The woman on the beach in Bali had dropped the hydrozoan but the stick had brushed her toe. It must have left a trace of venom - enough to ensure that she never forgot it.
But the Portuguese man-of-war was harmless compared to the box jellyfish - Chironex fleckeri, the deadly Australian sea wasp.
In the course of evolution, nature had developed an impressive array of toxins. Chironex fleckeri was the pièce de résistance. A single box jellyfish contained enough poison to kill 250 people. Its highly potent venom paralysed the nervous system, causing immediate loss of consciousness. Within minutes, or sometimes seconds, most of its victims suffered heart failure and drowned.
All this ran through Johanson’s mind as he stared at the screen.
Fourteen dead and countless others injured in a matter of weeks. Had the death-count ever been so high on a single stretch of coastline from just a single species? And what about the disappearing ships?
Portuguese men-of-war in South America. Box jellyfish in Australia.
Bristleworms in Norway.
It’s probably coincidence, he thought. Swarms of jellyfish appeared all over the world. The holiday season wouldn’t be the same without them. They had nothing in common with worms.
He tidied away the last few items of clothing, switched off the television and went into the living room to listen to music or read. But he didn’t put on a CD or pick up a book. For a while he paced up and down, eventually stopping at the window. The streetlamps lit the street outside.
The lake had been so peaceful…
It was peaceful here too…
When things were so peaceful, there was usually something wrong.
Don’t be ridiculous, Johanson told himself.
He poured himself some grappa, took a sip, and tried to forget about the news.
Then he remembered Knut Olsen, a fellow biologist at the NTNU. He knew a lot about jellyfish, coral and sea anemones.
Olsen picked up on the third ring.
‘Were you asleep?’ asked Johanson.
‘Not with the kids still up,’ said Olsen. ‘It’s Marie’s fifth birthday today. How was the lake?’
Olsen was a perpetually cheerful family man whose cosy domestic life seemed like a nightmare to Johanson. They never saw each other socially, unless you counted lunch breaks, but Olsen was a nice guy with a decent sense of humour. With four children he needed it, thought Johanson. ‘One of these days, you should come with me,’ he said, although they both knew it wouldn’t happen. ‘Have you seen the news?’
There was a short pause. ‘The jellyfish, you mean?’
‘Right first time. What’s going on?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? Biological invasions happen all the time. Frogs, locusts, jellyfish…’
‘But Portuguese men-of-war and box jellyfish?’
‘It’s unusual…’
‘In what way?’
‘They’re two of the world’s deadliest sea creatures. And there’s something peculiar about what they’re saying on the news.’
‘Seventy fatalities in a hundred years?’ said Johanson.
‘Oh, that’s rubbish.’ Olsen gave a derisive snort.
‘Too many?’
‘Too few! The real death toll’s much higher - ninety at least, if you count the Gulf of Bengal and the Philippines, not to mention all the unreported and unexplained cases. Australia has always had a problem with box jellies. They spawn in the river mouths north of Rockhampton. Almost all the accidents happen in the shallows - they can kill you in less than three minutes.’
‘Is it jellyfish season?’
‘In Australia, yes - October to May. In Europe they only really bother you when it’s too hot to stay out of the water. We were in Menorca last summer and the kids were going crazy. The whole place was inundated with Velella.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Velella velella. By-the-wind sailors. Quite pretty, really, providing they’re not rotting on the beach. Little violet-coloured jellies - the sand was covered with them. Everyone knows I’m a big fan of jellyfish, but there were too many even for me. The Australian story is seriously odd, though.’
‘In what sense?’
‘You find box jellies on the coastline, where the water’s nice and shallow, not out to sea, and definitely not on the Barrier Reef - but they’re saying they’ve been found there too. It’s the opposite with Velella. They’re an offshore species, and no one understands why they sometimes turn up on the beach.’
‘I thought the beaches were protected by nets.’
Olsen roared with laughter. ‘They’re useless. The mesh stops the jellies, but the tentacles break off and carry on drifting. No one can see them.’ He stopped. ‘But why are you so interested? You must know a bit about jellyfish yourself.’
‘Not nearly as much as you do. Is this a scientific anomaly?’
‘You can pretty much bet on it,’ said Olsen, balefully. ‘Jellyfish distribution is linked to rising water temperatures and high levels of plankton. Plankton thrive in nice warm water, and jellyfish eat plankton, so you can guess what happens next. It’s why they turn up in their hordes towards the end of summer and disappear a few weeks later. It’s their natural cycle. Hang on a moment.’
Johanson heard shrieks in the background. He wondered what time the Olsen children went to bed - whenever he called, some kind of riot was going on. Olsen yelled at them to quieten down. Then he was back. ‘Anyway, I reckon we get these invasions because the sea is being over-fertilised. Sewage encourages plankton levels to rise, and it all takes off from there. You only need a strong westerly or north-westerly, and the jellyfish are on your doorstep.’
‘Yes, but those are normal jellyfish plagues. I want to know—’
‘You want to know if it’s an anomaly - and I think it probably is. But it’s precisely the kind that’s difficult to spot. Tell me, have you got any pot plants?’
