by A J Marshall
“Yes. Richard, it is essential that you understand the shortfalls of such a system and, believe me, despite what the primary sponsors say, there are some.” Rothschild looked tense. “The global interface between the military network and the International Space and Science Federation network will always be a weak spot and therefore the prime target for any hacker wishing to bridge the security programming. Military meets civilian; there have always been different protocols and different agendas. SERON is a multi-dimensional protective overlay trying to perform an impossible task in my view. It’s a programming umbrella, if you like, doing its damnedest to keep the water out. But it is faced with a torrent of differing opinions and different languages – verbally and binary – all attempting to access twenty-four seven. With all these anomalies, in my view, it’s just a matter of time before there is a breach, despite what our neighbours say.” Rothschild leaned forward to emphasise his point. “The findings of my department suggest that the world’s three major industrial multi-nationals, the three conglomerates we know only too well, are engaged in another concerted attempt to control global energy supplies.” Rothschild breathed in deeply. “I’m sure of it, but I’ve no proof. Now, with the recent news, somebody really must sit up and listen. My American counterpart, the Director of the Central Investigation Bureau, says it’s not possible. He says that the international restraining orders and raw material embargoes that were imposed a little over four years ago are sufficient to keep them and other corporations wishing to monopolise such resources in line. And that they were and are sufficient to stifle all industrial and financial growth and therefore any plans of dominating that sector again. My view is that these embargoes have just pushed the illegal activities of these conglomerates underground – in more ways than one!” Rothschild nodded. “Spheron, Tongsei and Epsilon Rio are more of a threat now than they ever were. But international politics, protocol, for heaven’s sake, means that I can’t mention it.”
“What evidence do you have?”
“I’ve had a few of my best people on the case for the last six or seven months . . . subtly, one might say. And they have uncovered some interesting information; information that taken in isolation would not arouse suspicion, but when one begins to look at the whole picture . . .”
“Run it by me.”
“There have been a number of disappearances over the last few years . . . reported, but never connected. We’re talking scientists, system engineers, propulsion specialists, people from the space and computing industry . . . They’re mainly from abroad, so difficult to correlate, but these people have never been heard of again. In a few cases there have been some financial incentives for relatives to keep quiet. I’ve been diverting resources from other areas to keep the investigation going – nothing dishonest, but not in keeping with current policies either, you understand. If I speak up with what I’ve got they will want to know my sources – believe me, in the present economic climate, that could open Pandora’s Box. And as far as international relations go, it could be a disaster.”
“What are you saying, Peter? If I’m hearing you correctly, you’re saying that you think that despite heavy restraint on the global activities of these three conglomerates they may be up to their old tricks again. You have intelligence, but nothing concrete, so you can’t go public?”
“Precisely!”
“So what do you propose to do?”
“I’m going to introduce some of our findings at the briefing.”
“And risk alienating the Americans?”
“I’m going to present some information, that’s all. They can take it or leave it, as can the Federation.”
Richard shrugged. “So what’s my part in all this? Christmas dinner gets fainter and fainter.” He checked his chronometer.
“You had better call Rachel, with my sincere apologies. I’m afraid that your shuttle is already on its way back; you can expect to be here in London for a few days at least, but also I want you to go and see Mubarakar. He is very ill by all accounts and cannot travel, but he’s got something to show us and he says it’s important. You know Mubarakar as well as I do – he would not waste our time. So when we are finished here, I suggest that you also call your second in command. You can expect to be away from your squadron for at least a week, maybe more.”
Richard cradled his forehead in his hand and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Christmas Day of all days . . . I’ve got a better idea – you call Rachel.”
“Um, I don’t think so.” Rothschild looked uncomfortable. “Anyway, more to the point, did you get any rest? During the transit I mean. We have almost an hour if you want some down time? Oh and by the way, what did you bring in the way of clothing?”
