by Randy Dutton
The Carbon Trap
Randy Dutton
Copyright Randy Dutton 2012
Published by Rainforest Press
Cover Art by Sean Dutton
Earth is backdropped by a pure carbon matrix, a form unusable by nature. From the Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling fresco is the hand of Adam, no longer extended to God but removing CO2 from the atmosphere in the attempt to control the environment to suit man’s vanity. What God giveth, mankind taketh away.
Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Set in 12 pt. Times New Roman
Dedication
To my wonderful wife and best friend Gail, and my wonderful twin sons Sean and Scott, writers all, who encouraged me to convert my insatiable musings to literature.
The Carbon Trap
Carbon Series: Book 1
"Until now only the late great Michael Crichton dared to tell the fraudulent global warming story in novel "State of Fear" that cited all the science that puts the lie to the fear mongering going on for two decades. Now Randy Dutton has followed suit with an incredible story of action and intrigue that will excite you and delight you and inform you just how bad things could be if the bad guys win." – Jay Lehr, Science Director, Heartland Institute
“I have read many conspiracy novels, but none have been like this. In a sense I’m reminded a little of Tom Clancy’s work, but just slightly. This one goes way beyond that. This one is real, like a cardiac arrest on a runaway train approaching a collapsed trestle over a bottomless gorge. It is today, or not too many days away in a near future.
“THE CARBON TRAP by Randy Dutton digs into the ideas of global warming and its effects. The story looks at both sides of the argument and uses hard science to make its points. The arguments for and against are presented in well written prose bearing plenty of detail. Detail that will have the reader quaking at the possibilities stated and the agendas exposed. This is not a book for the complacent among us, but it is a novel well tailored to those who have the blinders off, who don’t believe everything the government dishes out and who want to know the truth, no matter how much it hurts.
“...This is chilling speculative fiction at its finest and, Randy tells me, there will be others to fill out his series of nerve wrenching tales.
“I liked this book for its bare bones reality and its solid science underpinnings. The descriptive narrative is superior and the dialogue is great and believable. You may also find yourself falling in love with Anna, as I did. What a gal...!”
– J. Richard Jacobs, Writer of Soft and Hard Fiction
“This book is very innovative and has a cast of unique characters.... the author is to be commended for tackling the environmental issue in a new and interesting way.”
–Indtale
Prologue
June 8th, 1000 hours
Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Kresge Auditorium
The professor winced as his heartbeat raced and his temples throbbed.
I’ve felt this...years ago...before the pacemaker. This is worse.
Gripping the lectern with sweaty palms, the bright spotlights seemed more foreboding, adding to his confusion. While the audience murmured, he stared over his shoulder at the projection screen.
Why are my vacation photos on screen? Where’s my presentation?
Now, even the chanting protestors in back seemed muted. To his right, a shadowy onstage figure with outstretched arms was rushing toward him.
My heart, it’s pumping much faster than normal. What’s wrong with my pacemaker?
His mouth emitted shallow pants, but uttered no words. Clutching his chest with his right fist, his aching left arm now dangling, he leaned against the lectern, as his whole world closed in.
With a slow turn toward the audience, a rapid pounding in his ears drowned out the rumble of 1200 attendees. Nearly everyone was leaning forward, gasping, alarmed. Most of their faces were a blur except the front couple rows where his eyes focused directly ahead.
One person stood out.
Front and center was a frumpy, gray-haired woman with an enigmatic expression, calmly clicking on her laptop. His last thoughts were of how deep and clear her blue eyes seemed for such an old woman.
He was dead before he hit the stage, his heart driven past its capabilities by an out-of-control pacemaker. His collapsing body knocked over the lecture sign welcoming this world-renowned oceanographic scientist. The sign tumbled over the stage edge, its topic, ‘Evidence Proves Sea Level Won’t Rise After All,’ now rested upside-down.
The elderly woman slowly grinned at the irony. Professor Beecher’s speech would never be given nor published – not here at MIT, not at next week’s UN Conference in the Maldives. Her lace-gloved left hand slid into her linen jacket pocket and fingered the thumbdrive containing his original presentation.
She studied the oscillating images on her screen – one line fluctuated at five beats per second, the other had flat-lined. Clicking a few keys caused an indicator light to change from red to green – the software was now on standby. The rapid pulse line of the pacemaker immediately dropped from five to the standard one beat per second, but the heart’s flat-line remained. Her eyes lifted to view the chaos just three meters in front as staff tried to resuscitate the speaker. She knew it to be futile. Her gloved fingers extracted, from the side of her computer, a separate USB device with its quarter-sized unidirectional antenna – it went into her pocket.
Closing her laptop, she slid it into a flower-quilted, carrying bag. Gently she rose and made her way to the stage stairs. The paramedics passed her bent body as she laboriously climbed each step.