‘Yes.’
‘A yucca?’
‘Two.’
‘There you go - an anomaly. The yucca isn’t native.’
Johanson rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me we’re being threatened by a yucca invasion. Mine are fairly placid.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I’m saying that we’ve forgotten what’s natural and what’s not. Back in 2000 I was called out to the Gulf of Mexico to investigate a plague of jellies that was threatening the local fish stock. They invaded the spawning grounds in Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama, devouring fish eggs and larvae, plus the plankton that the fish would normally eat. The damage was caused by an Australian jellyfish from the Pacific that shouldn’t have been there at all.’
‘An invasive species.’
‘Exactly. The jellies were destroying the food chain and slashing the fish yield. It was catastrophic. A few years before that, the Black Sea was on the brink of an ecological disaster because during the eighties a cargo vessel had shipped in some comb jellies with its ballast water. They didn’t belong there. The Black Sea countries kicked up a fuss, but before anyone could do anything about it, the region was screwed. Eight thousand jellies per square metre of sea. Do you know what that means?’
Olsen was talking himself into a fury.
‘Then this other business. Portuguese men-of-war off the coast of Argentina. That’s not their territory. Central America, Peru and Chile, maybe. But further south? Impossible. Fourteen deaths, just like that. A biological invasion. You can bet the locals weren’t expecting it. And now box jellies on the Barrier Reef. It’s as if someone had magicked them there.’
‘What I find peculiar,’ said Johanson, ‘is that it’s the two most venomous species.’
‘Absolutely,’ Olsen said slowly. ‘But I hope you’re not about to give me some kind of conspiracy theory. This is Norway, not America. There are plenty of possible explanations for the rise in jellyfish plagues. Some scientists say it’s El Niño and others blame global warming. In Malibu the plagues are the worst they’ve had in years, and Tel Aviv’s seeing s
ome gigantic specimens. Global warming, invasive species - it all makes sense.’
Johanson wasn’t listening. Olsen had said something that stuck in his mind.
As if someone had magicked them there.
It was the same for the worms.
As if someone had magicked them there.
‘…breeding in the shallows,’ Olsen was saying. ‘And another thing. When they say “unusually large numbers”, they don’t mean thousands, they mean millions. And the government says it’s under control! There have been far more than fourteen deaths, believe me.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Are you listening?’
‘Of course. More than fourteen deaths. What were you saying about conspiracy theories?’
Olsen laughed. ‘Very good. But seriously, though, I think it’s definitely an anomaly. It might look like a cyclical phenomenon, but I think it’s something else.’
‘Interesting.’ Should he tell Oslen about the worms? But it was none of his business, and Statoil wouldn’t be happy if the story hit the headlines—Olsen talked too much.
‘How about lunch tomorrow?’ asked Olsen.
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll see if I can find out more. Fish for some information.’ He chortled.
‘Great,’ said Johanson. ‘See you tomorrow.’ He hung up. Then he remembered that he’d meant to ask Olsen about the missing boats. Never mind - he’d mention it tomorrow.
He wondered whether the jellyfish story would have made such an impression on him if he hadn’t known about the worms. Probably not, because the jellies weren’t what interested him. He wanted to know about the connections - if there were any.
The following morning, on the way to the NTNU, Johanson listened to the news, but there was nothing he hadn’t heard already. People and boats were going missing in different parts of the world, giving rise to endless speculation but no satisfactory explanation.
His lecture was scheduled for ten. Enough time to read his emails and glance at the post. It was pouring with rain, and the grey sky hung heavy over Trondheim. He’d scarcely turned on the lights and sat down at his desk with his coffee when Olsen poked his head round the door. ‘It’s never-ending,’ he said, ‘all this bad news.’
‘You mean the missing boats? I was going to ask you about that yesterday, but I forgot.’
Olsen came into the room. ‘Are you going to offer me some coffee?’ he said, looking around intently. Curiosity was one of Olsen’s useful but slightly wearisome traits.
‘It’s all next door,’ Johanson told him.
Olsen leaned into the adjoining office and asked for a coffee at the top of his voice. Then he sat down and let his eyes rove round the room. Johanson’s secretary marched in, slammed a mug in front of Olsen and stalked back to her desk.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ said Olsen, surprised.
‘I pour my own coffee,’ said Johanson. ‘It’s all laid out. Flask, milk, sugar, cups…’
Olsen took a noisy gulp. ‘So you didn’t listen to the news?’
‘I heard it in the car.’
‘Ten minutes ago there was an emergency newsflash on CNN. I’ve got a telly in my office - I keep it on all day.’ The overhead lighting shone on Olsen’s emerging bald patch. ‘A gas tanker’s exploded off the coast of Japan, then two container ships and a frigate collided in the Strait of Malacca. One of the ships sank, the other isn’t seaworthy, and the frigate’s gone up in flames. It belonged to the military. There was an explosion.’
‘Christ.’ Johanson warmed his hands on his mug. ‘As far as the Malacca Strait is concerned,’ he said, ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s astonishing there aren’t more accidents.’
