by John Hunt
Petur waited a moment for the notion to settle in. Most of the audience knew what this meant: unlimited power, without pollution. It was a fundamental advance that would greatly improve mankind’s chance of surviving the next millennium.
Petur continued. “Below us, a particle accelerator is speeding atoms rapidly into the path of a laser. The fuel is water. The physics I will leave to my sister to explain, but the important point is that there is a great deal of energy being created. Some is used to run the accelerator. Some is used by the laser. The remaining energy has been converted into alternating current and is channeled up to this hall, where it is powering this small light bulb.”
Again Petur was silent. The impression of the world’s first nuclear fusion generator only supplying power for a tiny light he let sink in for a time. Then he moved to the podium and found a switch.
“It powers the small lamp,” he said as he flicked the switch, filling the great hall with a brilliant dazzling white light. “And the rest of the lights in here as well. In fact, right now, as I speak, much of this building is being powered by fusion. Ladies and gentlemen, we have harnessed nuclear fusion, once and for all. In decades past, mankind has unleashed that energy’s ferocious temper in massive thermonuclear maelstroms. We have tamed that energy and put its leash on.” He paused, and then smiled.
In the stunningly bright auditorium — filled with light generated by the fusing of atomic nuclei in the lab below — the people applauded. Everyone applauded. They stood up and cheered. The reporters stopped scribbling notes and joined in the applause. The people’s energy was palpable. Petur stood still at the front of the hall. And after a long time, the hubbub settled. The people took their seats again.
“And now…. I promised some bad news too. The Island Project has been an undeniable success in its endeavors to help preserve mankind and our children’s future. We are the vanguard of the battle against those who have used force and fraud to control the world and steal its wealth. But those enemies of integrity aren’t sitting by idly. We are now under threat. As you know a new government was recently elected by popular vote in Mexico. This new Mexican government has informed us that they are reneging on their end of our lease of these islands. They want them back.”
An uproar ensued. Some people were castigating Mexico, others swore without any object, still others shook their head in dismay. Petur led the crowd to settle down gradually.
“This is a clear breach of our agreement, and yet there is no one to enforce the lease contract. Therefore, we have no recourse to a legal system.”
The voices of the audience began to rise in a crescendo of distress again, and Petur quelled it as well as he could.
“I am afraid that it only gets worse, my friends. The new president of Mexico is sending an envoy here this week. We are expecting to be notified that they are nationalizing us. Although I am sure that the new Mexican regime wants to keep us all around to work for them, I don’t think that’s what we are all about. None of us are here to help a government obtain more power.” Nervous laughter echoed around the auditorium. “We are not sure what their position will be precisely, but they may attempt to prevent us from leaving. One thing is certain. We aren’t going to give them a chance to benefit from this any more than we have to.”
More voices were raised in the hall, and people shouted questions that Petur could not make out. He waved his hands to calm people, more successfully this time.
“The Council has arrived at a recommendation which is important for you all to hear. We believe that we should temporarily close up shop and leave the Islands for a time. This is to ensure the safety of our families.”
Several news reporters had worked their way to the front, and pushed aside the young children seated there. One of the reporters got close enough for Petur to hear him over the commotion. He shouted, “Are you saying that they might strike the island with military force?”
Petur spoke firmly into the microphone. “They may use their military against us if we do not abide by their wishes. Indeed, Mexico’s most powerful naval warship is steaming towards us as we speak.”
“So, what are we to do?” someone cried.
“You all should evacuate the island. We have a plan worked out whereby all will be taken to safety in the United States, and from there can travel to their destinations of choice. You can read all about it and choose your departure times via the island intranet. Everyone should plan on leaving the island in the next two days.”
“Is this the end of the Project?” another voice called out.
“No!” Petur was emphatic. “This Island Project will continue. I fully expect to resolve the situation in short order. I am confident we can reach an agreement with the new Mexican government. However, there are several reasons why we must evacuate the island at this time, the most important of which is that we must ensure the safety of our families. I predict that you will all be back in a month, and the resort will be able to reopen then as well. The ongoing experiments can be temporarily mothballed, or shipped with each scientist as she sees fit.” He took a breath. “And remember, the Island Project is not a place. It’s an ideal that you all share. The Island Project cannot end as long as freedom exists somewhere on the planet.”
Isaac Bonhoff stepped to the microphone. Gradually, the people calmed down again. “The Council has released detailed information with all the answers to your questions. If we did not anticipate some of those questions, you will be able to ask them in the discussion groups. It is time to go home now. Tomorrow, we will start the evacuation process. We must have most people off the island by Friday when the Mexican envoy arrives. Now, please, everyone, enjoy your brightly lit walk home. Remember that the lights that guide you are powered by the forces of nature, which hold the key to humanity’s future. We will return. This is not over — not by a long shot!”
