The God Particle

by Daniel Danser

  ‘And that’s why you’re doing this?’ Serena’s face was a mask of contempt. ‘Out of some kind of twisted revenge for you father not having received the recognition you think he deserved?’

  Deiter’s face flushed. ‘My father was a weak, pathetic man,’ he barked. ‘I was ashamed to carry his name through life, so I changed it to my mother’s maiden name. He should have stuck to his principles as a physicist and developed the bomb for the Nazis. As scientists, it is not in our remit to be morally judgemental. We push back the frontiers of knowledge and let others decide what they do with the results… that’s what we do.’

  ‘Even if it means hundreds of thousands of innocent people could die?’ Serena interjected.

  ‘Yes, and that’s exactly what happened as a result of my father doing the right thing. The only difference is that the innocent victims, in his case, changed from Western to Asian. Does that make it easier for you to digest?’ Deiter sneered back at her.

  ‘I’d love to know what Freud would have made of this guy’s father complex,’ Tom whispered to Serena as Deiter turned away from them.

  He must have caught the gesture out of the corner of his eye, because he suddenly snapped his head round to face Tom. ‘If you’ve got something to say, Professor Halligan, why don’t you share it with the rest of us?’

  Tom hadn’t felt this admonished since he was a schoolboy. Furthermore, he could feel his face colouring with embarrassment. ‘Er… I was just saying to Serena that you can’t keep us down here forever. Sooner or later, we’ll be missed.’

  ‘I have no intention of keeping you here for long,’ Deiter replied, icily.

  ‘Then what do you intend doing with us?’ A nervous edge had crept into Serena’s voice.

  ‘I’m glad you asked, Miss Mayer,’ Deiter smiled benignly, picking up on her anxiety. ‘The Collider is due to be tested tomorrow to ascertain what damage was done during the explosion. You three will have front row seats. Only, I fear you may be a little too close for comfort.’

  ‘You’re insane,’ Serena blurted out.

  ‘In a mad world, only the mad are sane,’ Deiter quoted. ‘The human race’s voraciousness to destroy itself is matched only by its ingenuity in achieving it. Well, this time they may have just realised their goal and scientists will not be there to put a stop to it. In fact, the experiment will be brought to the doorstep of millions – literally. Unfortunately for them, they won’t be around to share the results with the rest of us who are left.’

  ‘Is that all this is to you? Just an experiment?’ Serena asked, provokingly.

  ‘Not just an experiment, my dear,’ replied Deiter. ‘The greatest experiment the world has ever seen.’

  ‘And what makes you so certain you will be one of the survivors?’ Volker queried.

  ‘There’s an element of uncertainty in every experiment we do,’ replied Deiter. ‘That’s what makes it interesting – but what we do is balance those risks against the probable outcome. Take where we are, for example. Switzerland is a land-locked country, so there is little danger from tsunamis. If there were a mega-quake in the Mediterranean, then we have some of the highest mountains in the world where we can take refuge until the flood waters subside. There have been no reports of earthquake activity here since the fourteenth century, so it’s a fairly safe assumption that there are no active fault lines in the region.’

  ‘You’ll never get away with it,’ Tom ventured.

  Deiter ignored his protestation, gesturing to the security guard to leave the room.

  ‘It’s been a very…’ Deiter searched his mind for the right adjective. ‘Cathartic experience, and I would have liked to discuss my hypotheses further. Unfortunately, time is not on my side. In the meanwhile, I’ll leave you with your handiwork, Professor Volker.’

  He pressed a button on the remote control and the TV flicked to life, showing the havoc caused by the San Francisco quake, before following the guard out. They all flinched in unison as they heard the metallic clang of the tumblers clicking into place as the door locked with some finality.

  CHAPTER 28

  The warm waters lapped at his bare feet as Chad lay prone on the surfboard, waiting for the right time to paddle. Timing was everything. The difference between catching the wave and a total wipeout… or, on this occasion, death.