Seemingly out of breath, the heavily perfumed matron lowered herself on an empty chair next to the professor’s idle laptop. With a deft hand protruding out of her long ruffled sleeve, she plugged in another thumbdrive and brought his computer out of hibernation. Within seconds, malware scanned and permanently deleted various files relating to the professor’s research. This was her last step, for in the past few days, she had altered the professor’s backup files on MIT’s servers and sanitized his office of all relevant files.
Rising from the folding chair, she then slowly exited the auditorium into the sunlight of the Green – what MIT students referred to as the Kresge Oval. Here, the crowd was deafening as panicked attendees mixed with the thousands of environmental protestors condemning the university’s decision to allow the anti-global warming presentation. She paid no attention to either group and turned to the right. The stooped woman shuffled to Amherst Street for a taxi to the Midtown Hotel Boston for her transformation.
Two hours later, a woman in her white linen suit emerged from the hotel pulling a large metal-shelled suitcase. Large oversized tortoise-shell sunglasses hid her bright blue eyes, while a wide brim hat contained her wavy blonde hair and cast a dark shadow across her face. Keeping her head tilted away from surveillance cameras, she hailed a cab for Logan International Airport.
Chapter 1
June 15th, 15
00 hours, a few years in the future
North Malé Atoll, Maldives
Twonngggg, twonngggg, twonngggg, the gong resonated at the rhythm of a slow heart beat as the ceremonial herald slowly ascended the seven wide stairs to the conference hall stage. The sonorous sounds made by the hand-held, flat brass koli created wave-like tones that commanded the crowd’s attention. When the instrument went quiet, the crowd held its collective breath.
The Aboonayake, an aged representative of the Maldivian President, stepped up to the podium. His multi-colored red kilt sported a blue stripe and a wide, red silk waistband that highlighted the stark whiteness of his blouse so that his costume resembled that of the herald. He stared straight ahead in a most officious manner. In a clear, booming voice, the Aboonayake read the proclamation that ended this historic United Nations special meeting. He spoke first in Dhivehi – the Maldivian language – then in English, and ended in French. When the Aboonayake finished, the herald resumed beating his koli, and paraded down the center aisle.
In a VIP section, a silver-maned octogenarian spoke softly to a striking blonde woman sitting to his right and tapping on a tablet, “It’s done, Anna. We’ve won. Carbon dioxide’s officially the enemy of all mankind!”
With the slightest of smiles, and her deep blue eyes tracking the passing procession, she leaned into him. “Time for act two.” She slipped her computer into a Gucci black leather messenger bag.
The front doors opened allowing the herald to exit the spellbound hall.
Silence became thunder. Most of the delegates rose from their rattan chairs, knocking a few over in their exuberance. Cheering erupted. Languages merged into a cacophony of exultation. Delegates congratulated those nearest them – some of the younger ones nearly swooning with excitement, and older delegates smiling broadly and shooting knowing glances at key acquaintances.
Conversation in the conference room became deafening, driving people out of the chamber, and to the courtyard where delegates were deluged by a gaggle of international press seeking commentary.
Many participants headed to various musical entertainments provided by wealthy foundations to celebrate their victory, while some of the more scientifically literate headed for the sponsored ecological aerial or seafaring tours.
But not everyone was done for the day.
A cluster of 15 delegates stepped into the bright sunlight. Like lemmings, they followed the elder man walking side-by-side with Anna who had put on large sunglasses and turned away from the press cameras.
Outside the rope line, reporters were yelling over each other, “Mr. Swanson, comment please!”
The entourage ignored the press and proceeded westward down one of many lush garden pathways interspersed among the Kurumba Resort buildings, located on the North Malé Atoll in the Maldives. The Maldives was an Indian Ocean island-nation the UN claimed would be swallowed by a rising ocean – that is, they claimed, unless help came quickly.
The UN meeting location was symbolic. For decades, the media had widely reported that the oceans were rising, and mankind was the culprit. Not quite averaging two meters above sea level, the Maldives was touted as the first country that would disappear – the canary in the coal mine. The mainstream media knew this was true because the UN and selected experts said so, and now, by fiat, the world would act as one. That’s what the press was expected to report, that the just-concluded meeting signaled the start of the solution.
As the small group walked, the men took off their white, tropical weave suit jackets in concession to the humid environment beyond the air-conditioned meeting rooms. Grinning, they strolled through an abundance of roses, delicate yellow and orange althaea flowers, and the pink and yellow plumer that spread its pleasant fragrance throughout the island. Unobtrusively positioned behind the foliage, armed guards ensured their privacy...and their safety.
Anna’s lightly-tanned skin glistened from the tropical climate. Gently she repositioned her bag’s carrying strap then tugged at her blouse to circulate air. Brushing her wavy hair behind her squared shoulders, she glanced up admiringly at her boss, Alexis Swanson, as if trying to read his thoughts.
