by John Hunt
Petur’s rented Chevy crept along the parkway. By sliding his front bumper ever closer to the car in front, he tried in his mind to push the cars ahead as much as he could, of course to no avail. Although he had refrained blasting his horn because of the futility of the act, his frustration was now peaked and he jabbed his index finger into the little button on the steering wheel. From under the hood came a faint little beep, insufficient to relieve his tension, or even be noticed by the rubbernecking drivers ahead. He sighed, and let his mind wander toward the imposing task that awaited him.
There was no doubt that he was completely prepared. Every predictable pitfall had been postulated and hypothetically addressed. Nonetheless, it was an enormous gamble for anyone to take. The wealthy individuals whose support he required had to be a special and very rare breed: concerned citizens with impressive foresight, out of the box. Not self-sacrificing, but self-preserving. Desirous of creating value. It was this special breed that was so hard to come by. Others whom he had approached were hospitable and encouraging, but they were philanthropists. Peter didn’t need money given for a cause. He needed it invested, by experienced and bold individuals willing to take risks in order to avoid other risks. And these individuals needed to be wise enough to be scared, too.
He came alongside the worn-out red pickup, steam spilling out from under its hood. It was a hot summer day, upward of 39 degrees Celsius, as hot as human body temperature with a fever, and overheated vehicles were commonplace. Petur was very glad for the air conditioner in his car, which he had set for maximum. Before coming to the United States, he had never even conceived of using a car air conditioner to cool a vehicle. Automobiles in his native Iceland possessed them for the purpose of drying the moist air before it froze on the inside of the windshield, not for cooling the already chilled temperatures. Today, however, he could not imagine what this drive would be like without it.
The pace of traffic was speeding up considerably now that he had passed the breakdown, and his spirits began to lift. He drove under the access roads to Key Bridge, which led into Georgetown and continued on past the Iwo Jima monument and Memorial Bridge, with the top of the Lincoln Memorial just visible on the other side of the river to his left. He passed the reconstructed Pentagon on his right — a place to which he had been just about to turn for his needed support. Thank God he had postponed doing that. One of his hopes was to be able to keep government bodies from becoming involved. There really was no place for any government interests, and it would be a shame, and outright disingenuous, to have to fall back on them.
The access road to Reagan National Airport appeared and reminded him of his hectic and frustrating morning. He had been awakened from a sound sleep at 6:30, California time, by the unpleasant ring of the phone. He had cautiously said, “Hello,” having had a fleeting thought that this call might relay bad news.
Petur had gradually come to a full state of alertness during the excited bantering of his friend and advisor. “We got a nibble,” Isaac had said, “and this one will sign on. Actually, there are two nibbles, entirely unrelated, and they’re both gonna buy in!” He had continued without waiting for a response. “Here’s the deal though. They’re both on the East Coast. One guy is in Boston — It’s Thomas Standall, the guy who runs IntensiMed. Their stock has been flying through the roof lately. He called this morning; said he’d heard about our plan and wants to know more. Problem is, he’s leaving for Europe tomorrow A.M. — won’t be back for a month.” Isaac had paused for a breath and Petur had taken the opportunity to interrupt.
“Hold on! I’m just waking up here. You said IntensiMed? How did Standall hear about us?”
“He mentioned something about hearing it from a friend while playing racquetball. I don’t know who though. But it’s not like you haven’t been making the rounds. Word was bound to get out. You’ve talked to half the rich hot shots in the country already.”
“Yeah, but none of them called us! It sounds hopeful. What did he say?”
Isaac had laughed and said, “He said he’s got loads of money, considers it all at terrible risk, and would just as soon incinerate it for our cause than have it swallowed whole by Uncle Sam.”
“So it sounds like I’ve got to get out there.”
“Forget it. You’ll never make it. It’s already 9:30 here in Boston, and you have to go to Washington first.”
“Washington?” Petur had queried. “Oh, the second nibble. What’s this other thing you’ve lined up for me?”