  In his short career, he had never been daunted by the size of the swells and had competed at most of the big wave locations around the world – California, Hawaii, Tahiti, even the UK. The opportunity to travel whilst doing something he really enjoyed was the reason he turned pro in the first place.

  He wasn’t academically bright; even so, it hadn’t been easy for him to tell his father that he was dropping out of his final year at High School. He’d expected some resistance, but not on the scale that ensued after he’d told him that he’d got a sponsor and wanted to become a professional surfer. During the blazing row, his father had called him a moron – or, at least, that’s what he thought he’d said. It wasn’t until much later, after he’d stormed out of the house and met up with his buddies, that they’d explained to him the definition of an oxymoron and he realised his old man was referring to the words ‘professional’ and ‘surfer’ being contradictory as opposed to him being one. It didn’t matter by then, however. They had both said things in the heat of the moment they couldn’t go back on. Besides, anybody who dissed his passion, dissed him.

  Growing up in San Diego meant that he was never far from the love of his life.

  He started surfing at the age of 6 when he was given his first board – a five-foot Liquid Shredder soft board – by his parents as a present after writing a letter to Santa. He quickly outgrew it (and the need for Father Christmas) and traded it in for a seven-foot hardboard, which had the ability to turn more easily.

  By the time he’d reached High School he was spending more time on the beach than he was in classes. On more than one occasion he found himself grounded and his board confiscated by his parents after receiving a visit from the truancy officer.

  It was around this time that he started to notice the groups of bikini-clad girls hanging around the beach, particularly whenever there was a surfing competition on. The guys referred to them as ‘groupies’ or ‘babes’ and bragged about how many they’d had. He never really considered himself as good-looking, but the attention he was attracting from the younger girls seemed to contradict that opinion.

  He had studied his naked form in the full-length mirror in his bedroom to work out whether there was something he was missing. His shaggy, sun-bleached blond hair was parted at the side, with a long fringe over his aquamarine blue eyes. It fell in layers to just above his shoulders. He had noticed his muscles starting to develop, particularly the ones he used for surfing – his triceps and chest muscles he used to quickly push himself to his feet, while his upper back and neck muscles helped him keep his chest up off the nose of the board, so he could paddle more efficiently, and his leg muscles were essentially the powerhouse – calves for balance and control, thighs for speed and direction. They were the ones that particularly ached after surfing all day.

  He was of average height, compared to the other guys he hung out with. And his nose certainly wasn’t as big as the Cohen brothers – if anything, it tipped up slightly at the end. His teeth were straight and white and his lips full. All-in-all, he couldn’t understand the interest he was getting; but, as his father always said, ‘There’s no accounting for taste.’

  Surfing is an art form, an expression of one’s creative and athletic impulses, slashed across the fluid, unpredictable canvas of the ocean surface. Over the next three years he’d honed his skills and his body to become one of the foremost virtuoso surfers in the area. By the time he was seventeen, he had surfed the entire San Diego coastline and had even competed in some events, winning trophies for his speed, control and power. That’s when he got spotted by a local surfboard shack and was offered a sponsorship deal. It didn’t provide him with much of an i
ncome, but it did pay for travel expenses and equipment costs – as long as he was doing well and wore the T-shirt.

  He’d left home shortly after the bust-up with his old man to join the circus, which was the professional surfer’s circuit. Having passed his driving test the previous year, he used the money that his family had given him towards his first car to buy a 1999 Four Winds motor home for a dollar short of fifteen thousand from a local dealer. He hadn’t haggled with the salesman about the price because he was told that another three people were interested in it and he didn’t want to lose it. It slept five at a push, but most of the time it was just him and his two surfboards. He did have the occasional overnight guest; but, because of the transient nature of his chosen career, he was never in one place long enough to forge a lasting relationship.