Richard looked up. “I’m fine; I had a few hours and used the facilities in the VIP terminal. They even gave us some breakfast. As for clean shirts, I brought a few, but I’ll need some toiletries if it’s going to be more than a week.” He paused. “Why don’t you establish a video-link with Mubarakar? Use a digital scrambler if it’s that sensitive.”
“He is old school – very. He does not trust the technology and he’s not well. In fact, he has not left Egypt for two years and apparently is now housebound in Alexandria. He’s gone back to his roots, Richard – always a bad sign. He has also resigned from the Supreme Council of Antiquities and as Executive Curator of both the Cairo and Luxor Museums and, of course, he is over eighty if he’s a day. I’ve a feeling that he wants to share some information with you specifically, while he can, you know, before . . . Anyway, we have arrangements in hand for you to visit his home.”
A brief look of surprise washed over Richard’s face. “Yes, well, it will be good to see him,” he replied.
“We may also need you to go to Mexico for a few days, the Yucatán Peninsula to be precise – also something for you to see. We need your expertise.”
Richard nodded. “Nice to be wanted,” he said. “Tell me! What’s the current travel situation? By air I mean. I’m a bit behind the drag curve. I know that there is very little scheduled airline traffic these days.”
Rothschild thought for a moment. “Actually, there are no longer any solvent airlines – at least not in the Northern Hemisphere. Most travel is now by sea or rail – and that’s becoming prohibitively expensive. Aeroplanes, cars, road haulage vehicles . . . they have no value any more. It’s the basics that are expensive these days, Richard.” Rothschild paused thoughtfully before continuing. “When an aircraft is required for official business the government normally charters – on a one-off basis you understand. Orbital Airlines are the preferred contractor. They have retained a small fleet for this purpose. Aviation fuel is a very scarce commodity – in fact, there is seldom any available on the open or spot markets. The Energy Department has occasionally had opportunity to bid for small quantities that are auctioned on the black market – mainly from Uganda – but that is rare now. However, I’m pleased to say that central government holds a utility reserve that is stored at a refining terminal near Southampton and piped to London using the old London Heathrow connection. There is, thankfully, the essential spur to London Main Airport – best thing Cameron did during his second term – against those violent planning demonstrations too . . . remember?”
Richard slumped in his seat. “I was eight and had other things on my mind.”
“And now you are what, forty-four?”
“You know exactly how old I am, Peter, you have my record in front of you!”
“Yes . . . quite so. I was sixteen you know, and I remember.”
Richard raised his eyebrows to forestall any coming lecture.
“Anyway,” Rothschild continued, “I may be able to secure sixty or seventy tons of aviation grade kerosene, but that’s all.”
“Yeah, well, the Stratocord is a bit of an overkill, wouldn’t you say? And it certainly isn’t the best on fuel economy, particularly in the lower atmosphere and that’s the only aircraft type Orbital operated. I’m guessing but I’d s
ay seventy tons is enough to get me to Egypt and back and perhaps across the pond to eastern Mexico.”
“I am aware of that, Richard. Planning has it in hand and has asked the Mexican Government for help, but by all accounts they haven’t got anything left either. Their reserves are quoting zero, but the military might spare some in an extreme case. That will take a call from the PM – I haven’t gone there yet. I certainly do not think it sensible to rely on local sources.”
“What about the Americans?”
“We know they found a small pocket recently in southern Texas – enough to keep the state going for another month, perhaps two. It’s likely the Government took a share and we heard that there may have been a little gas too. The Federal Energy Commission is distilling some domestic oil from their remaining coal stocks and perhaps some kerosene. Problem is, with this briefing coming up I’m loath to ask them. The PM may authorise a flight with NetJets Global using a Royal Flight allocation. You flew with them before, you may recall. Apparently, they have a little bio fuel remaining in Germany.”
Richard nodded. “And elsewhere? Stocks around the planet?”
