“I know and these waves are getting higher,” replied the deckhand. “How the hell are we going to make the ones still in the water understand that we’ll come back for them?”
The mate tapped one of the women lying near his feet. “You—do you speak English?”
“Aet… a little” she whispered, her teeth chattering from the exposure.
“Tell ‘em we will be back to pick them up—that we can’t hold any more people right now. Can you do that?”
The woman translated but her voice was drowned out by protests from the remaining victims. The mate shook his head and said, “This shit is getting out of hand.” He backed the tender away and motored toward the ship. The waves had increased and a few of the refugees were nearly swept overboard as they plowed through the swells. The Persephone’s crew dropped a ladder as the tender came alongside. As the last survivor limped on deck, the mate called up, “Cap’, we’re heading back, there’s another full load in that wreckage.”
“Hang on! The captain called down, “The drone pilot spotted a couple of live ones over on the starboard side—a few hundred yards toward the island. They don’t have anything to cling to… Best try to rescue them first.”
“Aye, we’re on our way.” The tender roared around the ship’s aft quarter. The deckhand pointed to the where the refugees waited and the tender slowed to meet them. An exhausted father clung to his two young boys; the oldest child, perhaps three-years old, waved and shouted as the younger sibling—an 18-month-old baby—grasped at his father’s neck. The deckhand reached overboard to grab the baby first, but a giant wave threw the boat into the mounting seas. The mate and deckhand paddled over to the castaways and tried to reach for the child once again. “Can you throw one of them to us?” The mate yelled to the father. The man shook his head, not daring to let go of one son to save the other. Another mammoth swell separated the boat from the stranded family. “Swim!” yelled the mate. “You’ll have to swim!” The man tried to paddle toward the tender, but with both hands grasping hold of his children, his attempts were unsuccessful. “You’re going to have to throw the boy—that’s the only way we can get to him. Comprendes? Throw your boy!” The mate pantomimed his orders. “Ready? One… Two… Three—Now!”
The man kissed his son, touching the boy’s forehead to his own. Treading water, he pitched the boy with both hands as the baby clung to his neck. The deckhand leaned out—his arms extended fully and caught the little boy, dragging him into the boat seconds before a 12-foot swell carried them upward. As the boat crashed back into the trough, the mate looked for the father and baby. “Where are they?” he shouted.
“I don’t know!”
The mate spun the tender in a full circle, then reversed and repeated the maneuver. Another swell picked the tender up, carrying it for some ways. “There—over there!” the deckhand shouted. Holding onto the boy with one hand, the deckhand pointed toward the crest of an adjacent wave. The mate swung the tiller and accelerated. As they came upon the father, they saw that he swam alone. His face was a wretched mask of pain and sorrow. He screamed and cried in a language that neither sailor could understand, thrashing in the waves as he frantically searched for his infant son.
The boy clutched the sides of the inflatable. “Jema!” The father looked achingly at his son, then dove below the oncoming wave and was not seen again.
At the day’s end, only 43 out of 400 refugees had been rescued. Survivors stretched out on Persephone’s deck, sharing blankets and bottles of fresh water. The scientists did what they could to provide medical care, triaging the most urgent cases. The quadcopter and ROV were secured and ready for transport. Both unmanned vessels had retrieved numerous items that could be analyzed in the ship’s onboard lab for traces of explosive residue—clues as to who committed the murderous act. The captain placed his call to ATHENS on the ship’s satellite phone, confirming that the video feed was uploaded and on the web. Persephone’s crew resumed their regular shifts and set course for San Diego Bay. The orphaned three-year old boy sat on a tall stool near the helm, holding tightly to the first mate’s hand.
25 Bearing Witness
Montreal Quebec. Jul 26. 2033
45°30’16’ N, 73°33’36″W
The standing ovation permeated throughout the Hall Riopelle after Raj Kaleka’s final comments. Kaleka stepped from behind the podium and waved with both hands, bowing toward his audience. The giant screen on the back wall displayed a close-up of the captivating tycoon. After several minutes of applause, the event’s facilitator stepped up to the microphone to thank him and invite those interested to stick around for a Q and A session.
