The Swarm

by Frank Schätzing

  Johanson forgot about the storage tanks. He rubbed the slime between his fingers. It looked like the remains of bacterial colonies. Bacterial mats were found on the surface of hydrates: what were they doing inside the ice?

  A few seconds later the lump had disappeared. He looked round. A muddy puddle covered the working deck. The man who had been hit by the grab was gone. Lund, Hvistendahl and Stone had also left the deck, but Bohrmann was leaning on the rails. Johnson joined him. 'What happened down there?'

  Bohrmann ran his hand over his eyes. 'We had a blow-out. The grab penetrated more than twenty metres through the hydrates and gas came up. Did you see the enormous bubble on the screen?'

  'Yes. How thick is the ice here?'

  'Seventy to eighty metres minimum – at least it was.'

  'So, the ice was cracked.'

  'That's how it seems. We need to find out as soon as possible whether it's an isolated case.'

  'You want to take more samples?'

  'Of course,' said Bohrmann, testily. 'That accident should never have happened. The guy at the winch raised the grab when we were going full-speed. He should have stopped it.' He looked at Johanson. 'Did you notice anything unusual when the gas shot up?'

  'It felt to me as though the boat dropped in the water.'

  'That's what I thought. The methane lowered the surface tension.'

  'Do you mean we could have sunk?'

  'It's hard to say. Have you heard of the Witch's Hole?'

  'No.'

  'Ten years ago a fisherman set sail and never came back. His last radio transmission said he was going to make coffee. A research expedition found the wreck fifty nautical miles from the coast in an unusually deep pockmark on the North Sea floor. Sailors call the area the Witch's Hole. The wreck showed no sign of damage and was sitting upright on the seabed. It seemed to have sunk like a stone – as though it had suddenly stopped floating.'

  'Sounds like the Bermuda Triangle.'

  'You've put your finger on it. That's exactly the theory – the only one that stands up to scrutiny, anyway. Big blow-outs occur regularly in the area between Bermuda, Florida and Costa Rica. Sometimes there's enough gas in the atmosphere to set fire to the turbines of a plane. All it takes is a methane blow-out several times bigger than the one we just experienced and the water density falls so low that a ship sinks to the bottom.' Bohrmann pointed to the storage tanks. 'We'll get this stuff back to Kiel, run some tests and get answers about what's going on – and we will get answers, I promise you. We've already lost one man because of this mess.'

  'Is he… ?'

  'He was killed on impact. For the next sample we'll use the autoclave corer instead of the grab. It's safer that way. We have to find out what's happening. I'm not prepared to stand by and watch as subsea units are constructed willy-nilly all over the seabed.' Bohrmann moved away from the rails. 'But we're used to that, I guess. We're always trying to explain what's going on in the world but no one listens. And then what happens? Research is in the hands of big business. The only reason that you and I are on this boat is because Statoil found a worm. The state can't pay for science, so the money comes from industry. There's no science for the sake of enquiry, these days. This worm isn't an object of scholarly interest. It's a problem they want us to get rid of. Science always has to have an immediate application – and, preferably, one that gives industry free rein. But maybe those worms aren't really the problem. Has anyone stopped to consider that? The real problem could be elsewhere, and by solving the worm dilemma, we might make things worse.'

  A few nautical miles to the north-east they excavated a dozen cores from the sediment without further incident. The autoclave corer, a five-metre-long tube clad in a plastic mantle with pipes round the outside, drew the sample from the seabed like a giant syringe. Before it was pulled back up, the tube was hermetically sealed by valves, preserving a perfect specimen of a different universe: sediment, ice, mud, an intact section of the top layer of hydrates, pore-water and even local organisms, unperturbed by the change, since temperature and pressure were maintained. Bohrmann had the sealed tubes stored upright in the walk-in freezer so as not to disturb the layers of life preserved within. The cores couldn't be analysed on board: they needed the deep-sea simulation chamber to provide the right conditions. Until then they had to content themselves with analysing pore-water and staring at the screen.