“South America dried up a year ago to all intents and purposes. They were not very good at saving for a rainy day. What little coal and oil they had at the beginning of this year was sold to international buyers on the black market – quite amazing really. Actually, we bought about three hundred thousand barrels ourselves.”
Richard shook his head. “Unbelievable!”
“Europe and Africa are the same. Canadian and Alaskan oil shale stocks are depleted and their Kerogen holding is almost exhausted too. Apart from that there are some isolated pockets of gas and oil here and there, but they aren’t really anything to speak of; nothing of note has been reported for some time. South Africa rushed into constructing a new fission reactor eighteen months ago, near Port Elizabeth, but the technology they are using is forty years old. Nothing has progressed in that field since the New Geneva Convention banned nuclear power stations. They are on a road to nowhere in my opinion. Even under normal environmental conditions it would take six or seven years to complete a facility like that. Their plan was just two years, and without the cooperation of the international community. Not a chance. I am beginning to think that a blanket ban on all nuclear power was a mistake – then and now.”
“Yes, but two major accidents in as many years and half-a-million square miles of pollution gave a lot of weight to the ‘greens’. It was a lobby that gathered pace across the globe . . . It was ‘save the planet and not worry about humankind’ back then. Now it seems to be the other way round. Anyway, Peter, what about the East?”
“Japan is trading some of its territories west of Nagasaki and the home island of Kyushu to China in exchange for an undisclosed quantity of light fuel oil – again mainly distilled from coal stocks. Japan is saying that it is necessary in order to keep the central government and local administration in operation. How long that will last, God only knows. While the Chinese are keeping tight-lipped about what they actually have left, we do not think it can be much. Total global stocks were declared three years ago as part of an international pooling protocol; it was mandatory to declare all holdings and a satellite monitoring programme was agreed. Based on that data they simply cannot have much remaining – maybe six months. Their agenda is as inscrutable as ever. Exchanging land for fuel and so depriving their own people of heat and light – how can you put a value on those commodities?”
“You know the Chinese, Peter, always long-term.”
Rothschild considered that remark for a few seconds. “Um, yes, long-term,” he said. “What do we mean by that phrase these days I wonder . . . ? What do they know that we don’t?”
Richard shook his head.
“There are a lot of deals going on at the moment between various states,” Rothschild continued. “Trading this. Trading that. Pushing. Pulling. I’m not sure where it’s going to end. Everyone wants what’s left. It doesn’t bode well for the future.” Richard saw him grimace.
“And the Pacific Rim?”
“Dry! Several months ago in fact. The forests are gone of course. Manila is reporting a dry spell, almost two weeks now. Temperatures are said to be up by eleven degrees Celsius – positively warm by global standards. As a result the Japanese have reduced their electricity quota from the Katsuura reactor by fifteen per cent. That hasn’t gone down well with the government of the Philippines, as you can imagine.” Peter half-laughed. “Unlikely to boast about their weather again . . .”
“Yes, I suppose. So it’s true what we read and hear on the news. The four Kalahari crystals are literally keeping the whole thing going?”
Rothschild nodded in a resigned way. “Indeed. The latest figure was ninety-two per cent . . . they’re providing ninety-two per cent of global electricity needs. God knows what we would have done without them. But as you well know, Richard, they are a finite resource. The three smaller crystals suffered degradation earlier this year and the primary crystal in the French reactor has been overloaded ever since.”
Richard nodded. “Yes, I read about that too. I keep a keen interest in what the International Energy Commission is doing with them. And how long? What is the up-to-date prediction? Or is that censored information?”
“Yes it is, but I feel I can tell you, considering the fact that we need your help again.” Rothschild put his hands together on the desk and forced an optimistic smile. “Our delegate in the Energy Commission says eight or nine months to complete exhaustion of the primary crystal, ten at the absolute most. The smaller crystals will breakdown first, maybe a month or so earlier. It is difficult to put a more accurate figure on it because the electricity demands of the world grid will be unpredictable as final reserves and undeclared stocks of carbon fuel are used and the potential of national grids reduces to zero. And that my dear chap is another reason for the top level meeting today. Rather intimidating, wouldn’t you say?”