People began filtering out of the building as Isaac and Petur stepped off the stage and worked their way toward the elevators. The community, shocked, was discussing the issues at length, and with no shortage of vigor. That Petur was in no mood for questions quickly became obvious to the reporters who harangued him. The elevator doors closed, and Isaac and Petur were immersed in welcome quiet. Isaac pressed the button for the top floor. Petur shook his head. Isaac let him think without interruption.
The elevator doors slid open noiselessly, and the two men stepped out into a darkened room. A faint glow from the kitchen lights squeezed under the swinging door in the back of the restaurant. Above their heads the multifaceted glass roof was barely visible, appearing more like a delicate shimmering web crafted by a spider with architectural prowess. Between each shining filament of silken thread was a piece of glass, but it was completely translucent to the night sky. Each star flickering down through the atmosphere was packaged separately within its own sheath of filaments, and the carefully crafted glass roof thus served as a means of tracking the motions of the heavens, if one so wished. But no one did. It was beautiful and artistic — symbolic — as Petur had wished it to be.
The harsh clank of a heavy metal pot falling into a metal sink rang through the otherwise nearly abandoned restaurant. Isaac walked through the swinging door, while Petur went to his favorite table, in one corner of the room. He looked out over the lagoon. A ship was at the brightly lit wharf, ferrying supplies — business as usual. To the southwest, far beyond the atoll that lined the lagoon, and out over several kilometers of open ocean, Petur could see the bright lights of the control center of the OTEC. In the dark, he could not see the unlit cylinder upon which the platter-shaped control center rested. The well-lit disk appeared to be hanging still in the sky above the water like a flying saucer.
“I love it when the OTEC is all lit up and the control center is high above the waves.” Isaac had come over with two cups of hot water. He placed a bag full of finely ground coffee into his own and tossed Petur a tea bag. “Gustaf is having his chef make us something good to eat. Lucky for us he was here.�
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Petur nodded in thanks and swirled the tea bag in the cup of steaming water. He would have to wait for it to cool. Isaac always made the water too hot.
“Yes, this has become a rare treat. It is still spectacular when the cylinder is lowered down into the depths and the control center sits close on the water. But I do especially love when they raise it high above the waves. It’s how I first saw it.”
Isaac turned the other way in his seat and, sipping cautiously from his cup, gazed at the blackened silhouette of the high central mountain. “We’re taking a gamble, Petur.”
Petur turned his attention to where his older friend was looking. Speaking slowly, he said, “Yes, I know. It probably can’t work. But it’s worth the risk.”
“It could cost you — and me — our freedom; perhaps our lives.”
“Isaac, I spent most of my life to create this place. I would sacrifice myself to ensure its survival. The Project has yet to accomplish a fraction of what we have set out for it to do. We have to turn the science into wealth. We have to harness that wealth. We have to use that wealth to free the people from the debts their governments have accrued so that freedom can reign. Then the whole world can be like the Island Project. Now we have only begun. We wanted to harness the wealth of the new frontier: space. Yet we haven’t made any inroads into that goal. We have not sent even a single person into space. Not one person has gone to an asteroid to capture it and bring its bounteous resources home. No one is yet building a station upon the moon to mine the water that lies frozen in its polar caps. We have only begun our mission. We have decades more to go. We must save the Island Project, Isaac. I will not let the Mexican government stroll over and stop our progress just when it looks like we’re succeeding!”
“It’s not just the Project, Petur. You don’t even want them to have the Islands, do you? The Project can continue with the members scattered worldwide — you know that. You said it yourself. This Project can continue without Paradise 1. But the notion of the Island is a very important symbol for you.”
As he nodded, Petur had to admit the truth of that statement. “Damn it, Isaac, of course it is. For better or for worse, I’ve been planning this since I was eleven years old. You and I both knew that the choice of a remote island might hinder its prospects, yet we looked at the positive aspects of it only. Why was that? Why did we ignore the common-sense notion that remoteness would slow progress and make recruiting more difficult? I’ll tell you, Isaac. Something within each of us — instinct perhaps, inspiration maybe — propelled us along that path. We defied the sensible. But it was the right thing to do. I’m convinced that the cohesion of the people here, far from their homes, immersed in the same convictions, surrounded by highly intelligent people from drastically different cultures, is the unique aspect of our effort that has led to its successes. The complete avoidance of ridiculous rules and regulations freed the minds of the people, unlocked the handcuffs they had allowed to be placed on them, opened their minds. The Island opened up the boxes they didn’t know they were locked within. It must not be lost! We must not allow it. This has to work. It’s worth the risk, Isaac.”
“But Petur, the Island is not the only catalyst to the successes so far. You are the motivator — the driving force. None of this would have occurred without you. The members of the Project know this. You are revered — really. If you’re lost, Petur, then we might lose our cohesion. You are the glue. Consider this as you make your decision.”