Listed among Forbes wealthiest, Swanson was respected, and feared. At 6’2”, his chiseled features, square jaw, and steely look through silver-framed glasses, intimidated even his peers. While known to have influence in most of the major nations’ governments, few knew the extent of his reach, nor the means he would employ to accomplish his goals.
As the founder of the Snath Group, his reputation for manipulating the currencies and policies of various nations was infamous. He had quickly turned the holding company into a brand that controlled the cutting edge of technology. Such was his inside joke. Snath, the long handle that held a scythe – the blade of a harvesting tool – was an appropriate name. Many would make the parallel with the grim reaper’s preferential tool for harvesting souls.
Anna tracked the elder man’s gaze upward. A light brown haze clouded an otherwise clear sky. Having drifted at least 600 kilometers southwest, this was the residue of uncontrolled Indian industrialization, something the UN soon would rein in.
Her smile mimicked that of her boss while she imagined his thoughts. Fossil fuel, the dominant power source for India and most industrial countries, will be eliminated, and fast. That has just been decided.
Swanson’s demeanor also reflected pleasure as the fragrance of sea salt and imported tropical flowers permeated the air. The nearly constant ocean breeze also carried the sounds of squawking parrots and macaws, and the rhythmic surf on the reef a scant 90 meters away, just beyond the concrete breakwater. The colorful tropical aviators were staged – their wings clipped and their feet tied to a perch. The beautiful birds were a tropical feature people expected, but wouldn’t get in the Maldives where house crows, egrets, and other sea birds were the norm.
He looked down to his right. “You did a great job helping get us to this point.”
Anna nodded. “All a matter of fulfilling expectations to garner desired results.”
He sighed. “My dear, learn to enjoy the moment. Ignore the artifice. And why must you always be on a computer? What possibly could have been more exciting in the conference than watching the culmination of our planning?”
She shrugged. “I multitask. I can recount nearly everything that transpired, but I also wanted to record who attended and where they sat.”
“For what possible reason?”
Her voice lowered in volume and pitch. “Because we still have enemies, and conspirators often sit together.”
His head slowly shook. “You never rest.”
“I’m fine.... By the way, your carbon credits value rose 27% within five minutes of the Carbon Law passing. You’ve made—”
“Yes, yes. I made billions,” he interrupted. “It’s not all about the money.”
“No?” Her attention shifted an extension of his power. Two helicopters were sitting a hundred meters distant on the white sand beach – each had an armed pilot. Idling offshore was a yacht tender with Spider stenciled on its stern and two more armed men. “I see Jared’s ready to whisk you away if need be.”
“That’s why I have you both. He’s reactive...you’re proactive. I do wish you two would get along.”
Her lips pursed to prevent a sarcastic response.
As they approached the Snath cabana, Swanson, his long silver hair pulled into a loose tail, raised a brow at his waiting head of security.
Jared promptly responded with a warm nod, indicating all physical and electronic security precautions were in place, but his nod to Anna was frigid.
She smirked in response.
Often shadowing his boss, Jared Swanepoel was an enigma to most – few knew his military or intelligence background. He coordinated Snath security through his mobile secured communications network, and supervised a vast team of highly trained security experts – many position around this beach. At 6’5”, he was built like a rugby linebacker and exuded strength and ale
rtness. Neither his stoic expression, nor his facial scars detracted from his movie star looks.
Swanson entered the air-conditioned shelter and strode across the Brazilian hardwood floor to the head of a five-meter oblong table. Made of inlaid rosewood and polished to a high luster, it was more elegant than in any presidential cabinet meeting room. Its surface design hid well the faint lines indicating how it broke into sections for transport.
“Ladies and gentlemen, help yourselves to refreshments,” Swanson started. “You’ve earned it!”
He gestured to the fully-stocked bar and two tables. One featured local foods – tuna, and rice, as well as bananas, papaya, mango, pumpkin, sweet potatoes, and breadfruit. The desserts were mostly based upon coconut. Those generally were ignored in favor of the second table of foods he had flown in and better suited the palates of the assemblage.
Pitchers of ice water were on the conference table within each person’s reach. In front of each chair was an electronic tablet with a hand silhouette and an attendee’s name.
Swanson sat. With his touch on a keypad, an OLED display and keyboard rose out of the table. He started reading reports.
Sitting to his right was Anna. While others mingled, she busied herself with her tablet and sipping a white wine.
After ten minutes she leaned to Swanson. “It’s time.”
He stood and grinned with satisfaction. “Ladies and gentlemen, please find the tablet displaying your name and be seated.... Thank you each for moving us to this point in our timeline, one that will move rapidly over the next few weeks. The United Nations Working Group has responded exactly as we’ve orchestrated.... I’ve been waiting a long time to say...we now live in a carbon controlled world...and he who controls carbon…controls life! Perhaps I’m a bit arrogant, but...we’re now at the top of the food chain!”