At that moment there was a loud knock on the door behind Richard.
“Come in,” invited Rothschild.
The door opened and a familiar face peered around it as Richard turned in his chair. “Ah, Grenville,” Richard greeted him. “Good to see you, it’s been a while. So you stayed with the old man?”
Grenville coughed politely into his fist; it was his way of avoiding the embarrassment. “Yes, sir, quite, and good to have you back if I may say.” Grenville, a formal looking gentleman who was in his early sixties, looked at Rothschild. “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” he continued. “I’ve had a message from the Communication Centre. There is a telephone call for Commander Reece.” He looked back at Richard. “A Miss Pamela Merchant, an Auntie of yours I believe – apparently it is urgent.”
Richard’s immediate reaction was dismay. He thought of his mother and he thought the worst. He stood.
“The booth opposite, sir, if you please,” said Grenville, as he opened the door further and indicated behind him. Rothschild nodded. Richard quickly crossed the corridor, stepped into the small room and snatched the telephone receiver from the desk. Grenville quietly closed the door. There was an office-type chair in the room and little else. Richard sat down as he put the receiver to his ear. He prepared himself for bad news.
“Aunt Pamela? Richard here. What’s happened? Is Mother . . . ?”
“Your Mother is fine, Richard,” said an austere, elderly voice. “There is nothing to worry about on that count. And so incidentally am I.”
“Yes, sorry, good. That’s good. But a call here . . . I was thinking it must be serious . . .”
“It is. Your mother is frantic. I called Rachel; she gave me your number. Calling you at work is not something I would do without good reason.”
“I know that. So what has happened?”
“Your mother returned home this morning to find that the house had been burgled, ransacked in fact. Whoever did it made a complete mess. She called me. Of course I came over immediately. The police are still
here . . .”
“Police! You’re at the cottage!” Richard thought about the crystal, the ninth crystal, the one only he knew about. The one he had smuggled out of Osiris Base in a mineral container packaged as a simple rock sample. It had been transported to Earth on a routine, six-monthly, shuttle flight over four years earlier. Perhaps foolhardily, he had had the package delivered by courier service to his mother’s house in Buckersmead, Somerset, where she, completely unaware of its contents and following his instructions, had hidden it in his father’s old workshop – in a deep vehicle servicing pit that was covered with heavy wooden sleepers. The crystal and its location was a secret that he had never shared, not even with Rachel. It was known that there was another missing crystal and an exhaustive search for it on Mars at the time had failed to discover its whereabouts. Richard had covered his tracks and the furore had gradually subsided. Now he was waiting for the right moment – when it could be utilised properly, efficiently. But as time passed it had become more difficult. The implications of withholding the crystal, harbouring its powers, were serious. Indeed, as the world prepared for an energy shortfall of catastrophic proportions, they had become momentous. If it has been found or, worse, stolen, Richard thought, there would be hell to pay. He was sure to be prosecuted, fined and jailed, and his career would be finished. And how would he explain it to Rachel! He held his forehead in the palm of his hand and dreaded the consequences.
“Richard? Richard? Are you there?”
“Yes, sorry Aunt, yes I’m here.” Richard leant forward and put an elbow on the table and rubbed his brow. “What about the workshop? Is anything missing? It’s very important that you check Father’s workshop!”
“Your mother seemed particularly worried about the workshop too. Rather odd . . . Anyway, we checked there first . . . even before we checked the bedroom where the safe is, and again when the police arrived. The building is completely empty, well, apart from a few odds and ends and some of your father’s old tools. There was nothing of value to steal in any case, according to your mother. What a fuss! The house is what we should be worrying about – it’s an absolute mess. Look, here she is. The last police officer must have left – and about time.”