  Despite the drama of the past hours, even the unchanging view of the worm-covered hydrates seemed tedious. No one felt like talking. In the faint light of the monitors everyone looked pale – Bohrmann and his scientists, the Statoil team and the crew. The dead man had joined the core samples in the freezer. The rendezvous with the Thorvaldson at the site of the planned unit had been cancelled so that they could head straight for Kristiansund, where they would hand over the body and transport the samples to the nearby airport. Johanson moved between his cabin and the control room, sorting through the responses to his survey. The worm wasn't described in any of the existing literature. No one had seen it. Some of his correspondents put forward the view that it was a Mexican ice worm, but that didn't take him any closer to the truth.

  Three nautical miles from Kristiansund, Johanson received a reply from Lukas Bauer. The first positive reply – though positive wasn't really the word.

  He read the message and chewed his lip thoughtfully.

  Contacting the oil companies was Skaugen's business. Johanson was only expected to approach institutes and scientists with no obvious link to oil. But Bohrmann had said something after the accident that showed things in a different light.

  The state can't pay for science, so the money comes from industry.

  Could any institute, these days, afford to be truly independent?

  If Bohrmann was right that research was kept alive by industry, there was scarcely an institute that wasn't working for a company. They raised their funds through sponsorship – it was either that or risk closing their labs. Even Geomar would soon be in receipt of a grant from the energy firm Ruhrgas, which had endowed a new chair in hydrates. Corporate sponsorship sounded tempting, but sooner or later companies expected the research they funded to be converted into profit.

  Johanson returned to Bauer's message.

  His own approach had been all wrong. Instead of contacting as many people as possible, he should have scrutinised the unofficial links between science and business. While Skaugen broached the topic in the companies' boardrooms, he could question the scientists they worked with. Sooner or later someone was bound to talk.

  The problem lay in trying to unravel the connections.

  But it wasn't a problem. It was just a lot of hard work.

  He stood up and went to find Lund.

  24 April

  Vancouver Island and Clayoquot Sound, Canada

  Anawak rocked impatiently on the balls of his feet. He rolled forwards on to his toes, then back on to his heels. Toes, heels. Toes, heels. It was early morning and the sky was lit in vivid shades of azure; a day straight out of a holiday brochure.

  At the end of the wooden jetty, a seaplane was waiting. Its white fuselage shone in the deep blue water of the lagoon, contours creased by rippling waves. It was one of the legendary DHC-2 Beavers first manufactured by the Canadian firm Dc Havilland over fifty years ago. Engineers had yet to come up with a better design, so the planes were still in use. Beavers had made it to both poles: they were dependable, robust and safe.

  Perfect for what Anawak was planning.

  He glanced across at the red-and-white terminal. Tofino airbase was situated a few minutes out of town by car, and had little in common with other airports. It was reminiscent of a traditional hunting or fishing village, just a few low-lying timber buildings on the edge of a sweeping-bay, fringed by forested hills with mountaintops in the distance. His eyes swept the road leading from the main highway through the towering trees towards the lagoon. Any moment now the others would arrive.

  His brow furrowed as he listened to t
he voice on his mobile. 'But that was two weeks ago,' he said. 'Two weeks without Mr. Roberts being-available, even though he specifically asked me to keep him informed.'

  The secretary reminded him that Mr. Roberts was a very busy man.

  'So am I,' barked Anawak. He stood still and tried to sound friendlier. 'Look, the situation on the west coast is spiralling out of control. There are clear parallels between the trouble we've got here and the incident at Inglewood. I'm sure Mr. Roberts would agree.'

  There was a short pause. 'What parallels would those be?'

  'Well, whales, of course. I should have thought that was obvious.'

  'The Barrier Queen suffered damage to her rudder.'

  'Sure. But the tugs were attacked.'

  'One tug was sunk, if that's what you mean,' said the woman, politely uninterested. 'No one's said anything about whales, but I'll tell Mr. Roberts you called.'

  'Tell him it's in his interest.'

  'He'll call you in the next few weeks.'

  Weeks?

  'Mr. Roberts is out of town.'

  What the hell is going on? thought Anawak. He tried again.

  'Mr. Roberts also promised to send further samples of organic matter from the Barrier Queen to the lab in Nanaimo. Now, please don't tell me you know nothing about that either. I've seen the infestation. I even took a bunch of mussels from the hull.'

  'Mr. Roberts would have told me if-'

  'The lab needs those samples!'

