Sienna pulled out an old pottery gourd half-buried in the red Ugandan soil and cleaned it out with an old rag. She placed it in the centre of the rocky overhang and half-filled it with dried grass. She picked up a brick of dried elephant dung from the corner of the overhang and broke it into several pieces before adding it to the gourd. Sienna leaned down and lit the grass using a candle, then she blew on the smouldering grass kindling until the dung caught alight and an odourless fire burned in the gourd. Grasping her leather pouch, Sienna scooped out a substance she had prepared in the temple prior to her long trek south. She chanted in the ancient Egyptian language to summon the vengeful goddess Sekhmet for the last time. After several minutes, the smoke in the gourd turned inky black and the air fizzed with static electricity. Outside the rocky overhang, the rain beat down in torrents as lightning flashed and thunder roared like an outraged war god. The candle flickered and died while the fire’s shadow cast an ethereal but feminine shape on the wall of the overhang. The shadow expanded like spilt ink and loomed over Sienna. She closed her eyes and a strange feline odour filled the grotto. Sienna imagined she heard the rasping of a long steel sword being unsheathed from its scabbard and the deep throaty growl of the once-mighty goddess. She sensed her bitter resentment against humanity for its final act of abandonment. Sienna threw the chemical compound into the fire and the shadow was extinguished by a blinding light that illuminated the space under the rocky overhang. A long tongue of white-hot flame shot out of the gourd and up towards the dark sky like a bolt of lightning. Sienna collapsed onto the dried grass bed as the spiritual energy, which had taken root within her soul like a parasite, was exorcised. But Sienna knew so much hostile energy was too powerful to be destroyed – it was only a matter of time before it found a deserving victim on which to vent its fury.
* * *
Ninety-three million miles away, an explosion of unimaginable proportions ripped a hole in the magnetic canopy of the sun, causing a spot visible from earth. A white-hot arc of plasma eighteen million degrees centigrade and one hundred and twenty times the diameter of earth spewed from the sun. The arc danced, flashed and stretched millions of kilometres into space. Minutes later, the enormous solar superflare detached itself from the sun. The coronal mass ejection, composed of charged particles and radiation hurtled towards earth, intent on destroying every living organism in its path.
* * *
The Fairmont Hotel McDonald, Edmonton, Canada
Curtis Silverwood studied the sea of concerned faces at The Brandenburg Group’s extraordinary general meeting.
‘I’m sorry to call you here to Edmonton at such short notice,’ he said, ‘but I believe it’s appropriate for you to experience the seriousness of the situation first hand. We are faced with the twin perils of catastrophic flooding from the Upernavik Icefjord and asphyxiation by methane gas; we must prepare to activate our business continuity plan with immediate effect.’
Silverwood took a question from the floor.
‘Yes, Mr Lansbury,’ he replied, ‘the smell of rotten eggs is in fact methane emanating from the tundra. Edmonton is Canada’s northernmost provincial capital and close to the methane sinkholes. I know many of you still believe the events taking place around you are part of an elaborate Chinese hoax, so please accept this hotel setting as a wake-up call. Now it is my pleasure to introduce our new chairman, Doktor Van der Schaft, chief executive officer of the Munich Motor Corporation.’
Polite applause rippled through the hotel conference room as the respected German industrialist sprang up the steps to the stage. His calm presence and impeccable reputation for excellence reassured the people in the room. He acknowledged the applause of the assembled dignitaries and called the meeting to order. Three leather chairs and a small table dominated the stage. Doktor Van der Schaft and Curtis Silverwood sat in two of the chairs. The chair to Van der Schaft’s left was empty. Van der Schaft took a glass of water from the small table and had several large swallows before standing to address the group.
‘Eminent colleagues, ladies and gentlemen,’ Van der Schaft began. ‘As my esteemed colleague Mr Silverwood has informed you, we are facing an existential threat to the future of mankind. Our business continuity plan allows for several possible courses of action, including the evacuation of The Brandenburg Group to our sanctuary in the Amazon Jungle. But as you know, our colleague Sam Jardine and a team of Daingerfield engineers have been engaged in a complex attempt to relieve the pressure on the ice dam at the Upernavik Icefjord. He has flown from Nuuk airport this morning and will be providing us with an exclusive update shortly.’