One of the aides approached Raj with a tablet. He nodded, accepted it, and focused on the events unfolding onscreen. A look of anguish played across Raj’s typically relaxed features and he shook his head as he watched the feed, the fingertips of his free hand moving to his lips. For a moment, Raj closed his eyes, heaved a long sigh, then whispered something in assistant’s ear. She nodded and took the tablet with her backstage, handing it to the technician.
The woman at the podium concluded her address and stepped aside. For a few uncomfortable seconds, Raj stared at the floor as the entire auditorium waited. The facilitator cleared her throat and leaned into the microphone, “Mr. Kaleka, would you like to call on your first question?”
Raj blinked, bringing his attention back to the audience. He stepped to the podium and cleared his throat. Placing his hand on the microphone, he took it from its stand and went in front of the lectern. The large screen behind him flickered blue, the words “input—live stream video” appeared in a plain font on the bottom corner. Looking toward the curtained edge of the stage, he nodded at his assistant. “Excuse me folks, but in lieu of your questions, I’d like to show you something—it’s a live feed. Please bear with us as we connect.” The blue screen disappeared, replaced by a bird’s-eye view of ocean and chain of islands. Raj looked back at the screen as he spoke into the mic. “I regret that this is rough. You’re all seeing it exactly as I am—unedited and for the very first time.”
The lights dimmed and Raj moved toward the side, sitting on the dais steps to watch as Persephone’s drone revealed the aftermath of the missile strike. Silence engulfed the room as image after image appeared in front of them. Occasional gasps from the audience broke the stillness as footage of burned bodies and floating corpses were broadcast. Raj viewed the horrific pictures in grim silence, the microphone laid across his knee, ignored. Toward the video’s end, the camera revealed the attempted rescue of the father and his two boys. From its vantage, the drone captured what the two sailors in Persephone’s tender had been unable to see—the infant son slipping from his father’s neck as his brother was thrown to safety. The audience stared in disbelief as the silent drama of a father’s nightmare played before their eyes.
The screen went blue again and the house lights returned to full intensity. The room was silent. Raj stood up and held the mic to his face. His voice was strained as he spoke, “This stream is from one of our research vessels in the Galapagos Islands. The time difference is two hours—so at approximately one-o’clock their time, they witnessed this unprovoked attack on unarmed refugees.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you—other than the crew has retrieved numerous samples from the wreckage and are currently analyzing them.”
A man in the second row stood up and asked, “Who did this? Is it a terrorist group?”
Raj shook his head. “We can’t make any assumptions now—nor would it be wise to start throwing out accusations. Our ATHENS scientists can determine what kind of weapon was used, and at that juncture, we can begin to point fingers. But not now—not when we know so little.”
The journalist from GNN raised his hand and Raj pointed at him. “Mitchell?”
“Once they’ve figured out where the explosive device came from—from whatever country or organization—are you planning to hand this evidence over to the a
ppropriate authorities?”
Raj chuckled, his lip curling into a bitter smile. “Mitch—for god’s sake, it’s streaming live. Everyone with access to the internet can scrutinize each pixel as far as I’m concerned. And yes—absolutely. ATHENS will turn over evidence to whatever authority or jurisdiction requires it without hesitation. But I’ll also tell you that I’m angry right now—I beyond angry!” Raj’s voice regained its characteristic potency as he paced across the stage. “Know this—once we’ve identified who committed this crime—no matter who or what they are… I intend to bring the full weight of my extensive resources against them. If the governments cannot or will not do something to put an end to this, then by God, I intend to.”
