by Barry Klemm
She felt ill. Then her head cleared and she knew what she had to do. She found an atlas in Gavin’s room and quickly looked it up, got her geography straight and rehearsed the names.
Then she walked straight out of the house, signalling the security man to follow and strode down the driveway to where the media folk, caught completely off guard, dived for their cameras and tape recorders. She stood patiently while they gathered before her, the guard thrusting them back a pace. They babbled a thousand questions but she said nothing, raising her hands above her head in a gesture demanding silence.
Finally they fell silent and allowed her to speak. “The location of the next eruption is not Professor Thyssen’s prediction. Apparently, he placed the event a thousand kilometres from the one officially released. It will be right in the middle of Honshu—the main island of Japan.” As their questions assailed her, she turned on her heel and walked back into the house.
Still, she was surprised to see herself dominating the images that made up the television news that evening. She stood tall and proud, her hand pushing at her windswept hair, once more speaking the gospel according to Harley Thyssen. Once more she had found herself coming down on his side. Her loyalty, she suspected by then, was almost an obsession.
“How on earth could you do that?” Wendell demanded of her when he saw his wife’s picture dominating the front pages of the newspapers. He was speaking by phone from his surgery, of course. “What in the name of all that is holy do you owe this man?”
“I owe him nothing. But he’s been right every time. My loyalty is to truth, Wendell.”
“You can’t know this is truth. You can’t know he’s right.”
“If he ever fails me, Wennie, I’ll agree with you. But he hasn’t yet. They suppressed that information, Wen. If he’s right, thousands of lives will be lost that could have been saved if they’d listened to him.”
“Some of the world’s top geophysicists dispute his ideas. It is to these eminences that you are according error. Certainty cannot be possible?”
She had seen it. Every current affairs program had offered its experts discussing the controversy. The sensible, eloquent scientists were all the ones that disagreed with Harley—his supporters, who received far less time and were always placed between the opinions of the sages, all looked like ratbags and spoke poorly. If it hadn’t happened every time, she might have doubted it herself. But she knew a PR job when she saw one.
That every media outlet used the same format and images and style of expert was the clue. “Professor Thyssen seeks to sensationalise his prediction and has chosen a location designed to draw the biggest media impact,” they said. How likely was it that four different scientists from four different countries would say precisely that?
“I’m sorry, Wen. If he is right and I had not spoken up, I’d never have been able to live with myself. I had to do it.”
“If I might venture to say so, your sense of obligation seems seriously misplaced. As I understand it, your project has been discontinued.”
“Sadly, it isn’t.”
“It becomes increasingly difficult to proceed.”
“Please, Wen, don’t say that.”
“So… my threats and protestations are to no avail, hmm?”
“I’m afraid not.”
After a long pause, Wendell said softly. “Well, such being the case, best I swallow my pride and displace my jealousy and show my heroic but foolish wife some absolute blind loyalty, as a good husband should.”
“Are you jealous of Thyssen, Wennie?”
“I despise him with every microbe in my body. I’m so green I’m surprised that some horticulturalist hasn’t potted me.”
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Still, I perceive my rightful action is to come home this evening and show some family solidarity.”
“I don’t give a damn about solidarity, Wen. But I’d love to see you.”
*
At some time she was unaware of, a man came and knelt beside her. He knelt too close, and slowly she emerged from her transcendental state to glance toward him nervously. The air of tension he had brought with him was palpable.
“Come with me, Sister,” Fabrini said softly. “You are needed.”
“There is nothing I can do that God has not already decided,” she replied serenely.
“The pilgrims are in grave danger,” he said adamantly. “Without you at their head, they have gone the wrong way.”
“The Hand of God guides them. It cannot be the wrong way.”
“They have taken the road to the north and we cannot turn them from it,” Fabrini said desperately. “We tried everything. We pleaded. We prayed. We put false road signs. We lied. We made many threats. Nothing will turn them to the right road.”
“The road they follow is the right road, Mr. Fabrini,” Chrissie said, shaking her head at his naivety.
“But they are going to the north, and there are no boats there.”
It was plain the time of her peace was over. The daylight poured in through the newly opened doors. Without Harley to organise the movement of the pilgrims, who knew where the focal point might be. North was as likely as any other way.
“They must go as they go, Mr. Fabrini.”
“But that way is very dangerous.”
“You and your guards must do what you can to protect them.”
“There is no order without you at the head of the convoy, Sister. They stray and straggle like sheep. They get lost. They get bogged. There have been many accidents. Please believe me. I would have proudly led them, had it proven possible. It hurts my pride deeply to come here and plead with you like this.”
“Yes, I see that, Mr. Fabrini. I’m sorry to have put you through such an ordeal.”