  His goal was to get on the Association of Surfing Professionals’ (ASP) World tour. However, for that he needed a more generous sponsor. His big break came when he was competing in the American Pro Surfing Series at Huntington Beach, California. It was a sixty-four man knock-out competition, based over five heats, with a fifty per cent elimination rate after each round. He’d managed to get down to the last eight and was up against some old pros. He knew that wave selection was the single most important factor for winning the heat, as did the other seven competitors.

  The wave he selected would determine the manoeuvres he was able to perform; marks were awarded by the panel of judges on how radical and controlled those movements were over the functional distance of the wave. In short, the bigger the wave, the better chance he had to impress the judges with his speed and power. His technique for selecting a good wave started on the shoreline, where he would watch the swells come in, getting a feel for their breaking patterns and gauging their size. After a short time, he was able to predict how big an oncoming wave would be and where it would begin to break. He’d paddle out to the site and wait for the next big swell.

  Catching the wave was the easy bit – it was what you did after that that would determine whether you received a high score or not. You can’t read the characteristics of a wave in advance; you have to be able to adapt your movement to suit the idiosyncrasies of your chosen ride. On this particular occasion, that ride turned out to be a real bitch. It started off okay – breaking to the right, the tip peeling back in a continuous line to form a twenty-foot glassy canvas on which to paint his turns.

  He was about halfway to the beach when the centre of the wave collapsed; he narrowly avoided a wipeout with a power turn that took him away from the crashing surf. He had just completed this manoeuvre when the same thing happened in front of him. With no room to turn this time, he angled the board at the crest of the wave and popped over the top into the calmer waters behind the surf, knowing that he’d blown his chances of a decent score. Dejected, he paddled back to the beach and made his way to his motor home to brood, without even bothering to hear his scores. The consolatory pats on the back and sympathetic looks he received confirmed what he knew already.

  He was halfway through his third bottle of Bud, when somebody wrapped on his door. He was in two minds as to whether to ignore it, when the door opened and the interloper stepped in.

  ‘Hey dude, don’t you wait to be invited in?’ Chad said grumpily.

  ‘Not usually,’ the man countered. ‘Name’s Hogan. I represent a clothing manufacturer. You may have heard of us.’ He handed his business card over.

  Chad took it and read the details. ‘Steve Hogan, Sponsorship Manager, North America.’ That caught his attention, but what piqued his interest more was the logo on the top of the card. Rip Curl.

  ‘You did well out there, kid.’ There wasn’t a hint of pity in his voice.

  ‘I was totally walled off,’ Chad replied despondently.

  ‘Yeah, but before that, you did well. It was just bad luck – you did the best you could with the hand you were dealt. I’ve been in this business long enough to spot real talent when I see it. Let’s say you offer me a Bud and we’ll discuss what I have in mind?’

  Two days later, Chad had a contract in his hand entitling him to a full sponsorship deal including a remuneration package of $250,000 per year. Who’s the moron now? he thought to himself as he signed his name at the bottom of the document.

  ***

  That same thought crossed his mind again now as he waited for the biggest wave of his life. It was, of course, one of those urban legends that went around the surfing community – everybody had heard of somebody doing it, but nobody knew their name or had met the person who had done it. It was always, ‘Some dude in Thailand…’ or ‘This Aussie guy...’

  There was always enough information to make it sound convincing, but never enough detail to prove it either way. Well, he was about to find out first-hand whether it was a fallacy or not. Could a pro surfer ride out a tsunami wave?

  ***

  It had been just over three years ago that he’d signed up as one of Rip Curl’s rising stars. They had appointed him a Personal Assistant, who was responsible for organising his calendar, booking him into the tournaments, making the travel arrangements, setting up the photo shoots and interviews – everything, really, apart from wiping his arse. All he had to do was be at the designated pick-up point at the allotted time and he would be whisked off to the relevant beach via a plane, train, boat or automobile.