At the far end of the building, Richard Cross was inviting questions from the audience after his presentation. Several attendees gathered their belongings, preparing to exit when, from the far end of the hall, a journalist raised his hand. The director pointed him out and a technician handed the microphone to the reporter. “Yes, thank you—I’m from Auger’s News Agency. My question is this: Does HighTower have an official response to the missile strike off the island of Fernandina in Ecuadorian waters? Rumors are circulating that there are traces of residue initially identified as enhanced explosive schematics used by HSA. Can you comment on these findings, Director Cross?”
The audience turned to face the reporter, other journalists flipped through their devices, in search of the big scoop that just landed like a figurative rocket. Richard Cross grabbed the edges of his lectern, a lance of panic jabbed into his spine as he scrambled for a response. “What? That’s not… I—I certainly have no knowledge of such an incident. I’m afraid I can’t comment until I’m fully briefed on… Next question, please?” He searched the room for any journalist friendly to HSA, finally spotting a blonde reporter who characteristically threw soft pitches. “Heather—do you have a question for me?”
The leggy blonde stood up and held her tablet in the air. “I’m watching a recorded video that was uploaded from a research vessel on location. Their drone has recorded some disturbing images, Director Cross. Can HighTower go on the record to deny any involvement in this incident?”
“I have no comment. No further questions. Thank you.” The director turned and strode offstage, fumbling his way between the proscenium curtains.
The stunned audience buzzed with chatter and questions as members of the media rushed to call in and upload their stories. A flustered event organizer climbed the stairs to the podium and leaned into the microphone. “Excuse me—uh, we’d like to thank you for attending our session today. I ask everyone to please leave in an orderly…”
Someone from the audience shouted, “Hey—Raj Kaleka is holding a press conference—it’s starting in five minutes out at the main entrance!”
Chairs were overturned as conference attendees rushed the exits “People! Please, exit in a safe and orderly fashion! Excuse me—we need to consider safety… Oh, screw it.” The overwhelmed announcer walked off the platform, tossing his badge on the floor.
Residence of Nelson Banks. Denver CO. Jul 26. 2033
39°45'13.2"N 104°59'55.4"W
Nelson Banks stretched out across the leather divan in the center of his living room. The late afternoon sun shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse apartment, creating a glare that reflected harshly off of the glass-surfaced coffee table near his head. He harrumphed as he rolled onto his side and buried his face into the cushions. “West-facing shades to 60 percent,” he mumbled into the pillow.
“I am very sorry; I could not interpret your command,” a refined feminine voice resonated from a wall-mounted speaker. Nelson flopped onto his back and, with his hand shielding his eyes, repeated the command—adding a few expletives to his sentences. The plate glass windows automatically transitioned to a subtle amber tone. Nelson kicked off his Ferragamo loafers and blindly reached for the half-empty Dalmore ‘43 single malt. As his hand groped around the table, his mobile fell onto the plush carpet, followed immediately by a glass of melted ice. “Well, shit.” Nelson rolled himself into a sitting position and picked up the glass and mobile. He shook the liquid from the device and tapped the screen to check for damage. “Play the last message received.” The constrained tone of Amanda Terrance’s voice resonated through the transmitter. “…And furthermore, you’ll find that I’ve sent over not only the recording, but the transcript of the entire conversation with Director Cross regarding the… ‘incident’ that we’ve discussed at length. I trust you’ll find that there was no ambiguity in his orders. I’m available to speak with you in detail about the matter at any time. Please give me a call at your convenience. Good afternoon.” Nelson heaved a dramatic sigh and chucked the phone onto the divan. He reached into the pewter bucket and grabbed a handful of ice. Holding his hand some distance above the glass, he dropped the cubes one by one, listening to the clinking sound each made against the crystal. Nelson grabbed the bottle of Dalmore by its neck and splashed a healthy pour into the glass, sloshing the ice and scotch around in small circles before he swallowed. His mobile buzzed, vibrating against the leather cushions. Nelson grabbed it. “Banks here. Make it short.”
“This is Maureen, Nelson. Be assured, I plan to be very brief.”