She rose then, brushing her robes straight, bowing deeply to the alter, clasping her hands before her. “Anyway,” she continued. “Now that my meditation is broken, I also must go the way that they’ve gone, or else I’ll go mad and you’ll have to shoot me.”
“Never, Sister!”
“Oh, please, Mr. Fabrini. Lighten up.”
They walked out into the chill of a beautiful Autumn evening. She was less than half his size and felt odd in her pristine robes beside this big rough-looking gangster with his huge drooping moustache. At least he was keeping his weapons out of sight. The sisters had gathered by a smart red BMW. They clasped their hands and bowed to her and she responded.
They regarded her as if she was one of them now, and it struck Chrissie as peculiar that no one ever commented on nor seemed to notice her distinctly Asiatic appearance. Most of the time, she felt as Italian as Fabrini.
“I have obtained the best car to be had locally. We must hurry to catch them.”
“And where is Mr. Wagner and his helicopter?”
“No one knows. He has not been here. The Carabinieri have a helicopter but they are busy rescuing our people from frozen rivers and snow-filled ravines.”
Chrissie took time to thank the sisters before settling herself into the BMW, and with a blast of tyres on gravel, they were away.
“It would be best if we got there late, Mr. Fabrini, rather than not at all.”
As he drove, Fabrini offered her a map to spread on her lap, at which he pointed between bends. Added to his expressive hand gestures, there was far too little handling of the steering wheel for her liking. But Fabrini was anxious to explain.
“They set off along the side roads, many different roads were used and it was night and no one knew what was happening. But all of them went north or as near to it as they could manage. Next morning, they began to come out on the coast road, at Termoli, most of them, but some as far up as Pescara. You see. Most of them turned along the coast road, but some tried to go into the sea. Some walked into the sea, some drove. There were many rescues. But no one died.”
“For which we must be thankful, Mr. Fabrini.”
“The water is very cold at this time of the ye
ar, Sister. I assure you. But now they carried on, all strung out along the road, but all pushing up the coast through Ancona, where I tried to hold up the leaders and allow the rest to gather behind but they broke through and four of my people were injured and one of my women shot a man. It was chaos. But they went on.”
“Yes, they must go on.”
“They went through Rimini and Ravenna and then toward Padua and suddenly I realised what lay before us. By nightfall, they would reach the foothills of the Dolomites, and the first blizzard of the season is filling the valleys with snow. And they will go into these valleys and be lost.”
“And at what time does the pilgrimage come to an end.”
“Not until nine tomorrow morning, according to the news reports. That is when the eruption is expected, translated to local time.”
“So they will spend the night trapped in the snow.”
“These are southern people. They are inexperienced with snow.”
“And how long is it before darkness falls?”
“Sunset is just over two hours from now, but the bad weather in the north means darkness will come early.”
“Then what can we do?”
“The authorities have arranged an aeroplane. We can fly to Padua and then try and make our way to the head of the line and turn them back.”
“They cannot be turned back, Mr. Fabrini.”
“Still we must try.”
*
The two men from the US Embassy came shortly after Wendell left home for work next morning. The evening had been tense, but that was because it was also the time for the linkage. It was odd how she felt it, as if in sympathy for the others. Wendell had been attentive and sympathetic, but she knew the pilgrims were on the move out there and fretted at the lack of information.
The two gentlemen from the American Embassy could not have looked more uncomfortable. After a month with the media camped on her front lawn, Felicity had no reason to be friendly, but she invited them in and offered them tea. They looked sheepishly at each other as they took up seats on the couch.
“I’ll make it,” said Melissa said, hoping that if she played a role she would not be left out, as had happened on the occasions of previous discussions between her mother and officialdom. This troubled time, Felicity reflected, had not been completely wasted.
“We need your assistance, Dr Campbell,” the taller American official said.
“I’ll do anything to help, if I’m able to believe it really will help.”
They promptly destroyed any possibility of trust by informing her (yet again) of her obligations under the Official Secrets Act.
“I promise nothing,” she responded coldly.
The two men looked at each other, plainly each hoped the other might do the talking. By sheer intimidation, the short one lost out. “Last night, the crew of USS Barton mutinied.”
Felicity stared at them incredulously. “You kept the crew together?”
“There was no reason not to. They seemed perfectly normal.”
“But you were warned of what to expect.”
The two men gazed at each other with accusative expressions. “You expected this, Doctor?”
“They are Pilgrims, gentlemen. The link has occurred. They have no choice but to proceed to the focal point by whatever means are expedient or available.”
“They did that, all right, Doctor. They hi-jacked the ship...”
“You left them all on the same ship?”
“The Barton. Yes.”
“Then, yes, if they had control of the ship at the time of the link, they could hardly have been expected to do otherwise.”
