The God Particle

by Daniel Danser

  He had done his homework. He knew that the Gold Coast had a steep underwater shelf that ran to a depth of two hundred feet before plunging vertically down, three miles, to the ocean floor. Even with his limited education, he could work out that that meant he was going to encounter the mother of all waves.

  But the enormity wasn’t his only concern. He was proficient enough to be able to ride any size wave – as long as it had a clean face. That meant that, when the wave broke, it did so from the crest down, leaving a carpet of blue sea rolling towards the shore on which to surf. Unfortunately, tsunamis differed significantly from wind-generated waves in a number of ways. Not only were they bigger and faster, but, contrary to popular belief, they come ashore as a large, cresting wave. When a tsunami hits shallower waters, the shoaling effect breaks up the leading edge of the wave, turning into a wall of mushy white water that rolls towards the coastline like a gigantic surge.

  Because there would be nothing for the bottom of the surfboard to grip on to, he’d essentially get bounced around in the foamy mess until he fell off, and that’s something he needed to avoid at all costs. His strategy was to wait until the very last moment and then ‘duck dive’ under the surge. A difficult manoeuvre at the best of times but, given the speed of the approaching wave, he’d have to time it to perfection. Essentially, he would paddle as fast as he could towards the wave to build up momentum; then, before getting caught in the maelstrom, he would hold down the front of the board so that it submerged. Taking a deep breath, he would kick as hard as he could and follow the board under the surface, pushing down on the back of it with his foot to gain extra depth. The deeper he could go, the better chance he had at surviving the initial onslaught.

  Next, he would have to judge when the front edge of the wave had passed over him, before pulling up the nose of the board and allowing himself to float to the surface.

  And this is where an idiosyncrasy of a tsunami may work in his favour; in fact, he was counting on it. All waves are made up of a series of peaks and troughs – the high point being the peak or crest, and the low point the trough behind it before another wave starts. The distance between these two points in a normal oceanic wave can be measured in terms of feet; but, with a tsunami, it’s measured in miles. If he could time it so that he missed the turbulent water at the front and surfaced just after the peak on the back side of the wave, he should be in a position to ride it all the way inland until it burnt itself out. He would then have enough time to get to higher ground before the next one came in.

  He had been through his strategy what seemed like a thousand times in his mind but there were too many ‘ifs’, ‘buts’, or ‘maybes’ for him to feel confident. He would have to wing it, react to the conditions as they happened, relying on his experience and instinct. He didn’t mind admitting to himself that he was the most scared he’d ever been in his life.

  To top it all, he knew that tsunami waves were a lot longer than the ones he was used to, sometimes stretching for hundreds of miles. So, once he was committed to riding it, there was no turning back. He couldn’t simply pull away to the side to avoid a wipeout, as there were no sides.

  He sensed it coming, long before he saw it. The sea went as still as a mill pond and the ubiquitous cawing of seagulls ceased abruptly. He looked up at the cloudless blue sky, which was eerily deserted. It was as though he’d stepped into a photograph – there wasn’t a trace of movement anywhere. And then came a rumble. Not in the air, but through the sea, as the sound waves travelled four times faster in the water than their airborne counterparts. It started as a low resonance in his solar plexus, increasing in intensity, until the surfboard beneath him began to vibrate.

  The previously calm surface became choppy, forming small peaks, which buffeted him from side to side as they rose and fell. He started to paddle towards the horizon, anxious to meet his opponent on his own terms. His hands powered through the surf, feeling the tension on his palms as he pulled back, driving the board forward.

  He was into a steady rhythm and making good speed when, suddenly, the water resistance increased and it felt like he was pushing through treacle. The force of the current was so strong that his biceps burnt after just a couple of strokes and he decided to conserve his energy for the main event. But, instead of slowing down, he seemed to be going faster. He looked behind him to see the coastline receding in the distance – the drawback.

  Bring it on! His fear had morphed into anxiety driven by a determination to succeed. He recognised the feeling from the way he felt before every major competition – the fear of failure. Anybody who said they didn’t get nervous were either supremely confident (and were often the ones the condolences were for) or they were liars.

  He gripped the sides of his board firmly and raised himself to his knees to get a better view. It was almost imperceptible at first; but, as he stared, he could just make out a thin white line on the horizon. And then he heard it. If he hadn’t known any better he would have mistaken it for the boom of distant thunder. The blue space above the sea narrowed as the wave started to rear up in the distance. The reverberations increased, enveloping him in a wall of sound as it echoed off the beach.

  His momentum had picked up; he must have been doing at least thirty knots, equivalent to the speeds he’d reach surfing in a big wave competition. The sea continued to rise in front of him and he could now clearly distinguish the frothing, destructive water as it barrelled towards him at over five hundred miles per hour. He felt his heart beat rapidly against his ribcage as adrenalin coursed through his veins. He tried to calm himself by taking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly; it seemed to work. His mind focussed on what he had to do. Timing he reminded himself. Too soon and he may not be able to wait long enough for the turbulent water to pass overhead; too late, and he would be caught up in it. He tried to anticipate how long it would take to reach him, but it was travelling at such a pace it was impossible to judge.