“Actually it’s Alexandria, Virginia. Joseph Onbacher. He’s a friend from years ago. Got a lot of family money. I had talked to him several weeks ago, and of course the Island came up. He didn’t seem interested then. But he called this morning and wanted to know more. I guess I got him thinking. I was so excited that I told him I would have you standing on his doorstep by two o’clock this afternoon. That was before I got the call from Standall. Standall said he would see you today, but that’s not going to happen. You’ve got to do Onbacher first. You’ll have to follow Standall to wherever he’s going. I’ll check it out.”
Petur had sat up on the edge of his bed, and then headed toward the bathroom. “Isaac, can you present the case to Standall? No. Scratch that. Tell me where he’s going, and I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you back in a little while. You’re in your office I presume?”
Isaac had responded, “Where else would I be at 9:30 on a weekday? I am a professor, you know.” And then he had hung up.
Petur’s mind returned to the present, and to the business at hand, plotting the Chevy’s course through the streets of Alexandria, Virginia. The printed copies of the MapQuest directions had filled in for when the rental car company’s dysfunctional GPS all too frequently lied to him. It was exactly 6:00 P.M. when he squeezed the little Chevy into the tiny available space on the side of the narrow brick road. It had been the only space for blocks, and the presence of the red fire hydrant, which would usually inhibit him, did not even phase him. He was four hours late for his meeting. He might even be interrupting the man’s dinner.
As he opened the car door, he fully expected a blast of oppressive hot air to assault him, as had occurred when he came out of the BWI air terminal earlier in the afternoon. He was pleasantly surprised that this did not occur. A car drove slowly past him, a dark-haired man looking at him for a moment from the passenger seat.
Walking through Alexandria on a summer evening can calm even the most anxious of people. The two-hundred-year-old red-brick houses that line the narrow streets were in impeccable condition. They breathed history. It was natural to imagine horses and carriages traveling down the rough cracked pavement of the streets. Even the noise of passing automobiles supplemented the sensation, for the rubber tires created a sound similar to wooden wagon wheels as they drove over the cobblestone sections interspersed with the more modern pavements. The lack of repair of the roadways seemed intentional and served to keep the traffic slower. In the heat of rush hour, it was quiet here, with the gentle breeze rising off the Potomac just a few blocks away evidently responsible for the relative coolness.
By the time Petur turned the corner and approached the front door of Joseph Onbacher’s house, he was actually feeling serene. He was not nervous about his impending presentation. He was thoroughly practiced now. Onbacher had seemed pleasant enough on the phone when Petur had called to inform him of his inability to arrive by 2:00, but he had not predicted being quite this late. He hoped that Onbacher was not going to feel too put out.
There was a golden, anchor-shaped knocker on the solid red wooden door of an otherwise nondescript home tucked between several similarly designed houses. Although near the main street through town, there was little evidence of it. Only faint traffic noise reached here. Petur was impressed that Onbacher, who reportedly controlled a vast financial network, would live in anything less than a grand maison on the bank of the river. There was nothing modest or cheap about any of the houses in this part of Alexandria, but they c
ertainly did not stand out as being palaces of the wealthy.
Onbacher himself answered the knocker, with a jovial round face and infectious smile that immediately alleviated any concerns Petur had about his reception so late past his appointed time.
“Mr. Bjarnasson, I presume. Very glad to make your acquaintance. Come in, come in, come in, my boy. My apologies for our less-than-hospitable traffic patterns. I hope it was not too uncomfortable for you. I bet you could use a drink.”
Petur was guided through an impressive entrance foyer. The narrow street frontage of the house had given the appearance that the residence was small, but he could see now that that was an illusion. As they crossed a meticulous Chinese silk rug, Petur had a glimpse down a long corridor. It must have gone back half the length of a football field. They entered a parlor style room and Onbacher motioned him to sit.