  'Mr. Roberts will deal with it on his return.'

  'It'll be too late by then! Oh, forget it. I'll call back later.'

  Annoyed, he jammed his mobile into his pocket. Shoemaker was trundling down the access road in his Land Cruiser, then turned into the car park in front of the terminal. Anawak headed over to him. 'You're not exactly a model of punctuality, are you?' he called grumpily.

  'For heaven's sake, Leon! We're ten minutes late.' Shoemaker came to meet him with Delaware in tow. A young powerfully built black guy with dark glasses and a shaved head followed behind. 'Loosen up, will you? We had to wait for Danny.'

  Anawak shook hands with the other man, who flashed him a smile. He was a marksman in the Canadian army and had been placed at Anawak's disposal. He was carrying his weapon, a state-of-the-art, high-precision crossbow. 'Nice island you got here,' he drawled. A piece of gum travelled across his mouth as he spoke. 'You need me to take care of something?'

  'Didn't they tell you?' asked Anawak.

  'Sure – that I needed my bow to shoot at some whales. Kind of surprised me, though. Never thought it was legal.'

  It isn't. I'll tell you all about it in the plane. Let's go.'

  'Hang on.' Shoemaker held up a newspaper. 'Have you seen this?'

  Anawak scanned the headline. '"The Hero of Tofino"?'

  'Greywolf sure knows how to sell himself He's all modest in the interview, but see what he says further down. It'll make you want to puke.'

  ' ". . . did my duty as a Canadian citizen, that's all," muttered Anawak.' "Sure, we could have died – but I had to do something to make up for the damage caused by irresponsible whale-watching. My organisation has been warning for years of the dangerous levels of stress that whale-watchers inflict on the animals, which leads them to behave in unpredictable ways." My God, he's crazy!'

  'Read on.'

  "Davie's Whaling Station can't be accused of dishonesty, but it hasn't been completely honest either. In dressing up a money-making tourist business as an environmental research project, the whale-watchers are as bad as the Japanese, whose flotillas prey on endangered species in the Arctic. The Japanese also talk about the scientific value of their activities, even though in 2002 over four hundred tonnes of whale meat went on sale as a delicacy in wholesale markets. DNA tests traced the flesh to the objects of their so-called scientific study."

  Anawak lowered the paper. 'That bastard.'

  'But he's right, isn't he?' Delaware demanded. 'The Japanese really are spouting all that crap about their research. At least, that's what I heard.'

  'Of course he's right,' snorted Anawak. 'That's why it's so damn cunning. He's trying to implicate us too.'

  'God knows what he hopes to achieve by it,' said Shoemaker.

  'He's just attention-seeking.'

  'Well, he…' Delaware's hands waved in gesture of appeasement. 'I guess, he is a hero in a way.'

  Anawak glared at her. 'Oh, really?'

  'Without him people would have died. It's not fair of him to lay into you like that but he was brave and he-'

  'Greywolf isn't brave,' growled Shoemaker. 'That shit only ever does anything for effect. But he's screwed up big-time now. The Makah won't like it. I can't imagine they'll thank their self-elected blood-brother for his impassioned speech against whaling – right, Leon?'

  Anawak didn't reply.

  Danny pushed his gum from one cheek to the other. 'All set?' he said.

  At that moment the pilot called to them through the open door of the plane, and waved. Anawak knew what that meant. Ford had made contact. It was time. Instead of responding to Shoemaker's comment he put a hand on his shoulder. 'Could you do me a favour when you're back at the Station?'

  'Sure,' he said. 'I'm not exactly rushed off my feet.'

  'Find out whether there's been anything in the papers over the last few weeks about the Barrier Queen and her accident. Maybe check the Internet too – and the TV.'

  'Why?'

  'I've a feeling it wasn't reported.'

  'Uh-huh.'

  'Well, I can't remember hearing anything about it, can you?'

  Shoemaker squinted up at the sun. 'No. Just some vague stuff about shipping accidents in Asia. But that's not to say it wasn't mentioned. I haven't read the papers since things kicked off round here. But it's a good point. Come to think of it, not much has been said about the whole damn mess.'

  'Exactly,' said Anawak.