  The sound now was almost deafening. The skyline was totally obliterated by the towering wall of water that stretched the full length of the horizon. At the last moment he decided on the lesser of the two evils. He would dive early – at least he would have a chance then. He knew his lungs were in peak condition; he had never smoked in his life – apart from the odd obligatory spliff, of course. He felt the spray off the advancing wave on his face and decided to go for it. He inhaled, held his breath and then put all of his weight on the front of the board, which dutifully sank below the surface. He instantly shifted his weight to his right leg to push the back of the board down before going under himself.

  The whole procedure had taken less than two seconds to complete but, at the speed the wave was travelling, it was still probably a split second too late. As he sank towards the seabed, he was hit by the force of the surge which tumbled him over and over like a rag doll. He managed to hold onto his board and kicked out, hoping to release himself from its grip. He was so disoriented he didn’t know if he was surfacing or going deeper.

  The spinning stopped abruptly as the front of the board struck something solid; only his physical fitness prevented him from being catapulted forward, his biceps taking the brunt of the jolt. He peered into the murky water to see what had happened, but visibility was down to zero. He dragged himself along the length of the board and felt for the tip. It was buried in the silt of the seabed. He gripped the sides and pulled, but it didn’t budge – the force of the impact had driven it deep. He tried to get a purchase on the silky floor with his legs, but it was too slippery. Should he leave it and risk surfacing without it? No – he would be a sitting duck. His board wasn’t just a floatation device; it was his ticket to ride.

  He tried again, conscious he was using up precious seconds of air. His bare feet slid along the bottom as he heaved to dislodge it. His left foot brushed against something hard. He adjusted his position, his toes searching out the object and felt it again – a smooth rock. Whether the tsunami had deposited it there or it was a natural part of th
e underwater topography, he didn’t care. He tested his weight against it – it was stable. With both heals dug into the sand and the balls of his feet leveraging off the boulder, he tugged with all his might.

  He felt the board give slightly and strained harder. Suddenly, he was back-peddling. It was so unexpected that his brain switched to self-preservation mode, automatically releasing his grip on the board, freeing up his hands to break his fall. But, instead of crashing to the ground, his buoyancy forced him towards the surface. He made a mental note to have a word with his brain, if he survived, that that instinctive reaction wasn’t necessary in water.

  He twisted his body around and swam back to retrieve his board, feeling along the bottom to where he thought it should be. All his exertions were taking its toll on his oxygen reserves. His muscles ached and he had a burning sensation in his chest. If he didn’t head for the surface soon he would definitely run out of air. His hands searched the bed whilst his legs kicked to keep him down – nothing. Then he felt the rock. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the location; the board couldn’t be more than two feet away from it. He did a quick sweep of the area, but drew a blank. Perhaps it was a different rock?

  It didn’t matter. His time was up. His lungs were telling him that he needed to take a breath. He had to fight against the reflex; the pain in his chest was almost unbearable. He did a quick mental calculation. If the depth of the sea was a hundred feet before the wave arrived and the height of the wave was a hundred feet, that meant he had to swim up two hundred feet before he broke the surface. He wasn’t worried about the bends, as that didn’t affect free divers; it was the nitrogen absorption from the tanks that caused the problems for scuba divers. What he was worried about was how long it would take him – a minute and a half, maybe two minutes. On second thoughts – he didn’t have time to worry. Whatever fate awaited him up there without his surf board was put to the back of his mind.

  He pushed off the seabed with as much force as his legs could muster, keeping his arms by his side to make himself more streamline. He counted the seconds off to take his mind away from wanting to gulp in a lungful of sea water. Ten seconds… he had read somewhere that the frog kick was the most efficient way to propel yourself under water – more forward thrust with less effort. He wasn’t in a position to argue and gave it a go.

  Thirty seconds… he looked up to see if he could see the surface, but the visibility was still as bad. He could feel the force of the wave carrying him along with it. Forty-five seconds… his lungs were screaming for him to take a breath and the pain was excruciating. He prayed he’d make it before he blacked out. One minute… abandoning the streamline approach, he used his arms to push the water past him, hoping it would increase his speed, more through desperation than any kind of logic. One minute twenty seconds… it seemed to be getting lighter – either daylight was filtering through or he was suffering from the effects of hypoxia. He remembered something about how people hallucinate when their brains get starved of oxygen.

  One minute forty seconds… he couldn’t fight against the urge to breathe any longer. His whole body was racked with severe shooting pains as his muscles demanded a fresh supply of oxygen. His willpower was losing the battle to prevent his body from doing what it did naturally. He inhaled, feeling the cool, salty water enter his larynx. But there was no relief from the pain. His bronchi, unable to recognise the fluid as something it could process, rejected it, making him cough. But, as he spluttered, he breathed in more water. So this is what it feels like to drown, the thought flashed through his mind.

  One minute forty-five seconds… his cognitive function was unimpaired; he knew exactly what was happening to him, but was unable to control the convulsions. He gasped one last time and felt a rush of air enter his respiratory tract. He thrashed around, trying desperately to keep his head above the waterline, frantically gulping in the life-saving sustenance in-between retches. After a few more breaths, his lungs resumed their normal rhythm and the spasms subsided, but he was exhausted.