“What’s your fancy, my boy?” waving his hand haphazardly toward one of the most well-appointed bars Petur had ever seen.
“A beer, if you don’t mind.”
“Ah, a man of my heart. I’ll join you in that.” He handed Petur a chilled pewter mug, popped open a recent creation of a local microbrewery and poured carefully to avoid an unnecessary head. “I’ll let you sit and enjoy, and we’ll get down to business in a few minutes. You need to wind down after fighting the miserable traffic. But then, you have a story to tell me, and I may have one to tell you.”
Petur took a long sip from the mug, the frosted pewter conveying the sensation that the beer was colder than it actually was. Some people like their dark beers warm, but not Petur. The colder the better. He looked around the well-groomed parlor, and quickly noticed a central theme. Everything was nautical. In the west corner, by the bar, was a carefully sculptured model of a wooden sailing ship with all canvases flying. It was encased in a glass and wooden display box with an engraved brass plaque, which was indecipherable from this distance. Behind the model hung a varnished wooden ship’s wheel, occupying most of the wall space. To the right of the bar was a display case full of brass appliances including ship’s lamps, polished winches, cleats, blocks, and other miscellaneous hardware. There were several other ship models on various tables in the corners, and over a dozen half models hanging high on the walls. The entire wall to his right was one bookcase, filled with leather-bound volumes stuffed in every available nook.
“That bookcase contains many of my favorite treasures,” Onbacher offered. “Those are the logs of vessels registered from just about every maritime country in the world. I have read every one, or translations of them, at least.
“How old are they?” asked Petur.
“From various eras. And in various languages. One of the oldest is one of Captain Cook’s logbooks of his journey during his second Pacific voyage from 1772 to 1775. Another is a binder of some of Alexander Smith’s early writings about his days on Pitcairn’s Island after the mutiny aboard the Bounty in 1789. I just got hold of those last week. Most exciting. And I have some of Nelson’s logs, some from civil war ships employed in the Union blockade, two from German U-boats, including from the boat that sank the Lusitania.”
“Pitcairn’s Island is a British colony, isn’t it?” He experienced a rising feeling of unease. That island was very close to the Paradise chain. Isaac had been talking too much.
“You know full well it is, young man,” chided Onbacher. “Don’t worry. Isaac and I are as close as brothers — he let it slip only to me. It is, in point of fact, what made me decide to meet with you.”
“How’s that?” requested Petur.
Joseph Onbacher pulled a well-worn pipe out of the breast pocket of his vest. He used his index finger and thumb to pull some tobacco out of a pouch on the table next to him and began loading the bowl. He seemed lost in thought for a time.
“Why don’t you tell me about your proposal. Isaac said I should hear it from you.”
The change in subject did not go unnoticed, but Petur accepted it and moved on. He took a long sip from his beer, and put it down on a coaster atop the table in front of him. The table was constructed from a wooden door that had clearly been an integral part of an old wooden vessel. At one end was a porthole surrounded by a wrought iron rim. There was no visible finish on it, just a grooved and beaten surface that had seen too much of the elements. He placed his soft leather briefcase on the porthole and removed his laptop computer. After a moment, Petur typed a few characters and turned the screen toward Onbacher.
“I am not sure what all you have heard from Isaac, so I would like to start from the beginning.”
“I like beginnings,” laughed the older man. “It makes me feel less behind.”
“Well, then, the beginning.” Petur pressed a button on his computer to bring up the first of the long series of charts and mathematical calculations that followed. “What I am about to show you is a sequence of events that began approximately one hundred years ago — events that, in less than a decade, will profoundly change the world as we know it. It now appears unavoidable, in fact, that much of the human population will be devastated, and that the cultural and scientific advances of the past will be obliterated. This century will see the end of the Renaissance and the modern age, and a return to Dark Ages.”
