

  ‘Let’s do it, Captain,’ said the co-pilot.

  ‘Agreed. I’m going to fly beyond the mountain and circle back over the sea so we can approach the target from the west. I will be flying low with the setting sun behind me. That will blind the target and give you a clear shot. I’ll slow the plane so we are just above stalling speed, but we will still be flying over one hundred miles an hour and you will have less than half a second to take your shot.’

  ‘I should get three shots off,’ Jack replied.

  ‘Your kid brother’s a cocky bastard,’ said the pilot. ‘He’s going to be pummelled by one-hundred-mile-an-hour headwinds and frozen like an ice cube in that half-second.’

  ‘If Jack says he can take three shots, then it’ll be three shots.’

  ‘One hundred bucks says the kid won’t get a bullet within fifty yards of the terrorist.’

  ‘You’re on,’ Sam replied.

  ‘Okay, everyone back to their seats. We’re over the Greenland Sea now and I’m about to make the turn.’

  ‘I can guide you to the landing strip,’ said Crawford.

  ‘Right. Take Jim’s co-pilot seat while he puts a rope around young Jack. We don’t want him falling out of the aircraft mid-shot. Give me a moment to depressurise the cabin, before you open the door, Jim, and then take Mr Crawford’s seat at the back.’

  The co-pilot unbuckled himself from his seat ‘Yes, sir. No fancy aerobatics while I’m opening the door.’ The co-pilot grinned at his captain.

  ‘Good luck, gentlemen. I think we’re going to need it.’

  * * *

  The on-rush of freeing air and spray from the Citation’s open doorway was so intense, Jack took a step backward towards the warm interior of the plane. He double-checked the nylon rope that was tied around his waist and watched as the co-pilot finished securing the rope around the nearest seat leg with an additional hitch knot. He looked around the plane and saw the anxious faces of the passengers. His brother Sam winked at him and smiled confidently.

  ’Thirty seconds to target,’ came the pilot’s voice over the intercom.

  Jack stepped forward as far as his rope would allow. He stuck his head out of the doorway and was blasted in the face by the icy slipstream. He craned his head forward into the buffeting wind and searched the ground for signs of Rashid. The pilot was flying about one hundred metres above the ground and the massive iceberg that held back the billions of cubic kilometres of meltwater loomed above the little plane. As his vision blurred, he saw Rashid rushing towards a small conical object nestling at the base of the iceberg. Jack stepped back into the plane’s interior to clear his vision. His eyes were streaming and tears were freezing on his cheeks. Ice crystals matted in his blond locks. He blinked repeatedly to clear his vision and prepare himself to take his shot.

  ‘Ten seconds to target.’

  Jack chambered a round and pulled the wooden stock hard into his shoulder. He stepped back towards the open doorway. The wingtips of the Citation almost brushed the massive walls of the iceberg as it flew parallel to the enormous structure at over a hundred miles an hour.

  ‘Five seconds to target.’

  Jack looked down but saw no sign of Rashid as the ground flashed by in a blur. His rifle swayed and bucked in his arms as the slipstream tried to rip it from his arms. With supreme effort, he wrestled with the gun till it steadied into his shoulder. For a fraction of a second, Rashid filled the crosshairs of his rifle sights. He was huddled over the warhead and reaching for the detonator. Jack pulled the trigger but his bullet flew high and wide. He swivelled to his left and fired again.

  Another miss.

  Jack continued to swivel as the plane overshot Rashid. His vision blurred once more as the icy slipstream ripped at his eyes. Jack’s brain, which was incapable of reading human emotions or simple written text, adjusted for the speed and distance of the aircraft and the inaccuracy of his previous two bullets. Just as the bomber lunged for the detonator switch, Jack fired again at the spot where he calculated Rashid’s head would be, then stepped back into the interior of the aircraft, eyes closed, expecting to hear the blast of the exploding nuclear warhead.

  Instead, the Citation’s intercom burst into life.

  ‘Rear cameras confirm a clean headshot. The target has been neutralised. Commendable shooting, young man,’ said the captain.

  The co-pilot looked up from his seat near the open doorway and nodded at Jack in appreciation of his astonishing feat of marksmanship.

  Cantara unbuckled her seatbelt and rushed towards Jack, who was wiping his eyes trying to clear his blurred vision. His hair and face were frosted over and his hands were blue from the cold. She untied the rope at his waist and guided him to his seat.

  ‘You did it, Jack. I knew you could.’

  ‘D’you think Sam were proud of me shooting?’ he mumbled in Cantara’s ear. His teeth were chattering from the cold and he struggled to stand on his own.

  As if in confirmation, Sam looked up from his seat with a broad smile and winked at his brother.

  ‘He couldn’t be prouder of you, Jack.’ She fastened the buckles on his seatbelt and then kissed his freezing forehead before rushing back to her seat to brace for the crash-landing.