  He looked around to get his bearings. He was being carried along by the wave; it took all his effort to stay afloat by treading water. He had surfaced a good distance behind the leading edge and was elevated enough to see that it had already made landfall; the beach and the line of cars beyond were totally submerged. He knew his chances of surviving were slim unless he could find a buoyancy aid. He craned his neck to see over the tons of seaweed that lay in a carpet of green around him and spotted something white bobbing up and down a hundred yards away to his left. He summoned the last reserves of his energy and swam over to it.

  CHAPTER 29

  Tom was unsure at first what had woken him, and then he realised it was the urgency in the voice on the TV.

  They had spent what seemed like hours wrestling with their handcuffs in an effort to free themselves, but to no avail. It was only when their wrists became too bloodied and painful to continue that they had to admit defeat. Even if they had managed to get out of their constraints, there was still the locked door to deal with and possibly an armed guard on the other side.

  Resigned to the fact that they would have to look for another opportunity to escape, either when they were being transported to the Collider or when they were in it, they started to theorise on how best they could thwart Deiter’s plans. They had managed to keep a track of time using the digital clock on the TV, so Tom knew it was some time after four in the morning before they had formulated the outline of a strategy that could, theoretically, work. Not being an exact science, there were no guarantees as to the effectiveness of their postulations. The best they could hope for would be to slow the polar reversal down enough to give people time to react, either by mass evacuation of the potentially dangerous areas like coastlines and fault lines, or preparing themselves for the inevitable. At least they would have a choice and, possibly, a chance.

  To put their theory to the test obviously involved at least one of them escaping, and that person was nominated as Tom. Frederick had the most knowledge and Serena was the fittest, but Tom had enough of both to make him the ideal candidate. The other two said they were prepared to sacrifice themselves if necessary to ensure that he got away. Tom’s remonstrations at the thought of this were only half-hearted; he knew, deep down, that it may be the only way to save millions of lives. He also knew, without question, that if he were in their position, he would do the same.

  He couldn’t remember dozing off, but the sleep he did manage to get was restless and fitful, not aided by the fact that the nylon cord binding him to the chair dug into his arms every time he tried to move. He looked across at his fellow captives, who were reposing in a similar, uncomfortable position, before turning his attention back to the now almost hysterical voice on the TV that had woken him up.

  The image on the screen was grainy and kept going in and out of focus; it was evident that the person taking the footage was doing so on their mobile phone, high up in a building. Regardless of the lack of visual clarity, Tom could make out a lone figure clambering onto a surfboard. If it hadn’t been for the tickertape words running along the bottom of the newscast, he would have sworn he was watching some holidaymaker getting out of his depths in rough seas. But he did read it: ‘Newsflash – mega tsunami hits Gold Coast of Australia, thousands presumed dead.’

  The running commentary from the person taking the film, despite being heavily censored for expletives, helped define what the viewers were watching.

  ‘Bleep me, this guy’s bleep-ing nuts. He’s on the board, he’s on the board, he’s lying on the board, now he’s trying to get up. Bleep me, have you seen the size of that bleep-ing wave! That’s one mother bleep of a wave. He’s up, he’s up on the board. No, he’s down again, he’s kneeling down. He’s trying to steady himself. He’s back on his feet… steady… steady… he’s up. He’s riding it, he’s riding the mother bleep. Bleep me, I’ve never seen anything like it! This guy must have bleeps of steel.

  ‘He’s turning, he’s coming
back the other way, he’s trying to keep his speed steady. Go man! You can do it! He’s turning again, he’s about two hundred yards out, but he’s moving too fast. If he comes in at that speed he’ll be smashed against the buildings like a squashed bleep-ing tomato. Hundred and fifty yards. He’s turning again. Slow the bleep down, man! A hundred yards. He’s kneeling down again, now he’s lying down, he’s dragging his feet in the water. Fifty yards… he’s gonna do it! He’s slowing down. He’s past where the beach was. He’s level with the buildings. Grab the tree, grab the bleep-ing tree. He’s got it. The tree’s snagged him. Bleep that’s got to bleep-ing hurt. He’s lost his board, but he’s alright. I can see him climbing up the branches to the top of the tree. He’s safe. That’s more than I can say for us. Bleep me, the water’s up to the third floor. We need to get on the bleep-ing roof!’

  ‘I see you’ve been keeping up to date with how our little experiment is going.’ Deiter had entered the room whilst Tom had been preoccupied with the drama unfolding on TV.

  Damn, that’s the second time he’s sneaked up on me. Tom made a mental note to keep looking over his shoulder whenever Deiter was in the vicinity. Not that he was planning to be around him for much longer. But his heart sank when he saw the two goons who had followed him through the door. Both sported crew cuts, a thickset jaw and a physique Arnold Schwarzenegger would be jealous of. They were killing machines and their weapons of choice appeared to be Kalashnikovs, which hung loosely over their shoulders.