‘Sure, but it’s quite a coincidence.’
Three stretches of water competed for the title of busiest waterway in the world: the English Channel, the Strait of Gibraltar and the Strait of Malacca, which formed part of the main route between Europe, South East Asia and Japan. Six hundred tankers and freighters passed through the strait each day, and sometimes the channel between Malaysia and Sumatra carried as many as two thousand vessels. The strait was eight hundred kilometres long, but its narrowest point was only 2.7 kilometres wide. India and Malaysia had urged the tankers to use the Lombok Strait further south, but their pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Taking a detour would decrease the profit margin, so 15 per cent of international shipping continued to stream through the Malacca Strait.
‘Does anyone know what happened?’
‘Not yet.’
‘How awful.’ Johanson sipped his coffee. ‘So, what’s all this stuff about disappearing boats, then?’
‘Oh, that. You haven’t heard?’
‘Well, if I had, I wouldn’t ask,’ said Johanson. His temper was starting to fray.
Olsen lowered his voice. ‘It turns out that swimmers and small fishing-boats have been going missing for some time in South America, but the media didn’t report it - or not in Europe, at least. They say it started in Peru. The first person to disappear was a fisherman. His boat was found a few days later, a little reed craft, drifting out to sea. At first they thought a wave had caught him, but the weather’s been perfect for weeks. Since then, people have been vanishing left, right and centre. The latest victim was a trawler.’
‘Why hasn’t anyone mentioned it?’
Olsen spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘Because no one likes to advertise this kind of thing. Tourism’s crucial to the region. And, anyway, it was happening on the other side of the world.’
‘But the jellies made the news.’
‘Oh, come on, Sigur, that’s totally different. American citizens have died. Plus a German, and God knows who else. And now a Norwegian family has vanished off the coast of Chile. One of the local companies organised a deep-sea angling trip - one minute they were all on the trawler and the next they were gone. Norwegians, for God’s sake! That kind of thing’s always reported.’
‘OK, I take your point.’ Johanson leaned back in his chair. ‘Did no one radio for help?’
‘There were a few distress signals, nothing more - the boats that went missing weren’t exactly high-tech.’
‘And no sign of a squall?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Sigur, no. At least, nothing that could sink a vessel.’
‘And western Canada? What’s going on there?’
‘You mean those boats that were in collision? No idea. According to one witness, they got into a fight with a bad-tempered whale. Who knows? The world’s a cruel place…Now how about another coffee? Actually, I think I’ll get it myself.’
Dry rot was easier to get rid of than Olsen, but eventually he left. Johanson checked his watch. Nearly time for his lecture. He rang Lund.
‘Skaugen has contacted other teams working in exploration,’ she said, ‘oil companies all over the world. He wants to know if anyone’s found anything similar.’
‘Like the worms?’
‘Exactly. He thinks the Asians know at least as much as we do.’
‘Why?’
‘You said it yourself. Asia is trying to exploit gas hydrates. I thought that’s what they told you in Kiel. Skaugen wants to sound them out.’
It wasn’t a bad idea, thought Johanson. If the worms were crazy about hydrates, the companies that wanted the hydrates would have come across them too. The trouble was…‘I can’t imagine the Asians will be open with him,’ he said. ‘They’ll be as cagey as he is.’
‘So you don’t think Skaugen’ll mention it?’
‘Certainly not the whole story. And especially not now.’
‘But what else can he do?’
‘Well…’ Johanson scrabbled for words ‘…I don’t mean to insinuate anything, but suppose someone decided to build a unit regardless of the worms.’
‘Impossible!’
‘Just supposing.’
‘But I told you, didn’t I? Skaugen’s taking your advice.’
‘All credit to him. But this is money
we’re talking about. Some people would decide it’s OK to pretend not to know about the worms.
‘You mean they’d go ahead and build the unit?’
‘You never know, it might go smoothly. And if it didn’t…Well, a firm can be liable for technical incompetence, but not for methane-eating worms. Sure, they knew about them beforehand, but who could prove it?’
‘Statoil wouldn’t hush up a thing like that.’
‘Forget Statoil. Take the Japanese. Selling methane would be equivalent to an oil boom, if not better. They’d be unbelievably rich. You can’t honestly think they’d want to show their hand.’
‘I guess not.’
‘Would Statoil?’
‘Look, this is getting us nowhere,’ said Lund. ‘We need to find out the truth before anyone else does. If only we had some independent observers who couldn’t be traced back to Statoil. Like…’ She made thinking noises. ‘Couldn’t you ask around a bit?’
‘In the oil industry?’
‘At universities, institutes - people like your friends in Kiel. Aren’t hydrates being studied all over the world?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And how about marine biologists? Deep-sea divers?’ She was sounding excited now. ‘Maybe you should take over the entire thing! We could set up a new division for you. I’ll call Skaugen right away and ask him for funding. Then we can—’
‘Whoa! Not so fast, Tina!’
‘I’m sure it would be well paid, and it wouldn’t mean much work.’
The Swarm: A Novel Page 20