As if on cue, the door at the end of the Grand Ballroom swung open and Sam Jardine walked in trailing his wheeled cabin bag. He spotted an empty seat near the back of the room and tried to sneak in without disturbing the delegates.
‘Ah, Mr Jardine. So nice of you to join us,’ said Van der Schaft, speaking through his stage microphone. A burst of ear-piercing feedback blasted the assembled audience. Eighty heads turned to look at Sam.
‘We were just talking about you,’ said Van der Schaft. ‘Would you mind joining us on stage?’
Sam removed his jacket and threw it over the back of the empty chair, causing it to overbalance and clatter at the feet of the secretary general of the European Council. She bent down and rubbed her ankle.
‘Um, I don’t seem to have my notes,’ Sam said, rifling through his cabin bag.
‘You won’t need your notes,’ boomed Van der Schaft over the microphone.
Sam walked along the main aisle towards the stage. He was sweating after rushing from the airport and his nerves were getting the better of him.
‘I understand you have returned from Greenland after three months at the Icefjord. Would you mind updating us on the catastrophic situation there? How long do we have before the ice plug is breached?’
Sam stepped onto the dais and spoke into the microphone. ‘The Daingerfield engineers have completed drilling a fourth relief valve and there are signs the dam is stabilising. The build-up of pressure from the mass of water has eased with the release of some twenty billion tons of meltwater since the stabilisation work began. There is still a remote possibility the ice plug may not survive the summer, but on balance it appears we will escape a cataclysmic mega-flood event this year.’
Van der Schaft looked astonished. ‘You mean our lives are not in immediate peril from a catastrophic flood?’
‘As I said, there is still the remote possibility that—’
The Grand Ballroom erupted into a sea of noise as relieved dignitaries congratulated themselves on their survival. Van der Schaft raised his hand and the room fell silent.
‘Has this news been shared with any other organisation?’
‘The Brandenburg Group is the first to get a full briefing.’
Van der Schaft nodded in appreciation. ‘And do you have any news on the methane leaks?’
‘My colleague Cantara Sharif has just returned from a climatologists and oceanographers briefing in New York. They have been studying the effect of the controlled release of the meltwater into the North Atlantic. They have confirmed the Thermohaline Circulation has weakened, but there is no danger of a complete collapse of the world’s currents unless the ice plug is breached in the next three months.’
‘That at least is reassuring. But I understand we may face a calamitous period of cold weather in the northern climes of the Atlantic region,’ Van der Schaft said.
‘As I was saying, the Thermohaline Circulation has slowed and the North Atlantic drift of the Gulf Stream has been pushed southwards by thirty miles. This may not sound like much, but it will result in a significant drop in temperatures in both North America and Northern Europe.’
Eric Lansbury, a London property developer, put up his hand again. ‘Can you guarantee your actions will not impact the economy of Great Britain?’
‘There will be some impact,’ Sam replied. ‘But the good news is we have created an enormous thermos
tat that can regulate the temperature of the northern hemisphere by controlling the release of water from the ice dam. But we can only do this for the couple of years until the Greenland meltwater drains completely or refreezes. The intention is to create two or three Arctic winters in a row that will reverse the melting of the permafrost and close the sinkholes. Luckily, methane dissipates from the atmosphere within two years so the environmental damage will not be permanent.’
‘I understand you did not seek prior approval for this course of action from The Brandenburg Group,’ Lansbury persisted. ‘Will you be compensating my business for any loss of profit caused by this adverse weather?’
Sam’s patience was at breaking point. He had not slept for days and he was feeling hot and bothered. ‘Listen, asshole,’ he glared at Lansbury, ‘the only compensation you will get is the knowledge I’m too exhausted to kick your butt out of this hotel.’