  AS THE PLANE TOOK OFF, Anawak turned to Danny. 'Your job is to fire the tag into the blubber. The whale won't feel a thing. Scientists have been trying for years to get tags to stick to whaleskin, but a biologist in Kiel came up with the solution – a crossbow with tags and time-depth recorders that are fitted to the darts. The tip pierces the fat, and the whale carries the device for a few weeks. It doesn't even know it's there.'

  Danny looked at him. 'A biologist from Kiel?'

  'You don't think it'll work?'

  'Oh, sure. Just seems to me he should have asked the whale about it hurtin'. Jeez, you gotta be pretty darned accurate. How you gonna know it won't go deeper than the fat?'

  'They used pork to test the darts and kept going until they knew exactly how far the tips would penetrate. It's all a question of math.'

  'I'll be darned,' said Danny. His eyebrows appeared above his dark glasses.

  'What happens if you fire it at a human?' Delaware piped up from the seat behind them. 'Would the dart go in part-way?'

  Anawak turned to face her.

  'Yes, – but deep enough to kill you.'

  The DHC-2 banked, the lagoon glittering beneath them.

  'It wasn't the only option available,' said Anawak, 'but the key thing was to make sure we could track the whale over a significant period. The crossbow method seemed the most reliable. The tag records information on heartbeat, body temperature, water temperature, depth, speed and other variables. Fitting the whale with a camera is more of a problem.'

  'Why not use the crossbow?' asked Danny. 'Save yourself a lot of hassle.'

  'There'd be no means of ensuring which way up the camera would land. In any case, I'd like to see the whale. I want to be able to watch it, and that's only possible if the camera is further away and not mounted on top of it.'

  'Which is why we're deploying a URA,' explained Delaware. 'It's a new type of robot from Japan.'

  Anawak's lips twitched. From the way Delaware talked, you'd think she'd invented it.

  'What robot?' Danny looked around.

  'We didn't bring it.'

>   The plane was out of the lagoon, flying close to the swell. The water off Vancouver Island was usually full of pleasure-boats, Zodiacs and kayaks, but no one was brave enough to venture out now. In the distance a few freighters and ferries passed, too big for the whales to be a problem. The coastal waters were deserted, apart from a single mighty ship. The plane headed away from the ragged coastline, straight for it.

  'The URA is on the Whistler- down there,' said Anawak. 'First we need to find and tag our whale, then the robot gets its turn.'

  JOHN FORD STOOD aft on the Whistler, shielding his eyes with his hand. He saw the DHC-2 approaching at speed. A few seconds later the plane swooped over the boat and swung round in a gentle curve.

  He held his radio to his mouth and called Anawak on a tap-proof frequency. A host of channels was reserved for military and scientific purposes. 'Leon? Everything OK?'

  'Receiving you, John. Where did you see them?'

  'To the north-west, less than two hundred metres from the ship. Five minutes ago we had a cluster of sightings, but they're keeping their distance. There must be eight or ten. We identified two. One was involved in the attack on the Lady Wexham; the other sank a fishing-trawler last week in Ucluelet.'

  'They haven't tried to attack?'

  'We're too big for them.'

  'How are they behaving as a group?'

  'No signs of aggression.'

  'Good. They're probably one big gang, but let's stick to the whales we've identified.'

  Ford watched as the DHC-2 disappeared into the distance, then banked and flew back in a loop. His gaze shifted to the Whistler's bridge. The deep-sea rescue tug was sixty-three metres long, fifteen metres wide and belonged to a private company in Vancouver. With a bollard pull of 160 tonnes, she was one of the strongest tugs in the world, and far too heavy to be threatened by a whale. Ford guessed that a breaching humpback would cause the ship to rock but no more.

  He still felt uneasy, though. At first the whales had attacked anything that floated, but now they seemed to know what they could and couldn't harm. Boats had been attacked by fin and sperm whales, as well as the omnipresent orcas, greys and humpbacks. And there had been a marked refinement in technique. Ford was certain that they wouldn't attack the tug – and that was what disturbed him. The idea that the whales were suffering from a rabies-like illness didn't fit with their growing ability to size up their targets. There was intelligence in their behaviour, and he wasn't sure how they'd react to the robot.