“USS Barton is a nuclear armed destroyer, Doctor.”
“You can only blame yourselves for that. The Shastri Effect is well documented. I personally issued warnings to American government officials.”
“The best medical experts advised us that there was no indication of any such effect.”
“The best medical experts, gentlemen, are those best paid by the biggest vested interests. Did anyone trouble to ask any of the medical experts who were involved in Project Earthshaker and therefore knew what they were talking about?”
“Eventually. They each referred us to you.”
“Did they really?”
“The Joint Chiefs need an assessment fairly immediately.”
The Joint Chiefs of Staff might have been a bunch of pre-school children, gathered about her ankles with expectant eyes. “No doubt they do. Tell me. Are the crew of the Barton handling the ship competently?”
“From a seamanship point of view, I guess so. They sailed the ship out of Pearl without hitting anything. Why?”
“Some pilgrims have exhibited a zombie like effect. But most behave perfectly capably, as long as they are headed in the right direction. If impeded, disorientation may occur, after which anything might happen.”
“But what dangers can we expect?”
“There is no danger, gentlemen. The pilgrims will head directly for the focal point for thirty six hours after the linkage occurred and then stop. Cessation coincides with the next volcanic event.”
“Thirty six hours from when they took the ship?”
“Presumably. After which, I would expect them to give your ship back with all due apology for their behaviour.”
“And meanwhile.”
“I should imagine they will proceed, full steam ahead, toward the focal point.”
There was more hesitation, and then the taller one offered. “They are headed north. Toward the Bering Strait.”
“North?”
“That’s right.”
Felicity felt again the sweep of nausea as she realised what it meant.
“My god. That means the focal point is leading them over the pole.”
*
In Tokyo, it hit with intensity 6.3 on the old Richter scale but that wasn’t enough to stop the traffic. The walls shook back and forth and the pavement bounced up and down but the pedestrians hardly paused as they bustled about their business, hurrying from commerce to relaxation venues. The buildings rolled on their foundations designed to withstand such earthquakes and shelves arranged to prevent the crockery from falling did their job. The lights blinked but the shockproof power stations withstood the tremors. Some people, tourists probably, looked out windows and grabbed parking meters for stability but for the locals in Tokyo it was just another day and another quake and they took it in their stride.
Some wondered though. It seemed a rather strong shake for one with an epicentre a thousand kilometres out to sea. For this, they knew, was the one that had been predicted by some American crackpot. There was, officials had warned, some danger of tsunami, but the city was prepared for that as well.
Mt Fuji, that most perfect of mountains, a shrine in itself in a land of shrines, with its gleaming snowcap and symmetrical sides, suddenly disappeared in a dense black cloud. Five other volcanoes roared to life at the same time in the mountains of central Honshu and three more out to sea off Cape Omae, but all of these were to be numbered amongst Japan’s fifty active volcanoes. Mt Fuji was supposed to be dormant, but it slept no more.
In the towns and villages and the farms along the south-east coast and inland almost to Kofu—where the population density was 500 persons per square kilometre—there was no one to see the last perfect moments of Fujiyama. In the seconds before the mountain awoke from its long sleep, the people fell to earth in a slumber of their own. Some died, some were injured, but most simply slept where they fell.
*
Somewhere north and east of Midway Island, USS Barton turned its bows to face the oncoming tsunami, its bewildered crew individually fretting regrets regarding their recent actions and wondering why they had come here, nowhere really, for no reason at all. The captain had already spoken to the crew and they had agreed with his intentions. He advised Naval Headquarters that once the tsunami danger was past, they would put about and return to Pearl where they wished to surrender their
ship and themselves.
*
Kevin Wagner had placed himself in Paris and bought a pushbike, racing style, the very model that won the last Tour de France. In fact he was there because he heard that the French Government had two Hercules C-130 aircraft for sale and wanted to open negotiations. He also knew that the French would not bother to comply with the UN order for his arrest. When the link came, he went with the flow. He got on the bike and rode and was a little startled at first to discover he was heading north, toward Brussels although of course he never got that far. He was just short of St Quentin when the link ceased a day and a half later. He ordered breakfast in the small hotel where he had spent the night and asked about nearby car hire places, and did they know anyone who might like to buy his bike.
*
Andromeda Starlight also went with the flow, but she did it once again in chauffeur driven style. She easily charmed her two police guards into allowing her to hire the car and they went along too, sharing her chicken and champagne. They drove out of London heading north heading for Nottingham and Sheffield and into Scotland, the officers interchanging at the wheel. They were all the way to Inverness when at midnight she declared the journey ended.
“Where now, Miss Starlight?”
“Back again, I guess.”
“Just as well, luv. Not a good time for swimming in the North Sea.”
“Is there ever?”
*