Sam gathered his composure and looked at the members of The Brandenburg Group. Most were avoiding his gaze and a few were texting on their mobile phones.
‘Quite,’ Silverwood said to Lansbury, trying to calm things. ‘Perhaps it would be appropriate to show Mr Jardine a little more appreciation.’
Sam watched as the chairman of the McAlister Brothers Investment Bank snuck out of the room while barking instructions into his mobile phone. Sam assumed Sir Joshua Delaney was instructing the bank’s traders to reverse the short positions the bank had taken on the fossil fuel industry’s stock price.
‘However, Mr Lansbury does have a point,’ said Van der Schaft. ‘The economic damage your unilateral decision to inflict a mini ice age on the powerhouse economies of Europe and America will be incalculable.’
Sam rounded on Van der Schaft. ‘Then perhaps you could justify the economic damage caused by your own motor industry when it faked its diesel emission results rather than investing in less polluting technology.’
An obese man at the back of the room stood up. It was Clint Cobb, the president of the American Fossil Fuels Alliance Super PAC. ‘Mr Jardine! Your recent campaign to reduce carbon emissions in the power-generating industry has done untold harm to my members. And your employer, Daingerfield Oil, still has not paid its advance on my fees for promoting your amendment to the Make America Prosperous bill. When are you going to pay my invoice?’
Sam tried one more time to convince the group of their folly. ‘Do you not realise how close the world came to unmitigated disaster? Unless we reduce carbon emissions now, the planet will be in exactly the same situation in two years’ time.’
‘Sam, Sam, Sam. Enough!’ Van der Schaft said, shaking his head. He stood and walked towards the microphone. A strong smell of cologne hit Sam as he walked by. It was identical to the fragrance in the stone jar in Temple of Sekhmet. ‘You didn’t think we invited you onto the stage to insult the most powerful people in the world, did you? You disappoint me. When I was told you might have cracked the Sapientus code, you almost had me convinced. I thought you had the potential to become one of the great and the good.’ He waved a dismissive hand towards Sam for the benefit of the audience.
‘But I now realise you are like every other pathetic liberal, destined for a life of mediocrity and a pathological envy of their elders and betters. You see, the people in this room didn’t get where they are by playing by the rules. To hold onto the reins of power, generation after generation, requires a streak of ruthlessness people like you do not possess.’
Sam stared at Van der Schaft and imagined him as a young priest in the Temple of Sekhmet taking advantage of a frightened twelve-year-old girl. He felt loathing and disgust well up from the pit of his stomach.
‘You might cloak yourself in a veneer of respectability, Van der Schaft, but you will always carry a black stain in your heart. You’ll never achieve the fame, wisdom or wealth of Sapientus, your illustrious predecessor.’
At that moment, the chairman of McAlister Brothers, Sir Joshua Delaney, re-entered the ballroom. He walked up the steps to the stage and whispered in Van der Schaft’s ear.
Van der Schaft turned to Sam and a sneer spread across his face. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Jardine. So wrong. At my suggestion, the good people in this room have invested fifty billion dollars into a new fund called the Zero Emissions Technology Fund run by the McAlister Brothers Investment Bank. Its purpose is to corner the fossil fuel market while prices are at rock bottom, thanks to the methane crisis. We intend to turn the tide of the debate back in favour of fossil fuels. Can you imagine how much the price of oil, gas and coal will rise as they become scarcer over the next few decades?’
‘This is lunacy,’ Sam said. ‘Coal is already in decline. New technologies are eroding its traditional market at an exponential rate. Oil will follow soon after.’
‘You forget, Sam, the people in this room control most of the government decisions around the world and can obstruct rational debate on clean energy policy for decades to come.’
Sam looked at Silverwood for support. ‘Why don’t you stop this? You can put your political influence and wealth towards clean energy technology. It will be worth billions more in years to come.’