  CHAPTER 35

  ‘Okay, where’s the runway, Mr Crawford?’ the pilot asked.

  ‘Straight ahead of you,’ replied the big Dakotan, pointing to a rudimentary patch of ice and snow. It was clear of rocks, debris and other assorted dangers for a half a kilometre, but the ice beyond was covered with thick snow that could hide a multitude of lethal obstacles.

  ‘That’s a runway?’ said the captain in astonishment. ‘If you’re a religious man, then I would suggest you call in a favour, Mr Crawford.’

 
‘What’s that red light in the top corner of the instrument panel?’ Crawford asked.

  ‘It’s telling us we’re flying on nothing but aviation gas fumes, but with a bit of luck the fumes will last until we have applied the reverse thrusters.’ The captain leaned forward and pushed the button that lowered the landing gear. He exhaled with relief when the wheel assemblies locked into place. ‘That’s the first bit of luck we’ve had all day.’

  He switched on the intercom. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to land at the Upernavik rig airfield. I am anticipating a bumpy landing, so please assume the brace position.’

  ‘Bit of an understatement, wasn’t it?’ said Crawford.

  The captain smiled. ‘No point in causing unnecessary panic. Right. Here we go.’

  The plane plummeted towards the landing strip flying at just above stalling speed. As the wheels touched the snow and ice, the wing spoilers lowered and the captain applied full reverse thrust. He touched the brakes but the plane slewed on the ice and he fought to keep it in a straight line. Hundreds of metres of runway passed in a blur. The Citation decelerated but shot past the end of the runway at fifty miles an hour and ploughed through the snow, creating a mini blizzard. One of the wheels hit a rock and the port wing dipped, digging a furrow of snow and ice before the plane righted itself. The plane slewed to the left and headed towards an outcrop of snow-covered rocks. The captain jammed on the brakes but the Citation continued to race forward. At twenty miles an hour, the long nose of the Citation buried itself into the rocks with a sickening jolt and the plane shuddered to a halt.

  Crawford felt the five-point restraint system bite into his ribs as the impact knocked the breath from his chest. The sound of breaking glass and rending metal reverberated in his ears. His eyes had closed before the plane slammed into the rocks, but when he opened them, the rock face was ten centimetres from his face. Crawford wondered how he was going to extricate himself from the co-pilot’s seat.

  ‘For a moment, I thought we would be getting a tour of those rocks from the inside,’ Crawford said as he looked at the pilot. Crawford covered his mouth with his hand as a wave of nausea welled up from the pit of his stomach. A bulge in the rock face had pulverised the pilot’s head to sinew and bone. The left side of his body was missing while his severed right hand still clutched the Citation’s joystick.

  * * *

  Sam unclipped his seatbelt, stood up and walked towards the rear of the plane. The mid-section where Jack and Cantara were sitting was undamaged, but the tail section had almost split from the main fuselage. The World Today cameraman was slumped in his chair with his neck at an odd angle. He had been filming Jack’s shooting exploits and his camera was tilted on its side with its red record light still flashing. Charlotte Shaw and the co-pilot were surrounded by piles of debris and mangled wreckage but they both appeared unscathed. Sam turned and walked to the front of the plane, pulled open the curtain to the cockpit and gasped when he saw the remains of the pilot. Crawford was trapped in his seat and still staring open-mouthed at the mangled body next to him. The co-pilot looked at Sam from the back of the plane as if enquiring about the fate of his colleague. Sam shook his head and closed the curtain to obscure the view of the dead pilot.

  Jack and Cantara unstrapped themselves from their seats and went to help Shaw and the co-pilot.

  ‘I think I may have whiplash and Miss Shaw is complaining about her ankle, but we’ll live. Our first priority is to protect ourselves from the cold,’ said the co-pilot. ‘We took on board a load of Arctic clothing at Goose Bay airport. Sam, can you and your colleagues recover it from the storage unit in the tail cone?’

  ‘How do I get in?’

  ‘You can access it from the baggage door on the lower left-hand side of the tail cone.’

  Sam jumped out of the shattered Citation and was followed by Jack and Cantara. Daylight was fading and the biting cold numbed them to the bone. They wrestled with the removable exterior panels of the bent tail cone and then dragged the large carton of Arctic supplies back into the body of the plane. They handed the clothing around to the survivors and pulled out a large first aid kit from the storage cabinet. Cantara wrapped Charlotte Shaw’s ankle in a crepe bandage and made her as comfortable as possible.

  After a brief discussion they decided Sam, Cantara and Jack should head to the accommodation hut to see if they could radio for help while the co-pilot would remain behind with Shaw to help free Crawford.

  The accommodation hut was a kilometre from the makeshift runway and Sam’s small group trudged their way through the snow in the fading light. They had one torch between them but they brought both Heckler & Koch rifles and Jack’s PSL sniper rifle.