“My decision is already made. I was talking with Joseph Onbacher not long ago. We were discussing children. Our children — all our children — deserve an opportunity to live and grow. They deserve to be safe and protected. The planet, and mankind, is in terrible trouble. The weight of oppression is overwhelming the globe. Atlas is bending under his burden already, while governments jump up and down on his back, foolishly doing the best they can to get him to drop his load. Society is destroying the very one who has been holding them aloft, and without whom they cannot survive. He’s been doing his best, but he made one mistake. And so he will not hold out long. He will drop the globe. He will drop the children. He will drop our children. We need to give Atlas his strength back.”
“Atlas isn’t real, Petur.”
Petur seemed to ignore the statement. “No one will succeed at making us feel guilty for being successful. To give is a noble and divine thing, Isaac. But being forced to give is a very different thing than giving freely, and is intolerable to those who would give voluntarily. There are more and more people who demand to be given things, who decide they are entitled to the fruits of others’ labor, and use the government to force the others to give. Even more complain about the governments’ excesses and invasions, yet proclaim the wonders of expanding their own government benefits. The problem is that those who are forced to give are the foundation of the world economy. They are eroding away. Socialism and fascism — government-sponsored looting — carve away at the flesh of the people who hold the world on their shoulders. And the world wounds their backs, steals from their pockets, and cuts their legs off at the knees. Atlas isn’t going to stop caring. He’s not going to shrug. No, Isaac: Atlas is going to be murdered — is being murdered.”
“So we don’t strengthen Atlas. We become Atlas.”
“Yes, but we take the job on one condition. We cannot make the mistake Atlas made. No one, ever, will force us to give anything, force us to support them. We will give freely, exorbitantly, and without hesitation, but when and only when we so desire. We will tolerate no coercion — none — ever. And that is why we have to fight the Mexicans. The foundation of the Island Project depends on our success. Our core ideal must be maintained. If we are gone when Atlas finally buckles, I assure you there will be no one else around to catch the ball.” Petur’s look was piercing and pleading as he gazed into his friend’s eyes. “Isaac, this is why we started. We are Atlas’s relief, Atlas’s backup… Atlas’s muscles. I refuse to lose to these thieves. Now, will you join me? Will you fight with me?”
Isaac’s face went blank for a moment. Then he said, in a tone more appropriate for ordering a croissant than putting one’s life on the line, “Why not? Sounds like a good idea to me. Let’s kick some Mexican ass.”
Petur tipped his chair back on two legs, smiled, and raised his cup in salute.
45. Sink It Now
THE SUN WAS just beginning to peek over the horizon. They had once again failed. But this time they could not explain it away by saying that there was no sub for them to find. They knew there was. This time, they needed another excuse. Commander Grover looked over at his copilot and said, “You take it for a while, Mike. Have someone rustle up our 3P and I’ll go back with Thompson and figure out what to tell the crew.”
The flash message had come in a few minutes earlier. It said to cancel all activities in the area and return to Kaneohe as soon as all crews had had proper rest and refueled. Hell — they had just gotten there nine hours ago. Four of the crews had not even flown a tactical mission yet. They had been able to search almost a third of the area where the sub could conceivably be, which was more than they expected, but that still left two-thirds to cover. The reason for the change in orders became clear with the next, brief message.
“It seems that the Mexican Navy has a ship steaming in here,” Epps said. “Reports say it is a Mexican-flagged, decommissioned American cruiser, fully armed and loaded with fast reaction troops out of their naval infantry. Well, gee, do you think that’s enough firepower to overpower the grandma and three toddlers they have guarding this island?”
Grover unbuckled his belt, disconnected his headset, rolled out of his seat, and stepped just aft of the cockpit where he could stand up fully and stretch. He was positioned between the TACCO and the nav/comm, and he looked down the center of the aircraft. It was mostly dark, with green lights emanating from the radar on the left, acoustic screens on the right, and the weapons and sonobuoy control panel further back. Eleven men were needed to operat
e all the functions of the plane.
He was always amused at the technology imbedded on these P-3s. They had not changed much over his fourteen years of flying them. With the multi-use Boeing P-8 Poseidon almost ready to replace this plane, which had been the backbone of the community for fifty years, the Navy allocated little money to keep these old machines flying, much less to upgrade the equipment. Already, the equipment was a far cry from that in the ultramodern interior of a surface warship’s high-tech Combat Information Center. With no Russian submarine activity since the Cold War ended, and the Chinese still having yet to upgrade their capabilities, the P-3s anti-submarine-warfare mission just was no longer a high priority. Now it seemed that most of the deployment tasking — which drove where the money would be spent — came from ever-increasing demands to support ground warfare in Afghanistan. This kept ASW improvement even more on the back burner. Indeed the only ASW equipment planned for the new P-8 was legacy equipment pirated from these old P-3s. In part, that made sense, as there was only so much that science and technology could do in searching for and tracking submarines. Much of a successful ASW prosecution was an art that required years of experience to master. But absent some prioritization of anti-submarine training and tasking, that experience would assuredly disappear from the Navy. Well, at least there would be a few P-8s deployed before the airframes on the P-3s all crumbled into dust.