Onbacher did not interrupt. He let Petur continue a meticulous presentation. Diagrams and charts followed, each one individually presenting a troublesome issue, and the whole adding up to a powerful case in support of Petur’s initial shocking contention. Only when Petur closed the top of his laptop computer, after more than twenty-five minutes had passed, did Onbacher ask any questions.
The older man’s forehead was creased. “This is a thoroughly frightening scenario that you present. I see no flaws in your logic, and can therefore only hope that the data underlying your thinking are somehow inaccurate.” He asked, expectantly, “How confident are you that this is so inevitable a course?”
“I ask you to tell me. There are no flaws in my logic. There are no spontaneous solutions on the horizon. The momentum is unstoppably strong. The speed of the decline is the only issue uncertain. Tomorrow? Five years? Gradual decay? Sudden collapse?”
“How come this has not been made public knowledge?”
“Efforts have been made. People have been trying to raise the warnings. Whatever those forces are that maintain the momentum are too subtle, too powerful. The events I have delineated were set into motion long ago, and are inexorable. The human race, as a group, does not have the ability to recognize and accept the logical arguments that I have just presented to you, even in America, where the soil is most fertile. You see, it has already gone too far.”
Onbacher sat silently for more than a minute. “But you believe that you can stop it?”
“Perhaps. I have to try.”
“Obviously no government will help.”
“Obviously.”
Onbacher nodded. “And people spend time worrying about global warming and the ozone layer! My God, Mr. Bjarnasson, we have gone so far down the wrong path.”
Petur shook his head. “It has been creeping up on us slowly. But now, it is exponentially accelerating. There is hope, Mr. Onbacher. There is hope, because you have noticed.” Petur paused, and then added, “But, sir, I assume you noticed long ago.”
Onbacher did not acknowledge the statement, rubbed the back of his neck, in a motion that appeared pensive.
Petur continued. “There is no way to truly predict the technological advances of the future. We can optimistically assume that we will continue, for a time, to have huge advances. But how much waste of human intellect has already occurred? How much malinvestment of human resources, of lives? We got tricked. We got manipulated. As a result, we got behind. The forces of fraud have won their short-lived victory that destroys us all. The end of the scheme is inevitable. And now, with the momentum of evil that I have presented to you, there remains little hope for us.”
Petur continued into the silence, “In any event, the advances have to be made in the
right places, with a view to dealing with the problems at hand. And that is not happening. Actions must be taken. Actions that require brilliance, funding, and luck.”
“And if no one acts?”
“Well, sir, what follows will be poverty, famine, wars, transient socialization attempts that will fail, rebellion, and then anarchy followed by tyranny. The four horsemen of the apocalypse, plus some spares. It will occur worldwide. The United States, strong as it is, may succumb first, or it may succumb last. But it will succumb. Institutions will falter, governments will be consumed, economies will die, cultures will be decimated. Don’t forget, it has only been six hundred years since the last dark ages. Why should we presume that they cannot return?”
Petur was not here to just pass on the warnings of others. He was here to be the someone who acted. He had a plan. It was this plan that he now carefully delineated for Joseph Onbacher. It was radical. It was enormous. It was even grandiose. But as Petur spoke, Onbacher became progressively more enthusiastic and inquisitive. He added suggestions, raised the specter of potential pitfalls, and then proposed solutions.
Petur had not received this kind of enthusiastic response in his previous contacts with potential financiers. Onbacher was engrossed as Petur continued to unfold his plan. The old fellow’s pipe had gone out long before, and there had been no effort to rekindle it — he just kept sucking on the stalk.
The gentleman’s keen interest and frequent excited interruptions infected Petur with a sense of renewal. He did not notice the time slipping away. When the old ship’s clock on the wall tolled two bells, indicating the time was 9 P.M., he suddenly awoke to the fact that he had yet to hear from Isaac about where he was supposed to go in Europe the next day.
“Sir, would you mind if I take a moment to call Isaac?”
Onbacher smiled and said, “I would very much prefer that you call me Joseph. Please say hello to that womanizer for me.”