  ‘Do you even know how to use a battle rifle?’ Cantara asked Sam as she gripped his gloved hand.

  ‘I spent a couple of years in Ukraine. Over there it’s a rite of passage. What about you?’

  ‘Same. I had a cousin in Cairo who served in the army. We used to go shooting foxes in the desert with his assault rifle.’

  ‘Do you think Jamal is still here, Jack?’ Cantara asked.

  ‘Dunno. But I need to check the warhead. They might have activated a remote timer to the detonator as a back-up plan.’

  ‘Okay, but meet us back at the accommodation hut when you’re done,’ Sam said.

  Jack slipped off into the gathering gloom like a ghost in the night. In the distance, the sound of rumbling disturbed the quietness of the evening.

  ‘What was that?’ Cantara asked. She stopped in her tracks and turned to face Sam.

  ‘Probably the iceberg shifting position. It will be under massive pressure as the meltwater run-off builds up.’

  ‘How long will it be before it breaks up?’

  Sam pulled Cantara towards him. He put his arms around her waist and held her tightly. They were silent for a minute as they both contemplated their feelings for each other and their close brush with death. Sam pulled her head towards his chest and stroked her cheek with his gloved hand.

  ‘We haven’t experienced anything like this in recorded history, so it’s impossible to tell. Days, months. Who knows?’

  Cantara nestled her head on Sam’s chest. ‘Will it be as catastrophic as the scientists are making out?’

  ‘Probably. Such a large body of cold, fresh water flooding into the North Atlantic will disrupt the Gulf Stream, and the temperate zones of Northern Europe and America will enter a new ice age.’

  ‘So while North Europe and America enter a new ice age, the monsoonal rains will return to the Sahara region?’

  ‘Jamal would consider such an event to be God’s will. But it will take hundreds of years for that to happen and in the meantime, there will be floods, disease, war and poverty. Everyone will suffer.’

  ‘But if there were a mini ice age in the northern temperate zones, wouldn’t it refreeze the tundra?’ Cantara asked.

  ‘Whatever happens is out of our control now. We’re already past the tipping point.’

  Sam released Cantara from his grip and hoisted his rifle back onto his shoulder. He grasped her hand and they continued walking towards the accommodation hut.

  ‘If we could release controlled amounts of freezing meltwater run-off into the North Atlantic, we could create the right conditions to refreeze the tundra and close the sinkholes without creating a catastrophic ice age,’ Cantara insisted.

  ‘That could work in theory, but it would still result in years, if not decades of harsh, freezing winters.’

  ‘But that’s the point, Sam. Isn’t that better than choking to death on methane gas?’

  The sound of cracking ice exploded from the meltwater dam. Seconds later, they heard an avalanche of large blocks of ice calving into the lower fjord from the main iceberg.

  ‘Even if we had the means of releasing controlled volumes of meltwater from the dam, I don’t think there would be enough political will to agree to a succession of freezing winters, no matter how temporary.’

  �
��But we do have the means, Sam.’ She pointed towards the Upernavik rig that loomed overhead.

  ‘We can’t drill a hole in the side of the mountain!’ Sam said, appalled at the prospect of initiating the biggest flood since biblical times.

  ‘It’s a fracking rig, Sam. It’s been done in hundreds of sites around the world. We can create a channel to direct the flow of water out towards the ocean and ease the pressure on the iceberg. If the flow gets too much, we can reseal the pipes.’

  ‘But that would take weeks.’

  ‘Perhaps. But it depends where the existing pipeline is located. It may be a question of completing what’s already there.’

  ‘It’s worth considering,’ Sam conceded. ‘We can’t just wait for the ice dam to burst. In the meantime, we have to find a satellite phone or radio to get word out we’re here.’

  The wooden accommodation hut loomed in the distance. Sam turned off his torch and unslung his rifle from his shoulder. Cantara did the same and chambered a round. Three minutes later they arrived at the hut, about the size of a large suburban bungalow. They avoided the main door and headed for one of the smashed windows Sam had seen from the air. Sam reached in and unlocked the latch before handing his rifle to Cantara and hauling himself in through the open window. Pots, pans and broken crockery littered the floor, showing evidence of a struggle. Cantara passed the rifles to Sam through the window and then hoisted herself in before allowing Sam to lift her down into the kitchen.

  Sam eased open the kitchen door and peered into the main living area. Empty beer cans were strewn across the floor and open DVD cases lay scattered in front of an entertainment unit.

  In the centre of the room a portable video camera stood on a tripod facing a blank wall. Next to the tripod was a small coffee table on which a sat a machete-style knife, which Sam recognised as a Kizlyar Alligator. The wicked eleven-inch blade had a square chiselled edge for levering door jams or shovelling dirt, but it was also lethal on human flesh. Next to the knife was a black ski mask and a pair of black leather gloves. Cantara seized the machete and tucked it into her belt.