Nelson rubbed his forehead and silently mouthed the word Fuck! before responding to the Secretary of State. “Good evening Madame Secretary. I thought I might be hearing from you today.”
“Shut up, Nelson. We were clear about what would happen should any of this wind up in the press. And yet here we are. This is unprecedented—I’m not even going to try and describe the bloodbath we’re having in the media right now…. It’s—well, fuck you, Nelson! We are in the middle of a full-blown crisis.”
“Maureen—Madame Secretary, this is solvable. We will be able to ride this out.”
“Really Nelson? Because you’ll never guess who is sitting in the Oval Office right now—I guarantee you—you’ll never guess.”
“Maureen, I…”
“Raj-Fucking-Kaleka—that’s who. Jesus Christ, Nelson, he’s got the President by the short and curlies.” The Secretary’s rage was unmistakable, causing her voice to crack the more she spoke. “Here is the thing—listen carefully to me. When we last talked, I made it crystal clear that should any heads be required to swing, they’d be HighTower’s, not our administration’s. And I want a goddamn head, Nelson. A significant head—and I want it served to me on a silver fucking platter by dinnertime tonight. Do you understand me?”
“I do—believe me, I definitely do. I’ll have your sacrificial lamb ready for the slaughter. The details will be sent within the next ten minutes. Satisfied?”
“Raj. Fucking. Kaleka! Dear god, Nelson.”
“Look, we’ll bury this and—and it’ll all blow over. Be assured Madame Secretary; Kaleka’s just acting like an overblown peacock. Once ATHENS stocks shoot up because of all this publicity, he’ll back down.”
“Nelson, HighTower is on very thin ice—and not just with our government… I hear that the Canadian Prime Minister is seeing red. You’d better get your house in order. And that other thing—the project we will won’t speak of—should it ever surface, I will feed you and yours to the sharks so fast they’ll swallow your unborn great-grandchildren before you know what happened.”
“Thanks Maureen, I get the picture.”
“Send me that fucking name, Nelson.”
Nelson Banks slammed the mobile onto the table, causing its contents to rattle across the glass surface. He poured another glass of Scotch—sans ice, and gulped it down. Rising unsteadily from the divan, Banks stumbled into the bathroom, steadying himself against the gold-plated towel rack. As he flushed the commode, he muttered, “Dial HighTower West Coast—Amanda Terrance’s private line.”
26 Parting Gifts
Campbell Island, BC. Aug. 7. 2033
52°11'49.5"N 128°10'44.1"W
By the eighth day of
the journey, the travelers had fallen into a workable routine. Even Kim had grown accustomed to the monotonous paddling. The group woke several hours before dawn and didn’t break for rest and food until mid-morning. The late summer’s fog hung low across the water, obscuring even the tall cliffs of any land nearby. By noon, as the thick layers of mist burned away, the companions were back in their boats, paddling until well past sunset. They ate their midday meal as they made their way south. If the surf was too high for a beach landing, they tied the crafts into thick kelp beds and, anchored firmly to the seafloor, slept in shifts amid the swaying forests of seaweed. As long as the weather and seas permitted, the paddlers averaged 30 miles per day in this manner.
They stayed close to shorelines, opting for narrow channels. These diversions added extra miles of paddling, but allowed them to avoid the high-traffic routes and rougher conditions of exposed water. Kai and Ooligan guided the party through the labyrinth of the coastal island chain. Oolie did her best to pass on her knowledge of the archipelagos. She showed them ways to determine if an inlet was truly a thoroughfare—connecting passageways, or simply a false bay that could lead to an eventual dead end. Kai showed them how to use the paddles correctly, to save on unnecessary movements. “Be like the salmon—move your upper body like a fish swims with its tail.” He showed them how to subtly twist from side to side, dipping each spoon-shaped blade into the water without a splash and to continue the stroke—lifting the paddle as it trailed far behind. Occasionally Saka reappeared from an expedition and wriggled past them, as if demonstrating Kai’s metaphor.
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