  He had traded in his old motor home for the four and five-star hotels that the company were putting him up in. He wasn’t complaining – he got to do what he loved doing the most without the hassle of organising it. And the chicks! Those had increased exponentially. And it was a lot more comfortable screwing on a king-size Marriott bed than it was in the back of his old motor home. There had been a couple of girls that had wanted more than a casual relationship, but either he hadn’t found the right one or he just wasn’t ready to settle down. Either way, they were given the cold shoulder if they got too pushy.

  After two years of mastering his craft in the minor tournaments, netting himself a cabinet-full of trophies and a healthy bank account of prize money, he had got to realise his dream of competing in the ASP World Championships. The tour had taken in Brazil, Fiji, French Polynesia, France, Portugal, Hawaii, America and his final destination – the Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia.

  It was here, after a particular late night and an even later morning, that he switched on the TV in his hotel room to discover that an alert had been put out by the Joint Australian Tsunami Warning Centre (JATWC) of an earthquake off the west coast of Vanuatu. Although the islands themselves had received little damage from the tremors, the displacement of the sea floor had generated a huge tsunami, which was heading for the east coast of Australia. A clock on the bottom left-hand corner of the screen indicated the estimated time of impact – 48 minutes and 10 seconds… 9 seconds… 8 seconds… 7 seconds…

  He’d looked out of his bedroom window to see a slow-moving, almost stationary, line of traffic heading inland, away from the coast. His first thought was to join them, then he considered moving to the top floor of the hotel. Finally, he decided on his current course of action. If he was going to die, he wanted to do so doing something he loved, not trapped in a car like a rat in a box, or crushed to death by falling masonry.

  He’d raised the comatose form that had slept beside him with a gentle shake of the shoulders before telling her the good news. It had taken the images on the TV and a trip to the window before she finally believed what he was telling her. Her first reaction was to panic; she ran around the room, screaming and gathering the clothes she had discarded on the floor the night before. Chad had to physically restrain her before she calmed down enough to take in her option. Being a non-surfer, her best bet would be to get to the roof of the hotel and tie herself onto something stable. She dutifully agreed and left the room in a state of shock, having only managed to put on half her clothes.

  Chad had donned his wet suit and made his way to the underground car park, where his rented Subaru Outback was parked
, his surfboard having been secured to the roof rack with bungee cords. It was a relatively easy journey to the beach – his side of the road being devoid of all vehicles. He was amazed at the variety of hand gestures, facial expressions and signals that people used to try to tell him he was going the wrong way. Only once, at a police checkpoint, did they try to physically turn him back; but, when he explained that he’d left his younger sister playing on the beach, they let him through.

  All that was left for him to do was choose any one of the deserted parking slots by the beach, unclip his board from the roof, paddle out to sea, and wait.

  ***

  If the countdown on the TV was accurate, he figured he wouldn’t have much longer to wait. He ran through his strategy in his mind one last time. If the urban myths were to be believed, the first indication of the wave approaching would be the ‘drawback’, where the shoreline recedes dramatically, exposing the normally submerged seabed for hundreds of feet. To counter being stranded, like so many fish would be, he had paddled far out to sea.

  He looked back over his shoulder at the beach and could see the sun glinting off the roof of the solitary vehicle, some half a mile away in the distance. He would be carried along with the retreating tide, taking him further out to sea, towards the horizon, powerless to fight against the currents sucking him towards the unstoppable wall of water.

  He had heard that, as the wave approaches shallower water, the leading edge slows down, but the trailing part is still moving rapidly in the deeper water behind, causing it to compress. This piling up – or shoaling – results in the growth of the wave; the height it finally achieves is determined by the depth of water near the shoreline. Chad would always make a point of knowing the underwater topography before any competition. A big wave wipeout can push surfers down twenty to fifty feet below the surface. Strong currents and water action at those depths can slam a surfer into a reef or the ocean floor. The notice boards on surfing websites were always full of condolences for the latest casualties, with an estimated fifty surfers dying each year, professionals as well as amateurs.