‘I used to be an idealist just like you when I was your age,’ Silverwood replied, shrugging his shoulders, ‘but as you get older you learn to temper your moral standards and live to fight another day. It helps ease the pain if there is a fortune to be made. I suggest you follow my example, Sam.’
The chairman of McAlister Brothers pointed a remote control towards a computer in the corner of the Grand Ballroom. A large white screen descended from the ceiling behind Sam. A projector concealed in the ceiling swivelled on its axis and projected a PowerPoint image on the screen. Sir Joshua buttoned his jacket and turned to face his illustrious audience.
‘Since receiving confirmation from our friend Mr Jardine that the methane crisis is over, I have confirmed with Wall Street we are proceeding with the float of our Zero Emissions Technology Fund at ten o’clock this morning.’ He looked at his watch. ‘That’s in five minutes’ time.’ Sir Joshua strutted across the stage as he spoke in his old Etonian accent. ‘As Doktor Van der Schaft has stated, the members of The Brandenburg Group have contributed fifty billion dollars of seed capital at fifty dollars a share.’
He held up a copy of the fund’s prospectus. ‘The prospectus has been prepared by our colleagues at Shaughnessy & Associates and makes rather fanciful claims about our carbon capture technology. However, one billion dollars has been earmarked for aggressive legal action against any group or individual that might challenge our numbers. Yes?’ Sir Joshua took a question from the floor.
‘We are predicting the fund’s stock price will double in the first hour, allowing us to make a takeover bid for those coalmining companies we do not already own,’ he replied. ‘Within a week, we should have made enough profit to acquire Sam Jardine’s employers, Daingerfield Oil. Our ambition is to have the oil and gas industry sewn up within twelve months. Once that happens, we will be able to increase producer prices by at least twenty per cent per year.’
A series of graphs flashed on the screen showing exponential growth trajectories for the Zero Emissions Technology Fund. The audience broke into spontaneous applause and a few shouts of ‘bravo’ resounded around the room.
Sir Joshua raised his hands to quieten the audience. ‘Doktor Van der Schaft has asked The Brandenburg Group to consider making a generous grant of two million shares available to Mr Jardine if he signs over his allocation of Sirius shares to Doktor Van der Schaft before the launch of the fund.’ He produced a legal document and showed it to the audience. ‘This generous offer will be withdrawn in two minutes once the New York Stock Exchange opens.’
A groundswell of grumbling rose from the audience.
Van der Schaft stepped forward. ‘I know some of you have been disturbed by Mr Jardine’s lack of respect and his obnoxious comments about the fossil fuel industry,’ he said, ‘but we have to admit he is a resourceful man. We believe he ma
y even have gained useful insights from the Sapientus manuscript despite his protestations to the contrary. Such revelations into the mind of one of the most gifted soothsayers in history would be most... useful to my future leadership strategies.’
‘Thank you, Doktor Van der Schaft,’ said Sir Joshua. ‘All those in favour, please raise your right hand and say aye.’
A majority raised their hands. Van der Schaft smiled as Sir Joshua handed Sam the contract.
‘Welcome to The Brandenburg Group, Sam,’ said Van der Schaft in hushed tones. ‘You have less than a minute before the market opens. I would suggest you sign quickly. There are many in the room who would prefer we arrange your arrest for the murder of Chuck Crawford and his vicious security gang. Do not doubt the capability of The Brandenburg Group to destroy your life should we choose to do so.’ Van der Schaft handed Sam his gold Mont Blanc fountain pen and removed the lid. ‘Quickly, Sam.’
Sam stared at the contract. Van der Schaft’s offer was worth one hundred million dollars for his share in a solar-powered vehicle that had not yet proven its financial viability. Even more tempting was the opportunity to join the world’s most powerful group of men and women whose ancestors had controlled world events for four centuries. Sam’s life had been a struggle against the odds and a series of financial mishaps that had left him beholden to mediocre and morally bankrupt individuals throughout his career. At the stroke of a pen he could change his life forever.
The Last Oracle: A Climate Fiction Thriller (Sam Jardine Crime Thrillers Book 3) Page 29